Part 6 (1/2)

”Not quite,” he called back, his hair hanging in dripping points on his forehead as he took off his cap and shook the water out of it. ”I say, Lambert, it's beginning to blow pretty stiff; I'd take that top-sail off her, if I were you.”

”She's often carried it in worse weather than this,” returned Lambert; ”a drop of water will do no one any harm.”

Mr. Lambert in private, and as much as possible in public, affected to treat his employer's son as a milksop, and few things annoyed him more than the accepted opinion on the lake that there was no better man in a boat than Christopher Dysart. His secret fear that it was true made it now all the more intolerable that Christopher should lay down the law to him on a point of seamans.h.i.+p, especially with Francie by, ready in that exasperating way of hers to laugh at him on the smallest provocation.

”It'll do him no harm if he does get a drop of water over him,” he said to her in a low voice, forgetting for the moment his att.i.tude of disapproval. ”Take some of the starch out of him for once!” He took a pull on the main sheet, and, with a satisfied upward look at the top-sail in question, applied himself to conversation. The episode had done him good, and it was with almost fatherly seriousness that he began: ”Now, Francie, you were telling me a while ago that I was cross all day. I'm a very old friend of yours, and I don't mind saying that I was greatly put out by the way”-he lowered his voice-”by the way you were going on with that fellow Hawkins.”

”I don't know what you mean by 'going on,'” interrupted Francie, with a slight blush. ”What's the harm in talking to him if he likes to talk to me?”

”Plenty of harm,” returned Lambert quickly, ”when he makes a fool of you the way he did to-day. If you don't care that Miss Dysart and the rest of them think you know no better than to behave like that, I do!”

”Behave like what?”

”Well, for one thing, to let him and Garry Dysart go sticking gra.s.s in your stockings that way after luncheon; and for another to keep Miss Dysart waiting tea for you for half an hour, and your only excuse to be to tell her that he was 'teaching you to make ducks and drakes' the other side of the island.” The fatherly quality had died out of his voice, and the knuckles of the hand that held the tiller grew white from a harder grip.

Francie instinctively tucked away her feet under her petticoats. She was conscious that the green pattern still adorned her insteps, and that tell-tale spikes of gra.s.s still projected on either side of her shoes.

”How could I help it? It was just a silly game that he and Garry Dysart made up between them; and as for Miss Dysart being angry with me, she never said a word to me; she was awfully good; and she and her brother had kept the teapot hot for me, and everything.” She looked furtively at Christopher, who was looking out at the launch, now crossing their path some distance ahead. It was more than you'd have done for me!”

”Yes, very likely it was; but I wouldn't have been laughing at you in my sleeve all the time as they were, or at least as he was, anyhow!”

”I believe that's a great lie,” said Francie unhesitatingly; ”and I don't care a jack-rat what he thought, or what you think either. Mr. Hawkins is a very nice young man, and I'll talk to him just as much as I like! And he's coming to tea at Tally Ho to-morrow; and what's more, I asked him! So now!”

”Oh, all right!” said Lambert, in such a constrained voice of anger, that even Francie felt a little afraid of him. ”Have him to tea by all means; and if I were you I should send down to Limerick and have Miss M'Carthy up to meet him!”

”What are you saying? Who's Miss M'Carthy?” asked Francie, with a disappointing sparkle of enjoyment in her eyes.

”She's the daughter of a George's Street tobacconist that your friend Mr. Hawkins was so sweet about a couple of months ago that they packed him off here to be out of harm's way. Look out, Dysart, I'm going about now,” he continued without giving Francie time to reply. ”Leehelm!”

”Oh, I'm sick of you and your old 'leehelm'!” cried Francie, as she grovelled again in the c.o.c.kpit to avoid the swing of the boom. ”Why can't you go straight like Captain Cursiter's steamer, instead of bothering backwards and forwards, side-ways, like this? And you always do it just when I want to ask you something.”

This complaint, which was mainly addressed to Mr. Lambert's canvas yachting shoes, received no attention. When Francie came to the surface she found that the yacht was at a more uncomfortable angle than ever, and with some difficulty she established herself on the narrow strip of deck, outside the coaming, with her feet hanging into the c.o.c.kpit.

”Now, Mr. Lambert,” she began at once, ”you'd better tell me Miss M'Carthy's address, and all about her, and perhaps if you're good I'll ask you to meet her too.”

As she spoke, a smart squall struck the yacht, and Lambert luffed her hard up to meet it. A wave with a ragged white edge flopped over her bows, wetting Christopher again, and came was.h.i.+ng aft along the deck behind the coaming.

”Look out aft there!” he shouted, ”She's putting her nose into it! I tell you that top-sail's burying her, Lambert.”

Lambert made no answer to either Francie or Christopher. He had as much as he could do to hold the yacht, which was s.n.a.t.c.hing at the tiller like a horse at its bit, and ripping her way deep through the waves in a manner too vigorous to be pleasant, It was about seven o'clock, and though the sun was still some height above the dark jagged wall of the mountains, the clouds had risen in a tawny fleece across his path, and it was evident that he would be seen no more that day. The lake had turned to indigo. The beds of reeds near the sh.o.r.e were pallid by contrast as they stooped under the wind; the waves that raced towards the yacht had each an angry foam-crest, having, after the manner of lake waves, lashed themselves into a high state of indignation on very short notice, and hissed and effervesced like soda-water all along the lee gunwale of the flying yacht. A few seagulls that were trying to fight their way back down to the sea, looked like fluttering sc.r.a.ps of torn white paper against the angry bronze of the clouds, and the pine trees on the point, under the lee of which they were scudding, were tossing like the black plumes of a hea.r.s.e.

Lambert put the yacht about, and headed back across the lake.

”We did pretty well on that tack, Dysart,” he shouted. ”We ought to get outside Screeb Point with the next one, and then we'll get the wind a point fairer, and make better weather of it the rest of the way home.”

He could see the launch, half a mile or so beyond the point, ploughing steadily along on her way to Lismoyle, and in his heart he wished that Francie was on board of her. He also wished that Christopher had held his confounded tongue about the top-sail. If he hadn't shoved in his oar where he wasn't wanted, he'd have had that top-sail off her twenty minutes ago; but he wasn't going to stand another man ordering him about in his own boat.

”Look here, Francie,” he said, ”you must look out for yourself when I'm going about next time. It's always a bit squally round this point, so you'd better keep down in the c.o.c.kpit till we're well on the next tack.”

”But I'll get all wet down there,” objected Francie, ”and I'd much rather stay up here and see the fun.”

”You talk as if it was the top of a tram in Sackville Street,” said Lambert, s.n.a.t.c.hing a glance of provoked amus.e.m.e.nt at her unconcerned face. ”I can tell you it will take a good deal more holding on to than that does. Promise me now, like a good child,” he went on, with a sudden thrill of anxiety at her helplessness and ignorance, ”that you'll do as I tell you. You used to mind what I said to you.”

He leaned towards her as he spoke, and Francie raised her eyes to his with a laugh in them that made him for the moment forgetful of everything else. They were in the open water in the centre of the lake by this time, and in that second a squall came roaring down upon them.

”Luff!” shouted Christopher, letting go the head sheets. ”Luff, or we're over!”

Lambert let go the main sheet and put the tiller hard down with all the strength he was master of, but he was just too late. In that moment, when he had allowed his thoughts to leave his steering, the yacht had dragged herself a thought beyond his control. The rough hand of the wind struck her, and, as she quivered and reeled under the blow, another and fiercer gust caught hold of her, and flung her flat on her side on the water.

Before Christopher had well realised what had happened, he had gone deep under water, come to the surface again, and was swimming, with a vision before him of a white figure with a red cap falling headlong from its perch. He raised himself and shook the water out of his eyes, and swimming a stroke or two to get clear of the mast, with its sails heaving p.r.o.ne on the water like the pinions of a great wounded bird, he saw over the shoulders of the hurrying waves the red cap and the white dress drifting away to leeward. Through the noise of the water in his ears, and the confusion of his startled brain, he heard Lambert's voice shouting frantically he did not know what; the whole force of his nature was set and centred on overtaking the red cap to which each stroke was bringing him nearer and nearer as it appeared and reappeared ahead of him between the steely backs of the waves. She lay horribly still, with the water was.h.i.+ng over her face; and as Christopher caught her dress, and turned, breathless, to try to fight his way back with her to the wrecked yacht, he seemed to hear a hundred voices ringing in his ears and telling him that she was dead. He was a good and practised swimmer, but not a powerful one. His clothes hung heavily about him, and with one arm necessarily given to his burden, and the waves and wind beating him back, he began to think that his task was more than he would be able to accomplish. He had up to this, in the intensity of the shock and struggle, forgotten Lambert's existence, but now the agonised shouts that he had heard came back to him, and he raised himself high in the water and stared about with a new anxiety. To his intense relief he saw that the yacht was still afloat, was, in fact, drifting slowly down towards him, and in the water not ten yards from him was her owner, labouring towards him with quick splas.h.i.+ng strokes, and evidently in a very exhausted state. His face was purple-red, his eyes half starting out of his head, and Christopher could hear his hard breathing as he slowly bore down upon him.

”She's all right, Lambert!” Christopher cried out, though his heart belied the words. ”I've got her! Hold hard; the yacht will be down on us in a minute.”

Whether Lambert heard the words or no was not apparent. He came struggling on, and as soon as he got within reach, made a s.n.a.t.c.h at Francie's dress. Christopher had contrived to get his left arm round her waist, and to prop her chin on his shoulder, so that her face should be above the water, and, as Lambert's weight swung on him, it was all he could do to keep her in this position.

”You'll drown us all if you don't let go!” Uttermost exertion and want of breath made Christopher's voice wild and spasmodic. ”Can't you tread water till the boat gets to us?”

Lambert still speechlessly and convulsively dragged at her, his breath breaking from him in loud gasps, and his face working.

”Good G.o.d, he's gone mad!” thought Christopher; ”we're all done for if he won't let go.” In desperation he clenched his fist, with the intention of hitting Lambert on the head, but just as he gathered his forces for this extreme measure something struck him softly in the back. Lambert's weight had twisted him round so that he was no longer facing the yacht, and he did not know how near help was. It was the boom of the Daphne that had touched him like a friendly hand, and he turned and caught at it with a feeling of more intense thankfulness than he had known in all his life.

The yacht was lying over on her side, half full of water, but kept afloat by the air-tight compartments that Mrs. Lambert's terrors had insisted on, and that her money had paid for, when her husband had first taken to sailing on the lake. Christopher was able with a desperate effort to get one knee on to the submerged coaming of the c.o.c.kpit, and catching at its upper side with his right hand, he recovered himself and prepared to draw Francie up after him.

”Come, Lambert, let go!” he said threateningly, ”and help me to get her out of the water. You need not be afraid, you can hold on to the boat.”

Lambert had not hitherto tried to speak, but now with the support that the yacht gave him, his breath came back to him a little.

”d.a.m.n you!” he spluttered, the loud sobbing breaths almost choking him, ”I'm not afraid! Let her go! Take your arm from round her, I can hold her better than you can. Ah!” he shrieked, suddenly seeing Francie's face, as Christopher, without regarding what he said, drew her steadily up from his exhausted grasp, ”she's dead! you've let her drown!” His head fell forward, and Christopher thought with the calm of despair, ”He's going under, and I can't help him if he does. Here Lambert! man alive, don't let go! There! do you hear the launch whistling? They're coming to us!”

Lambert's hand, with its s.h.i.+ning gold signetring, was gripping the coaming under water with a grasp that was already mechanical. It seemed to Christopher that it had a yellow, drowned look about it. He put out his foot, and, getting it under Lambert's chin, lifted his mouth out of the water. The steam-launch was whistling incessantly, in long notes, in short ones, in jerks, and he lifted up his voice against the forces of the wind and the hissing and das.h.i.+ng of the water to answer her. Perhaps it was the dull weight on his arm and the stricken stillness of the face that lay in utter unconsciousness on his shoulder, but he scarcely recognised his own voice, it was broken with such a tone of stress and horror. He had never before heard such music as Hawkins' shout hailing him in answer, nor seen a sight so heavenly fair as the bow of the Serpolette cutting its way through the thronging waves to their rescue. White faces staring over her gunwale broke into a loud cry when they saw him hanging, half-spent, against the tilted deck of the Daphne. It was well, he thought, that they had not waited any longer. The only question was whether they were not even now too late. His head swam from excitement and fatigue, his arms and knees trembled, and when at last Francie, Lambert, and finally he himself, were lifted on board the launch, it seemed the culminating point of a long and awful nightmare that Charlotte Mullen should fling herself on her knees beside the bodies of her cousin and her friend, and utter yell after yell of hysterical lamentation.

CHAPTER XV.

”Sausages and bacon, Lady Dysart! Yes, indeed, that was his breakfast, and that for a man who-if you'll excuse the expression, Lady Dysart, but, indeed, I know you're such a good doctor that I'd like you to tell me if it was quite safe- who was vomiting lake water for half an hour after he was brought into the house the night before.”

”Do you really mean that he came down to breakfast?” asked Lady Dysart, with the flattering sincerity of interest that she bestowed on all topics of conversation, but specially on those that related to the art and practice of medicine. ”He ought to have stayed in bed all day to let the system recover from the shock.”

”Those were the very words I used to him, Lady Dysart,” returned Mrs. Lambert dismally; ”but indeed all the answer he made was, 'Fiddle-de-dee!' He wouldn't have so much as a cup of tea in his bed, and you may think what I suffered, Lady Dysart, when I was down in the parlour making the breakfast and getting his tray ready, when I heard him in his bath overhead- just as if he hadn't been half-drowned the night before. I didn't tell you that, Mrs. Gascogne,” she went on, turning her watery gaze upon the thin refined face of her spiritual directress. ”Now if it was me such a thing happened to, I'd have that nervous dread of water that I couldn't look at it for a week.”

”No, I am sure you would not,” answered Mrs. Gascogne with the over-earnestness which so often s.h.i.+pwrecks the absent-minded; ”of course you couldn't expect him to take it if it wasn't made with really boiling water.”

Mrs. Lambert stared in stupefaction, and Lady Dysart, far from trying to cloak her cousin's confusion, burst into a delighted laugh.