Part 36 (1/2)
CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH MR. HIGGINSON AND THE SAILING-MASTER BOTH MERIT PUNISHMENT, AND BOTH ESCAPE IT
Pa.s.sing the town-wharf laggingly like the maimed thing she was, limping nearer and nearer the spot whence she had set out three-quarters of an hour before, Mr. Carstairs's _Cypriani_ slowed down at an abandoned private landing--the same one by which Peter's trunk had been conveyed ash.o.r.e that morning--and ran out her stairs.
As the two on board stood watching the yacht make fast, conversing, if the truth be known, somewhat disjointedly, they were astonished to see the great form of a man rise from a gra.s.sy bed a little way back from the river-bank and advance towards them.
”Why, look!” said Mary. ”There's Mr. Maginnis! I thought he'd gone to town long ago.”
Varney did not answer her. His eyes were glued upon Maginnis, and he called in a strange voice:
”You have been waiting for us.”
”Haven't budged a step,” answered Peter, moving out upon the landing.
And he added what seemed an odd remark to Miss Carstairs: ”I knew you were coming back.”
He greeted Mary at the foot of the stairs, cordially, and begged the privilege of escorting her to any destination it might be her fancy to name. But she stoutly declined his good offices, as she had Varney's a moment before, declaring that she could not think of troubling so busy and important a man.
”But where did you spirit Mr. Hare off to, if I might ask?” she said.
”On a very important mission I a.s.sure you, madam,--that is, Miss Carstairs,” said Peter, diplomatically, having no idea how matters stood. ”He begged me to let him go back and say good-bye to you, but I told him I'd make it a personal matter.”
”I am awfully glad that you have stopped calling me 'madam,'” said Mary, rather inconsequently. ”I _did_ hate it so!”
And she walked off up the woodland path, swinging her recovered parasol, and finding herself with a good deal to think about.
Peter, coming on deck, found his friend waiting for him, taut as a whipcord.
”Well, old horse!” said Maginnis. ”Welcome back to jolly little Hunston.”
”The machinery broke down on me,” said Varney, turning away to light a cigarette.
”Sure,” said Peter cheerfully. ”You knew it was going to do it when you started. I read it in your eye when we said farewell forever.”
”You are quite mistaken,” said Varney. ”Ask Ferguson.”
”Oh! Then you'll do it to-morrow morning, when the machinery is all right again?”
”No,” said Varney, ”nor at any other time.”
The two men looked at each other steadily, unwinkingly. As the look lengthened, each face gave way to a slow reluctant smile.
”I won't pretend,” said Peter, ”that I am disappointed in you. I never dreamed that I hated this thing till the time came, and hang me if I don't rather like that little girl.”
”It was a thing,” said Varney, ”that simply couldn't be done. We were a pair of a.s.ses not to see that all along.” He glanced hurriedly at his watch and started for the companionway. ”Jove! I'll have to hustle.”
”Hustle! Where the devil to?”
”I'm off to New York by the five o'clock train to tell Uncle Elbert that I've resigned. I'll feel mighty mean doing it, too.”