Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “You turned pale,” observed the young man, raising himself on his elbow as he lay on the cushions, and looking at her. Her colour came back more quickly than it had gone.

  “Did I?” she asked indifferently enough. “It’s probably the sun. It’s hot, lying here and drifting.”

  “No. It wasn’t the sun,” said Lawrence, with conviction. “You were thinking that somebody you are fond of might die suddenly. We were talking about death.”

  “What difference does it make whom I was thinking of?” She spoke impatiently now, still watching the water.

  “It makes all the difference there is, that’s all,” answered Lawrence. “Won’t you tell me?”

  “No. Certainly not! Why should I? Look here — if you’re well enough to talk, you re well enough to help me to get the sail up again.”

  “Of course I am — but—” Lawrence showed no inclination to move.

  “But what? You’re too lazy, I suppose.” Fanny laughed. “Let me see your forehead — take your cap off,” she added, with a change of tone.

  Lawrence thrust the cap back, which did not help matters much, as his hair grew low and partially hid the bruise. The skin was not broken, but it was almost purple, and a large swelling had already appeared.

  “It’s too bad!” exclaimed Fanny, looking at it, as he bent down his head, and softly touching it with her ungloved hand. “Tell me — do you feel very weak and dizzy still? I was only laughing when I spoke of your helping me with the sail.”

  “Oh no!” answered Lawrence, cheerfully. “It aches a little, of course, but it will soon go off.”

  “And your heart?” asked Fanny, anxiously. “Is it all right now? You don’t think you’ll faint again, do you?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “I’m not sure. You’re very pale.”

  “I’m always pale, you know. It’s my nature. It doesn’t mean anything. Some people are naturally pale.”

  “But you’re not. You’re dark, or brown, and not red, but you’re not usually pale. I wish I had some whiskey, or something, to give you.”

  She looked round the boat rather helplessly, as though expecting to discover a remedy for his weakness.

  “Please don’t make so much of it,” said Lawrence, in a tone which showed that he was almost annoyed by her persistence. “I assure you that I won’t have such bad taste as to die on your hands before we get to land!”

  Fanny rose to her feet and turned away from him with an impatient exclamation.

  “Just keep the helm amidships while I get the sail up,” she said, without looking at him, and stepping upon the seat which ran along the side, she was on the little deck in a moment, with both halliards in her hands.

  Lawrence sprang forward to help her, forgetting what she had just told him to do.

  “Do as I told you!” she exclaimed quickly and impatiently. “Do you know what the tiller is? Well, keep it right in the middle till I tell you to do something else.”

  “Don’t be fierce about it,” laughed Lawrence, obeying her.

  But when she was not looking, he pressed one hand to his forehead with all his might, as though to drive out the pain, which increased with every minute.

  Meanwhile, Fanny laid her weight to the halliards, and the sail went flapping up, throat and peak. The girl was very strong, and had been taught to handle a catboat when she had been a mere child, so that there was nothing extraordinary in her accomplishing unaided a little feat which would have puzzled many a smart young gentleman who fancies himself half a sailor.

  CHAPTER VI.

  IT CHANCED THAT on that evening Roger Brinsley was to dine with the Miss Miners. He was often asked, and he accepted as often as he could. As a matter of fact, he was not so much sought after elsewhere, as he was willing to let the four ladies believe, for there were people in Bar Harbour who shared Lawrence’s distrust of him, while admitting that, so far as they could tell, it was quite unfounded. There was nothing against him. The men said that he played a good deal at the club, and remarked that he was a good type of the professional gambler, but no one ever said that he won too much. On the contrary, it was believed that he had lost altogether rather heavily during the six weeks since he had first appeared. He paid cheerfully, however, and was thought to be rich. Nevertheless, the men whose opinion was worth having did not like him. They wondered why the Miss Miners had him so often to the house, and whether there were not some danger that Fanny Trehearne might take a fancy to him.

  It was very late when Fanny and Lawrence got home, for the catboat had been carried far up Frenchman’s Bay during the time after the little accident, and it had been necessary to beat to windward for two hours against the rising tide in order to fetch the channel between Bar Island and Sheep Porcupine. The consequence was that the pair had scarcely time to dress for dinner after they reached the house.

  Lawrence felt ill and tired, and was conscious that the swelling on his forehead was not beautiful to see. He was still dazed, and by no means himself, when he looked into the glass and knotted his tie. But though he might well have given an excuse and stayed in his room instead of going down to dinner, he refused to consider the possibility of such a thing even for a moment. He felt something just then which more than compensated him for his bruises and his wretched sensation of weakness.

  The conversation, after the boat had got under way again, had languished, and had been so constantly interrupted by the often repeated operation of going about, that Lawrence had not succeeded in bringing it back to the point at which Fanny had broken it off when she had gone forward to hoist the sail. But he had more than half guessed what might have followed, and the reasonable belief that he might be right had changed the face of his world. He believed that Fanny had turned pale at the idea that his life was in danger.

  One smiles at the simplicity of the thought, in black and white, by itself, just itself, and nothing more. Yet it was a great matter to Louis Lawrence, and as he looked at his bruised face in the glass he felt that he was too happy to shut himself up in his room for the evening, out of sight of the cool grey eyes he loved.

  He had assuredly not meant to frighten Fanny

  Canoeing in the Harbour.

  when he had spoken, and he had been very far from inventing an imaginary ailment with which to excite her sympathy. The whole thing had come up unexpectedly as the result of the accident. Hence its value.

  As often happens, the two people in the house who had been most hurried in dressing were the first down, and as Lawrence entered the library he heard Fanny’s footstep behind him. He bowed as they came forward together to the empty fireplace. She looked at him critically before she spoke.

  “You’re badly knocked about. How do you feel?” There was a man-like directness in her way of asking questions, which was softened by the beauty of her voice.

  I feel — as I never felt before,” answered Lawrence, conscious that his eyes grew dark as they met hers. “You told me something to-day — though you did not say it.”

  Fanny did not avoid his gaze.

  “Did I?” she asked very gravely.

  “Yes. Plainly.”

  “I am very sorry,” she answered, with a little sigh, and turning from him at last.

  “Are you taking it back?” Louis’s voice trembled as he asked the question.

  “Hush!”

  Just then the voices of the three Miss Miners were heard in the hall, and at the same instant the distant tinkle of the front-door bell announced the arrival of Roger Brinsley.

  The conversation turned upon Lawrence’s accident, from the first, as was natural, considering his appearance. He dwelt laughingly on his utter helplessness in a boat, while Fanny was inclined to consider the whole affair as rather serious. For some reason or other Brinsley was displeased at it, and ventured to say a disagreeable thing. He had lost at cards in the afternoon, and was in bad humour. He spoke to Fanny with affected apprehension.

  “You really ought to take somebody with you
who knows enough to lend a hand at a pinch, Miss Trehearne,” he said. “Suppose that you got into a squall and had to take a reef — you’d be in a bad way, you know.”

  “If I couldn’t manage a catboat alone, I’d walk,” answered Fanny, with contempt.

  “Yes — no doubt. But if a squall really came up, what would you do? Mr. Lawrence confesses that he couldn’t help you.”

  “Are you chaffing, Mr. Brinsley?” asked Fanny, severely. “Or do you think I really shouldn’t know what to do?”

  “I doubt whether you would.”

  “Oh — I’d let go the halliards and lash the helm amidships, and take my reef with the sail down— ‘hoist ’em up and off again,’ after that, as the fishermen say.”

  “I think you could stand an examination,” said Brinsley.

  “I daresay. Could you? If you were going about off a lee shore in a storm and missed stays, could you club-haul your ship, Mr. Brinsley?”

  The three Miss Miners stared at the two in surprise and wonder, not understanding a word of what they were saying. It was apparent to Lawrence, however, that Fanny was bent on putting Brinsley in the position of confessing his ignorance at last; but where the young girl had learned even the language of seamanship, which she used with such apparent precision, was more than Lawrence could guess. Brinsley did not answer at once, and Fanny pressed him.

  “Do you even know what club-hauling means?” she asked, mercilessly.

  “Well — no — really, I think the term must be obsolete.”

  “Not at sea,” retorted Fanny.

  This was crushing, and Brinsley, who was really a very good hand at ordinary sailing, grew angry.

  “Of course you’ve had some experience in catboats,” Fanny continued. “That isn’t serious sailing, you know. It’s about equivalent, in horsemanship, to riding a donkey — a degree less dignified than walking, and a little less trouble.”

  “I won’t say anything about myself, Miss Trehearne,” said Brinsley, “but you might treat the catboat a little less roughly. I didn’t know you’d ever sailed anything else.”

  Here the Miss Miners interposed, one after the other, protesting that it was not fair to use up the opportunities of conversation in such nautical jargon.

  “I only wished to prove to Mr. Brinsley that I’m to be trusted at sea,” Fanny answered.

  “My dear child,” said Miss Cordelia, “Mr. Brinsley knows that, and he must be a good judge, having been in the navy.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you’d been in the navy, Mr. Brinsley,” said the pitiless young girl, fixing her eyes on his with an expression which he, perhaps, understood, though no one else noticed it. “The English navy, of course?”

  “The English navy,” repeated Mr. Brinsley, sharply.

  “Oh, well — that accounts for your not knowing how to club-haul a ship. Your own people are always saying that your service is going to the dogs.”

  Even Lawrence was surprised, and Brinsley looked angrily across the table at his tormentor, but found nothing to say on the spur of the moment.

  “However,” Fanny continued with some condescension, “I’m rather glad to know you’re a navy man. I’ll get you to come out with me some day and verify some of the bearings on our local chart. I believe there are one or two mistakes. We’ll take the sextant and my chronometer with us, and the tables, and take the sun — each of us, you know, and work it out separately, and see how near we get. That will be great fun. You must all come and see Mr. Brinsley and me take the sun,” she added, looking round at the others. “Let’s go to-morrow. We’ll take our luncheon with us and picnic on board. Can you come to-morrow, Mr. Brinsley? We must start at eleven so as to get far enough out to have a horizon by noon. I hope you’re not engaged? Are you?”

  “I’m sorry to say I am,” answered the unfortunate man. “I’m going to ride with some people just at that hour.”

  “How unlucky!” exclaimed Fanny, who had expected the refusal. “I’ll take Mr. Lawrence, anyhow, and give him a lesson in navigation.”

  “I’ve had one to-day,” said Lawrence, affecting to laugh, for it was his instinct to try and turn off any conversation from a disagreeable subject.

  “You’ll be all the better for another to-morrow,” answered Fanny.

  As she spoke to the artist, her tone changed so perceptibly that even the Miss Miners noticed it. Brinsley took the first opportunity of talking to Miss Cordelia, of whose admiration he was sure, and the rest of the dinner passed off in peace, Brinsley avoiding a renewal of hostilities with something almost like fear, for he felt that the extraordinary young girl who knew so much about navigation was watching for another opportunity of humiliating him, and would not be merciful in using it.

  The change in her manner to him had been very sudden, as though she had on that particular day made up her mind about something concerning him. Hitherto she had treated him almost cordially, certainly with every appearance of liking him. He had even of late begun to fancy that her colour heightened when he entered the room, — a phenomenon which, if real, was attributable rather to another cause, and connected with Lawrence’s presence in the house.

  After dinner the whole party went out upon the verandah, a favourite manœuvre of Miss Cordelia’s, whereby the society of Mr. Brinsley was not wasted upon smoke and men s talk in the dining-room. This evening, however, instead of sitting down at once in her usual place, Cordelia slipped her arm through Fanny’s, and led her off to the other side and down the steps into the garden.

  “The moonlight is so lovely,” said Miss Cordelia, “and I want to talk to you. Let us walk a little — do you mind?”

  The two went along the path in silence, in and out among the trees. The moon was full. From the sea came up the sound of the tide, washing the smooth rocks at high water. The breeze had died away at sunset and the deep sky was cloudless. Here and there the greater stars twinkled softly, but the little ones were all lost in the moonlight, like diamonds in a pure fountain. Everything was asleep except the watchful, wakeful sea. The two women stood still and looked across the lawn. At last Miss Miner spoke.

  “Why were you so unkind to Mr. Brinsley to-night?” she asked in a low voice.

  Fanny glanced at her before she answered. The eldest Miss Miner’s face had once been almost beautiful. In the moonlight, the delicate, clearly chiselled features were lovely still, but a little ghostly, and the young girl saw that the fixed smile had disappeared for once, leaving a look of pain in its place.

  “I didn’t mean to be unkind,” Fanny began.

  “That is,” she added quickly, correcting herself, “I’m not quite sure of what I meant. I think I did mean to hurt him. He’s so strong, and he’s always showing that he despises Mr. Lawrence, because he isn’t an athlete. As though a man must be a prize-fighter to be nice!”

  “Well — but — Mr. Lawrence doesn’t mind. You see how he takes it all. Why should you fight battles for him?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t. But — why should you take up the cudgels for Mr. Brinsley? He’s quite able to take care of himself, if he will only tell the truth.”

  “If!” exclaimed Miss Cordelia, in ready resentment. “He’s the most truthful man alive.”

  “Oh! And he told you he had been in the English navy.”

  “What has that to do with it? Of course he has, if he says so.”

  “He’s unwise to say so, because he hasn’t,” answered Fanny, in her usual direct way.

  “How in the world can you say that a man like Mr. Brinsley — an honourable man, I’m sure — is telling a deliberate falsehood? I’m surprised at you, Fanny — indeed I am! It isn’t like you.”

  “Did you ever know me to tell you anything that wasn’t exactly true?” asked the young girl, looking down into her elderly cousin’s sweet, sad face, for she was much the taller.

  “No — of course not — but—”

  “Well, Cousin Cordelia, I tell you that your Mr. Brinsley has never been in the English navy. I
don’t say that I think so. I say that I know it. Will you believe me, or him?”

  “Oh, Fanny!” Miss Cordelia raised her eyes with a frightened glance.

  “Not that it matters,” added Fanny, looking away across the moonlit lawn again. “Who cares? Only, it’s one of those lies that go against a man,” she continued after a short pause. “A man may pretend that he has shot ten million grisly bears in his back yard, or hooked a salmon that weighed a hundred-weight — people will laugh and say that he s a story-teller. It’s all right, you know — and nobody minds. But when a man says he’s been in the army or in the navy, and hasn’t — people call him a liar and cut him. I don’t know why it’s so, I’m sure, but it is — and we all know it.”

  “Yes,” answered Cordelia, almost tremulously; “but you haven’t proved that Mr. Brinsley isn’t telling the truth—”

  “Oh yes, I have! There never was a deep-sea sailor yet who had never heard of club-hauling a ship to save her. I know about those things. I always make navy officers talk to me about those things whenever I get a chance. Besides, I can prove it to you. Ask the first captain of a fishing-schooner you meet down at the landing what it means. But don’t tell me I don’t — know it’s too absurd.”

  Miss Cordelia looked down. Her hand still rested on Fanny’s arm, and it trembled now so that the young girl felt it.

  “What does it mean, then?” asked Cordelia, faintly.

  “Oh, it’s a long operation to tell about. It’s when you’ve got a lee-shore in a gale, and you want to go about and can’t, because you miss stays every time, and you let go an anchor, and the ship swings to it, and just as she begins to get way on, you slip your chain, and she pays off on the other tack. Of course you lose your anchor.”

  “Oh — you lose the anchor? To save the ship? I see.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You lose the anchor to save the ship,” repeated Cordelia, softly, as though she were trying to remember the words for future use. Shall we go back?” she suggested, rather abruptly.