made signs with her nose that her niece should move over to the left,
where at the next table a fat man with a back like the nether part of a
rhinoceros was taking up so much space that it was obviously impossible
for Jasmine to squeeze her chair between his back and the side of their
table. She hesitated for a moment, hoping that her aunt would indicate
the other side of the table where she herself had been sitting; but she
did not offer to move her bag, which took up what space was left by the
vase of flowers, and Jasmine was too anxious to have a view of the room
to take the risk by moving it herself of being advised to stay where she
was.
Frank, the waiter, who had come to her rescue once already, was the
instrument chosen by destiny to preserve her a second time from
disappointment. For just as he was handing the duck to Lady Grant, the
fat man at the next table, outraged by some piece of news in the paper
he was reading, threw himself back in his chair so violently that he
swept the dish out of Frank's hand. The noise made everybody look in
their direction, and Lady Grant and Jasmine, who had jumped up in
affright, were conspicuous to the world. It was thus that Mr. Vibart,
lunching at the far end of the room, perceived Jasmine, learned who Lady
Grant was, and without a moment's hesitation came across and insisted
that they should all lunch at his table. Lettice and Pamela did not dare
to look as disagreeable as they felt, for each knew from her sister's
countenance how ugly ill-temper made her. The host was so boisterously
cheerful that the luncheon party appeared to be going splendidly, and
when about two o'clock Lettice glanced at her watch and asked if they
ought not to be getting along with the foursome before the links filled
up, Jasmine thought that she could have no idea how old such fussiness
made her seem.
"I say, Claude, do you know," Mr. Vibart said gravely to his companion,
a young man to find any other adjective for whom would be a waste of
time, "I say, Claude, I believe I did strain my leg in the ravine before
the eighth. Most extraordinary! It's gone quite stiff." He called to
another friend who was passing out of the dining-room unaccompanied.
"Ryder! Are you engaged this afternoon? I wish you'd take my place in a
foursome, like a good chap. I've strained my leg."
"Oh, let's postpone it," Lettice begged, with a desperate attempt to
hide with an expression of concern the chagrin she felt.
"Oh no, don't do that," said Vibart. "Ryder might think you were trying
to snub him. He's an awful sensitive fellow."
Claude Whittaker, whom Vibart had been kicking under the table with his
strained leg, urged the prosecution of the foursome, and the two
sisters, with a reputation of jolly good-fellowship to maintain, had to
yield. When they were gone, Vibart turned to Lady Grant and asked if he
could come and sit with her on the verandah. He said that he thought he
could manage to limp as far as that.
"But how are you going to get home?" she asked.
"Oh, I shall get a lift in a car from somebody."
Lady Grant hesitated. She was wondering if she should offer to drive
him in hers, or rather she was wondering if she could not manage to get
him and Lettice into the car.
"Didn't I see you at York railway station about a fortnight ago?" Mr.
Vibart was saying to Jasmine. "On a Sunday afternoon it was."
"My niece did pass through York," Lady Grant admitted unwillingly.
"I thought I recognized her. Are you staying long at Spaborough?"
"My niece is staying with us indefinitely," said Lady Grant. "But how
long we stay in Spaborough will depend rather upon the weather. Besides,
my husband's patients are waiting for him."
"They will become impatients if he doesn't go back soon," the young man
laughed.
Lady Grant had never heard anybody make a joke about Sir Hector's
profession, and if Mr. Vibart had not been the heir of an older
baronetcy than her husband's she might have resented it.
"How long will it be before my daughters get back?" she asked after a
while, when she found that the conversation between Jasmine and Mr.
Vibart was steadily leaving her behind.
"I should guess in about an hour and a half."
"Well, in that case I think my niece and I ought to be getting home
now," said Lady Grant. "Perhaps if I sent back the car," she added, "you
would let my daughters drive you home?"
"Thank you very much," said Mr. Vibart. "I really think I ought not to
wait so long as that. My leg seems to be getting stiffer every second.
But that's all right. I shall get a lift. May I come and call on you
one afternoon, as soon as my leg's a little better?"
"But of course we shall be delighted," said Lady Grant graciously.
"Perhaps you will arrange a day with my daughter Lettice so that we are
sure to be in? Good-bye, Mr. Vibart. I do hope your leg will soon be all
right."
"Oh yes, I think it will," said Mr. Vibart. Nor was his optimism
unjustified, for the very next afternoon it was well enough for him to
call at Strathspey House, where, having forgotten to make any
arrangement with Lettice, he found that Sir Hector had just gone out,
that Lady Grant was lying down, and that Jasmine was by herself in the
drawing-room. He knew that Lettice and Pamela were safely engaged on the
links, and before Cousin Edith divined that something was going on in
the house, he had had five minutes alone with Jasmine.
Mr. Vibart spent most of that five minutes in telling Jasmine how much
he disliked her cousins; he was just going to demonstrate how much he
must like her in order to put up with the company of such cousins for a
whole fortnight of foursomes when Cousin Edith came in. Naturally in
what she called her intimate heart-to-heart talks with the dear girls,
and what they called keeping Cousin Edith from feeling too keenly her
position, she had been told a good deal about young Mr. Vibart, nephew
and heir of Sir John Vibart; and in her anxiety to stand well with
Lettice and Pamela she had committed a kind of vicarious bigamy, so
earnestly had she encouraged both of the girls to believe that she was
the chosen of Mr. Vibart. The moment she heard--and she heard these
things by being as tactful with the servants as she was with the
family--that Mr. Vibart was in the house and was shut up in the
drawing-room with Miss Jasmine, she was alert to defend the honour of
her patrons. She knew, of course, that such an insignificant girl as
Jasmine had no chance of rivalling either dearest Lettice or darling
Pamela; but at the same time Cousin Edith's profound distrust of all men
disinclined her to run any risks. Besides, she saw no reason why Jasmine
should be puffed up with an undue sense of her own importance by being
allowed to suppose that she was capable of entertaining anybody like Mr.
Vibart.
It may well be imagined, therefore, with what dismay Cousin Edith
discovered that Mr. Vibart was identical with what had already been
magnified by time's distorting hand into an agent of White Slavery,
which was the only kind of appeal she could allow Jasmine to be capable
of making.
She was now in a dilemma: if she revealed the secret of that meeting in
the Spa, she would have implied that the impression made by Jasmine was
capable of enduring, though it had been stamped and surcharged over and
over again by the images of Lettice and Pamela; on the other hand, if
she kept quiet, and if by any inconceivable chance--and men were
men--this young man should really prefer Jasmine to her cousins, she
would run the risk of being suspected as an accomplice. On the whole,
Cousin Edith decided that it was far safer to betray both parties. She
resolved, while assuring Jasmine of her intention to keep the secret of
her previous acquaintance with Mr. Vibart, to do her best to prevent its
ripening into anything more permanent, and at the first opportunity, by
somehow involving Jasmine with her aunt, to procure her banishment from
the family, and thus remove what seemed likely to be a rival to Lettice,
Pamela, and herself. Thanks to Cousin Edith's discretion nobody
suspected that the two young people were interested in one another.
Indeed it would have needed a considerable display of affection to have
convinced Lettice and Pamela Grant that anybody so foreign-looking as
Jasmine was capable of attracting anybody so English-looking as Harry
Vibart. So Lettice and Pamela supposed that his now daily visits were
paid for them, and though they would have been better pleased to observe
his admiration wax daily on the links, they were much too fond of him to
let him play golf a moment before his leg was completely healed;
moreover, since they did not want him to feel that he was depriving them
of a pleasure, they protested that as a matter of fact they were growing
tired of golf, and that one round in the morning was enough for anybody.
There was a charming display of sisterly affection when Lettice
entreated Pamela and Pamela implored Lettice not to give up golf on her
account.
"Poor Claude Whittaker will feel quite deserted," Lettice declared
spitefully.
"Yes," Pamela replied. "Only this morning he asked me why you always
went home for lunch nowadays."
"I don't know why he should ask that," Lettice exclaimed.
"Don't you, dear?" her sister sweetly marvelled.
"For he can't be missing me," said Lettice, "because he's so devoted to
you."
"Oh no, my dear, he's much more devoted to you," replied Pamela.
"They're such affectionate girls," Lady Grant whispered to Mr. Vibart.
"They really do admire each other, and that's so rare in sisters
nowadays." Lady Grant always implied by her disapproval of the present
that she and all to do with her were survivals of the Golden Age. "And
really," she went on in a low voice, "everybody likes them. I know that
as a mother I ought not to talk so fondly, but I do believe that they
are the most popular girls anywhere."
Mr. Vibart nodded in absent-minded sagacity.
"I never met your uncle, Mr. Vibart," Sir Hector said importantly.
"No, sir, he keeps very much to himself."
"Quite so. Quite so." Sir Hector wanted Vibart to realize that baronets
had certain instincts and habits which he, as one of the species,
emphasized in his own manner of life. "No, when I get away for a few
weeks' rest," he went on, "I like to rest; and as I know that your uncle
comes to Spaborough for the same reasons as myself, I haven't disturbed
him with a card. A fine name, a fine name! Fourteenth in precedence, I
believe? A Jacobean creation? Yes, to be sure." Sir Hector wished that
he were a Jacobean creation himself, and he often thought when he saw
himself in the glass that he looked like a Jacobean creation. So he did,
just as Jacobean furniture in Tottenham Court Road looks very like the
real thing.
"My title dies with me," he sighed, "and to me there's always something
very sad in the thought of a title's becoming extinct. You, I believe,
are the last representative?"
Vibart nodded.
"You ought to marry," said Sir Hector, and though the advice was given
by the baronet, it sounded as though it were given by the doctor.
"I certainly must," Vibart agreed lightly. "By the way, you haven't
forgotten that to-night's a gala night at the Spa?"
"Indeed no," said Lady Grant. "Aren't we expecting you to dinner, so
that you can escort us afterwards to see the fireworks?"
Later, when the composition of the evening's party was being discussed,
Jasmine perceived a suggestion hovering on her aunt's lips that she
should stay at home and keep her uncle company. But Sir Hector on this
occasion was somewhat obtuse for a man who had won rank, money, and
reputation by his ability to indulge feminine whims, and he decided that
contrary to his usual custom he would himself attend the gala.
"I like Vibart," he affirmed when the guest had gone home to dress. "A
very decent fellow indeed. It must be a great consolation to Sir John to
feel that the title will be in good hands. A very fine young fellow
indeed! I shall quite enjoy going to the fireworks with him."
There was only the problem of Spot's loneliness to be considered, which
it was decided that Cousin Edith should be called upon to solve.
"Poor old Spot," said Cousin Edith deprecatingly. "Spot shall stay with
me. Yes, he shall, the good old dog! Poor Spot! Good old Spot! I shall
be able to see the rockets beautifully from my window. And Spotticums
will be able to see the rockets too. Yes, he will, the clever old Spot!"
It was a fine night; the gardens of the Spa were crowded with people,
the sky with stars. Sir Hector, who was tall enough to be independent of
his place in the largest crowd, kept ejaculating, "What a splendid view
we have got! We really are remarkably lucky to have found such an
excellent place! By Jove, that was a magnificent shower of gold! Upon my
soul, I'd forgotten how good the Spa fireworks were."
Every time Sir Hector applauded a new pyrotechnic effect, the people in
his immediate neighbourhood all stretched their necks and stood on
tiptoe to see if they too could not catch a glimpse of what had aroused
his enthusiasm. The result of this continual straining and struggling
by the crowd was to separate one from another the various members of the
Strathspey House party.
"Don't bother about the fireworks," said Vibart to Jasmine when one of
Sir Hector's loud expressions of approval had been followed by a kind of
panic of curiosity in his neighbourhood and Jasmine, in order not to be
swept down over the slope of the cliff, had been compelled to catch hold
of Mr. Vibart's arm. "Let's get out of this squash and take a breather."
It was only when they had pushed their way through to the outskirts of
the crowd that they discovered the full enchantment of the night. A
hump-backed moon, the colour of an old guinea, was lying large upon the
horizon; fairy lamps bordered the paths that wound about the bosky
cliffs; and from time to time bursting rockets were reflected in streaks
of colour upon the tranquil and hueless sea. They strolled along until
they found a deserted corner of the promenade, where, leaning over the
parapet, they watched swarming on the sands below the people who were
come to watch the fireworks as freely as they might watch the stars
every night of their lives. Beyond the crowd stretched a wide expanse of
wet sand, already glimmering faintly in response to the rising moon.
From the beach below a shadow under the parapet breathed up to them in a
hoarse voice:
"Lovely night for a sail, sir."
"Why, there's not a breath of wind," Vibart contradicted.
"Lovely breeze about half a mile out, sir. Better have a couple of
hours' nice sail, sir."
"It would be rather jolly," Vibart suggested with a glance at Jasmine.
She, her eyes brimming with memories of the South, could not gainsay
him.
"The whiting's biting something lovely to-night, sir," tempted the
hoarse voice again. "There's a party just come in, sir, took 'em by the
dozen in half an hour."
A tempting exit to the sands was visible close to where they were
standing, the tall iron turnstile of which was like a gate to the moon.
Vibart hurried through.
"And now you must come," he pointed out, "because I can't get back."
"That's right, lady," breathed the voice. "He can't get back."
A maroon crashed overhead, and before the echoes had died away Jasmine
was on the free side of the turnstile. The voice, which belonged to a
burly longshoreman, led the way seaward, and when they were clear of the
crowd on the beach shouted:
"_Mermaid_, ahoy! Jonas Pretty is my own name," he added.
Some of the crew flopped toward them like walruses and helped them along
planks over the ribbed and rippling sands to the _Mermaid's_ dinghy; and
presently they were aboard with the crew grunting over the oars to catch
the legendary breeze half a mile off shore.
In the last act of _The Merchant of Venice_ Shakespeare has said all
that there is to say about moonlight and its effect upon young people,
and if Harry Vibart was less expressive than young Lorenzo, Jasmine
Grant was at least as susceptible as pretty Jessica. She had a moment's
sadness in the recollection of her father's death after such a night in
the Bay of Salerno; but it was no more than a transient gloom, like a
thin cloud that scarcely dims the face of the moon in its swift voyage
past. Indeed, the sorrowful memory actually added something to her joy
of the present; for fleeting though the emotion was, it endured long
enough to stir the depths of her heart and to make her more grateful to
her companion for the beauty of this night.
The skipper of the _Mermaid_ had spoken the truth: the light breeze he
had promised did arrive, and presently the grunt of oars gave place to
the lisp and murmur of water and to airy melodies aloft.
"Magnificent, eh what?" Vibart asked.
"Glorious," Jasmine agreed.
Pointing to a small craft half a mile away to starboard, he quoted two
lines of verse:
_A silver sail on a silver sea_
_Under a silver moon._
"That really exactly expresses it, don't you think?"
"Perfectly," she agreed.
"Funny that those lines should come so pat. I don't usually spout
poetry, you know. It really is awfully good, isn't it?--
_A_ sil_ver sail on a_ sil_ver sea_
_Under a_ sil_ver moon!_"
He marked the beat more emphatically at the second time of quoting.
"It's really awfully musical. You know, I admire a chap who can write
poetry like that. Some people rather despise poets, but if you come to
think what a lot of pleasure they give....
_A_ silver _sail on a_ silver _sea_
_Under a silver_ moon!"
"Who wrote it?" asked Jasmine idly.
"Oh, great Scott, don't ask me. It's extraordinary enough that I should
remember the lines. I must have learnt them at my dame's school. Years
ago. Quite fifteen years ago. Terrific, isn't it? I'm twenty-four, you
know. That's the worst of being an heir. I wanted to go out and try my
hand at coffee in British East, but my old great-uncle kicked up a fuss.
He's a funny old boy. Likes to have me around, and then grumbles all the
time because I'm not doing anything. Says my conversation would cure a
defaulting solicitor of insomnia. I bucked him up rather, though, by
talking about Italy. Do you know, I think he'd rather like you.
A _silver_ sail on a _silver_ sea
Under _a silver moon_.
"Dash it, I can't get those lines out of my head. It's worse than a tune.
Yes, I think he'd rather like you, Miss Grant. Miss Grant! That sounds
absurd on a night like this. Now, I think Jasmine's a charming name.
Jasmine! It seems to fit in so well with ... _a silver sail_ ... look,
here, do you mind stopping me if I begin again? Jasmine! Would you jump
overboard if I called you Jasmine?"
"I'd rather you called me Jasmine."
"And of course you'll return the compliment? My name's Harry. It's a
perfectly normal name, so you needn't blush."
Mr. Jonas Pretty interrupted any embarrassment with the news that the
whiting were biting. Presently the boat was in a confusion of fish. As
fast as they dropped the lines they had to tug them in again with half a
dozen iridescent victims squirming and leaping and flapping on the
hooks, and in half an hour the bottom of the boat was aglow with silver
fire.
"Well, I think we've caught enough," said Harry Vibart. "And I mustn't
keep you out late, Jasmine. Better sail back now, Skipper."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Mr. Pretty shouted a number of unintelligible and raucous commands, and
the breeze immediately died away.
"Lost that nice little wind we had," he grumbled. "That means a bit of a
pull back. You wouldn't like to stay out all night, sir, with the
whiting biting so lovely? There's a lot of gentlemen likes to do that
and come back with the sunrise."
"No, no, this lady has to get home."
Mr. Pretty shook his head reproachfully at such a lack of adventurous
spirit.
"It'll be a long pull back, sir."
Indeed the lights of Spaborough did look very far away.
"Can't be helped. We must get back. How long will it take?"
"About a couple of hours, sir."
"What?"
"We'd better steer for the harbour."
Jasmine did not blame Harry--in the excitement of pulling up her line
she had fallen easily into calling him by his Christian name--for the
flight of the wind.
"I say, it's awfully sporting of you to be so decent about it," he said,
turning her behaviour into an excuse to take her hand.
"It's not your fault."
During the long pull back to the harbour Harry Vibart quoted no more
poetry; indeed he hardly seemed to notice the moonlight, so deeply was
he engaged in telling Jasmine all about his early life and his present
life, and what he should do when he inherited his uncle's title and
estate.
"Of course I shall have to get married."
"Of course," she agreed.
They looked at each other for a brief instant; but almost
simultaneously they looked away again and began to count the whiting.
Soon afterward they reached the harbour.
The clocks of Spaborough were striking the apprehensive hour of one when
Jasmine and Harry Vibart, each carrying a large bunch of fish,
disembarked at the pier of the old harbour.
"I'm afraid that they really will be very cross," said Jasmine. "But
never mind, I've had a glorious evening, and I've enjoyed myself, more
than I ever have since I left Sirene."
"They might be cross if we hadn't got these whiting," Harry pointed out.
"But you can't go against evidence like this. I don't see a carriage
anywhere, do you?"
"Perhaps it's too late."
From the old fishing town to South Parade was at least an hour's walk
uphill all the way. The whiting began to weigh rather heavily. It was
obvious that Jasmine would not be able to carry her bunch, and Harry
relieved her of it. After climbing for about five minutes he began to
feel that the bunches were more than even he could manage, and pulling
off four fish as he would have pulled off four bananas, he offered them
to a policeman who was standing at the corner.
"Just caught," he explained cheerfully.
"Thank you, sir," said the constable. "I'll wrap them up and leave them
on this window-sill."
"Don't lose them," said Vibart. "They're fresh."
"That's all right, sir. I'll wrap them up in the evening paper. I'm not
off duty till six."
"They'll still be quite fresh then," said Vibart encouragingly.
He looked round to see if there was anybody else to whom he could make a
present of fresh fish; as there was nobody else in sight, he advised the
constable to have two more, and so make up the half-dozen. Another five
minutes of slow ascent passed, during which the whiting seemed to have
grown into cod. A wretched old woman asleep in an archway, her head
bowed in her lap, offered a good opportunity for charity, and Harry was
just going to lay a couple of whiting in her lap when Jasmine suggested
that if the old woman put her head down any lower she would touch them
with her face, which might startle her too much and spoil the pleasure
of the surprise.
"Well, I'll lay them on the pavement beside her," said Harry. He also
put a couple on her other side, so that she would be sure to see them
and not miss her breakfast.
"It's jolly to think how happy she'll be when she wakes up."
"But if she hasn't got anywhere to sleep," Jasmine objected, "I don't
suppose she's got anywhere to cook whiting."
"Oh yes," he assured her, "she'll get them cooked all right. Oh, rather!
She'll find some workmen who are mending the road."
"But how will that help her to cook whiting?"
"Oh, they always have a fire. I don't know why, but they always do.
Still not a carriage to be seen!"
The clocks struck a quarter-past one. The whiting had grown from cod to
sharks. They toiled on without meeting a soul till the clocks struck the
half-hour, and the whiting from sharks were become whales.
"It would be a pity to go back without these confounded fish," said
Vibart, "because it really was a remarkable catch. Besides, fresh
whiting's tremendously good for breakfast. It does seem a most
extraordinary thing that there's not a carriage anywhere. I think I'll
try another way of carrying them--one on each end of my stick, and then
I'll put my stick over my shoulder like a milkmaid."
He was demonstrating how much easier it was to carry whiting in this
way, and saying what an extraordinary thing it was that he had not
thought of doing so before, when both bunches slipped forward, the front
one falling into the road and the second one only being prevented from
joining its companion by Vibart's shoulder.