It chanced that on that evening Roger Brinsley was to dine with the
Miss Miners. He was often asked, and he accepted as often as he
could. As a matter of fact, he was not so much sought after
elsewhere, as he was willing to let the four ladies believe, for
there were people in Bar Harbour who shared Lawrence's distrust of
him, while admitting that, so far as they could tell, it was quite
unfounded. There was nothing against him. The men said that he
played a good deal at the club, and remarked that he was a good type
of the professional gambler, but no one ever said that he won too
much. On the contrary, it was believed that he had lost altogether
rather heavily during the six weeks since he had first appeared. He
paid cheerfully, however, and was thought to be rich. Nevertheless,
the men whose opinion was worth having did not like him. They
wondered why the Miss Miners had him so often to the house, and
whether there were not some danger that Fanny Trehearne might take a
fancy to him.
It was very late when Fanny and Lawrence got home, for the catboat
had been carried far up Frenchman's Bay during the time after the
little accident, and it had been necessary to beat to windward for
two hours against the rising tide in order to fetch the channel
between Bar Island and Sheep Porcupine. The consequence was that the
pair had scarcely time to dress for dinner after they reached the
house.
Lawrence felt ill and tired, and was conscious that the swelling on
his forehead was not beautiful to see. He was still dazed, and by no
means himself, when he looked into the glass and knotted his tie.
But though he might well have given an excuse and stayed in his room
instead of going down to dinner, he refused to consider the
possibility of such a thing even for a moment. He felt something
just then which more than compensated him for his bruises and his
wretched sensation of weakness.
The conversation, after the boat had got under way again, had
languished, and had been so constantly interrupted by the often
repeated operation of going about, that Lawrence had not succeeded in
bringing it back to the point at which Fanny had broken it off when
she had gone forward to hoist the sail. But he had more than half
guessed what might have followed, and the reasonable belief that he
might be right had changed the face of his world. He believed that
Fanny had turned pale at the idea that his life was in danger.
One smiles at the simplicity of the thought, in black and white, by
itself, just itself, and nothing more. Yet it was a great matter to
Louis Lawrence, and as he looked at his bruised face in the glass he
felt that he was too happy to shut himself up in his room for the
evening, out of sight of the cool grey eyes he loved.
He had assuredly not meant to frighten Fanny when he had spoken, and
he had been very far from inventing an imaginary ailment with which
to excite her sympathy. The whole thing had come up unexpectedly as
the result of the accident. Hence its value.
As often happens, the two people in the house who had been most
hurried in dressing were the first down, and as Lawrence entered the
library he heard Fanny's footstep behind him. He bowed as they came
forward together to the empty fireplace. She looked at him
critically before she spoke.
"You're badly knocked about. How do you feel?" There was a man-like
directness in her way of asking questions, which was softened by the
beauty of her voice.
"I feel--as I never felt before," answered Lawrence, conscious that
his eyes grew dark as they met hers. "You told me something
to-day--though you did not say it."
Fanny did not avoid his gaze.
"Did I?" she asked very gravely.
"Yes. Plainly."
"I'm very sorry," she answered, with a little sigh, and turning from
him at last.
"Are you taking it back?" Louis's voice trembled as he asked the
question.
"Hush!"
Just then the voices of the three Miss Miners were heard in the hall,
and at the same instant the distant tinkle of the front-door bell
announced the arrival of Roger Brinsley.
The conversation turned upon Lawrence's accident, from the first, as
was natural, considering his appearance. He dwelt laughingly on his
utter helplessness in a boat, while Fanny was inclined to consider
the whole affair as rather serious. For some reason or other
Brinsley was displeased at it, and ventured to say a disagreeable
thing. He had lost at cards in the afternoon and was in bad humour.
He spoke to Fanny with affected apprehension.
"You really ought to take somebody with you who knows enough to lend
a hand at a pinch, Miss Trehearne," he said. "Suppose that you got
into a squall and had to take a reef--you'd be in a bad way, you
know."
"If I couldn't manage a catboat alone, I'd walk," answered Fanny,
with contempt.
"Yes--no doubt. But if a squall really came up, what would you do?
Mr. Lawrence confesses that he couldn't help you."
"Are you chaffing, Mr. Brinsley?" asked Fanny, severely. "Or do you
think I really shouldn't know what to do?"
"I doubt whether you would."
"Oh--I'd let go the halliards and lash the helm amidships, and take
my reef with the sail down--'hoist 'em up and off again,' after that,
as the fishermen say."
"I think you could stand an examination," said Brinsley.
"I daresay. Could you? If you were going about off a lee shore in a
storm and missed stays, could you club-haul your ship, Mr. Brinsley?"
The three Miss Miners stared at the two in surprise and wonder, not
understanding a word of what they were saying. It was apparent to
Lawrence, however, that Fanny was bent on putting Brinsley in the
position of confessing his ignorance at last; but where the young
girl had learned even the language of seamanship, which she used with
such apparent precision, was more than Lawrence could guess.
Brinsley did not answer at once, and Fanny pressed him.
"Do you even know what club-hauling means?" she asked, mercilessly.
"Well--no--really, I think the term must be obsolete."
"Not at sea," retorted Fanny.
This was crushing, and Brinsley, who was really a very good hand at
ordinary sailing, grew angry.
"Of course you've had some experience in catboats," Fanny continued.
"That isn't serious sailing, you know. It's about equivalent, in
horsemanship, to riding a donkey--a degree less dignified than
walking, and a little less trouble."
"I won't say anything about myself, Miss Trehearne," said Brinsley,
"but you might treat the catboat a little less roughly. I didn't
know you'd ever sailed anything else."
Here the Miss Miners interposed, one after the other, protesting that
it was not fair to use up the opportunities of conversation in such
nautical jargon.
"I only wished to prove to Mr. Brinsley that I'm to be trusted at
sea," Fanny answered.
"My dear child," said Miss Cordelia, "Mr. Brinsley knows that, and he
must be a good judge, having been in the navy."
"Oh, I didn't know you'd been in the navy, Mr. Brinsley," said the
pitiless young girl, fixing her eyes on his with an expression which
he, perhaps, understood, though no one else noticed it. "The English
navy, of course?"
"The English navy," repeated Mr. Brinsley, sharply.
"Oh, well--that accounts for your not knowing how to club-haul a
ship. Your own people are always saying that your service is going
to the dogs."
Even Lawrence was surprised, and Brinsley looked angrily across the
table at his tormentor, but found nothing to say on the spur of the
moment.
"However," Fanny continued with some condescension, "I'm rather glad
to know you're a navy man. I'll get you to come out with me some day
and verify some of the bearings on our local chart. I believe there
are one or two mistakes. We'll take the sextant and my chronometer
with us, and the tables, and take the sun--each of us, you know, and
work it out separately, and see how near we get. That will be great
fun. You must all come and see Mr. Brinsley and me take the sun,"
she added, looking round at the others. "Let's go to-morrow. We'll
take our luncheon with us and picnic on board. Can you come
to-morrow, Mr. Brinsley? We must start at eleven so as to get far
enough out to have a horizon by noon. I hope you're not engaged?
Are you?"
"I'm sorry to say I am," answered the unfortunate man. "I'm going to
ride with some people just at that hour."
"How unlucky!" exclaimed Fanny, who had expected the refusal. "I'll
take Mr. Lawrence, anyhow, and give him a lesson in navigation."
"I've had one to-day," said Lawrence, affecting to laugh, for it was
his instinct to try and turn off any conversation from a disagreeable
subject.
"You'll be all the better for another to-morrow," answered Fanny.
As she spoke to the artist, her tone changed so perceptibly that even
the Miss Miners noticed it. Brinsley took the first opportunity of
talking to Miss Cordelia, of whose admiration he was sure, and the
rest of the dinner passed off in peace, Brinsley avoiding a renewal
of hostilities with something almost like fear, for he felt that the
extraordinary young girl who knew so much about navigation was
watching for another opportunity of humiliating him, and would not be
merciful in using it.
The change in her manner to him had been very sudden, as though she
had on that particular day made up her mind about something
concerning him. Hitherto she had treated him almost cordially,
certainly with every appearance of liking him. He had even of late
begun to fancy that her colour heightened when he entered the
room,--a phenomenon which, if real, was attributable rather to
another cause, and connected with Lawrence's presence in the house.
After dinner the whole party went out upon the verandah, a favourite
manoeuvre of Miss Cordelia's, whereby the society of Mr. Brinsley was
not wasted upon smoke and men's talk in the dining-room. This
evening, however, instead of sitting down at once in her usual place,
Cordelia slipped her arm through Fanny's, and led her off to the
other side and down the steps into the garden.
"The moonlight is so lovely," said Miss Cordelia, "and I want to talk
to you. Let us walk a little--do you mind?"
The two went along the path in silence, in and out among the trees.
The moon was full. From the sea came up the sound of the tide,
washing the smooth rocks at high water. The breeze had died away at
sunset and the deep sky was cloudless. Here and there the greater
stars twinkled softly, but the little ones were all lost in the
moonlight, like diamonds in a pure fountain. Everything was asleep
except the watchful, wakeful sea. The two women stood still and
looked across the lawn. At last Miss Miner spoke.
"Why were you so unkind to Mr. Brinsley to-night?" she asked in a low
voice.
Fanny glanced at her before she answered. The eldest Miss Miner's
face had once been almost beautiful. In the moonlight, the delicate,
clearly chiselled features were lovely still, but a little ghostly,
and the young girl saw that the fixed smile had disappeared for once,
leaving a look of pain in its place.
"I didn't mean to be unkind," Fanny began. "That is," she added
quickly, correcting herself, "I'm not quite sure of what I meant. I
think I did mean to hurt him. He's so strong, and he's always
showing that he despises Mr. Lawrence, because he isn't an athlete.
As though a man must be a prize-fighter to be nice!"
"Well--but--Mr. Lawrence doesn't mind. You see how he takes it all.
Why should you fight battles for him?"
"Perhaps I shouldn't. But--why should you take up the cudgels for
Mr. Brinsley? He's quite able to take care of himself, if he will
only tell the truth."
"If!" exclaimed Miss Cordelia, in ready resentment. "He's the most
truthful man alive."
"Oh! And he told you he had been in the English navy."
"What has that to do with it? Of course he has, if he says so."
"He's unwise to say so, because he hasn't," answered Fanny, in her
usual direct way.
"How in the world can you say that a man like Mr. Brinsley--an
honourable man, I'm sure--is telling a deliberate falsehood? I'm
surprised at you, Fanny--indeed I am! It isn't like you."
"Did you ever know me to tell you anything that wasn't exactly true?"
asked the young girl, looking down into her elderly cousin's sweet,
sad face, for she was much the taller.
"No--of course not--but--"
"Well, Cousin Cordelia, I tell you that your Mr. Brinsley has never
been in the English navy. I don't say that I think so. I say that I
know it. Will you believe me, or him?'
"Oh, Fanny!" Miss Cordelia raised her eyes with a frightened glance.
"Not that it matters," added Fanny, looking away across the moonlit
lawn again. "Who cares? Only, it's one of those lies that go
against a man," she continued after a short pause. "A man may
pretend that he has shot ten million grisly bears in his back yard,
or hooked a salmon that weighed a hundred-weight--people will laugh
and say that he's a story-teller. It's all right, you know--and
nobody minds. But when a man says he's been in the army or the navy,
and hasn't--people call him a liar and cut him. I don't know why
it's so, I'm sure, but it is--and we all know it."
"Yes," answered Cordelia, almost tremulously; "but you haven't proved
that Mr. Brinsley isn't telling the truth--"
"Oh yes, I have! There never was a deep-sea sailor yet who had never
heard of club-hauling a ship to save her. I know about those things.
I always make navy officers talk to me about those things whenever I
get a chance. Besides, I can prove it to you. Ask the first captain
of a fishing-schooner you meet down at the landing what it means.
But don't tell me I don't know--it's too absurd."
Miss Cordelia looked down. Her hand still rested on Fanny's arm, and
it trembled now so that the young girl felt it.
"What does it mean, then?" asked Cordelia, faintly.
"Oh, it's a long operation to tell about. It's when you've got a
lee-shore in a gale, and you want to go about and can't, because you
miss stays every time, and you let go an anchor, and the ship swings
to it, and just as she begins to get way on, you slip your chain, and
she pays off on the other tack. Of course you lose your anchor."
"Oh--you lose the anchor? To save the ship? I see."
"Exactly."
"You lose the anchor to save the ship," repeated Cordelia, softly, as
though she were trying to remember the words for future use. "Shall
we go back?" she suggested, rather abruptly.
"I wish you'd answer me one question first," said Fanny.
"Yes. What is it?"
"Why are you so awfully anxious to stand up for Mr. Brinsley? You're
not in love with him, are you?"
Cordelia started very perceptibly, and turned her face away. Then,
all at once, she laughed a little hysterically.
"In love? At my age?"
And she laughed again, and laughed, strange to say, till she cried,
clinging all the time to the young girl's strong arm. Fanny did not
ask any more questions as they walked slowly back to the house.