“The Last Hope” had been expected for some days. It was known in
Farlingford that she was foul, and that Captain Clubbe had decided to
put her on the slip-way at the end of the next voyage. Captain Clubbe
was a Farlingford man. “The Last Hope” was a Farlingford built ship, and
Seth Clubbe was not the captain to go past his own port for the sake of
saving a few pounds.
“Farlingford's his nation,” they said of him down at the quay. “Born
and bred here, man and boy. He's not likely to put her into a Thames
dry-dock while the slip-way's standing empty.”
All the village gossips naturally connected the arrival of the two
gentlemen from London with the expected return of “The Last Hope.”
Captain Clubbe was known to have commercial relations with France. It
was currently reported that he could speak the language. No one could
tell the number of his voyages backward and forward from the Bay to
Bristol, to Yarmouth, and even to Bergen, carrying salt-fish to those
countries where their religion bids them eat that which they cannot
supply from their own waters, and bringing back wine from Bordeaux and
brandy from Charente.
It is not etiquette, however, on these wind-swept coasts to inquire too
closely into a man's business, and, as in other places, the talk was
mostly among those who knew the least--namely, the women. There had been
a question of repairing the church. The generation now slowly finding
its way to its precincts had discussed the matter since their childhood
and nothing had come of it.
One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two gentlemen were
London architects sent down by the Queen to see to the church. But the
idea fell to the ground before the assurance from Mrs. Clopton's own
lips that the old gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman.
Mrs. Clopton kept “The Black Sailor,” and knew a deal more than she was
ready to tell people; which is tantamount to saying that she was a woman
in a thousand. It had leaked out, however, that the spokesman of the
party, Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton whether it was true
that there was claret in the cellars of “The Black Sailor.” And any one
having doubts could satisfy himself with a sight of the empty bottles,
all mouldy, standing in the back yard of the inn.
They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the wiseacres of
Farlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford to see
Captain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford was proud of
Captain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into the world
and making a great name there, forgets his birthplace and the rightful
claim to a gleam of reflected glory which the relations of a great
man--who have themselves stayed at home and done nothing--are always
ready to consider their due reward for having shaken their heads over
him during the earlier struggles.
Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of hospitable
inclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as for a race destined to
smart for all time under the recollection of many disastrous defeats at
sea. And of course they could not help being ridiculous. Heaven had made
them like that while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining to
good seamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in their
midst, not by the usual channel indeed, but by a carriage and pair
from Ipswich. He must feel lonesome, they thought, and strange. They,
therefore, made an effort to set him at his ease, and when they met him
in “the street” jerked their heads at him sideways. The upward jerk is
less friendly and usually denotes the desire to keep strictly within the
limits of acquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer Colville they gave the upward
lift of the chin as to a person too facile in speech to be desirable.
The dumbness of the Marquis de Gemosac appealed perhaps to a race of
seafaring men very sparingly provided by nature with words in which to
clothe thoughts no less solid and sensible by reason of their terseness.
It was at all events unanimously decided that everything should be done
to make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of “The Last Hope.” A
similar unanimity characterised the decision that he must without delay
be shown Frenchman's grave.
River Andrew's action and the unprecedented display of his Sunday hat
on a week-day were nothing but the outcome of a deep-laid scheme. Mrs.
Clopton had been instructed to recommend the gentlemen to inspect the
church, and the rest had been left to the wit of River Andrew, a man
whose calling took him far and wide, and gave him opportunities of
speech with gentlefolk.
These opportunities tempted River Andrew to go beyond his instructions
so far as to hint that he could, if encouraged, make disclosures of
interest respecting Frenchman. Which was untrue; for River Andrew knew
no more than the rest of Farlingford of a man who, having been literally
cast up by the sea at their gates, had lived his life within those
gates, had married a Farlingford woman, and had at last gone the way of
all Farlingford without telling any who or what he was.
From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea-tables glances of
inquiry were directed toward the strangers' faces as they walked down
the street after having viewed the church. Some prescient females went
so far as to state that they could see quite distinctly in the elder
gentleman's demeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at the
knowledge thus tactfully conveyed to him that he was not the first of
his kind to be seen in Farlingford.
Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River Andrew, wearing his
sou'wester now and carrying the news that “The Last Hope” was coming up
on the top of the tide.
Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, and no ship can
well arrive unexpected at the quay; for the whole village may see
her tacking up under shortened sail, heading all ways, sometimes
close-hauled, and now running free as she follows the zigzags of the
river.
Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of being
able to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quay
in time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. One by one the men
of Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting the
kindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman already waiting
there.
It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelled
and gurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its surface
tokens from the sea--shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth. “The Last
Hope” was quite close at hand now, swinging up in mid-stream. The
sun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening brooded hazily.
Captain Clubbe had taken in all sail except a jib. His anchor was
swinging lazily overside, ready to drop. The watchers on the quay could
note the gentle rise and fall of the crack little vessel as the tide
lifted her from behind. She seemed to be dancing to her home like a
maiden back from school. The swing of her tapering masts spoke of the
heaving seas she had left behind.
It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River Andrew was
already in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain Clubbe wish to
send a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the captain meant to anchor
in the stream for the night: so obvious that if any one on shore had
mentioned the conclusion his speech would have called for nothing but a
contemptuous glance from the steady blue eyes all round him.
It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were no
greetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the burly
form of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives could
distinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these were
attending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand was
raised in salutation.
The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights and
boisterous days. The tide was almost slack. “The Last Hope” was scarcely
moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing out
of a dreamy sunset sky.
Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, that
the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appeal
with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startled
eyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken joyously into
song, and the words it sang were French:
“C'est le Hasard,
Qui, tot ou tard,
Ici bas nous seconde;
Car,
D'un bout du monde
A l'autre bout,
Le Hasard seul fait tout.”
Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air
of a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling
contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was
a clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half
tears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another
without a dumb feeling of shame and shyness.
But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there by
this time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance
and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood
between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.
“We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate,” said a man, bearing the
reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciators
answered:
“You're right,” and laughed good-humouredly.
The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at
self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some
generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with
Dormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane.
Colville's expression seemed to say:
“I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come.”
His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchanged
a sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were only
fine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was as
human as any beating under a homelier coat.
“There's Passen,” said one woman to another, behind the corner of her
apron, within Colville's hearing. “It takes a deal to bring him out o'
doors nowadays, and little Sep and--Miss Miriam.”
Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in the
pause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once in
the direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waited
until a change of position enabled him to turn his head without undue
curiosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the
manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude.
A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, a
grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a
boy of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty
at a quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity
and looking back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction
and indifference of a student.
Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance.
But he turned again as the singer on board “The Last Hope” began another
verse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the language, and
Colville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen to
them.
“Un tel qu'on vantait
Par hasard etait
D'origine assez mince;
Par hasard il plut,
Par hasard il fut
Baron, ministre, et prince.”
Captain Clubbe's harsh voice broke into the song with the order to let
go the anchor. As the ship swung to the tide the steersman, who wore
neither coat nor waistcoat, could be seen idly handling the wheel still,
though his duties were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and a
gay salutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled people--as
if he were sure that they were all friends--stamped him as the
light-hearted singer, so different from the Farlingford men, so strongly
contrasted to his hearers, who nevertheless jerked their heads sideways
in response. He had, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of these
cold East Anglians. They were his friends.
River Andrew's boat was alongside “The Last Hope” now. Some one had
thrown him a rope, which he had passed under his bow thwart and now held
with one hand, while with the other he kept his distance from the
tarry side of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner felt her
moorings, then Captain Clubbe looked over the side and nodded a curt
salutation to River Andrew, bidding him, by the same gesture, wait a
minute until he had donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman was
pulling on his coat while he sought among the crowd the faces of his
more familiar friends. He was, it seemed, a privileged person, and
took it for granted that he should go ashore with the captain. He was,
perhaps, one of those who seemed to be privileged at their birth by
Fate, and pass through life on the sunny side with a light step and
laughing lips.
Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one comprehensive nod
of the head for all Farlingford. Close on his heels the younger sailor
was already returning the greetings of his friends.
“Hullo, Loo!” they said; or, “How do, Barebone?” For their tongues are
no quicker than their limbs, and to this day, “How do?” is the usual
greeting.
The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharp
little exclamation of surprise when Barebone stepped ashore, and turned
to Dormer Colville to say in an undertone:
“Ah--but you need say nothing.”
“I promised you,” answered Colville, carelessly, “that I should tell you
nothing till you had seen him.”