Part 44 (1/2)

Yet it was not reason to fling my last guinea into the sea. A flash of petulance is well enough and may become beauty as summer lightning decks the sky, but fury is for termagants, and nought but fury could fling my last guinea to the waves. The offence, if offence there were, was too small for so monstrous an outburst. Well, if she would quarrel, I was ready; I had no patience with such tricks; they weary a man of sense; women serve their turn ill by using them. Also I had done her some small service. I would die sooner than call it to her mind, but it would have been a grace in her to remember it.

The afternoon came, grew to its height, and waned as I lay, back to sea and face to cliff, thinking now of all that had pa.s.sed, now of what was before me, sparing a moment's fitful sorrow for the poor wretch who lay dead there by the cottage door, but returning always in resentful mood to my lost guinea and Barbara's sore lack of courtesy. If she needed me, I was ready; but heaven forbid that I should face fresh rebuffs by seeking her! I would do my duty to her and redeem my pledge. More could not now be looked for, nay, by no possibility could be welcome; to keep away from her was to please her best. It was well, for in that her mind jumped with mine. In two hours now we could set out for Dover.

”Simon, I'm hungry.”

The voice came from behind my shoulder, a yard or two away, a voice very meek and piteous, eloquent of an exhaustion and a weakness so great that, had they been real, she must have fallen by me, not stood upright on her feet. Against such stratagems I would be iron. I paid no heed, but lay like a log.

”Simon, I'm very thirsty too.”

Slowly I gathered myself up and, standing, bowed.

”There's a fragment of the pasty,” said I; ”but the jug is empty.”

I did not look in her face and I knew she did not look in mine.

”I can't eat without drinking,” she murmured.

”I have nothing with which to buy liquor, and there's nowhere to buy it.”

”But water, Simon? Ah, but I mustn't trouble you.”

”I'll go to the cottage and seek some.”

”But that's dangerous.”

”You shall come to no hurt.”

”But you?”

”Indeed I need a draught for myself. I should have gone after one in any case.”

There was a pause, then Barbara said:

”I don't want it. My thirst has pa.s.sed away.”

”Will you take the pasty?”

”No, my hunger is gone too.”

I bowed again. We stood in silence for a moment.

”I'll walk a little,” said Barbara.

”At your pleasure,” said I. ”But pray don't go far, there may be danger.”

She turned away and retraced her steps to the beach. The instant she was gone, I sprang up, seized the jug, and ran at the best of my speed to the cottage. Jonah Wall lay still across the entrance, no living creature was in sight; I darted in and looked round for water; a pitcher stood on the table, and I filled the jug hastily. Then, with a smile of sour triumph, I hurried back the way I had come. She should have no cause to complain of me. I had been wronged, and was minded to hug my grievance and keep the merit of the difference all on my side. That motive too commonly underlies a seeming patience of wrong. I would not for the world enrich her with a just quarrel, therefore I brought her water, ay, although she feigned not to desire it. There it was for her, let her take it if she would, or leave it if she would; and I set the jug down by the pasty. She should not say that I had refused to fetch her what she asked, although she had, for her own good reasons, flung my guinea into the sea. She would come soon, then would be my hour. Yet I would spare her; a gentleman should show no exultation; silence would serve to point the moral.

But where was she? To say truth, I was impatient for the play to begin and antic.i.p.ation grew flat with waiting. I looked down to the sh.o.r.e but could not see her. I rose and walked forward till the beach lay open before me. Where was Barbara?

A sudden fear ran through me. Had any madness seized the girl, some uncontrolled whim made her fly from me? She could not be so foolish. But where was she? On the moment of the question a cry of surprise rang from my lips. There, ahead of me, not on the sh.o.r.e, but on the sea, was Barbara. The boat was twelve or fifteen yards from the beach, Barbara's face was towards me, and she was rowing out to sea. Forgetting pasty and jug, I bounded down. What new folly was this? To show herself in the boat was to court capture. And why did she row out to sea? In an instant I was on the margin of the water. I called out to her, she took no heed; the boat was heavy, but putting her strength into the strokes she drove it along. Again I called, and called unheeded. Was this my triumph? I saw a smile on her face. Not she, but I, afforded the sport then. I would not stand there, mocked for a fool by her eyes and her smile.