"Your wisdom leaves me breathless," I said. "I can't go further back
than Victoria myself."
She laughed.
"Well, if I didn't know that, I shouldn't be much----" Then she
suddenly stopped.
"You wouldn't be much what?" I asked.
"Never mind," she said. "Let's put these things away, and then I'll
take you down and show you the _Penguin_. I'd like to know what you
think of her."
* * * * * * *
To describe the next few days would be rather like trying to
recapture some strange, delightful dream after one has woken up. I
only know that the time hurried away at that absurd and unnecessary
pace which Providence seems to reserve for the more charming moments
of life. Of course, our surroundings were not unfavourable to
romance; but, apart from that, Astarte was one of those fragrant
people who have the power of throwing a kind of happy glamour over
everything. Underneath all her self-possession and efficiency she
had the heart of a frank and joyous child.
I shall never forget her delight when she helped me unpack Harrods'
hamper on the first morning, and dragged out the various delicacies
those thoughtful gentlemen had provided me with.
"Well, you're the sort of person I like to be asked to breakfast by,"
she laughed, dumping them down one after another. "A tongue, cold
chicken, _paté de foie gras_, champagne, cigars. Oh, Stephen, you
are greedy! Do you always look after yourself like this when you go
exploring?"
"I lived for a month once on dried apricots and snow," I returned;
"but I don't do that sort of thing from choice. Besides," I added
recklessly, "I had a sort of feeling I was going to meet you."
She held up a reproving finger.
"You're not ashore now," she said, smiling; "and no sailor should
tell fibs at sea."
"Have you been reading Kipling's Brass-bound Man?" I asked.
"No," she said simply. "My father told me that."
And this, I think, was the only occasion in all the three days in
which she volunteered any information about herself or her life apart
from Kerrin Island.
It must be admitted that we had plenty of time for exchanging
confidences had we wished to, Our day started at about 9 A.M., when,
after an early morning dip, Rufus and I would pull off to the shore
in the dinghy and meet Astarte, who had walked over from the hut.
Breakfast followed, a merry, easy meal, lasting about an hour and a
half, after which I would sail the _Scandal_ round to the farther
anchorage; while my guest, in the teeth of all polite convention,
cheerfully washed up the cups and plates.
Then came the great event of the day, our race round the island for
the Kerrin Cup.
This trophy had been presented by Astarte herself on the morning
after my arrival. She had brought it over to breakfast with her--a
painful atrocity in green and white and gold, bearing a purple label
announcing that it was "A present from Strathpeffer."
"We must have a prize, you see," she had explained; "and I've been
wanting to get rid of this ever since I stole it."
"It's hardly an inducement to pulling out one's best sailing," I
objected, eyeing it with a slight shudder.
All the same, we most decidedly did pull out our best sailing; and
the Kerrin Cup changed hands with spirited frequency. Astarte won it
the first day, I wrested it from her on the second, only, however, to
lose it finally and for good on the last morning. She sailed her
little three-tonner with wonderful skill and daring; and, seasoned as
I am at handling small boats, I found I was up against an opponent
whose education was every bit as complete as my own.
It was all very jolly, but I think the evenings were the best part.
We always had supper outside the hut, to which I had transferred
about half the contents of my hamper. With the aid of these and
Astarte's dazzling skill with the "Primus," we used to fare as
sumptuously as Dives, and I warrant with much better appetite than
that hardly treated capitalist.
And when supper was over, and the things washed up, we would lie
round the wood fire that we always made and discuss the morning's
race, and sailing generally, and any other pleasing topic that
happened to roll up.
And later on, when we had exchanged enough wisdom, we used to sing
songs to each other, accompanying ourselves on the banjo which a
thoughtful Providence had inspired me to ship on board the _Scandal_.
My own repertoire is confined to strenuous efforts such as _Rolling
Down to Rio_ and _Drake's Drum_. But Astarte had a charming voice--a
deep, sorrowful contralto--and she used to sing sad little songs
about love and death, which always seem to me the two best things to
make music out of. Besides, they were in such delightful contrast to
her own splendid joy in life.
It was only on the night before she went away that I found out how
fond I was of her. She was lying on the grass, her chin in her hand,
and her grey eyes staring thoughtfully into the fire, as she listened
to my description of some impossible place in the ends of the earth
which I had once visited. Anything about the ends of the earth
seemed to appeal to her with peculiar force.
In the middle of my story it suddenly struck me with an abrupt and
painful sense of desolation that on the following evening she would
not be there. I went on talking, but somehow or other all the
interest and colour had died out of my yarn, and I finished as lamely
as George making one of his official excuses for the Government.
For a moment or two she looked at me without speaking. Then she sat
up.
"What's the matter, Stephen?" she asked, pushing her hair back from
her eyes.
"Nothing just now," I said. "I was wondering what Rufus and I were
going to do to-morrow."
"You must do that mysterious work you were talking about. You
haven't begun it yet; and it's all my fault."
"But I can't work when I feel lonely," I objected.
"Two days ago," she said, "you told me a desert island was the only
place you could write in."
"Yes," I said; "but I was younger then, and not so experienced."
She laughed--that low, sweet laugh of hers that always reminded me of
deep water. Then she leaned forward again, and a sudden flicker of
the fire fit up her eyes and hair, and showed me the soft curve of
her lips. She looked so utterly adorable that for a moment I as
nearly as possible forgot the rules. It was only with a big effort
that I crushed back a sudden wild impulse to take her in my arms.
As it was I jumped up, just a little abruptly.
"Astarte," I said, "it's time you went to bed. All good sailors turn
in early the night before a voyage."
She looked up at me for a second with a grave, almost a wistful
expression. Then she held out her hand.
"You're right, Stephen," she said. "Good-night."