Part 48 (1/2)

A SAILOR'S COTTAGE--THE TELEGRAM--”SOMETHING'S IN THE WIND”--THE GOOD YACHT ”POLAR STAR”--HOPE FOR THE WANDERERS.

A cottage on a cliff. A cliff whose black, beetling sides rose sheer up out of the water three hundred feet and over; a cliff around which sea-birds whirled in dizzy flight; a cliff in which the cormorant had her home; a cliff against which all the might of the German Ocean had dashed and chafed and foamed for ages. Some fifty yards back from the edge of this cliff the cottage was built, of hard blue granite, with st.u.r.dy bay windows--a cottage that seemed as independent of any storm that could blow as the cliff itself was. In front was a neat wee garden, with nicely gravelled walks and edging of box, and all round it a natty railing painted an emerald green. At the back of the cottage were more gravelled walks and more flower garden, with a summer-house and a smooth lawn, from the centre of which rose a tall s.h.i.+p's mast by way of flagstaff, with ratlines and rigging and stays and top complete.

Not far off was a pigeon-house on a pole, and not far from that still another pole surmounted by a weather-vane, and two little wooden blue-jackets, that whenever the wind blew, went whirling round and round, clas.h.i.+ng swords and engaging in a kind of fanatic duel, which seemed terribly real and terribly deadly for the time being.

It was a morning in early spring, and up and down the walk behind the cottage stepped a st.u.r.dy, weather-beaten old sailor, with hair and beard of iron-grey, and a face as red as the newest brick that ever was fas.h.i.+oned.

He stood for a moment gazing upwards at the strutting fantails.

”Curr-a-coo--curr-a-coo,” said the pigeons.

”Curr-a-coo--curr-a-coo,” replied the sailor. ”I dare say you're very happy, and I'm sure you think the sun was made for you and you only.

Ah! my bonnie birdies, you don't know what the world is doing. You don't--hullo?”

”Yes, my dear, you may say hullo,” said a cheerful little woman, with a bright, pleasant face, walking up to him, and placing an arm in his.

”Didn't you hear me tapping on the pane for you?”

”Not I, little wife, not I,” said Silas Grig. ”I've been thinking, la.s.s, thinking--”

”Well, then,” interrupted his wife, ”don't you think any more; you've made your hair all white with thinking. Just come in and have breakfast. That haddock smells delicious, and I've made some nice toast, and tried the new tea. Come, Silas, come.”

Away went the two together, he with his arm around her waist, looking as happy, the pair of them, as though their united ages didn't make a deal over a hundred.

”Come next month,” said Silas, as soon as he had finished his first cup of tea--”come next month, little wife, it will just be two years since I first met the _Arrandoon_. Heigho?”

”You needn't sigh, Silas,” his wife remarked. ”They may return.

Wonders never cease.”

”Return?” repeated Silas, with a broken-hearted kind of a laugh, ”Nay, nay, nay, we'll meet them no more in this world. Poor Rory! He was my favourite. Dear boy, I think I see him yet, with his fair, laughing face, and that rogue of an eye of his.”

Rat-tat.

Silas started.

”The postman?” he said; ”no, it can't be. That's right, little woman, run to the door and see. What! a telegram for me!”

Silas took the missive, and turned it over and over in his hand half a dozen times at least.

”Why, my dear, who _can_ it be from?” he asked with a puzzled look, ”and what _can_ it be about? _Can_ you guess, little wife? Eh? can you?”

”If I were you, Silas,” said his wife, quietly, ”I'd open it and see.”

”Dear me! to be sure,” cried Silas. ”I didn't think of that. Why, I declare,” he continued, as soon as he had read it, ”it is from Arrandoon Castle, and the poor widow, Allan's mother, wants to see me at once.

I'm off, little woman, at once. Get out my best things. The blue pilots, you know. Quick, little woman--quick! Bear a hand! Hurrah!”

Silas Grig didn't finish that second cup of tea. He was dressed in less than ten minutes, had kissed his wife, and was hurrying away to the station. Indeed, Silas had never in his life felt in such a hurry before.

”It'll be like my luck,” he muttered, ”if I miss this train.”