* * * * * * *
Midday the next morning found me, with Rufus by my side, standing in
sombre isolation on the extremest promontory of the island. Three
miles away the _Penguin_, now merely a white speck on the water was
just rounding the big bluff of Strathmore Head.
"She's gone, my dog," I said, "she's gone!" Rufus looked out to sea
and whined dismally.
"Yes," I said; "that's exactly how I feel. But it won't bring her
back."
He threw up his head and howled.
"That's no use, either!" I added bitterly. "If it was I should do it
myself."
Then, with a last glance seawards, I turned round, and, followed by a
very depressed puppy, I made my way slowly across the saltings to
where the _Scandal_ was at anchor.
I forget who first launched the theory that work was a successful
anodyne for baffled love. Anyway, I can bear personal witness that
he was mistaken. No one has ever worked much harder than I did
during my remaining three days on the island, and no one has ever
been more persistently haunted by the vision of an absent face. I
wrote the whole of my article for the _Fortnightly_--thirteen solid,
chunky pages all about Kashmir--and at the end of it I found that I
was even fonder of Astarte than when she had left the island.
"This is the mischief," I observed to Rufus. "What are we going to
do about it, my dog?"
Rufus wagged his tail and looked immensely sympathetic, but beyond
that he made no attempt to help.
"We must find her, Rufus," I went on. "We must find her, even if we
have to spend the rest of our lives wandering about Scotland."
There was a short pause while we both contemplated this appalling
possibility. Then, with a deep sigh, Rufus twisted himself round and
began to scratch his ear.
I watched him gloomily, wondering what was the best way of setting to
work. If I had only had some due, however vague, I could at least
have followed it up; but Astarte had gone away from me leaving
herself as much a mystery as ever.
Apart from sheer luck, my only chance of finding her seemed to lie in
tracing the _Penguin_. She had told me she had hired the latter, but
when and from whom were matters of which I knew nothing. Still, a
boat is a boat, and any yachtsman or yacht-hand about the coast would
probably be acquainted with the little three-tonner, at all events by
reputation. Of course, even then it by no means followed that I
should be very much forrader, for, granted that the owner knew all
about Astarte, he might quite conceivably see no reason for confiding
in me.
It was a pretty little problem, and after pondering over it all ends
up I eventually decided that the best thing to do at the moment was
to go on to Grendon, as I had originally arranged. In the first
place, I couldn't get out of the visit now without appearing rather
rude; and, secondly, I was just as likely to pick up some information
about the _Penguin_ there as I was anywhere else. Besides I very
much wanted to see old Lady Bulstrode. She had always been nice to
me when I was a boy, and she was almost the only one of our family
friends who was not a confounded prig.
So on the Saturday morning, after fastening up the hut, I came back
on board the _Scandal_ and pulled up my anchor for the last time. I
couldn't help feeling rather sad as we sailed down the little estuary
and turned our backs on the island, but Rufus, with the callousness
of extreme youth, appeared to be in the best of spirits. Anyhow--he
stood up in the bows and barked at the seagulls with a vigour that
suggested an entire lack of any decent sentiment.
His only excuse for such disgraceful cheerfulness was the weather.
It was an ideal September morning, all blue and gold, with a nice
breeze off the sea, and that faint delicious crispness in the air
that almost reconciles one to the death of summer.
The _Scandal_, with every bit of sail she could carry, leaped merrily
through the water, revelling in her job like the gallant little boat
she was. Even my own depression was not quite proof against such
joyous influences, and by the time we ran alongside the Strathmore
landing-stage I had as nearly as possible recovered my usual
serenity. As medicine for a disordered heart, I'll back the sea
against literature any day in the week.
Grendon, Lady Bulstrode's place, is only about twenty miles from
Strathmore as the crow flies, but when one is hampered with a
fortnight's luggage and a dog, a crow is devilish little use as a
means of conveyance. A motor would have been by far my easiest
method of getting there, but George had not suggested lending me his,
and it was impossible to hire one nearer than Rothnairn.
So after changing into the garments of civilization and collecting my
traps, which I had left with Donald Ross, I was driven to jogging
eight miles in the latter's open trap, and picking up the local
Highland railway at Craigmuir. This abandoned me late in the
afternoon at a little wayside station some six miles from Grendon,
where I had wired to be met.
The Bulstrode family turn-out, with its magnificent red wheels, black
horses, and orange livery, was waiting there in answer to my summons.
Rufus and I got in amid a general touching of hats, and, reclining
comfortably on the cushions, rolled noiselessly off through the
magnificent Highland scenery. For the first time I began to fear
that Rufus was a bit of a snob. The languid hauteur with which he
acknowledged the subservience of the staff was worthy of a newly
ennobled lawyer.
It was just six o'clock when we turned in at the lodge gates of
Grendon and drove up the long avenue of fir trees. I was received at
the hall door by the butler--a delightful old man whom I remembered
perfectly well from the days of my boyish visits.
With the charming candour of an ancient retainer, he at once began to
comment on my appearance.
"Eh, Master Guy, but you've grown, sir!" he remarked in an approving
voice.
"It's quite possible, Parkes," I said cheerfully; "especially as I
was only fourteen when I was here last."
"Fair grown out of all knowledge," he repeated, looking at me with
his head on one side. "And brown, too, though you were always a one
for getting sunburnt, Master Guy."
"I've not lost any of my bad habits, Parkes," I replied. "Where's
Lady Bulstrode?"
"Her leddyship's upstairs in her own room. I'm to bring you straight
up to her, sir."
"Lead on, then, Macduff!" I said, smiling, and, tossing my cap on to
the table, I followed the old man through the big hall with its
innumerable weapons and stags' heads and up the broad stone staircase
that led to the gallery above.
He stopped outside the door and tapped gently:
"Come in," called out a decisive voice, and, turning the handle,
Parkes stepped forward.
"Master Guy, milady," said he, as though I were about fourteen, and
just come home for the holidays.
Lady Bulstrode, who had been writing letters, jumped up with
surprising alacrity.
"My dear boy!" she said, taking my hand in both of hers. "My dear
boy! I am so pleased to see you!"
She looked just as she did when I had seen her last in London, five
years before--old, shrewd, and kindly, with the same twinkling black
eyes, and, unless I am much mistaken, precisely the same wig.
"It's charming of you to remember me at all," I said. "Parkes tells
me I've grown so big and black that no one would know me."
Parkes, who was still standing by the door, made a kind of
expostulating murmur, and Lady Bulstrode, with a laugh, pushed me
gently backwards into a chair.
"Sit down!" she said. "Sit down and let me have a good look at you."
Then, turning to Parkes, she added: "Bring the whisky and soda up
here, Parkes. I am sure Mr. Guy would like a drink after his
travels."
As the old man went out, Rufus, who up till then had been keeping
modestly in the background, apparently decided that it was time he
introduced himself. Anyhow, he came squirming out from under the
sofa and sat down with much tail-wagging, in the middle of the room.
"I couldn't help bringing him," I explained apologetically. "He
adopted me at Strathmore last week, and his motto seems to be the
same as Ruth's, 'Where thou goest I will go.' Do you mind dogs in
the house?"
"I mind nothing," said Lady Bulstrode, "except rheumatism and
travelling third-class. Come here, boy!"
She held out a hand to Rufus, who crawled up and seated himself
carefully with his back against her skirt.
"George told me you were in these parts," she went on; "or, as he put
it, 'pigging it upon some absurd island off Strathmore.'"
"Dear George!" I said. "He has all the simple candour of a British
statesman."
"He has quite a high opinion of you," returned Lady Bulstrode,
"though he thinks you're a little mad."
"He's probably right. Anyhow, I'm very thirsty," I replied, as the
door opened and Parkes came in with the whisky.
I mixed myself a long drink and, at Lady Bulstrode's command, lighted
a cigarette.
"I had a talk with George the other day," I said, when the door
closed behind us again. "He thinks it's quite time I settled down."
"What do you think about it?" asked Lady Bulstrode.
"That doesn't matter," I said--"at least, not to George."
My hostess smiled.
"Still, even unimportant things are sometimes interesting."
"I think," said I, "that one Cabinet Minister in the family is quite
enough."
"Ample," agreed Lady Bulstrode hastily; "but, after all, there are
plenty of other openings in life for an energetic and honest young
man."
"Yes," I said, "and I've found mine. So long as my nine hundred
pounds a year lasts, and I can live on the workers, I'm quite content
to go on tramping round the world--especially if editors will pay me
for scribbling about it. I'm a born loafer, and I suppose when the
world is properly organized I shall be locked up in a labour colony."
"At least you'll be in good company," said Lady Bulstrode, "though I
think you make yourself out worse than you are," she added.
"No," I said. "Mine is a useless life. I've never had any illusions
on the point. If I had, George would have shattered them long ago."
"George," she returned, "is too serious to live. I tried to get him
up here for a few days, and he said things were so bad at Westminster
that he couldn't be spared. Those were his actual words."