Kitabı oku: «Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For», sayfa 6

CHAPTER X—FLOWN

 
“Till now thy soul hath been all glad and gay,
Bid it arise and look on grief to-day.”
 

Adelaide Proctor.

There was a Guild at St. Kenelm’s which was considered by the promoters to be superior to the Girls’ Friendly Society, and which comprised about a dozen young women, who attended classes held by Sister Beata, and occasional modest entertainments given by Lady Flight.

One of these was to take place the day before Miss Prescott’s garden party.  It was to be given at Carrara, the very pretty grounds on the top of the cliff, belonging to Captain Henderson, the managing partner in the extensive marble works of Mr. White, who lived at Rocca Marina, in the Riviera.  Mrs. Henderson had resided in Mr. Flight’s parish, and been a member of his congregation, and while he was absent for a day or two she had put her garden at the service of the Guild of St. Milburga’s for the day.

Of course Vera and Paula were delighted to assist; but Thekla was too young for the amusements of grown-up maidens, and was much better pleased to help her two elder sisters in preparations for the next day, placing tennis nets, arranging croquet hoops, mustering chairs by the verandah, and adorning tables with flowers.  Agatha’s assistance was heartily given, as making it her own concern, and, for that reason above all others, it was a happy day, though a very tiring one, to Magdalen, in spite of the sultry atmosphere and the sight of lurid-looking clouds over the moors, which did not augur well for the next day’s weather, and caused all the arrangement of chairs and rugs to be prudently broken up and deposited under the verandah.

This was done, and the evening meal had been taken, and Thekla had gone to bed before some flashes of lightning made the two sisters wish to see the other pair at home, especially as Vera was much afraid of lightning, and Paula apt to be made quite ill by it.

The storm rolled on, bringing violent gusts of wind and hail, though not at the very nearest, and such a hurricane of wind and rain ensued that the two watchers concluded that the two girls must have been housed for the night by some of the friends at Rock Quay, and it was near midnight, when just as they had gone to their rooms, a carriage was heard ascending the hill, and they had reached the door before Paulina sprang out with the cry, “Is she come home?”  Then at sight of the blank faces of dismay, she seized hold of Agatha’s hands and began to sob.  Mr. Flight had stepped out of the car at the same moment, and answered the incoherent questions and exclamations.

“Young Delrio offered to take photographs of the party, and that was the last time she was seen.”

“Yes,” sobbed Paula, “Sister Mena saw her there.  We were trying to get up croquet, and then I missed her.  I tried to find her when the lightning began, but I could not find her anywhere, though I looked in all the summer-houses!”

“At Mrs. Henderson’s? or Miss Mohun’s? or the Sisters’?” asked Magdalen, catching alarm from each denial.  “She might have gone home with one of the girls.”

“She would be wild in such a storm,” said Agatha, “and not know what she was about.”

“Sister Beata and I have gone to each house,” said Mr. Flight.

“When did you say you saw her last?”

“I saw her when we were grouped,” said Paula; “Sister Mena, when she was helping him to put up his photos.”

“The strange thing is,” said Mr. Flight, “though no doubt it will be explained, that Delrio is missing too.”

“Hubert Delrio!” exclaimed Agatha.  “Impossible!  He must have taken her into the church to be out of the storm.”

“We have tried,” said the clergyman.  And as the round of suggestions began to be despairingly reiterated, he said, hesitating, “Miss Mohun told me that she thought she had seen a boat, Captain Henderson’s, she believed, in the cave with some one rocking in it; and certainly that little boat was there, when on the hope, if it can be called a hope, I ran down the steps to look.”

“Would it not have been put into the boathouse out of the rain?” said Agatha.

“The gardener was gone home, out of reach round the point, but we shall know to-morrow.”

“He thinks they may have rowed out and been caught in the storm,” cried Paula, bursting into fresh weeping; and Magdalen saw the conjecture confirmed by Mr. Flight’s countenance.

“I am afraid it is the least distressing—the least unsatisfactory idea,” said he, in much agitation.  “I thought Mr. Delrio an excellent young man; and she,” indicating his companion, “tells me you know him and his family well.”

“Oh, yes,” said Agatha and Magdalen in one breath.  “We have known his father all our lives.  Nothing can be more respectable.”

“And Hubert is as steady and good as possible,” continued Agatha.  “His mother used to come to Mrs. Best and praise him, till we were quite tired of his name; I am sure he is all right.”

“Or I should be much deceived in him,” said the clergyman.

Yet there was an idea in Paulina’s mind.  Could Vera have poured out such an exaggerated tale of oppression and unhappiness as to have induced her old playfellow to carry her off to his mother at Filsted?  She had given some such hint to Mr. Flight on the way; but he had not seemed to hear or attend, and he was now promising to let the sisters know as soon as possible in the morning whether anything had been discovered, and to telegraph to Filsted and to the office in London if he should see occasion.

Then he drove off, in what would have been almost daylight but for the pelting of the storm; and after a vain attempt to make Paula swallow some nourishment, Magdalen thought it kinder to let Agatha carry her off to bed, and then she confessed, what really gave a certain hope, that the pair had been in the habit of murmuring against “sister” so much that, considering poor Vera’s propensity to strong language, it was quite possible that Hubert might think her cruelly oppressed, and for a freak carry her off to his mother to be consoled.

Agatha tried to believe it, for the sake of hushing the exhausted Paula, who almost went into hysterics, as she laughed at the notion of to-morrow’s telegram that Vera was safe at Filsted; and then allowed herself to be calmed enough to sleep, while Agatha revolved the notion, but found herself unable seriously to believe, that sufficient grievance could be brought against sister to induce any man in his senses to take such a step.  But then Paula had inferred that he was a lover, and Agatha did not know of what lovers might be capable, and she could not but blame herself for not having given more importance to the semi-confidences of her sisters on the first day of her arrival.  It was all misery; and the two poor girls could find no solace in the morning, save in talking to Magdalen, though that involved the confession of all the murmurs against her, the distrust of her kindness, and the explanation of the interviews, which, as far as Paula had ever witnessed them, were absolutely harmless, the only pity being in their concealment.

Magdalen was manifestly as wretched as they, or even more so, being convinced of her own shortcoming in not having won the affection or confidence that would have made all open between them.  She could not understand why Hubert Delrio should not have been made known to her.

“We thought,” said Paula, “we thought you might not think him enough—enough—of a gentleman for your sort of society.”

“I think you might have trusted me to know what was due to an old friend,” said Magdalen “but, oh, I ought to have made you feel that we could think together.”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha, “there was a little consciousness on poor dear Vera’s part that she did not want you to know the terms she was on.”

They had tried only to let Thekla know that they were much alarmed because Vera had gone out in a boat and not returned.  It was observable that, on the principle that where there is life there is hope, Paula clung to the notion that Vera’s having fled to Filsted; while the two elder sisters, perhaps because they better knew what such a flight might seem to others, would almost have preferred to suppose there had been a fatal accident in the midst of youthful, innocent sport.

The two were lingering sadly over their uneaten breakfast, talking more freely when they had sent Thekla to feed her pets, when Mr. Flight came up on his bicycle; but it was plain at the first moment that he had no good news.

Nothing had been heard.  It only appeared that one of the young gardeners at Carrara had taken Captain Henderson’s boat without leave, to fetch one of the girls, but on entering the cove had found the boathouse locked.  He had moored the boat to a stake for want of the ring that secured it within.  When the storm threatened he ran down to recover it, but it was gone, and he had concluded that the gardeners had put it into the boathouse.  It now appeared that they had not seen it, and were very angry at its having been meddled with.  An oar had drifted up with the morning tide, and had been recognised as belonging to the boat; but such a gale was blowing that it was impossible to put out to sea or make any search round the coast.  Words could hardly describe the distress of Mr. Flight or of his ladies at not having better looked after the young girl; Sister Beata for never having thoroughly attended to the matter; and Sister Mena for having accepted confidences which, if she had only guessed it, told her more than there really was to be known.  Both these two were inclined to the elopement idea, partly because it was the least shocking, and partly because they had looked at Vera’s grievances through her own spectacles, and partly from their unlimited notions of young men’s wickedness.  Their vicar was not of the same opinion, knowing Hubert better, and besides having found his work, his orders to his subordinates, and the belongings at the lodgings in a state that showed that whatever he had done had been unpremeditated.  Sending off notes to stop the garden party was a sort of occupation, broken by many signs, much listening, and much sorrowful discussion, not quite vain, since it made Paulina more one with Magdalen than ever before.  Poor old Mr. Delrio arrived in the afternoon, a thin, grey-haired and bearded old man, who could only make it too certain that Paula’s theory of the innocent flight to Filsted was impossible.  Moreover, he was as certain as a father could be, intimate with, and therefore confident of, his eldest son, that though Hubert might indulge in a little lively flirtation, it could never be otherwise than perfectly harmless.  In the terrible suspense and restlessness, he went vibrating about in the torrents of moorland rain between Rock Quay and the Goyle, on the watch for telegrams from the office in London or his wife at home, or for the discovery of anything from the sea, or searching in his son’s lodgings, where nothing was found that did not show him to have been a pure-hearted young man, devoted to his art, and fond of poetry.  Sundry compositions were in the blotting-book, one, indeed, to Vera’s name, under the supposition (a wrong one) ¹ that it meant “true,” but mostly rough copies of a poem about the Saints Julitta and her child Cyriac.  Hope sank as another stormy day rose; and still the poor old artist lingered in hopes of news by some returning craft which might have picked up the derelict.  His chief comfort was in walking about between the showers with Magdalen, as an old friend, and trying to think of the two as innocent creatures, engulfed like mayflies in the stream.

Sister Mena came over, wanting to join Paula in bewailing entreaties; but Paula, in youthful hard-hearted wilfulness, declared that it was impossible to see her; and it fell to Magdalen to try to discuss the grief with her.

It turned out that Mr. Flight had spoken severely to her and to the far less implicated Sister Beata, declaring his confidence in them destroyed, so that they had begun to consider of throwing up their work in his parish.  “And it was all my fault,” said Mena; “Sister Beata really knew nothing, or hardly anything of what Vera told me.”

“Indeed, I can quite understand that you had hardly experience enough to know that it might be wiser not to encourage what was not quite open.”

“But I thought,—I thought you—”

“That I was unkind and unsympathising.”

“Oh, you never could have been—”

“Indeed I never meant to be, but I am afraid it seemed so to my young sisters.  I can quite see how you thought you were acting kindly.”

“Oh, that is so good of you.”

“And perhaps I, being only an elder sister, you would not feel that I was the only authority the poor girls have to look to; and that it would have been kinder to help them to be content with me.”

“I did not know what you could be,” said Mena, greatly soothed and surprised by her caresses.

“We often do go on in ignorance, and get on a wrong tack; but you know God pardons our mistakes, and I do believe that you will be wiser for all this sorrow, and better able to rise to your work.  I am sure, however it ends, that is the reason that such blows are sent to us.”

Mena went back sorrowful and chastened, but tenderly hopeful.  If Miss Prescott could forgive, surely Mr. Flight could, and One still greater.

CHAPTER XI—ADRIFT

 
“She splashed, and she dashed, and she turned herself round,
And heartily wished herself safe on the ground.”
 

Jane Taylor.

And where were the missing pair?

Vera had lingered about, fancying she was helping to pack the photographic apparatus, while the others dispersed.  Presently, seeing no one near, Hubert Delrio said, in a gentle diffident voice, “It would be a great pleasure to me if I might ask you to listen to the verses on St. Cyriac and his mother that the design brought with it.”

“I should love it better than anything,” said Vera, highly flattered.

“If you would come down this way, there is a charming secluded cove, where we should be free from interruption.”

“How deliciously romantic!  Quite stunning!” cried Vera, as her cavalier conducted her down a steep path along the side of the cliff to the stony beach, where a few red rocks had been manipulated into a tiny harbour, with a boathouse for the little skiff in which Captain Henderson was wont to go round to the marble works on the other side of the headland.  The boat looked very inviting as it lay swinging gently in the sluggish waves in the advancing shade of the tall cliff; and Vera exclaimed with delight as she was assisted into it, and placed herself comfortably on the cushion, with one hand dabbling in the cool translucent wave.  Hubert Delrio opened his manuscript and began to read his ballad, if so it was to be called, being the history of the little boy of four years old, who, being taken with his mother before the tribunal at Tarsus, was lifted on the proprætor’s knee, but struggled, crying out, “I am a Christian!” till the proprætor, in a rage, hurled him down.  His skull was fractured on the marble pavement, and his mother gave thanks for his soul’s safety, when she too was sentenced to be beheaded.  Great pains had been taken with the noble-minded tale; and the verses had considerable merit, more, perhaps, than Vera could appreciate.  But to read such a production of his own, in such surroundings, to the auditor whom youthful fancy most preferred, was such luxury to both that it was no wonder that under the broad shady hat with the lily wreath she was nodding in the gentle breeze, the lapping of the waves, and the soft cadence of the poetry, till at an effective passage on the mother’s death, the poet looked up, expecting to receive a responsive glance from those blue eyes.

Not only were they hidden, but the cliff was farther off.  The mooring rope and the stake were dragging behind in the water.  The tide had turned, and the boat was already out of reach of the rock where it had been drawn up.  His exclamation of dismay awoke Vera, who would have started up with a little shriek, but for his, “Don’t!  Don’t!  I’ll row back.”

But he was a landsman, whose only knowledge of the water was in an occasional bathe, or in a river steamer; and his first attempt at placing the oars in the rowlocks resulted in one falling overboard, while he helplessly grasped the other; and Vera screamed again.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear!  Dearest, don’t!  We must be seen.  Some one will come out and help us.”

“Can’t you get on with one oar?  They do in pictures.”

“Punting?  Yes, but there must be a bottom.  No, don’t move, whatever you do.  There can’t be any danger.  Fishermen must be about.  Or we shall be seen from the cliffs.”

“They are getting farther off!  Can’t you shout?”

Hubert shouted, and Vera added her shriller cries; but all in vain, and the outgoing tide was carrying them, not towards the quay and marble rocks, but farther to sea.  The waves grew rougher and had crests of foam, and discomfort began.  Once the feather of a steamer was seen on the horizon.  They waved handkerchiefs and redoubled their shouts, and Hubert had to hold his companion to prevent her from leaping up; but they never were within the vessel’s ken, and she went on her way, while the sea bore them farther and farther.

The shore was growing dim and indistinct, the sun was sinking, and the cloud, that had at first shown only a golden border, was lifting tall perpendicular masses, while the tossing of the little boat became more and more distressing.  Anxiety and sense of responsibility kept Hubert from feeling physical discomfort; but Vera began to cry, and to declare that it would be the death of her if she were not landed immediately.

“If it were only possible!” sighed Delrio.

“There must be some way!  You are so stupid!  Oh!  There was a flash of lightning.”

“Summer lightning.”

“No such thing!  There will be a storm, and we shall be drowned.  Oh, I wish I had never listened to your nonsense, and got into this horrible boat.”  She was in a state for scolding, and scold she did, as the clouds rose higher, and sheets of lightning more decided.  “How could you?  You, who know nothing about boats, and going on, on, with those horrid tiresome verses—not minding anything—I wish I had never come near you!”

Vainly the poor young fellow tried to get in a word of consolation; it only made her scold the more, till there was no question that the storm was raging overhead; the hail rattled and splashed, the waves raised them to a height, then subsided into endless depths; the thunder pealed, and she clung to Hubert, too frightened for screaming.  His fear was that the cockleshell of a boat should fill and founder; he tried to bale out the water with his hat, and to make her assist, but she seemed incapable, and he could only devise laying her down in the bottom of the boat with his coat over her, hiding her face in terror.  Her hat had long ago been blown away, and her hair was flapping about.  Ejaculations were in his heart, if not on his lips, and once or twice she cried out something like, “Save me!” but in general it was, “We are sinking!  Hold me!  We are going!  Paula!  Nag!” clutching at his legs, so as to hamper him in the baling out the water.

The hail passed, but there was a solid sheet of rain descending on them, undistinguishable from the foam that rushed over them as they went down, down, down.  Vera was silenced; and Hubert, drenched and nearly beaten out of life, almost welcomed every downward plunge as the last, tried to commend his spirit, and was amazed to find his little boat lifted up again, and the black darkness not so absolute.

CHAPTER XII—“THE KITTIWAKE”

 
“Good luck to your fishing!  Whom watch ye to-night?
A man of mean, or a man of might?”—Scott.
 

Something black was before the tossed boat!  Yes, and light, not lightning.  A human voice seemed to be on the blast.  Hubert Delrio essayed to shout, but his voice was gone, or was blown away.  He understood that a vessel must be above him.  Would it finish all by running him down?  He perceived that he was bidden to catch something.  A rope!  His benumbed hands and the heaving of the boat made him fail once, twice, and he was being swept away as at last he did grasp a rope, and was drawn, as it ground his hands, close to the dark wall that rose above, with lights visible.

“Cheer up! cheer up!” he cried to Vera.  “Thank God, we are saved!”

Response from her there was none; but he could hear the yell of inquiry from ahead, and answered, “Here!  Two!  A woman!”

A second rope was lowered.  “Lash her to it.”  But as it was evident that Delrio could do nothing but hold on, and that his companion was helpless, a sailor descended from no great elevation, and, in another moment, the senseless girl was hoisted up and received on deck; and, with some assistance, Hubert was also on board, thinking of nothing but the breathless question, “Is she safe?”

“Oh, yes!  She will soon come round!  Here!  They will see to her.”  As she was carried away, and Hubert had a perception that she was received by female hands, but he was utterly exhausted, and unable to see or speak, till some stimulant had been poured down his throat, and even then he could hardly ask, “Is she safe?

“Yes, yes!  All right!  Reviving fast!  Here!  Take some more!  Bed is ready!  Get rid of those clothes!”  It was an elderly, grey-haired man who spoke, and Hubert was in no condition to resist, as the yacht was pitching considerably, though after the boat the motion was almost rest.  He instinctively shook his head at the glass, but swallowed what was forced upon him, and managed to say, “Thanks—sitting in boat—drifted off—Rock Quay.”

“All right!  Never mind.  Take him down.  My berth, Ivy—Jephson.  Tuck him in.  Don’t let him speak!  Never mind, my lad!  We will hear all about it to-morrow!”

Meantime, Vera, though reviving, was conscious of very little, save a soft pillow, tender hands, and warm drink that choked her; and then she fell asleep, though still she was aware of a strange tossing going on all night, and by and by she found herself secured into a sort of narrow shelf, and murmuring female voices were at hand.  As she moved, she heard, “There, you are better now.  You can take this, then you will be more comfortable.”

Her eyes had opened to a curious sort of twilight, and there was a fair girlish head over her, with a sweet smiling face.  An elderly weather-beaten face in a hood next appeared, and a brown hand holding a cup closed over the top, in invalid fashion, and a kind strong arm slightly raised her with, “There, there, poor dear!  The spirit, my lady dear, the spirit!  That’s right, now then.”

“You must be a baby;” and a merry reassuring smile broke out as the draught was administered.  Vera tasted, thanked, swallowed, felt giddy, and lay down, hearing a lively bit of self-gratulation.  “There, Mrs. Griggs, I’m getting my sea legs!” followed by an ignominious stumble as Mrs. Griggs caught the cup in good time as the vessel gave a lurch which completed Vera’s awakening in the fear of being shaken out on the floor.

She looked round to find herself in a tiny room, cushioned throughout, with strange dancing confused light coming in, and the few articles of furniture carefully secured.  Two young figures were there, both dressed in stout blue serge, with white trimmings; one, the darker, beside her bed, had a face full of kindness and solicitude, yet of fun dimpling over continually; the other, even in that dim light, striking Vera as something out of the loveliest visions of romance, so fair and beautiful was the countenance.

A man’s voice was at the door.  “Fly!  Francie!  How is she?”

“Much better!  Nearly well!  Good morning, Papa dear.  Is he all right?”

“As sound as a bell!  Ha!”  As the door escaped, the curtain over it shook, and he nearly fell against it, saving himself with his hands.  “That was exercise!”  As the young girls came tumbling up and disappeared behind the curtain, where, however, the voices could be plainly heard, “Had any sleep to-night or this morning?”

“Between whiles!  O yes!  All our bones are still whole, as I hope yours and Ivy’s are.”

“Come and see.  Griggs is getting breakfast under difficulties insurmountable to any one but a sea-grasshopper!  I came to call you damsels, and present my inquiries to Miss Prescott.”

“She will soon be all right!  Francie and I are so proud of having had a real downright adventure.”

“I trust she will not be the worse, and will—excuse me, and regard me as incognito.”

This was said as another lurch drove the grizzled head into the cabin; and recovering in another upheaval they all disappeared, leaving Vera in a dreaming state, whence she was only half roused when Mrs. Griggs returned to administer breakfast, so far as she could taste it, under exhortations, pettings, and scoldings; and she very soon fell asleep again, and was thus left, sensible all the time of tossings and buffetings, but so worn out by the five hours of the boat, and so liable to be made ill by the motion of the vessel, that it was thought best to leave her to sleep in her berth.

She was only aware of voices above talking and laughing, or sailor calls being shouted out, or now and then of some one coming to look at her, and insisting on her taking food.

It was not till late in the afternoon that she awoke from what seemed like a strange long uneasy dream, and found one of the girls sitting by her and telling her she was better now.

“Yes,” said Vera, trying to raise herself, finding something over her head, and falling back on the pillow; “but what is it?  Where is this?”

“This is somewhere out in the Channel, near off Guernsey, Griggs says, but we cannot put in anywhere till the gale goes down.”

“What is it?  Is it a ship, then?”

“O yes,” said the girl, laughing; “a yacht, the Kittiwake.  Sir Robert Audley has lent it to my brother, and we are all going to see the Hebrides and Staffa and Iona.”

“Not to take me all up there?” groaned poor Vera, in horror.  “Can’t you put me out somewhere, anywhere?”

“Don’t be afraid,” was the much-amused reply.  “As soon as ever we can put in anywhere, we can telegraph to Rock Quay and put you ashore to go home; but we can only run before the wind while the sea is so high.  I wish you could come on deck, it is so jolly!”

“Oh! it was too dreadful!”

“Beating about in the boat!  It must have been, Mr. Delrio told us.”

“It was so stupid in him never to see that we had got loose, and were drifting off,” said Vera, who had never thought of inquiring after him.

“My father and Griggs think he behaved quite like a hero,” was the answer.  “He must have managed very well to keep you afloat, and saved you all this time.”

“I suppose so,” said Vera.  “We always did know him, or I should not have let him get me into that boat, when he minded nothing but his verses.”

“Those verses, they came all limp and wet out of his pocket, and Francie made him let her dry them and copy them out; and she is so delighted with them.  It really is well it is too late to call the baby Cyriac.”

“The baby?”

“Oh, yes.  We had to leave him behind, though Francie was ready to break her heart over it; but they said that nothing would do for Ivinghoe—after this second influenza—but a sea voyage, so she had to make up her mind to leave him to my mother.”

Vera was in a state of bewilderment, caring a great deal more for herself and her own sensations than for any of her surroundings; and her next question was, “When do you think we shall be out of this?”

“We shall put into harbour somewhere as soon as the wind lulls.  We cannot venture yet, though we do steam; and then we can telegraph.  I am longing to relieve Miss Prescott.  We can take you home all the way.  We were on our way into Rock Quay to take up Mysie Merrifield if she can go.  It really was a wonderful and most merciful thing that we made you out just as it was getting light before running you down.  My father saw you first, and old Griggs would hardly believe it, but then we heard Mr. Delrio’s hail!  But it was a terrible business getting you up the ship’s side.”

“I did not know anything about it.  It was so dreadful in the lightning.  And my new hat was blown away.  And what is become of all my clothes?”

“Mrs. Griggs has them, and is drying them.  We will lend you a hat to land in.”

“Oh, when we do!  I wish I had never got into that boat, but Hubert Delrio did persuade me so.”

“And he is an old friend?”

“Yes, he is come to paint the roof of St. Kenelm’s Church, and we want to be attentive to him because my eldest sister would be sure to be cross and keep him at a distance, being only that sort of wall painter, you know, and his father a drawing master.”

“My father is very much pleased with him, and thinks him a very superior young man.  They have been sitting on deck together, talking as much as they could about architecture and Italy, with their breath all blown away every moment.  There!  You are really getting better!  If you would eat something and come on deck you would be well!  I will call the sea gnat, and see what we have.”

It was all very wonderful to Vera; and she began to be interested and to forget her troubles.  A slice of very salt ham was brought to her and a glass of something, she did not know what, and asked if she could have some tea.

“You could have tea if you like, but there’s no milk.  You see, we ought to have been in at Rock Quay yesterday evening, and our stores were not adapted to hold out any longer!  We shall have another curious experience, though Mrs. Griggs says it won’t be so bad as once when they were off the coast of Ireland, and when they put into a bay with a queer name, all Kill and Bally, they could get nothing but potatoes and goat’s milk.”

“Who is Mrs. Griggs?”

“She is wife to the sailing master; and, like the Norsemen, her home is on the wave, at least in the yacht, for she always lives in it, and her cabin is quite a sight; she is great fun, she cooks when there is anything to cook, and is stewardess and everything.  Francie and I knew a maid would be a vain encumbrance, so we are taking care of ourselves, and, if you will let me, I will try and set your hair to rights.”