The Tortoise lay absolutely becalmed. The ebbing tide carried her
slowly past Inishbawn towards the deep passage between the end of the
breakwater of boulders and the point on which the lighthouse stands.
The air was extraordinarily close and oppressive. Even Priscilla seemed
affected by it. She lay against the side of the boat with her hands
trailing idly in the water. Frank sat with the useless tiller in his
hand and watched the boom swing slowly across as the boat swayed this
way or that with the current. Miss Rutherford, her face glistening with
heat, had gone to sleep in a most uncomfortable attitude soon after
luncheon. Her head nodded backwards from time to time and whenever it
did so she opened her eyes, smiled at Frank, rearranged herself a little
and then went to sleep again.
The cattle on Inishbawn had forsaken their scanty pasture and stood
knee-deep in the sea. Not even the wild new heifer, which had gored
Jimmy Kinsella, if such a creature existed at all, would have had energy
to do much. A dog, which ought perhaps to have been barking at the
cattle, lay prostrate under the shadow afforded by a grassy bank. A
flock of white terns floated motionless a few yards from the Tortoise,
looking like a miniature fleet of graceful, white-sailed pleasure boats.
They had no heart to go circling and swooping for fish.
Perhaps it would have been useless if they had. The fish themselves may
well have been lying, in search of coolness among the weedy stones at
the bottom of the sea. Of all living creatures the jelly fish alone
seemed to retain any spirit. Immense crowds of them drifted past the
Tortoise, swelling out and closing again their concave bodies, revolving
slowly round, dragging long purple tendrils deliriously through the warm
water. They swept past Priscilla’s drooping hands, touching them with
their yielding bodies and brushing them softly with their tendrils. Now
and then she lifted one from the water, watched it lie flaccid on the
palm of her hand and then dropped it into the sea again.
A faint air of wind stole across from Inishbawn. The Tortoise, utterly
without steerage way, felt it and turned slowly towards it. It was as if
she stretched her head out for another such gentle kiss as the wind gave
her. Priscilla felt it, and with returning animation made a plunge for
an unusually large jelly fish, captured it and held it up triumphantly.
“It’s a pity you’re not out after jelly fish, Miss Rutherford,” she
said, “instead of sponges. There are thousands and thousands of them. We
could fill the boat with them in half an hour.”
Miss Rutherford made no reply. She had succeeded in wriggling herself
into such a position that her head rested on the thwart of the boat. Her
face was extremely red, and, owing perhaps to the twisted position of
her neck, she was snoring. Priscilla looked at Frank and smiled.
“I wonder,” she said, “if we ought to wake her up. She won’t like it,
of course, but it may be the kindest thing to do. It wouldn’t be at all
nice for her if she smothered in her sleep.”
Frank blinked lazily. He was very nearly asleep.
“You’re a nice pair,” said Priscilla. “What on earth is the point of
dropping off like that in the middle of the day? Ghastly laziness I call
it.”
Another puff of wind and then another came from the west. The Tortoise
began to move through the water. Frank woke up and paid serious
attention to his steering. Priscilla looked round the sea and then the
sky. The thunder storm was breaking over Rosnacree, five miles to the
east, and a heavy bank of dark clouds was piled up across the sky.
“It looks uncommonly queer,” said Priscilla, “rather magnificent in
some ways, but I wish I knew exactly what it’s going to do. I don’t
understand this breeze coming in from the west. It’s freshening too.”
A long deep growl reached them from the east.
“Thunder,” said Frank.
“Must be,” said Priscilla. “The clouds are coming up against the wind.
Only thunder does that--and liberty. At least Wordsworth says liberty
does. I never saw it myself. I told you we were doing ‘The Excursion’
last term. It’s in that somewhere. I say, this breeze is freshening.
Keep her just as she’s going, Cousin Frank. We’ll be able to let her go
in a minute. Oh, do look at the water!”
The sea had turned a deep purple colour. In spite of the ripples which
the westerly breeze raised on its surface it had a curious look of sulky
menace.
“Miss Rutherford,” said Priscilla, “wake up, we’re going to have a
thunder storm.”
Miss Rutherford sat up with a start
“A storm!” she said. “How splendid! Any chance of being wrecked?”
“Not at present,” said Priscilla, “but you never know what may happen.
If you feel at all nervous I’ll steer myself.”
“Nervous!” said Miss Rutherford. “I’m delighted. There’s nothing I
should like more than to be wrecked on a desert island with you two.
It would just complete the most glorious series of adventures I’ve ever
had. Do try and get wrecked.”
“Hadn’t we better go in to Inishbawn and wait till it’s over?” said
Frank.
“Nonsense,” said Priscilla. “Wetting won’t hurt us, and anyway we’ll be
at Inishminna in half an hour with this breeze.”
The Tortoise was racing through the dark water. She was listed over so
that her lee gunwale seemed likely to dip under. Miss Rutherford, in
spite of her wish for shipwreck, scrambled up to windward. They reached
the point of Ardilaun and fled, bending and staggering, down the narrow
passage between it and Inishlean. Priscilla took the mainsheet in her
hand and ordered Frank to luff a little. There was another period of
rushing, heavily listed, with the wind fair abeam. Now and then, as a
squall struck the sails, Priscilla let the mainsheet run out and allowed
the Tortoise to right herself. The sea was flecked with the white tops
of short, steep waves, raised hurriedly, as it were irritably by the
wind. A few heavy drops of rain fell. The whole sky became very dark. A
bright zig-zag of light flashed down, the thunder crashed over head. The
rain came down like a solid sheet of water.
“Let her away again now,” said Priscilla. “We can run right down on
Inishark. Be ready to round her up into the wind when I tell you. I
daren’t jibe her.”
“Don’t,” said Frank. “I say, you’d better steer.”
“Can’t now. We couldn’t possibly change places. Are you all right, Miss
Rutherford?”
“Splendid. Couldn’t be better. I’m soaked to the skin. Can’t possibly be
any wetter even if we swim for it.”
Inishark loomed, a low dark mass under their bow, dimly seen through a
veil of blinding rain which fell so heavily that the floor boards under
their feet were already awash.
“We’ll have to bail in a minute or two if this goes on,” said Priscilla.
“I wonder where the tin is?”
A roar of thunder drowned her voice. Miss Rutherford and Frank saw her
gesticulate wildly and point towards the island. Two small patches of
white were to be seen near the shore.
“Their tents,” yelled Priscilla. “We have them now if we don’t sink.
Luff her up, Cousin Frank, luff her up for all you’re worth. We must get
her off on the other tack or we’ll be past them.”
She hauled on the mainsheet as she spoke. The Tortoise rounded up into
the wind, lay over till the water began to pour over her side, righted
herself again and stood suddenly on an even keel, her sails flapping
wildly, the boat herself trembling like a creature desperately
frightened. Then she fell off on her new tack. Priscilla dragged Miss
Rutherford up to windward. Frank, guided by instinct rather than by any
knowledge of what was happening, scrambled up past the end of the long
tiller. Priscilla let the main sheet run out again. The Tortoise raced
straight for the shore.
“Keep her as she’s going, Cousin Frank. I’ll get the sail off her.”
For a minute or two there was wild confusion. Priscilla treading on Miss
Rutherford without remorse or apology, struggled with the halyard.
The sail bellied hugely, dipped into the sea to leeward and was hauled
desperately on board. The rain streamed down on them, each drop starting
up again like a miniature fountain when it splashed upon the wood of the
boat. The Tortoise, nearly half full of water, still staggered towards
the shore under her foresail. Priscilla hauled at the rope of the
centreboard.
“Run her up on the beach,” she shouted. “If we do knock a hole in her it
can’t be helped. Oh glory, glory! look at that!”
One of the tents tore itself from its fastenings, flapped wildly in the
air and then collapsed on the ground, a writhing heaving mass of soaked
canvas. The Tortoise struck heavily on the shore. Priscilla leaped over
her bows and ran up the beach with the anchor in her hand. She rammed
one of its flukes deep into the gravel. Then she turned towards the boat
and shouted:
“You help Frank out, Miss Rutherford. I must run on and see what’s
happening to those tents.”
A young woman, rain soaked and dishevelled, knelt beside the fallen
tent. She was working with fierce energy at the guy ropes, such of them
as still clung to their pegs. They were hopelessly entangled with the
others which had broken free and all of them were knotted and twisted
round corners of the flapping canvas.
“If I were you,” said Priscilla, “I’d leave those things alone till the
storm blows over. You’re only making them worse.”
The young woman looked round at Priscilla and smoothed her blown wet
hair from her face.
“Come and help me,” she said, “please.”
“What’s the good of hurrying?” said Priscilla.
“My husband’s underneath.”
“Well, I suppose he’s all right. In fact, I daresay he’s a good deal
drier there than we are outside. We’d far better go into your tent and
wait.”
“He’ll smother.”
“Not he. If he’s suffering from anything this minute I should say it is
draughts.”
The canvas heaved convulsively. It was evident that some one underneath
was making desperate efforts to get out.
“He’s smothering. I know he is.”
“Very well,” said Priscilla. “I’ll give you a help if you like; I don’t
know much about tents and I may simply make things worse. However, I’ll
try.”
She attacked a complex tangle of ropes vigorously. Miss Rutherford,
with Frank leaning on her shoulder, staggered up the beach. Just as they
reached the tents the head of a young man appeared under the flapping
canvas. Then his arms struggled out. Priscilla seized him by the hands
and pulled hard.
“Oh, Barnabas!” said the young lady, “are you safe?”
“He’s wet,” said Priscilla, “and rather muddy, but he’s evidently alive
and he doesn’t look as if he was injured in any way.”
The young man looked round him wildly at first. He was evidently
bewildered after his struggle with the tent and surprised at the manner
of his rescue. He gradually realised that there were strangers present.
His eyes rested on Miss Rutherford. She seemed the most responsible
member of the party. He pulled himself together with an effort
and addressed her in a tone of suave politeness which, under the
circumstances, was very surprising.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I ought to introduce myself. My name is
Pennefather, Barnabas Pennefather. The Rev. Barnabas Pennefather. This
is my wife, Lady Isabel Pennefather. I have a card somewhere.”
He began to fumble in various packets.
“Never mind the card,” said Priscilla. “We’ll take your word for it.”
“We,” said Miss Rutherford, “are a rescue party. We’ve been in search
of you for days. This is Priscilla. This is Frank. My own name is Martha
Rutherford.”
“A rescue party!” said Mr. Pennefather.
“Did mother send you after us?” said Lady Isabel. “If she did you may go
away again. I won’t go back.”
“Quite the contrary,” said Priscilla, “we’re on your side.”
“In fact,” said Miss Rutherford, “we’re here to save you from----”
“At first,” said Priscilla, “we fancied you might be spies, German
spies. Afterwards we found out you weren’t. That often happens you know.
Just as you think you’re perfectly certain you’re right, it turns out
that you’re quite wrong.”
“Then you really were pursuing us,” said Lady Isabel. “I always said you
were, didn’t I, Barnabas?”
“Is Lord Torrington here?” said Mr. Pennefather.
“Not exactly here,” said Priscilla, “at least not yet. But he will be
soon. When we left home this morning he was fully bent on hunting you
down and I rather think the police sergeant must have given him the tip
about where you are.”
“The police!” said Mr. Pennefather.
“I don’t so much mind if it’s only father,” said Lady Isabel.
“You may not,” said Priscilla. “But I expect Mr. Pennefather will. Lord
Torrington is very fierce. In his rage and fury he sprained Frank’s
ankle. He might have broken it. In fact, the railway guard thought he
had. I don’t know what he’ll do to you when he catches you.”
“Does he know we’re married,” said Mr. Pennefather.
“Is mother with him?” said Lady Isabel.
“She is,” said Priscilla. “But it’s all right. Aunt Juliet will keep her
in play. You can count on Aunt Juliet until she finds out that you’re
married--after that------ But it will be all right. We have come to
conduct you to a place of safety.”
“An inviolable sanctuary,” said Miss Rutherford. “But we shall all have
colds in the head before we get there if we don’t do something to dry
ourselves.”
“Barnabas,” said Lady Isabel, “do go and change your clothes. He fell
into the sea the other day, and he is so liable to take cold.”
“We saw him,” said Priscilla. “Go and change your clothes, Mr.
Pennefather. By the time you’ve done that Jimmy Kinsella will have
arrived and you can be off at once with Miss Rutherford. The sooner
we’re all out of this the better. Though Lord Torrington doesn’t look
like a man who would come out in a thunder storm even to catch his
daughter.”
“Your black suit is in the hold-all in my tent,” said Lady Isabel.
The Reverend Barnabas Pennefather disappeared into the tent which was
still standing. Priscilla looked around her cheerfully.
“It’s clearing up,” she said. “There’s quite a lot of blue sky to be
seen over Rosnacree. We’ll all dry soon.”
She gathered the bottom of her skirt tight into her hands and wrung the
water out of it.
“Where are you going to take him to?” she said to Miss Rutherford.
“Am I to take him?” said Miss Rutherford. “I didn’t know that was part
of the plan. I thought we were all going together to Inishbawn, the
sanctuary.”
“Didn’t I tell you,” said Priscilla. “We decided that you were to have
charge of Barnabas for a few days until the trouble blows over a bit.
You’re to pretend that he’s your husband. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I’d much rather have Frank,” said Miss Rutherford.
“What on earth would be the use of that?” said Priscilla.
“But, of course, I’ll marry Barnabas with pleasure,” said Miss
Rutherford, “if it’s really necessary and Lady Isabel doesn’t object.”
“I won’t be separated from Barnabas,” said Lady Isabel, “and I’m sure
he’ll never agree to leave me.”
“All the same you’ll have to,” said Priscilla, “both of you. We can’t
pretend you’re not married if you’re going about together on Inishbawn.”
“But I don’t want to pretend I’m not married. I’m proud of what we’ve
done.”
“You’ll sacrifice the respect and affection of Aunt Juliet,” said
Priscilla, “the moment it comes out that you’re married. As long as she
thinks you’re out on your own defying the absurd conventions by which
women are made into what she calls ‘bedizened dolls for the amusement
of the brutalised male sex,’ she’ll be all on your side. But once she
thinks you’ve given up your economic independence she’ll simply turn
round and help Lady Torrington to hunt you down.”
Mr. Pennefather emerged from the tent. He wore a black suit of clothes
of strictly clerical cut and a collar which buttoned at the back of
his neck. Except that he was barefooted and had not brushed his hair he
would have been fit to attend a Church Conference. His self-respect was
restored by his attire. He walked over to Frank, who was dripping on a
stone, and handed him a visiting card. Frank read it.
“Reverend Barnabas Pennefather--St. Agatha’s Clergy House--Grosvenor
Street, W.”
“I am the senior curate,” he said. “The staff consists of five priests
besides the vicar.”
“They want to take you away from me,” said Lady Isabel. “But you won’t
go, say you won’t, Barnabas.”
Mr. Pennefather took his place at his wife’s side. He held her hand in
his.
“Nothing on earth,” he said, “can separate us now.”
“Very well,” said Priscilla. “You’re rather ungrateful, both of you,
considering all we’re doing for you, and I don’t think you’re exactly
polite to Miss Rutherford, however----”
“Don’t mind about me,” said Miss Rutherford. “I feel snubbed, of course,
but I wasn’t really keen on having him for a husband, even temporarily.”
Mr. Pennefather looked at her with shocked surprise. A deep flush spread
slowly over his face. His eyes blazed with righteous indignation.
“Woman----” he began.
“If you don’t mind,” said Priscilla, “I think we’ll call you Barnabas.
It’s rather long, of course, and solemn. The natural thing would be to
shorten it down to Barny, but that wouldn’t suit you a bit. The rain’s
over now. I think I’ll go down and bail out the Tortoise. Then we’ll
all start. You people can be taking down the tent that’s standing, and
folding up the other one.”
“Where are we going to?” said Mr. Pennefather.
“To a sanctuary,” said Miss Rutherford, “an inviolable sanctuary.
Priscilla has that written down on the cover of a jam pot, so there’s no
use arguing about it.”
“She says we’ll be safe,” said Lady Isabel.
“I refuse to move,” said Mr. Pennefather, “until I know where I’m going
and why.”
“You talk to him, Cousin Frank,” said Priscilla. “I see Jimmy Kinsella
coming round the corner in his boat and I really must bail out the
Tortoise.”
“If you don’t move out of this pretty quick,” said Frank to Mr.
Pennefather, “Lord Torrington will have you to a dead cert.”
“‘And fast before her father’s men,” said Miss Rutherford, “‘three days
we fled together. And should they find us in this glen----’”
“Oh, Barnabas,” said Lady Isabel, who knew Campbell’s poem and
anticipated the end of the quotation, “Oh, Barnabas, let’s go, anywhere,
anywhere.”
“I never saw any man,” said Frank, “in such a wax as Lord Torrington.”
“I haven’t met him myself,” said Miss Rutherford, “but I expect that
when he begins to speak he’ll shock you even worse than I did.”
“We don’t mind Father,” said Lady Isabel. “It’s Mother.”
“They’re both on your track,” said Frank.
Mr. Pennefather looked from one to another of the group around him. Then
he turned slowly on his heel and began to roll up his tent. Lady Isabel
and Miss Rutherford set to work to pack the camp equipage. Frank took
off his coat and wrung the water out of it. Then he spread it on the
ground and looked at it. It was the coat worn by members of the First
Eleven. He had won his right to it when he caught out the Uppingham
captain in the long field. Now such triumphs and glories seemed
incredibly remote. The voices of Priscilla and Jimmy Kinsella reached
him from the shore. They were arguing hotly.
Frank looked at them and saw that they were both on their knees in the
Tortoise scooping up water in tin dishes.
The bailing was finished at last. The packing was nearly done. Priscilla
walked up to the camp dragging Jimmy Kinsella with her by the collar of
the coat.
“Barnabas,” she said, “have you got a revolver?”
Mr. Pennefather looked up from a roll of blankets which he was strapping
together.
“No,” he said. “I don’t carry revolvers.”
“I think you ought to,” said Priscilla. “I mean whenever you happen to
be running away with the daughter of the First Lord of the War Office
or any one like that. But, of course, being a clergyman may make a
difference. It’s awfully hard to know exactly what a clergyman ought
to do when he’s eloping. At the same time it’s jolly awkward you’re not
having a revolver, for Jimmy Kinsella says he won’t go to Inishbawn and
we can’t all fit in the Tortoise.”
“Leave him to me,” said Frank. “Just bring him over here, Priscilla, and
I’ll deal with him.”
“I’ll not take you to Inishbawn,” said Jimmy.
Priscilla handed him over to Frank. It was a long time, more than two
years, since Frank had acquired some reputation as a master of men in
the form Room of Remove A.; but he retained a clear recollection of the
methods he had employed. He seized Jimmy Kinsella’s wrist and with
a deft, rapid movement, twisted it round. Jimmy had not enjoyed the
advantages of an English public school education. Torture of a refined
kind was new to him. He uttered a shrill squeal.
“Will you go where you’re told,” said Frank, “or do you want more?”
“I dursn’t take yez to Inishbawn,” said Jimmy whimpering. “My da would
beat me if I did.”
Frank twisted his arm again.
“My da will cut the liver out of me,” said Jimmy.
“Stop that,” said Mr. Pennefather. “I cannot allow bullying.”
“It’s for your sake entirely that it’s being done,” said Priscilla.
“You’re the most ungrateful beast I ever met. It would serve you jolly
well right if we left you here to have your own arm twisted by Lord
Torrington.”
Miss Rutherford was kneeling in front of a beautiful canteen, fitting
aluminium plates and various articles of cutlery into the places
prepared for them. She stood up and brandished a large carving fork.
“This,” she said, “will be just as effective as a revolver. You take it,
Frank, and sit close to him in the boat. The moment he stops rowing or
tries to go in any direction except Inishbawn you----”
She made a vicious stab in the air and then handed the fork to Frank.
A quarter of an hour later the party started. Mr. Pennefather and Lady
Isabel refused to be separated. Priscilla took them in the Tortoise.
They sat side by side near the mast and held each other’s hands.
Priscilla, after one glance in their direction, looked resolutely past
them for the rest of the voyage. Miss Rutherford sat in the bow of Jimmy
Kinsella’s boat. Jimmy sat amidships and rowed. Frank, with the carving
fork poised for a thrust, sat in the stern. The wind, following the
departed thunderstorm, blew from the east. Priscilla set sail on the
Tortoise. Jimmy hoisted his lug, but was obliged to row as well as sail
in order to keep in touch with his consort. The boats grounded almost
together on the shingly beach of Inishbawn.
Joseph Antony, who had made his way home through the thunderstorm, put
his hand on the bow of the Tortoise.
“It’ll be better for you not to land,” he said.
“I know all about that,” said Priscilla. “You needn’t bother to invent
anything fresh.”
“You can’t land here,” said Joseph Antony. “Aren’t there islands enough
in the bay? Jimmy, will you push that boat off from the shore and take
the lady and gentleman that’s in her away out of this.”
The carving fork descended an inch towards Jimmy’s leg. His father
menaced him with a threatening scowl. Jimmy sat quite still. Like the
leader of the House of Lords during the last stage of a recent political
crisis, he had ceased to be a free agent.
“I don’t want to land on your beastly island,” said Priscilla. “If there
wasn’t as much as a half-tide rock in the whole bay that I could put my
foot on I wouldn’t land here, and you can tell your wife from me that if
that baby of hers was to die for the want of a bit of flannel, I won’t
steal another scrap from Aunt Juliet’s box to give it to her.”
“Sure you know well enough, Miss,” said Joseph Antony, “that there’s
ne’er a one would be more welcome to the island than yourself. But the
way things is at present----”
“I’ve a pretty good guess at the way things are,” said Priscilla, “and
the minute I get back tonight I’m going to tell Sergeant Rafferty.”
Joseph Antony smiled uneasily.
“You wouldn’t do the like of that,” he said.
“I will,” said Priscilla, “unless you allow me to land these two at
once.”
Joseph Antony looked long and carefully at Mr. Pennefather.
“What about the other young gentleman?” he said, “the one that has the
sore leg?”
“He doesn’t want to set foot on Inishbawn,” said Priscilla.
“And the young lady,” said Joseph Antony, “that does be taking the water
in the little boat along with Jimmy?”
“She’ll let Jimmy row her off to any corner of the bay you like,” said
Priscilla, “if you’ll allow the other two to land.”
Joseph Antony looked at Mr. Pennefather again.
“I wouldn’t say there was much harm in him,” he said.
“There’s none,” said Priscilla, “absolutely none. Isn’t he paying £4 a
week for that old boat of Flanagan’s. Doesn’t that show you the kind of
man he is?”
“Unless,” said Joseph Antony, “it could be that he’s signed the pledge
for life.”
“Have you signed the pledge for life, Barnabas?” said Priscilla. “Let go
of her hand for one minute and answer the question that’s asked you.”
“Does he mean a temperance pledge?” said Mr. Pennefather.
“I do,” said Joseph Antony. “Are you a member of the Total Abstinence
Sodality?”
“I take a little whisky after my work on Sunday evenings,” said Mr.
Pennefather, “and, of course, when I’m dining out I----”
“That’ll do,” said Joseph Antony. “A man that takes it one time will
take it another. I suppose now you’re not any ways connected with the
police?”
“He is not,” said Priscilla. “Can’t you see he’s a clergyman?”
“It’s beyond me,” said Joseph Antony, “what brings you to Inishbawn at
all.”
“The way things are with you at present,” said Priscilla, “it wouldn’t
be a bad thing to have a clergyman staying with you on the island. It
would look respectable.”
“It would, of course,” said Joseph Antony.
“If any question ever came to be asked,” said Priscilla, “about what’s
going on here, it would be a grand thing for you to be able to say that
you had the Rev. Barnabas Pennefather stopping along with you.”
“It would surely,” said Joseph Antony.
Priscilla jumped out of the boat and drew Kinsella a little way up the
beach.
“If anything was to come out,” she whispered, “you could say that it was
the strange clergyman and that you didn’t know what was going on.”
“I might,” said Joseph Antony.
Priscilla turned to the boat joyfully.
“Hop out, Barnabas,” she shouted, “and take the tents and things with
you. It’s all settled. Joseph Antony will give you the run of his island
and you’ll be perfectly safe.”
Mr. Pennefather climbed over the bows of the Tortoise.
Lady Isabel tugged at the hold-all, which was tucked away under a thwart
and heaved it with a great effort into her husband’s arms. He staggered
under the weight of it. Joseph Antony Kinsella’s instinctive politeness
asserted itself.
“Will you let me take that from you?” he said. “The like of them parcels
isn’t fit for your reverence to carry.”
Lady Isabel got the rest of her luggage out of the Tortoise. Then she
and Mr. Pennefather went to Jimmy Kinsella’s boat and unloaded it. They
had a good deal of luggage altogether. When everything was stacked on
the beach Mrs. Kinsella, with her baby in her arms, came down and looked
at the pile with amazement. Three small, bare-legged Kinsellas, young
brothers of Jimmy’s, followed her. She turned to Priscilla.
“Maybe now,” she said, “them ones is after being evicted? Tell me this,
was it out of shops or off the land that they did be getting their
living before the trouble came on them?”
“Arrah, whist, woman,” said Joseph Antony, “have you no eyes in your
head. Can’t you see that the gentleman’s a clergyman?”
“Glory be to God!” said Mrs. Kinsella, “and to think now that they’d
evict the like of him!”
Lady Isabel held out her hand to Priscilla.
“Goodbye,” she said, “and thank you so much for all you’ve done. If you
see my mother----”
“We’ll see her tonight,” said Priscilla. “I shan’t be let in to dinner,
but I’ll see her afterwards when Aunt Juliet is smoking in the hope of
shocking your father.”
“Don’t tell her we’re here,” said Lady Isabel.
“Come along, Frank,” said Priscilla. “I’ll help you out of that boat and
into the Tortoise. We must be getting home. Goodbye, Miss Rutherford.”
“It really is goodbye this time,” said Miss Rutherford. “I’m off
tomorrow morning.”
“Back to London?” said Frank. “Hard luck.”
“To that frowsy old Museum,” said Priscilla, “full of skeletons of
whales and stuffed antelopes and things.”
“I feel it all acutely,” said Miss Rutherford. “Don’t make it worse for
me by enumerating my miseries.”
“And I don’t believe you’ve caught a single sponge,” said Priscilla.
“Will they be frightfully angry with you?”
“I’ve got a few,” said Miss Rutherford, “fresh water ones that I caught
before I met you. I’ll make the most of them.”
“Anyhow,” said Priscilla, “it’ll be a great comfort to you to feel that
you’ve taken part in a noble deed of mercy before you left.”
“That’s something, of course,” said Miss Rutherford, “but you can’t
think how annoying it is to have to go away just at this crisis of the
adventure. I shall be longing day and night to hear how it ends.”
“I’ll write and tell you, if you like,” said Priscilla.
“Do,” said Miss Rutherford. “Just let me know whether the sanctuary
remains inviolable and I shall be satisfied.”
“Right,” said Priscilla. “Goodbye. We needn’t actually kiss each other,
need we? Of course, if you want to frightfully you can; but I think
kissing’s rather piffle.”
Miss Rutherford contented herself with wringing Priscilla’s hand. Then
she and Priscilla helped Frank out of Jimmy Kinsella’s boat and into the
Tortoise.
The wind was due east and was blowing a good deal harder than it was
when they ran down to Inishbawn. The Tortoise had a long beat before
her, the kind of beat which means that a small boat will take in a good
deal of water. Priscilla passed an oilskin coat to Frank. Having been
wet through by the thunderstorm and having got dry, Frank had no wish
to get wet again. He struggled into the coat, pushing his arms through
sleeves which stuck together and buttoned it round him. The Tortoise
settled down to her work in earnest She listed over until the foaming
dark water rushed along her gunwale. She pounded into the short seas,
lifted her bow clear of them, pounded down again, breasted them, took
them fair on the curve of her bow, deluged herself, Frank’s oilskin and
even the greater part of her sails with showers of spray. The breeze
freshened and at the end of each tack the boat swung round so fast
that Frank, with his maimed ankle, had hard work to scramble over the
centreboard case to the weather side. He slipped and slithered on the
wet floor boards. There was a wash of water on the lee side which caught
and soaked whichever leg he left behind him. He discovered that an
oilskin coat is a miserably inefficient protection in a small boat. Not
that the seas came through it. That does not happen. But while he made
a grab at the flying foresail sheet a green blob of a wave would rush up
his sleeve and soak him elbow high. Or, when he had turned his back
to the wind and settled down comfortably, an insidious shower of spray
found means to get between his coat and his neck, and trickled swiftly
down, saturating his innermost garments to his very waist. Also it is
necessary sometimes to squat with knees bent chinward, and then there
are bulging spaces between the buttons of the coat. Seas, leaping
joyfully clear of the weather bow, came plump into his lap. It became
a subject of interesting speculation whether there was a square inch of
his body left dry anywhere.
Priscilla, who had no oilskin, got wet quicker but was no wetter in the
end. Her cotton frock clung to her. Water oozed out of the tops of
her shoes as she pressed her feet against the lee side of the boat to
maintain her position on the slippery floor boards. She had crammed her
hat under the stern thwart. Her hair, glistening with salt water, blew
in tangles round her head. Her face glowed with excitement. She was
enjoying herself to the utmost.
Tack after tack brought them further up the bay. The wind was still
freshening, but the sea, as they got nearer the eastern shore, became
calmer. The Tortoise raced through it. Sharp squalls struck her
occasionally. She dipped her lee gunwale and took a lump of solid water
on board. Priscilla luffed her and let the main sheet run through her
fingers. The Tortoise bounced up on even keel and shook her sails in an
ill-tempered way. Priscilla, with a pull at the tiller, set her on
her course again. A few minutes later the sea whitened and frothed to
windward and the same process was gone through again. The stone perch
was passed. The tacks became shorter, and the squalls, as the wind
descended from the hills, were more frequent.
But the sail ended triumphantly. Never before had Priscilla rounded up
the Tortoise to her mooring buoy with such absolute precision. Never
before had she so large an audience to witness her skill. Peter Walsh
was waiting for her at the buoy in Bran-nigan’s punt. Patsy the smith,
quite sober but still yellow in the face, was standing on the slip. On
the edge of the quay, having torn themselves from their favourite seat,
were all the loafers who usually occupied Brannigan’s window sills.
Timothy Sweeny had come down from his shop and stood in the background,
a paunchy, flabby figure of a man, with keen beady eyes.
“The weather’s broke, Miss,” said Peter Walsh, as he rowed them ashore.
“The wind will work round to the southeast and your sailing’s done for
this turn.”
“It may not,” said Priscilla, stepping from the punt to the slip, “you
can’t be sure about the wind.”
“But it will, Miss,” said one of the loafers, leaning over to speak to
her.
Another and then another of them took up the words. With absolute
unanimity they assured her that sailing next day would be totally
impossible.
“Unless you’re wanting to drown yourselves,” said Patsy the smith
sullenly.
“The glass has gone down,” said Timothy Sweeny, coming forward.
“Help the gentleman ashore,” said Priscilla, “and don’t croak about the
weather.”
“The master was saying today,” said Peter Walsh, “that he’d take the
Tortoise out tomorrow, and the gentleman that’s up at the house along
with him. I’d be glad now, Miss, if you’d tell him it’ll be no use him
wasting his time coming down to the quay on account of the weather being
broke and the wind going round to the southeast.”
“And the glass going down,” said Sweeny.
“It’ll be better for him to amuse himself some other way tomorrow,” said
Patsy the smith.
“I’ll tell him,” said Priscilla.
“And if the young gentleman that’s with you,” said Peter Walsh, “would
say the same I’d be glad. We wouldn’t like anything would happen to the
master, for he’s well liked.”
“It would be a disgrace to the whole of us,” said Patsy the smith, “if
the strange gentleman was to be drownded.”
“They’d have it on the papers if anything happened him,” said Sweeny,
“and the place would be getting a bad name, which is what I wouldn’t
like on account of being a magistrate.”
Priscilla began to wheel the bath-chair away from the quay. Having gone
a few steps she turned and winked impressively at Peter Walsh. Then she
went on. The party on the quay watched her out of sight.
“Now what,” said Sweeny, “might she mean by that kind of behaviour?”
“It’s as much as to say,” said Peter Walsh, “that she knows damn well
where it is the master and the other gentleman will be wanting to go.”
“She’s mighty cute,” said Sweeny.
“And what’s more,” said Peter Walsh, “she’ll stop him if she’s able. For
she doesn’t want them out on Inishbawn, no more than we do.”
“Are you sure now that she meant that?” said Sweeny.
“I’m as sure as if she said it, and surer.”
“She’s a fine girl, so she is,” said Patsy the smith.
“Devil the finer you’d see,” said one of the loafers, “if you was to
search from this to America.”
This, though a spacious, was a thin compliment.
There are never, even at the height of the transatlantic tourist season,
very many girls between Rosnacree and America.
“Anyway,” said Sweeny hopefully, “it could be that the wind will go
round to the southeast before morning. The glass didn’t rise any since
the thunder.”
“It might,” said Peter Walsh.
A southeast wind is dreaded, with good reason, in Rosnacree Bay. It
descends from the mountains in vicious squalls. It catches rushing tides
at baffling angles and lashes them into white-lipped fury. Sturdy island
boats of the larger size, boats with bluff bows and bulging sides, brave
it under their smallest lugs. But lesser boats, and especially light
pleasure crafts like the Tortoise do well to lie snug at their moorings
till the southeasterly wind has spent its strength.