THE FEAST OF SAINTE BARBE
On the morning of December 4 in that same year a postman walked up the
narrow path leading to the front door of Mère Pitou's house in the Rue
Mathias, Pont Aven, and handed in a bundle of letters. The family was at
breakfast, the _petit déjeuner_ of coffee and rolls that stays the
appetite in every French household until a more substantial meal is
prepared at noon. The weather was mild and bright, though a gusty
sou'westerly wind was blowing; so door and windows were open.
Barbe saw the postman ere he unlatched the garden gate, and rose
excitedly, nearly upsetting a cup in her haste.
"Why, what's the rush?" cried Ingersoll. "And who in the world are all
these letters for?"
"Father dear, have you forgotten the date? This is Barbe's name day,"
said Yvonne.
"Oh, that's the explanation of tonight's festivity," laughed Ingersoll.
"Sorry. It quite slipped my mind. Of course she has wagonloads of
friends who make a point of remembering these things. Lucky Barbe! And,
by the way, Madame, what about those pictures which the Lady of Le
Faouet was to dispose of? It's high time she was getting busy. Here are
three months sped and--if anything rather a slump in Ingersolls.
Actually, my best commission thus far is a series of picture postcards
of Le Pouldu--with benefits deferred till next season."
"Perhaps the good saint knew that you kept your tongue in your cheek
while you were seeking her help," retorted Madame.
"Impossible. It was lolling out. You ungrateful one, didn't I climb the
hill twice for your sake?"
* * * * *
Barbe exchanged a friendly word with the postman, who was well aware of
the cause of this sudden increase in the mail delivery at the cottage.
Then she ran in.
"One for you, M'sieu'--all the rest for me," she announced gleefully.
Ingersoll took his letter. It bore the Pouldu postmark and the printed
name of a hotel. Usually such missives came from brother artists; but
the handwriting on the envelop was essentially of the type that French
hotelkeepers cultivate for the utter bamboozling of their foreign
patrons. Yvonne glanced at it with some curiosity, and was still more
surprised to see the look of humorous bewilderment on her father's face
when he had mastered its contents.
"I take back everything I said, or even thought, about Sainte Barbe," he
cried. "Learn how she has squelched me! The proprietor of the chief
hotel at Le Pouldu offers four hundred francs for a picture of the
_plage_ with his hotel in the center. Certainly four hundred is a heap
short of a thousand, which was the sum I named to her saintship; but
then, a _hôtelier_ isn't a dealer, and he promises to pay cash if the
sketch is delivered in a week, because he wants it for a summer poster.
Yvonne, have you finished breakfast? Run and find Peridot, there's a
dear, and ask him if we can sail to Le Pouldu this morning. It'll save
time to go by sea, and the tide will serve, I know. If Peridot says the
weather is all right, drop in at Julia's, and invite Tollemache. We'll
lunch gloriously with my hotel man, rub in the best part of the drawing
afterward, and be back here in good time for the feast."
* * * * *
Yvonne hurried out. The hour was half-past eight, and the tide in the
estuary of the Aven was already on the ebb. But she had not far to go.
The Rue Mathias (nowadays glorified by a much more ambitious name) was
not a minute's walk from the bridge that gives the village its name.
Another minute brought her to the quay, where the brawling river escapes
from its last millwheel, and tumbles joyously into tidal water. She was
lucky. Peridot was there, mending a blue sardine net,--a natty,
square-shouldered sailor, unusually fair for a Breton, though his blond
hair was French enough in its bristliness, as a section of his scalp
would have provided a first-rate clothes brush. He touched his cap with
a smile when she appeared, and in answer to her query raised to the
heavens those gray-green eyes which had earned him such a euphonious
nickname.
"Yes, Mademoiselle Yvonne, we can make Le Pouldu by ten o'clock with
this wind," he said. "We may get a wetting; but it won't be the first.
Is--er--is Madeleine coming?"
"Not today. She promised to help Mère Pitou with tonight's supper. You
will be there?"
"Wind and weather permitting, Ma'mselle. We go in your own boat, I
suppose?"
"Yes. Can you allow fifteen minutes?"
"There will be plenty of water for the next half-hour."
Yvonne raced off again, this time to the Hotel Julia, not the huge
modern annex,--that dominates the tiny marketplace of Pont Aven,--but
the oldtime hostelry itself, tucked in snugly behind its four sycamores,
like some sedate matron ever peering up in wonderment at its overgrown
child across the street. In winter the habitués--the coterie of artists
and writers who cluster under the wing of the famous Julia Guillou--eat
in the dining room of the smaller hotel.
Crossing the terrace, a graveled part of the square shielded by the
trees, Yvonne met Mademoiselle Julia herself, bustling forth to inspect
eggs, poultry, and buckets of fish. This kindly, outspoken,
resourceful-looking woman has tended and housed and helped at least two
generations of painters. In her way she has done more for art than many
academies.
"Is Monsieur Tollemache at breakfast, Mademoiselle?" inquired Yvonne.
Julia smiled broadly. Evidently it was the most natural thing imaginable
that the pretty American girl, known to everyone in the village, should
be asking the whereabouts of the stalwart youngster who would never be
an artist, but was one of the hotel's most valued guests.
"_Oui, ma chérie!_ I heard him shouting to Marie for three boiled eggs
not so long ago. Out of three eggs one hatches a good meal. And how is
your father? I haven't set eyes on him this week."
"He is so busy, Mademoiselle. There is so little daylight."
"Bring him to dinner on Sunday. We're roasting two of the biggest geese
you ever saw!"
"He will be delighted, I'm sure."
Then Julia marched to conquer the venders of eatables. There would be a
terrific argument; but the founder of modern Pont Aven would prevail.
Yvonne looked in through an open window of a delightful room, paneled in
oak--on every panel a picture bearing a signature more or less eminent
in the world of color. Tollemache was there, tapping his third egg.
"Lorry," she said, "Father and I are sailing to Le Pouldu. Will you
come?"
"Will a duck swim?" was the prompt reply. "When do we start?"
"Soon. Be at the quay in ten minutes."
"By the clock. Plenty of oilskins in the locker?"
"Yes."
She sped away. A Frenchman, an artist who knew the Breton coast in all
weathers, shook his head.
"Dangerous work, yachting off Finistère in December," he said. "What
sort of boat are you going in?"
"Ingersoll's own tub, a _vague_--a sardine boat, you know."
"First-rate craft, of course. But mind you're not caught in a change of
wind. The barometer is falling."
"Oh, as for that, we'll probably have Peridot in charge, and he was born
with a caul; so he'll never be drowned. Even if he's not there,
Ingersoll and Yvonne are good sailors, and I'm no fresh-water amateur."
"Well--good luck! I only ask you not to despise the Atlantic. Why is
Ingersoll going to Le Pouldu at this time of the year?"
"Don't know, and don't care. It's an unexpected holiday for me; so my
Salon study of the Bois d'Amour in winter must miss a day."
The Frenchman sighed; whether on account of the doubtful prospect before
Tollemache's Salon picture or because of his own vanished youth, it
would be hard to say.
"What a charming peasant girl--and how on earth did she acquire English
with that perfect accent?" said a woman, a newcomer.
"She is the daughter of a celebrated American artist," explained the
Frenchman.
"But why does she wear the Breton costume?"
"Because she has good taste."
"Oh! Is that a hit at current fashions?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "Madame asked for information," he
said. "To wander off into an essay on clothes would be impolite."
* * * * *
Before nine o'clock the Hirondelle, registered No. 415 at Concarneau,
was speeding down the seven kilometers of the Aven estuary on a
rapid-falling tide. Owing to the force and direction of the wind it
would have been a waste of time to hoist a sail, even in those reaches
of the winding river where some use might have been made of it.
Tollemache and Peridot (whose real name was Jean Jacques Larraidou)
rigged two long sweeps, and Yvonne took the tiller, keeping the boat in
mid-stream to gain the full benefit of the current. In forty minutes
they were abreast of the fortlike hotel at Port Manech, the summer
offshoot of the Hotel Julia, and a steel-blue line on the horizon,
widening each instant, told of the nearness of the sea. It was an uneven
line too, ever and anon broken by a white-capped hillock.
Peridot, pulling his oar inboard, poised himself erect for a few seconds
with an arm thrown round the foremast, and gazed steadily seaward.
"She'll jump a bit out there," he said; though the fierce whistling of
the wind drowned his words. He was aware of that, because he converted
both hands into a megaphone when he turned and shouted to Yvonne. "We'll
take the inside passage, Ma'mselle."
Before attempting to hoist the foresail he rummaged in a locker and
produced oilskin coats and sou'westers. There was no delay. The four
donned them quickly. Yvonne had changed her Breton dress for a short
skirt and coat of heather mixture cloth, because coif and collar of fine
linen were ill adapted to seagoing in rough weather.
Peridot held up three fingers. The girl nodded. Peridot and Tollemache
hauled at the sail, and Yvonne kept the boat in the eye of the wind
until three reefs were tied securely. Then the Hirondelle swung round to
her task. She careened almost to the port gunwale under the first
furious lash of the gale, and a sheet of spray beat noisily on oilskins
and deck. But the stanch little craft steadied herself, and leaped into
her best pace.
Ingersoll dived into the cabin, and reappeared with his pipe alight, the
bowl held in a closed and gloved hand. Tollemache made play with a
cigarette. Peridot clambered aft to relieve Yvonne.
"We'll make Le Pouldu in little more than the hour," he said.
"It's blowing half a gale," said the girl.
"Yes. If the wind doesn't veer, we should have a record trip. But we
shouldn't start back a minute after three o'clock."
"Oh, my father will see to that. Moreover, we're due at Mère Pitou's at
six."
Peridot showed all his white teeth in a smile. Madeleine would be there.
He meant to marry Madeleine. There was no use in asking her to wed until
after the Festival of the Gorse Flowers next August, since her heart was
set on being Queen. Once that excitement was ended, Heaven willing,
Madeleine Demoret would become Madame Larraidou!
In taking the rudder the man was not showing any distrust of Yvonne's
nerve; but there was just a possibility that a crisis might call for
instant decision, when the only warning would come from that sixth sense
which coastal fishermen develop in counteracting the sea's fitful moods.
Perhaps once during the hour--perhaps not once in a year--some monstrous
wave would roar in from the Atlantic, seeking to devour every small
craft in its path. No one can account for these phenomena. They may
arise from lunar influence, or from some peculiar action of the tides;
but that they occur, and with disastrous results if unheeded, every
fisherman from Stornoway to Cadiz will testify. Their size and fury are
more marked in a southwesterly gale than at any other time, and the only
safe maneuver for a boat sailing across the wind is to bring her sharply
head on to the fast-moving ridge, and ride over it. Yvonne knew of these
occasional sea dragons, but had never seen one. She knew what to do too,
and for an instant was vexed with Peridot. He read her thought.
"I'd trust my own life to you, Ma'mselle," he said gallantly; "but I'd
never forgive myself if anything happened to you."
She smiled in spite of her pique. To make her voice heard without
screaming, she put her lips close to his ear. "This time, if anybody
goes, we all go," she cried. He shook his head. "No, no, Ma'mselle. The
sea will never get me," he said. "Hold tight here. This is the bar."
* * * * *
Certainly, even among experienced yachtsmen, there would not be lacking
those who might have regarded the Hirondelle's present voyage as a piece
of folly. There is no wilder coast in Europe than the barrier of shaggy
rock that France opposes to the ocean from St. Malo to Biarritz. At
Finistère, in particular, each headland is not a breakwater, but a ruin.
During heavy storms the seas dash in frenzy up a hundred feet of
shattered cliff, the Atlantic having smashed and overthrown every sheer
wall of rock ages ago.
Of course the adventurers were not facing a No. 8 gale. That, indeed,
would have been rank lunacy. But the estuaries of the Aven and the
Belon, joining at Port Manech, were sending down no inconsiderable
volume of water to meet a strong wind, and the opposing forces were
waging bitter war. A mile farther on a channel ran between the mainland
and a group of rocks called Les Verrés. There the tide and wind would
not be so greatly at variance, and the partly submerged reef would
lessen the force of the sea; though the only signs of its existence were
a patch of high-flung spray and a small tower, with a black buoy at its
easterly extremity. This was what Peridot had called the "inside
passage." To the landsman it was a figure of speech. To the sailor it
meant seas diminished to half their volume as compared with the "dirt"
outside.
The Hirondelle raced through the turmoil at the bar as though she
enjoyed it, and, once the islets were to windward, the journey became
exhilarating. None of the four people on board displayed the least
concern. Indeed, they reveled in the excursion. When their craft swept
into the sheltered cove at Le Pouldu, not without a tossing on another
bar, and was brought up alongside the small quay, their flushed faces
and shining eyes showed that they looked on the outing as a thoroughly
enjoyable one.
* * * * *
They were ready for an early luncheon too, and did full justice to the
menu. Afterward, while Ingersoll planned his picture, Yvonne and
Tollemache strolled along the right bank of the Laita to the hamlet of
Le Pouldu.
The girl told her companion of the singular coincidence that brought her
father an unexpected commission by that morning's post; but Tollemache
pooh-poohed it.
"You're becoming almost as superstitious as these Bretons," he said.
"It's high time your father took you to New York for a spell. Spooks
can't live there since the automobile came along. They don't like the
fumes of petrol, I fancy. But these silly Bretons appeal to a saint or
dread a devil for every little thing. One stained-glass proposition can
cure rheumatism in a man and another spavin in a horse. It's unlucky to
gather and eat blackberries because the Crown of Thorns was made out of
brambles. You can shoot a wretched tomtit; but you mustn't touch a
magpie. If you want to marry a girl, you pray to Saint This; if you're
anxious to shunt her, you go on your marrow-bones to Saint That. I'm
fond of Brittany and its folk; but I can't stomach their legends. Look
at that pin-dropping business at Sainte Barbe's well! Poor Madeleine
couldn't get a pin home to save her life; whereas everybody knows that
she and Peridot will make a match of it before this time next year."
Yvonne did not like to hear her friends' amiable weaknesses exposed thus
ruthlessly. "If Homer nods, a poor girl who has watched ever so many
love affairs since A.D. 235 may surely be forgiven an occasional
mistake," she said.
"Has she been at it so long? What is the yarn?"
"Please don't speak so disrespectfully of Saint Barbara. Because she
wanted to marry someone whom her father didn't approve of he imprisoned
her in a tower, and when she was converted to Christianity beheaded
her."
"The old rascal! Did the other fellow--the one she liked--climb the
tower? Perhaps that accounts for the rings."
"It is possible. I have no doubt men were just as foolish seventeen
centuries ago as they are today."
"Thanks. That personal touch helps a lot. But, supposing I asked your
father to sanction----"
"If you will apply the moral, I must remind you that I am to refuse my
first offer. But don't let us talk nonsense. It is time we made for the
harbor."
"Crushed again!" murmured Tollemache, assuming an air of blithe
indifference. He was only partly successful. Stealing a glance at
Yvonne, he noted her heightened color and a curiously defiant glint in
her blue eyes. Unconsciously she quickened her pace too, and Tollemache
interpreted these outward and visible tokens of displeasure as hostile
to the notion that had sprung into thrilling life in his mind that day
at Le Faouet, when he peered down into Yvonne's agonized face when he
was clinging like a fly to the wall of the tower.
"She regards me as a silly ass," he communed bitterly, "and not without
good cause. What place do I fill in the world, anyhow? God created me a
live-wire American, and the devil egged me on to spoil clean canvas. I'm
little better than a hobo, and she knows it. Well, I'll swallow my
medicine.
"I say, Kiddie," he cried aloud, "you needn't go off in a huff just
because I was talking through my hat. Wait till I light a cigarette."
Though he was not sure that the bantering protest had deceived her, she
pretended that it had; so the object aimed at was achieved. But
Tollemache was of the tough fiber that regards no sacrifice as worth
while unless it is complete.
"If you knew the facts, Yvonne, you'd never get mad with me when I talk
about marrying anybody," he went on. "Why do I live in Pont Aven all the
year round? Because it's cheap. Last year I earned three hundred and
twenty francs for three pictures. At that rate of progress any girl who
married me would jolly soon starve."
Yvonne remembered the famous three. Two were portraits of the oleograph
order, in which Tollemache had shamelessly flattered his sitters. For
these he received the three hundred francs. The twenty were paid for a
sketch of a new villa which the builder wished to send to his
mother-in-law! Still, she allowed herself to be surprised.
"Of course I knew you were only joking, Lorry," she said. "And while we
are on the subject, I may as well tell you that I shall never leave my
father. What you say about your means is rather astonishing, for all
that. How can you possibly hire autos and live as you do?"
"Oh, I don't," he explained, with a sudden grimness of tone that she had
never heard before. "My father pays all my bills,--living expenses,
tailors, and that sort of thing, you know. The moment I marry without
his approval I revert to my pocket-money allowance."
The girl knew they were trenching again on a dangerous topic. She was so
exquisitely sensitive that she felt the imminence of some avowal that it
would be better, perhaps, not to hear.
"What does money matter if we are happy?" she cried cheerfully. "And our
small community in Pont Aven is a very united and pleasant one, don't
you think?"
"Top notch," said he. "There's Ingersoll, coming down from the front.
Bet you fifty centimes he has washed in a little gem--something I
couldn't touch if I tried every day for ten years!"
"Dad is really very clever," agreed Yvonne, momentarily deaf to the
irony of the words. "I often wonder why he has remained in our village
eighteen years. People say he would soon find a place in Paris or New
York. Sometimes I fancy that my mother's death must have distressed him
beyond measure. He never speaks of her, even to me. Perhaps he can't
bear to revive sad memories."
"I can understand that," said Tollemache. "I believe I should go dotty
if married to a woman I really loved, and I lost her."
Yvonne darted into a shop to buy caramels. She had to escape somehow.
When she emerged one side of her face was bulging, and she held out a
cardboard box.
"Take one," she gurgled. Not yet twenty, she was sufficient of a woman
to play a part when it suited her. By the time the two had joined
Ingersoll they were boy and girl again, and the curtain, lifted for an
instant on a tragedy, had fallen.
Tollemache, searching for some commonplace remark to relieve the tension
of his own feelings, noticed the drift of smoke curling from a cottage
chimney.
"What has happened to the wind?" he said.
"It has veered to the southeast, Monsieur," answered Peridot.
"I thought something of the sort had taken place, but was so busy that I
did not pay any heed," said Ingersoll. Then his forehead wrinkled
reflectively. "Southeast from southwest," he muttered. "On a rising tide
that change should kick up a nasty sea. Is the return trip quite safe,
Peridot?"
"The sea will be a trifle worse, Monsieur; but we'll travel on an even
keel."
"And be swept by an occasional wave from stem to stern?"
"I've heard of such things," grinned Peridot.
"And very uncomfortable things they are too. Yvonne, you must decide.
Shall we take the rough passage, or hire the hotel auto?"
Yvonne rounded her eyes at her father, and stepped on board the
Hirondelle.
He laughed. "That settles it!" he cried. "'Of Christian souls more have
been wrecked on shore than ever were lost at sea.' But I warn you, my
merry adventuress. Before half an hour has passed you may be ready to
cry with honest old Gonzalo in 'The Tempest,' 'Now would I give a
thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown
furze, anything,' obviously having the coast of Finistère in his mind."
* * * * *
The behavior of the maritime folk of Le Pouldu showed that there was an
element of risk in the voyage. Knots of fishermen watched Peridot's
preparations with a professional eye, and spat approval when he cast
loose a small jibsail. A few carried interest so far that they climbed
the seaward cliff to watch the boat's progress across the Basse Persac
and Basse an Hiss, the two nearest shallows on the homeward line across
the Anse du Pouldu.
The Hirondelle passed the bar of the Laita quickly and safely. A sea
that would have smothered her in churning water broke within a boat's
length. After that escape she made a drier passage than her occupants
expected. She was abreast of Douélan, and Yvonne was listening to the
thunder of the Atlantic on the black reef that stretches from Kerlogal
Mill to Les Cochons de Beg Morg, while her eyes were watching the
changing bearings of the church spires of Moëlan and Clohars, when a
shout from Peridot recalled her wandering thoughts.
"There's a steam yacht out there, making heavy weather," he said.
Ingersoll had evidently noted the other vessel already, because he had
gone into the cabin--not the cubbyhole of a sardine boat, but the hold
converted into a saloon fitted with a table screwed to the deck, and
four comfortable bunks--and reappeared with a pair of binoculars. From
that moment all eyes were fixed on the newcomer.
At a guess she might be coming from Brest to Lorient, because it was
safe to assume that her Captain was not a fool, and he must have started
the day's run before the change of wind. It must remembered that the
very conditions that helped the five-ton Hirondelle were the worst
possible for the sixty- or seventy-ton stranger, hard driven into a head
sea whipped by a fierce wind. She had shaped a course outside l'Isle
Verte, and was well clear of the Ar Gazek shallow when first sighted by
those on board the Hirondelle. The tidal stream was running strongly
there, and Yvonne with difficulty repressed a cry of dismay when the
yacht's bare masts and white funnel vanished completely in a cloud of
spray.
"If that fellow has any sense, he'll turn while he is able, and make for
Concarneau," said Peridot, as the spume dissipated, and the stricken
vessel's spars came into view again.
"Perhaps he doesn't know this coast. Can we signal him?" inquired the
girl.
"He wouldn't take any notice of a fishing boat. The skipper of a
ten-centime steam yacht thinks more of himself than the commander of an
Atlantic liner. Of course he should make Lorient tonight--if he
understands the lights."
The self-confident Peridot seldom qualified his words: now he had twice
spoken with an if. Yvonne hauled herself forward, and joined her father
and Tollemache.
* * * * *
"Peridot thinks that the vessel out there may get into difficulties,"
she said. "I suggested that we should signal her; but he says she would
pay no heed."
"What sort of signal?"
"To turn back--Concarneau for choice."
"Let's try, anyhow. Lorry, you'll find a codebook in the chart locker,
and flags in the one beneath. Look for 'Recommend change of course' or
something of the sort, and the Concarneau code letters. Get the
necessary flags, and we'll run 'em up."
Peridot, who missed nothing, understood Tollemache's quick descent into
the cabin. His shout reached father and daughter clearly.
"They're signaling from the Brigneau station already. It'll do no harm
if we give him a tip too."
During the next ten minutes the situation remained unchanged, save that
yacht and fishing boat neared each other rapidly, the Hirondelle
traveling three kilometers to the yacht's one, while lines of flags,
each identical--whereat Tollemache winked at Yvonne and preened
himself--fluttered from signal station and mast. The yacht disregarded
these warnings, and pressed on.
Ingersoll was watching her through the glasses; but Yvonne's keen vision
hardly needed such aid.
"They must have seen both signals," she said. "There are two men on the
bridge. What a big man one of them is! Can you make out her name, Dad?"
"No. I've been trying to; but the seas pouring over the fore part render
the letters indistinct. You have a look. Mind you brace yourself tight
against that stay."
He handed her the binoculars, and Yvonne lost a few seconds in adjusting
the focus.
"The first letter is an S," she announced. "There are six. The last one
is an A. Oh, what a blow that sea must have given her! It pitched on
board just beneath the bridge. Why, what's the matter? She is swinging
round!"
The girl was sufficiently versed in the ways of the sea to realize that
no shipmaster would change course in that manner, nor attempt such a
maneuver at the instant his craft was battling against hundreds of tons
of water in motion.
"_Gars!_" yelled Peridot excitedly. "She's broken down--shaft snapped,
or propeller gone!"
* * * * *
At once the fierce and thrilling struggle had become a disaster. The
yacht was drifting broadside on, utterly at the mercy of wind and tide.
Unless a miracle happened, she would be ground to matchwood on that
rock-bound coast within a few minutes. Unhappily she had gained
considerable speed in the direction where destruction awaited her before
her crew could let go the anchor. The agonized watchers from shore and
boat knew when a fluke caught in some crevice of the rocks buried twelve
fathoms deep, because the vessel's bows were brought up against the sea
with a jerk. Then she fell away again. The cable couldn't stand the
strain. It had parted.
"Good God!" groaned Ingersoll. "Every soul on board will be drowned
before our eyes!"
Yvonne could not speak. Neither could she see. She was blinded with
tears. The suddenness of the affair was appalling. At one instant she
had been following a fascinating fight between man and the elements, a
fight in which man was gaining ground yard by yard. Now by some trick of
Fate man was delivered, bound and crippled, to become the sport of
savage and relentless enemies. She heard her father shouting to Peridot:
"Bear a couple of points to port. They may lower a boat."
"No use," came the answer. "Better crack on. They'll strike on Les
Verrés. We may pick up one or two in the channel if they wear life
belts."
Tollemache had leaped down into the cabin. He was out on deck again now,
bareheaded, having discarded oilskin coat and sou'wester. A cork jacket
was strapped round his tall, alert body. If any life could be snatched
back from the abyss, Tollemache might be trusted not to spare himself in
the effort. In that moment of stress the cheery, devil-may-care American
artist had become a calm, clear-headed man of action. He looked almost
heroic, standing on the sloping deck forward, with one sinewy,
brown-skinned hand clasping a mast-hoop, and the other thrust into a
pocket of his Norfolk jacket. By a queer trick of memory Yvonne was
reminded of her fright when she saw Lorry clinging to the rings of
Sainte Barbe's tower. He had come through that ordeal unscathed.
Would he conquer in this far more dreadful test? There he could depend
on his own taut muscles and iron nerve. Here he was at the mercy of
circumstances. Still, it was helpful to see Lorry's fingers clenched on
a ring. Somehow it seemed to offer good augury.