It was at this moment that Nan tapped on the side of the boat with her stick and shouted in tones loud enough to awaken the seven sleepers.
“Ho, there, you dirty ronyon, come out, come out, Pet Salt, Heaven blast ye!”
At the sound of her voice Pet dropped the keg she was carrying and tearing the sail-cloth from her face hobbled over to the side and looked down.
“What! you round here, you hell-cat, sneaking a look at your love, I suppose, you old——”
A stream of unprintable language broke from her ragged lips.
Nan, leaning heavily on her long stick, gazed upward and when Pet paused for breath she began to talk in her big booming voice.
“What have ye been doing with my god-daughter, you stealer of loves?” she shouted.
Pet began to laugh.
“Your god-daughter!” she shrieked. “And who is she, you mother of witches? You’re not talking of my granddaughter, are you—you tike?”
Nan shook her stick at her fiercely.
“Your granddaughter! You mange-struck man-stealer!” she ejaculated.
“Man-stealer!” Pet shrieked in her fury. “You jade, you miserable, jealous jade—still whining about your lover as you call him, you old she-goat. My Ben never loved you—your lover! You’re as old as the Island. What do you want with lovers?”
Nan stood there, a tall, imposing figure, her black rags gently stirring in the wind.
“You lie, Pet Salt! In your rotting throat you lie,” she said calmly. “I am not so old as you say, not so old as Ben—and he loved me well—and would have wed me had not you stolen him——”
“I stole? Marry, hell-kite, I stole in truth! I stole when he came begging to my door and beseeching me to save him from you? I stole, you vile devil!”
“He did not!” Nan spoke hotly.
“Indeed, did he not, ronyon?” Pet was foaming at the mouth in her anger. “Ay, he did, he crawled to my boat and said on his knees: ‘Oh, save me, my own Pet o’ the saltings, save me from yon scabby wanton who waits for me!’”
“May the green grass turn to ashes in your way for that lie, Pet Salt,” said Nan slowly.
Pet put up her hands.
“Ye’re not to curse me, Nan Swayle,” she shrieked, “ye witch of darkness, ye’re not to curse me, or by Heaven I’ll call Ben up to ye.”
Nan laughed a hard, crackling laugh in her throat.
“You daren’t, you slut,” she said. “Ben may not have forgotten his old love!”
Pet grew purple with rage.
“I dare not let him see you!” she screamed. “What! you ronyon—I dare not let him—— Oh! you’re mad!”
Nan laughed again.
“Still I say you dare not,” she said.
Pet choked with anger; then a crafty look came into her eyes.
“Oh, I see your mind, Mistress Nancy Swayle,” she said with a scornful laugh. “I did not think you would be so cunning—do you then long so much fora sight of your old love that you walk five miles in the early dawning to beg for a look?”
Nan’s rugged features twitched convulsively, but in a moment she was laughing again.
“Still I say you dare not, slut,” she said.
Without another word Pet turned away from the side and called down the hatchway.
Nan waited on the beach below, quite still and leaning on her stick, a proud smile playing round her wide, humorous mouth.
Two or three minutes later Pet reappeared supporting Ben, who in spite of the early hour was very unsteady on his feet.
He lurched forward and sprawled over the side of the hull looking down at Nan. She was evidently much surprised at the change in him, for she started back a little.
Pet laughed derisively.
“Ain’t he a pretty one?” she said.
Nan gulped and came forward.
“Hail to ye, Benny,” she said softly.
Ben looked at her vaguely.
“Hail!” he said, and then after a moment added abruptly, “Whosh you?”
Pet shrieked with laughter, and settled herself down beside him.
“Who are you, old one?” she screamed.
Nan went nearer.
“Do you not remember Nan Swayle, Ben?” she said pleadingly.
“Ah, yesh! I remembers Nan Swayle,” said Ben cheerfully.
“That’s her, ducky,” said Pet, her face red with laughter.
Ben leant farther over the side to look at Nan, then he drew himself up and turned to Pet.
“Slut, you lie,” he said, as clearly as he could. “That’s”—he pointed to Nan—“an old hag—but Nan Swayle—no, Nan Swayle was a shweet lash—a shweet milk lash—an’,” he went on very seriously, “a very pretty lash.”
He leaned over the side and had one more look at Nan, who stood beneath him, her arms outstretched and her bright eyes brighter than usual.
“No,” he said. “No, no, nosh—that ish not a bit like Nan Swayle. Nan Swayle is a pretty lash, a shweet, pretty lash.”
Pet rocked herself to and fro in a paroxysm of laughter.
Ben stood looking at Nan.
“Go away, hag,” he said, “find Nan Swayle and send her to me and I’ll go with her, but yoush not Nan Swayle, or, anywaysh,” he went on, “not Nan Swayle I knowsh, you ugly old hagsh.”
And he began to laugh. “That’s not Nan Shwayle,” he giggled, poking Pet’s fat side with his fingers.
Pet rolled over on the gunwale in a fit of laughter.
“No, ducky,” she roared, “that’s not Nan Swayle. That’s a witch telling us she’s her.”
“Ah! she couldn’t cheat me!” Ben chuckled. “I knowsh Nan Shwayle, a pretty lash.”
“Pet Salt, the time will come when you shall pay!”
Nan’s voice drowned their laughter for a moment. She stood there on the shingle, the waves lapping up to her feet and the newly risen sun lighting her wrinkled face where two tears sparkled on her yellow cheeks, but her eyes were bright and hard.
Then she turned away and strode off, holding her head high, and as she went the wind carried after her the sound of their derisive laughter.
And it was not until she reached her cabin that she remembered she had said no word to Pet of the business on which she had set out, Anny’s marriage.
“PET SALT, are you sure all this is so? I wouldn’t wed with him if I could help it.”
Anny spoke anxiously, her little face white with apprehension.
She and Pet Salt were alone together on the deck of Ben’s old boat. The tide was well up and the waves leaped against the stern with a gurgling sound.
It was late in the evening, the wind was rising, and the sun was setting over the Island in a blaze of red and green light.
On board thePetthere was the customary muddle: empty kegs, rotting sail-cloth, torn fishing nets, and derelict baskets lay strewn about the decaying deck in endless confusion.
Pet was leaning against the stump of the main-mast, her red arms akimbo and her tousled gray head cocked on one side, while Anny stood looking on to the darkening water with her back to the old woman.
“Sure? Why, girl, certain I’m sure. As sure as this boat’s a vile hell, Master Black’erchief Dick will have you one way or another—wed or unwed. Which way lies with you?”
Pet’s harsh voice broke the warm quietness of the summer evening unpleasantly.
Anny caught her breath, and shrugging her shoulders turned toward the old woman. Then she laughed.
“Lord! you must be mad, Pet Salt, how could Master Dick carry me off from the Ship, the whole village there to stay him?” she said, brightening.
Pet laughed unpleasantly.
“You think too much of yourself, lass,” she said. “To stay him? And why should any one stay him?”
Anny’s eyes grew big with surprise and fear.
“What do you mean?” she said as slowly as she could. “Why, Gilbot——”
Pet began to laugh.
“You, lass, have less wit than most girls, if you think any one would turn away a moneyed captain because of a little serving slut,” she said.
Anny looked round her helplessly.
“Did you see Mother Nan yesterday?” she asked suddenly.
Pet began to swear.
“I did,” she said viciously. “The old ronyon! Come prowling around here for a look at your grandsire, like an old hen clucking for its chick.”
“Did—did she not speak with you of me?” Anny’s voice trembled.
Pet laughed again.
“Lord, girl! the whole Island don’t spend its time thinking and talking o’ you,” she said. “I heard naught of you from her——”
Anny looked round her hopelessly, the tears welling into her eyes. The sun had sunk out of sight behind the belt of oaks on the Island and everything around had grown gray and cool.
Suddenly she turned and threw herself before the old woman.
“Grandam, what will I do? What will I do?” she sobbed.
Pet kicked her away hastily and spat on the deck.
“Get up and behave yerself, Anny Farran,” she said sharply. “What should ye do but marry the handsome Spaniard and sail off with him? Such a chance don’t come to every dirty serving-maid.”
Anny sprang to her feet.
“I’ll not wed him,” she said, her voice clear and loud. “I’ll not if he kills me.”
Pet Salt’s smile vanished and a crafty, anxious light crept into her watery eyes. She crossed over to the girl with a peculiar smooth movement and stood very close to her, her villainous face very near to the young girl’s frightened one.
“Anny Farran,” she said, her harsh, high voice growing more and more uncanny, “there be some as say Pet Salt is a witch.”
Anny started involuntarily. The light was fading, and faint shadows were creeping fast all round the boat.
Away over the fields a corn-crake called plaintively once or twice and then, quite near, an owl screamed loudly.
Pet’s face grew distorted in the shade.
Anny shuddered; she shared in all the superstitions of the day, and witches and the evil eye were well known to her.
“Ay, they do!” she faltered, “but what say you?”
“I say—naught!”
Pet came a little nearer and her voice sank to a whisper.
Anny shrieked and started back.
“Holy Mother of God, defend me!” she muttered.
Pet laughed weirdly.
“Prayers don’t frighten Pet Salt,” she whispered, coming still nearer to the terrified Anny, who clung to the gunwale.
“What will you do?” The girl’s voice was so low that Pet could hardly hear it.
“Nay! What will you do, ronyon? Shall the handsome captain lie by you or no?”
Anny clenched her little brown hands so that the nails cut into her palms. The vision of Hal’s hurt and angry face kept rising up before her.
“And if I do not wed him what will you do?” she said at last.
“Bewitch you, girl, so that even your young slave, Hal, may loathe you,” Pet began in a slow sing-song voice. “So that your beautiful black hair may fall off on the sand like seaweed, leaving you old and hairless—so that your eyes may burn up and grow dim and the sight of the sea never more be seen in them—so that your teeth may grow black and ache with the pain of ten thousand devils tearing at theirroots—so that your nails may drop off and lie on the floor like shells, and your fingers wither and grow black, and their knuckles decay and the joints drop off, and——”
Anny covered her eyes.
“Oh, peace—peace, I pray you,” she screamed. “I will do anything. Oh, peace——”
Pet began to laugh.
“Have a care, Anny, how you tell this,” she said, “or I will bewitch thee certainly.”
Anny looked at the woman curiously.
“Yet I will not wed,” she announced suddenly. “I mind me when you vowed that Master Pattern should have a blister grow on his skin to the size of an egg, and I mind me that he had no such thing at all.”
Pet began to swear heartily.
“The hell-kite went to the priest at West,” she explained.
Anny’s eyes lighted.
“Then so will I,” she said promptly.
“That you shall not.” Pet laughed raucously. “Look you, Ann Farran,” she said, “if you do so there’s other things that Pet can do. Send Hal Grame and you to Colchester to the Castle to rot your lives out in the foul dungeons they have there.”
This was the last. Anny, who was by this time thoroughly frightened, had been brought up along with the other Island children to fear Colchester Castle worse than death, and, indeed, the stories ofthe dungeons current at that time were very terrible, the civil war being only just over. She began to cry.
“I will wed with him,” she said.
“Secretly on this boat to-morrow night?”
Anny gasped. Nevertheless, she shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
“Yes.”
“Good! The Captain comes to-night to hear of it; will you wait to see him?”
“Nay.” The word broke from her lips like a sob, and she ran over to the rope ladder.
“If you fail——” Pet’s voice grew threatening.
Anny’s voice trembled.
“I will not fail,” she said, and then added beneath her breath, “Oh, Hal, what will I say to you?”
As she ran back to the Ship across the fast-darkening saltings Anny began to realize the situation a little more clearly. She had bound herself to marry Dick on the morrow; that was terrible enough in itself, but after she was married, what then? The girl stopped in her stride to think on it.
“After I am wed I can go back to the Ship,” she said, half aloud, “but why be wed first? Oh! whatever will I do?”
Two weeks ago she would have gone to Hal naturally. Now she swallowed uneasily in her throat.
Hal had hardly spoken to her of late; he had grown strangely sullen and taciturn, and spent all his spare time in a fishing-boat with Joe Pullen. She knew that they took the fish they caught up the Colneand sold it in the little inland villages. She had tried to speak to him several times, but he had always looked at her so fiercely that she had abandoned the attempt.
Alone on the wild, wind-swept marshes, the girl sank down on her knees on the damp spiky grass and covered her face with her hands. She remained quite still for several seconds and then sprang up with a little cry. Hastily she passed her hands over her shining plaits as though to make sure that they were still there, and examined her nails anxiously. Then she sighed with relief and with one fearful backward glance at thePet, set off to the Ship, her skirts flying out behind her as she ran.
THE same evening Hal Grame and Joe Pullen walked up the Ship lane together in silence. They had just returned from one of their fishing expeditions and Joe carried the catch in a dripping basket on his shoulder.
Hal strode along beside him, his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed moodily on the ground.
No word of Anny had passed between them since the night a fortnight before, when Hal had stumbled into Joe’s cottage and told the story of his quarrel with her. Ever since, with natural delicacy, Joe had carefully avoided the subject, and had carried his mate off fishing as often as he could, thinking that this would take his mind off the girl.
Suddenly Hal stopped.
“How much had we from the sale of yesterday’s fishing?” he asked abruptly.
“Four groats,” replied Joe promptly.
“Wilt thou give me two, mate?”
Joe looked at his friend in surprise; Hal was not wont to want money, but he answered readily enough:
“Certes, lad, certes,” and setting his basket down he brought out the two coins almost reverently fromhis pocket and held them to Hal, who took them thoughtfully, weighed them in his hand, and then looked up at his mate questioningly.
“How much silk can I buy with these at Tiptree?” he asked slowly.
Joe looked at him in astonishment.
“Silk? Why, Hal Grame, what in heaven and earth do you want with——” He broke off abruptly, a wave of understanding passing over his face.
“She’s not worth your troubling, mate,” he said at last.
A dull flush of anger spread over the younger man’s face and he broke out impetuously:
“Not worth my troubling! Lord save you, Joe Pullen, if it was any other man who said as much, I’d——”
Joe put a huge paw on the boy’s shoulder.
“That’s right, lad, that’s right,” he said kindly. “The lass is your love when all’s said an’ done—pray Heaven you may not be as fooled as I was, though,” he added mournfully, the thought of Mistress Amy flashing through his mind.
Hal smiled in spite of himself at his friend’s lugubrious expression, but he soon became serious again.
“Joe,” he said hesitatingly.
“Ay!”
“You have had a deal of truck with women?”
Joe grunted.
“Wi’ one woman, you mean,” he said savagely.
Hal looked at him curiously before he spoke.
“What will I do about Anny?” he said at last.
Joe cleared his throat; he had very strong views on this subject.
“You make too much ado about her,” he said.
“But for these last two weeks I have said naught to her,” Hal objected.
Joe knew this was true and he shrugged his shoulders.
“I should be sharp with her, lad,” he said at last. “Tell her there be other lasses you could love, and she’ll come round in no time.”
Hal nodded.
“I had thought as much myself,” he said.
“Depend on it, I’m right,” said Joe, shaking his head sagely, and reshouldering the basket, and they continued thoughtfully up the dusty road.
On turning into the Ship yard they saw the usual company seated on benches before the kitchen door, drinking beer and rum, each man to his fancy.
Old Gilbot’s chair had been moved out into the porch, and he sat in it drunk and happy, singing to his heart’s content.
The two mates were greeted cheerily; Joe sat down and called for rum, but Hal, seeing Blueneck and one or two others of theAnny’screw among the company, walked into the kitchen, put his cap and coat by, and looked about for Anny.
She was not in the kitchen or the scullery, so presently he wandered out into the garden where the evening shadows lay deep over the plants and shrubs.He sat down on an upturned barrel, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin on his hands.
Hardly had he been there a moment when there was a rustling in the shrubbery at the end of the garden and Anny, her plaits flying out behind her, sped up the path toward him. She did not notice him, and would have passed had not he put out an arm to stay her.
At his touch the girl gave a little terrified scream and started back like a frightened animal. When she saw who it was, however, she gave a little sigh of relief and a smile crept into her face, while her heart beat faster.
Hal was going to make friends with her at last, she thought, and as she smiled up at him she felt that here was the solution of her difficulties.
Hal on his side felt a glow of pleasure at her obvious friendliness and a warm impulse to take her in his arms. However, he remembered Joe’s advice and the smile died on his lips as he said sharply:
“Where have you been, Ann Farran? And why come you in so quickly by the back way?”
The eager, happy light died out of the girl’s eyes in a moment, and a flush of anger spread over her cheeks.
“And what will that matter to you, Master Hal Grame?” she said, pertly tossing her head.
Hal’s young face grew hard and he laid a hand on her arm.
“Indeed, it has a great deal to do with me, Ann Farran. What duty am I paying to Master Gilbot ifI let his serving wenches go flying about the Island at all hours of the day, and besides, Anny, don’t forget that you—you——” His voice had grown much softer and even trembled a little, but Anny was too angry to notice it.
“Indeed, I think you take too much on your shoulders, master—master tapster,” she burst out.
Hal gasped, and then as his anger rose, his grip on her arm tightened and he shook her violently.
“Take care, Anny, take care,” he said between his teeth, “don’t forget that you were to wed me!”
Anny tried to wrench her hand away.
“Were? Ay, you’re right, Hal Grame,” she said proudly. “Marry! I would not wed you now if you and I were the last to be on earth.”
Hal blinked and let go his grip on her wrist; then a smile broke over his boyish features, and he said half laughing:
“Lord, you’re daft, Anny, you know you love me. Come, say I lie, you can’t!”
Anny’s black brows came down on her white forehead until they made one straight line across her brow and her big green eyes blazed.
“I say you lie, Hal Grame,” she said very quietly and distinctly. “I say you lie and that you are an over-weening puppy and think yourself too fine.”
Hal was stung into replying sharply:
“Lord preserve you, silly wench, who do you think would marry you, a little serving slut, without a portion, or even a father, for that matter?”
Anny tossed her head and looked at him disdainfully.
“I could be wed to-morrow to a finer man than you,” she said, forgetting prudence in her irritation.
Hal laughed savagely.
“Oh, you fool, you fool, Anny,” he said bitterly. “Do you think your little sea-rat will wed you?”
Anny looked at him with child-like surprise.
“I do not think at all,” she said, and added under her breath: “I know.”
Hal looked at her hopelessly. He felt that Joe’s advice had not been altogether helpful, and as she stood there, a wild, free-looking little creature in the dim light, he could not help feeling that if he had coaxed her instead of attempting to drive her into his arms things might have gone better with him, and Anny as she stood looking at him felt a pang in her heart when she thought of the old Hal, the Hal whom she had loved, who had been so different from this new Hal who seemed to be deliberately trying to make her hate him.
For two seconds they stood looking at one another, each hoping against hope that all would yet come right; yet neither of them spoke. At last Anny turned away and went slowly into the house, her mind made up about her marriage and her thoughts on Black’erchief Dick.
Hal watched her go and then sat down again, his head on his hands. Presently he put his hand into his pocket and brought out the two groats, and lookedat them as they lay shining in his palm, and then made a gesture as though to fling them from him away into the bushes, but thought better of it and repocketed them.
“The lass may love me still,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll get the present for her. Lasses are slippery catches. I would I knew the way of them.”
Then, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he got up heavily and strolled slowly up the path, kicking savagely at the loose gravel as he went.
“HO, THERE, you mange-struck dogs, broach a keg and drink to your captain’s lady!”
Black’erchief Dick, his eyes flashing and his face showing bright and triumphant in the flickering lantern light, shouted the words over the side of Ben’s boat to a little knot of picked men of theAnny’screw, who were ranged on the sand below.
They were present to witness their captain’s marriage to Anny Farran, and incidentally to carry the rum which was the price of his bride.
The worn deck of thePethad been cleaned and partially cleared for the occasion. Dick had insisted on this, and, in spite of the protestations of the two old people, Ben and Pet, the work had been done and the place presented a fairly tidy aspect.
The empty kegs were ranged in neat rows round the gunwale, the clothes-line had been removed and the rest of the litter swept down the hatchway.
It was almost dark, and the cloudless sky was a pale blue shading off to rose and green in the west where the first two or three stars shone faintly.
On deck a big ship’s lantern stood on the stump of the main-mast while two smaller ones hung oneach side of it; they showed sick and yellow in the half-light.
Standing before this improvised altar was a man dressed as a priest. He held a book in his hand and was mumbling to himself nervously in a foreign tongue. On either side of him were Blueneck and Noah Goody; their knives were drawn and their faces set like wooden masks.
Before them, in a gorgeous ill-fitting gown of yellow Lyons silk which Dick had brought and insisted on her wearing, stood Anny. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes dancing with excitement. Round her neck hung a great silver pendant studded with garnets, and every now and then her hand would stray up to this and her fingers caress it lovingly, half wonderingly. On the little brown hand shone a ring; it was an extraordinary jewel, consisting of a little gold hoop supporting a large flower, each petal of which was a different kind of stone: diamond, ruby, emerald, onyx, pearl, and sapphire, with a little piece of amber for the centre.
Dick had told her that it was very old when he had put it on her finger, and she looked at it with something very like awe.
Behind her stood Ben and Pet; the old man swayed to and fro drunkenly, taking little or no interest in the proceedings, but the old woman watched eagerly, half enviously, her bleared eyes following Anny’s every movement and each gleam of the jewels, her quick ears catching each word that was spoken.Nothing escaped her, and she noticed that the priest’s garments were made for a much larger man, and that his book was upside down, but she said nothing and merely smiled wickedly to herself as the ceremony went on.
The men on the beach below were not long in obeying their captain’s order, and in a minute the toast was given.
“Health and good fortune to the Captain’s lady!”
Everybody drank heartily, the priest more than any one, and Dick, his brocaded coat and soft lace ruffles shining in the dim light, and his black curls showing a little more than usual from under his black kerchief, raised his glass above his head and taking Anny by the hand threw back his head and laughed joyously. He had once again got his own way in spite of difficulties. He drained off his liquor, and throwing the empty glass over his head began to sing:
“Fair as the Island, and proud as the sea,As naught in the world is sweet Anny to me.”
“Fair as the Island, and proud as the sea,As naught in the world is sweet Anny to me.”
“Fair as the Island, and proud as the sea,As naught in the world is sweet Anny to me.”
The rich musical voice echoed round the old boat and floated out over the marshes.
Anny caught her breath and her grip on the Spaniard’s pulsing white hand tightened. She was carried out of herself by the excitement of the moment, the wonderful frock, the jewels, and above all the singing.
Dick felt her emotion, and his arm slid round her waist much like a snake slips round a tree stem, and, as her pretty head fell back on his shoulder, the song grew louder, sweeter, and a triumphant note crept into it.
“So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,Oh, where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,Oh, where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,Oh, where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
Anny sighed deliriously and she shivered with pure excitement; the Spaniard’s full red lips brushed her hair before the wonderful voice rang out again in the chorus:
“Ann, Oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Ann, Oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
“Ann, Oh! Ann of the Island,Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
The crew took up the strain, and Dick and Anny stood together in a circle of singing men, each with his rumkin held high above his head and his foot keeping time to the rhythm.
Old Pet spat on the deck and an envious light came into her evil old face. All her life she had longed to be the centre of a scene like this, the magnet of an admiring crowd of hard-drinking, hard-fighting, hard-loving men. All her youth had been spent in dreams of a night like this. Now in her age it was bitter to see it come to another woman.
As for Anny, she was intoxicated with it all; any sense of prudence had left her. She was supremely happy. Now and again a faint regret that she couldnot marry Hal rose in her mind, but she dismissed it promptly.
The future had no being for her, and the past was a dream; the thing that counted was the present, the laughing, pulsing, living present.
And as theAnny’screw roared out their captain’s own love-song, and Dick, his Spanish blood on fire with love triumphant, kissed her hair, her eyes, and mouth, she laughed as freely and as joyously as he had done.
The shadows were deepening by this time and the deep blue sky was studded with stars, and Anny, looking up from the Captain’s shoulder, said suddenly:
“It is late, sir; I must go back to the Ship now.”
Dick looked at her in astonishment for a moment, and a contemptuous cackling laugh broke from between Pet Salt’s thin, blackened lips.
At the sound of it Anny shuddered involuntarily and drew a little closer to the Spaniard, who, noting her agitation, turned on the old woman angrily, his eyes suddenly losing their dreamy love-heaviness, and becoming hard and bright.
“Peace, hag!” he rapped out, “get thee down thy rat-hole, and take thy sodden man with thee, or nothing shall you see of me or my cargoes from this night on.”
Pet began to mumble and curse under her breath, but nevertheless she obediently hobbled across the deck toward the hatchway, half carrying, halfdragging the drunken Ben along with her. The company watched them in silence and Anny, as with fascinated eyes she followed them to the dark hole down which they disappeared, could not help being reminded of one big muddy crab dragging its prey after it into its noisome hole, there to feast.
Dick, too, watched them and shrugged his shoulders.
“So may all evil creatures drag themselves out of thy path, my Ann of the Island,” he said, and then as though a new idea had struck him: “Thou art right, dear heart, get thee back to the Ship. That will be the best way, and then I will come for thee. Until then say nothing of this.”
Anny smiled happily and ran to the hatchway to change her frock again, and as she laid by the soft silk she felt in her childish, happy-go-lucky way that she had laid by the whole evening’s business with it.
She had been half afraid that Dick would not let her go back to the Ship. Now it seemed that he wanted her to. She had some sort of vague idea that she was to be his wife on the Island only, when she would see him in the ordinary way at the Ship.
She sighed relievedly; the matter did not seem to be as important as she had imagined.
When she came on the deck again dressed in her usual kirtle and bodice, the crew were rolling several unopened kegs onto the deck, and the priest was helping them, but Anny did not notice this, for Dick was waiting for her.
“I will go with thee along the way,” he said gallantly, his soft eyes seeking hers and his slim white hand closing on her little brown one.
Anny smiled at him and he helped her down the rope ladder and on to the beach. Once again his silk-sleeved arm slid round her, and she laid her head on his shoulder. They walked on in silence.
Suddenly the Spaniard stopped and his other arm encircled her, pulling back her head and raising her little white face to his.
Anny could see him strangely earnest and grave in the moonlight.
“You are my first love, Ann of the Island, though there be many others I have sported with,” he said in a strangely quiet, even voice, “and I am a strange man; take care how you use me.”
Anny looked at him with frank, innocent eyes; he was very handsome, she thought.
“I pray you kiss me, sir,” she said softly.
They did not move for a second or so, and the wind rose over the sea and whistled through the long grass at the sides of the path, and rustled the seaweed at their feet. Suddenly they became aware that someone was coming toward them.
Anny grew suddenly rigid; it was a step she knew.
Dick looked up quickly, and they began to walk on.
The figure came nearer and nearer. Dick strained his eyes to see who it was, but the man was in the shadow, and he passed without speaking.
When they had gone on a little way, Dick paused.
“Didst see who ’twas passed us, Ann?” he asked.
Anny swallowed, and then said as carelessly as she could:
“Oh! ’twas no one of any account; ’twas the tapster from the Ship.”
“NAN, are you within? I’ve come to beg a thing of ye, Mother.”
Anny stood outside Nan Swayle’s little cabin and knocked at the door. It was early afternoon and the hot sun poured down on the gray purplish saltings, but in spite of the heat the hut was shut up.
Anny began to be afraid that the old woman had gone away, and a sudden feeling of terrible loneliness seized her; she knocked again frantically.
There was silence for a moment or so and then Nan’s great booming voice came out to the waiting girl like a welcome peal of thunder after a lightning flash:
“Good swine, peace to ye, whoever you are. What do you want wi’ old Mother Swayle?”
“’Tis I, Mother—Anny Farran, and in great need.” The girl spoke eagerly and her voice shook unsteadily.
There was the sound of someone moving hastily across the hut; the door flung open and Nan’s great gaunt form appeared in the opening.
“Come in, child, in,” she said kindly, her shrewd, keen eyes taking in the girl’s white, haggard face and miserable expression.
Anny looked up at her for a moment, and then her mouth twitched convulsively at the corners, her eyes filled with tears, and she flung herself in the old woman’s arms, sobbing hysterically.
Nan led her into the little dark hut and sat on an empty keg, gently pulling the girl down beside her. Then she began to rock herself gently to and fro. She said nothing for some minutes, during which Anny’s sobs grew less and less violent.
“Now what’s the matter, my daughter?” said Nan, after the girl’s grief had somewhat abated.
Anny began to cry afresh.
“Oh, Nan, what will I do?” she sobbed. “What will I do?”
The older woman put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and held her firm.
“Cry till ye can cry no more, lass, and then tell your story; ’tis the best way; crying eases the heart. The Lord gave women tears that their hearts might not break every day,” she said, her great kindly voice echoing round and about the little shanty.
Anny lifted up her tear-stained face from the old woman’s knee, and, carefully avoiding her piercing brown eyes, began to speak in a half-whisper, stopping here and there to wipe her eyes.
“When I came home from the wedding wi’ Master Dick,” she began—Nan started at her words and carefully suppressed an exclamation of horrified surprise—“we passed—Hal—on the way—and, when Igot to the Ship, no one was in the kitchen, so I sat down on the long seat and thought on the Captain, and after a while Hal comes in, and——” She paused.
Nan said nothing but sat staring in front of her.
Anny looked up quickly.
“You knew that we had quarrelled, Mother?” she said.
Nan nodded.
The girl paused, and when she spoke again her voice had sunk into a murmur.
“He did not see me at first for the kitchen was dark and I in the corner. I watched him, Nan, I watched him come in, sit down before the counting-table, and take down the slate, and I saw him push it away, and then draw it to him again, and I saw him put his hand through his hair, and I heard him breathe loudly and slowly, and as though it somewhat hurt him, and I—oh, Mother—I heard him call me: ‘Anny, Anny, Anny,’ he said as though he was speaking from a long way off; then he laid his head on his arms there on the counting-table and I heard him breathing again, loud and fast.”
Her voice died away and there was no sound in the coolness of the little hut; then she began to cry again.
Suddenly Nan spoke, and her voice sounded sharp after Anny’s impassioned murmuring.
“And you were married to the Spanish captain?” she asked.
Anny sat up, her beautiful green eyes brimming with tears.
“Yes,” she said pitifully, “and I love him.”
“Who? Black’erchief Dick?”
“Nay, oh, nay, Mother; nay, Hal, Hal Grame—my love!” A sob rose in her throat but she swallowed it down and continued almost eagerly, “And as he sat there, and I watching, I knew ’twas he I loved, for all his foolings, and I wondered would I creep behind and put my arms about his neck, and put my face to his hair, but I minded I was married to the Spaniard, and I knew I could not wed with Hal, and I wondered what would I do, and then, as I was watching him, he looked up and saw me. His face was very pale, and I have never seen any one but the dead so pale. I thought he would have cried out, for his mouth opened and his lips moved, but he said naught; then he stood up and came toward me, slowly, as though I had been a spirit, and his eyes were so dark and full of something, I know not what—that I put up my hands to hide my face.”
She broke off abruptly and looked round her, and brushed the hair off her forehead before she spoke again—all the time Nan rocked silently to and fro.
“Then I heard him speaking below his breath, and his voice hurt me, Nan; his voice hurt me. ‘Anny,’ he said, ‘Anny, are you come back to me, my love?’ and I heard him fall on his knees at my feet, and I felt his head in my lap and his arms about my waist—and I loved him. Oh, Nan! I loved him so!”
Her hands clutched at the older woman’s gown convulsively.
“Mother, will you tell him? Will you tell him?” she broke out suddenly. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t, not when he was kneeling there more like a young lad than a man.”
Nan stopped rocking and faced the pleading, frantic little girl before her.
“You did not tell him?” she said slowly.
Anny shook her head.
“Nay, I could not tell him—I love him so,” she said. “I got up and ran away to bed, leaving him there, his head on the seat I had left, and, oh, Nan! all night long I dreamed I could still hear him breathing heavily like that and calling ‘Anny, Anny, Anny.’ Oh, Nan! tell him for me, tell him for me! I could not stay in the Ship and he there not knowing. Both our hearts would break.”
Nan looked at her curiously.
“I will tell him,” she said.
A sigh of relief broke from Anny’s lips and Nan went on: “I did not know you had wedded with the Spaniard, lass; why did you so? You must have been mad; what will ye do now?”
Anny looked at her in astonishment.
“I had no choice,” she said. “Pet——”
A light of understanding swept over Nan’s expressive face and she sprang to her feet.
“Miserable hell-cat that I am,” she exclaimed, her great voice shaking with fury, “to be turned aside byPet’s damned witchcraft, and sent home without having done aught. Oh, why did ye do it, lass, why did ye do it?”
Anny shrugged her shoulders.
“’Tis nothing, Mother, nothing,” she said wearily. “I shall not be known as his wife. There will be no difference, save that I cannot wed with Hal.” Once again her voice broke on the name.
Nan stared at the girl incredulously.
“Did he say so?” she gasped.
Anny shrugged again. “Nay, not in words,” she said carelessly, “but he said, ‘Go back to the Ship and I will come,’ so you see nothing will change.”
The elder woman seized the girl by the shoulders.
“You’re mad, Anny,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you see he’ll take you away? When the Spaniard comes to the Ship, he comes for you.”
Anny sprang to her feet, her eyes wide with fear and amazement. This view of the affair had not presented itself to her before.
“Take me away?” she repeated wonderingly, and then, as the full meaning of the words came to her, a little terrified scream escaped her. “I won’t go,” she said quickly, “I won’t go—leave this Island? Leave the Ship? Leave Hal? No, I won’t go—I——” She stopped suddenly and turned to the old woman, an expression of horror on her face.
“There was none who could stay him wedding me,” she said slowly, her eyes growing larger and more frightened at every word. “There was none whocould stay him wedding me; there will be none to stay him taking me away. Oh!—--”
She dropped down on the beaten earth floor, shuddering violently.
Nan looked down at her for a few seconds and then out of the door over the flat marshes to the hilly wooded island beyond.
“The witchcraft of Pet Salt—blast her—stayed me once, Anny,” she said, “but none shall stay me the second time, my daughter.”
AS ANNY ran back to the Ship her mind was full of one thing only—fear of leaving the Island.
Nan’s few words had thrown an entirely new light on the situation. Before hearing them she had thought of the future as simply a continuation of her present life. She could hardly imagine a world in which the Ship, the Island, and Hal had no part. They had become necessary to her; and the thought of losing them terrified her. She had been somewhat reassured by Nan’s promise to prevent her from going with the Spaniard, but as she thought of Dick, with his determined air and ready knife, her heart sank again, and she hurried on, her head full of troubles.
That evening the usual company gathered together in the old kitchen of the Ship, and Anny was kept busy serving liquor; she had no one to help her. Sue was down walking on the beach with Big French, and Anny felt half envious when she thought of the other girl’s smooth love affair compared with her own. Hal, too, was away; he had gone off to a mysterious summons which had been brought to him some two hours ago and had not yet returned.
Old Gilbot was very merry, and as the time drew on he called for the candles to be lighted and then leaning back in his chair, treated the company to one of his favourite songs—“Pretty Poll, she loved a sailor,” and soon had the rafters shaking with his music and their laughter.
No one noticed Anny, and the girl went about her duties quietly, almost dreamily. Often she would pause to listen, and stand waiting, her eyes on the door for some seconds, before she went on with her work again, her face set and white.
Just when the chorus of “Pretty Poll” was at its height, however, there was the sound of footsteps on the cobbles outside and the door opened suddenly. No one noticed it save Anny, and she stood silent.
Hal came into the kitchen slowly, screwing up his eyes until they should have got used to the light. The girl watched him, fascinated. His face seemed to have suddenly grown very grave and quiet. A man’s face, she thought, and she looked at him wonderingly!
Suddenly he turned and saw her.
Anny met his eyes with difficulty, and then dropped them before his gaze, so reproachful and yet so kind. She shivered a little.
Nan had kept her promise.
For the next two days Anny saw nothing of the Spaniard and her spirits began to revive. Like all the Island folk, she took life very casually, and, as the days slipped on uneventfully, the event of hermarriage, although barely a week past, grew more and more like a rather exciting dream.
She was thinking like this as she sat alone in the kitchen’s open doorway, stitching a seam in one of Sue’s new kirtles, when she saw Blueneck coming across the yard toward her. Instantly all her fears returned and her fingers trembled as she pushed the needle to and fro through the coarse flannel.
He came up and saluted her courteously, as became one addressing the Captain’s lady.
“Mistress, I have a message for thee,” he said, looking about him cautiously.
Anny glanced up quickly.
“There is none with us,” she said, jerking her head toward the kitchen.
Blueneck looked round the yard hastily, and then bent a little nearer to the girl.
“Mistress, the Captain bids me tell you that we sail to-morrow night,” he said softly.
Anny caught her breath and the sailor went on:
“And, mistress, he bids me tell you to be ready to go with him when he comes for you.”
Anny’s sewing slid off her lap onto the ground unheeded.
Blueneck noticed her confusion and, dropping his voice to a whisper, said kindly:
“Take heart, lass, if ever the Captain kissed a woman, he loves you,” and then, recovering his respectful manner, he added, “and the Captain prays you to be secret for a while.”
Then with a smile and cheerful wave of his hand he turned and left her.
Anny sat spellbound.
It had come.
Immediately her thoughts flew to Nan. She must tell Nan at once for, whether the old woman could help her or not, the girl realized that she was the only person on the Island who was willing to do so.
She got up to get her shawl and then remembered that she dared not leave the Ship.
Sue and Hal were out in the fields and Gilbot had walked down to the sea. The Inn could not be left unattended; suddenly she remembered Red.
The child was playing happily in the garden; he came rather unwillingly when she called him and stood before her, a quaint, bedraggled little figure biting his nails, but he was fond of his sister and listened to her instructions with great attention.
“Red, will ye run along to Nan for me?” she said as calmly as she could.
The child’s face fell but he nodded all the same.
“And will ye tell her this? Now do keep it in your head, Reddy”—she was trembling in her agitation—“tell her this—he wants Anny to go to-morrow and none can stay him.”
She spoke very distinctly, as though she were trying to imprint each word on the child’s mind.
Red screwed up his eyes in a great mental effort.
“He wants Anny to go to-morrow, and none can stay him,” he repeated at last. Then he turned tohis sister. “Who wants you, Anny?” he asked curiously.
Anny frowned.
“Oh, go along, dear, go along, hurry!” she almost sobbed.
Red looked at her in mild surprise, and then trotted off obediently, muttering to himself as he ran and letting the words keep tune to the soft pad of his feet. “He—wants—An—ny—to—go—to—morrow—and no—one—will—stay—him.”
He was very hot and breathless by the time he reached Nan’s hut, and he stammered out the words to the old woman, who listened eagerly, a strange light in her eyes.
“To-morrow?” she said as the boy sank down on the floor panting and gasping.
Red looked up.
“Yes,” he said, and added: “And no one will stay him.” He repeated the words as though they held no meaning for him.
A fierce expression grew on Nan’s rugged face and she bent down to the little fellow and shook him half-angrily.
“You lie, boy, you lie,” she said, her face very close to his. “Do you hear?—you lie—for there is one who will stay him, nay, who shall. Get back to your sister—tell her not to fear.”
“AH, MASTER GILBOT, ’twill be a deal quieter than this to-morrow night, I reckon.”
Master Granger leaned across from his seat in the chimney corner and jerked his head in the direction of the body of the room where everything was in commotion.
TheAnnywas due to sail on the night tide and her crew were celebrating its departure with rum and song.
One of the long tables had been pulled out, and round this some ten or twelve men sprawled in more or less comfortable attitudes. Behind these were others sitting on rum kegs or leaning against the walls. They were all very merry, and from time to time loud shrieks of laughter shook the old Ship’s rafters and made them echo again and again.
Round the flickering fire, the first of the season, but a bright one, sat the Islanders, Joe Pullen, French, Cip de Musset, Granger, Gilbot, and a few others. They did not mix with the roaring, yelling crowd of seamen, but sat stolidly, drinking slowly, talking slowly, and enjoying themselves after their own quiet fashion. Now and again, perhaps, a young man would leave his seat to go over and split a jokeand a pint with a sailor, but the majority kept themselves to themselves, neither objecting to, nor wholly approving, the noisy pleasure of the smugglers.
Hal, especially, was very taciturn. He stood quietly in a candlelit corner, cleaning pewter, and spoke hardly at all. Sue, however, was in a very good humour; in her best kirtle, and her hair tied with a bow of scarlet ribbon which French had given her, she flew hither and thither carrying the liquor.
Anny had not yet appeared, and Blueneck nudged Noah Goody as they sat at the long table, when the time crept on, and still she did not come.
Little Red sat on French’s knee keeping very still and listening to the conversation with the utmost interest.
Granger’s remark called forth a chorus of “Ay’s,” some disconsolate, but mostly cheerful.
Gilbot looked at the reeling crowd out of the corners of his little red-rimmed eyes; then he chuckled:
“Nish,” he said thickly, a weak, happy smile playing over his big puffy face. “Nish, oh! very nish indeed. Letsh have a song,” and he struck up “Mary Loo” in a thin, quavering voice.
At this moment the door was flung open and a wave of cold air blew round the stifling kitchen; several men from the table turned to swear at the intruder, but their mouths shut silently and they rose to their feet as they saw who it was.
Black’erchief Dick stepped lightly into the room,and, shutting the door behind him, stood smiling on the company, a slim, dapper little figure in black velvet.
Then he removed his black beaver and called loudly for liquor all round. His words were received with cheers, and once again the talk broke out, and the singing restarted.
Dick perched himself on the end of one of the empty tables and looked about for Anny. The smile faded from his face when he saw she was not there, and a look of disappointment took its place. He had no doubt she was preparing to fly with him, but he had expected to see her waiting for him, her big eyes and wistful little face alight with expectation, and, he flattered himself, love. His vanity was hurt at her neglect. So his astonishment and anger when he saw her come in a few minutes later, in her usual kirtle and serving apron, an unwonted colour in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes as she fluttered to and fro from one knot of seamen to another, leaving a smile here and a jest there, and a pert, stinging remark somewhere else, knew no bounds. He looked at her in amazement; she had not even glanced his way. The disappointed expression left his face and a smile returned, but it was not the same smile.
In the next half hour Anny surpassed herself for gaiety. Her laugh rang out loud and clear almost every other second, and the whole company was at her feet in ten minutes.
Even old Gilbot noticed her and, wagging his headsagely, said that “good lashes” were “good business.”
But for Dick she had no eyes, not once did she meet his glance, bring his liquor, or come within five feet of him.
At first his surprise kept him silent and grave, so that Blueneck observed in a whisper to Goody that it was wont to be the lasses and not the Captain who were grave when sailing time came, and that times had changed, but after a while Dick’s smile grew more and more pronounced and he called for rum again and again.
Still Anny took no notice of him. Louder and louder grew her laugh, quicker and quicker her retorts, brighter her smile, and more numerous her admirers.
Hal looked up from his pewter cleaning and sighed.
“She was never so happy when we were sweethearts,” he muttered.
Only Sue looked at Anny strangely; she was a woman and she knew that there was a false note in the girl’s laughter, and that the light in her eyes was an almost desperate one. But she was an Islander, and therefore another lass’s business was none of hers, and she said nothing to her nor to any one else.
At last the Spaniard could bear this lack of notice no longer, and raising his voice called pleasantly enough:
“Mistress Anny!”
The girl started, and the tray of mugs which she was carrying rattled nervously, but she recovered herself in a second, and smiled radiantly at him.
“Will your lordship wait till I put these down?” she said gaily, with mock deference.
Dick’s smile grew broader, and Blueneck, who was watching him, whistled softly between his teeth and nudged Goody again.
“Not at all,” Dick was saying, his voice very soft and caressing.
Anny put down the tray with a clatter.
“Oh! there now,” she exclaimed brightly, “if I haven’t spilt one half of Master French’s sack; I must fill it up. Here, Hal, will ye go to the Captain for me while I do this? I know he likes being served quickly.”
Hal went over to him obediently.
The Spaniard’s eyelids flickered and his smile broadened as he ordered more rum, planking down a jacobus in payment.
The time went on, and Gilbot and his customers grew more and more lively; still Anny avoided the Spaniard, and still he sat on the table steadily drinking rum.
Suddenly in the middle of a song Dick looked at the clock, and then rising to his feet shouted:
“Get aboard, dogs!”
The singing died away immediately and all eyes were turned on the clock. The hands pointed to 8.15.
Then a murmur rose among the crew and one bolder than the rest said something about orders being a quarter to nine.
Dick sprang to his feet and his hand played round the hilt of his knife.
“A mutiny?” he asked softly.
Instantly there was a shuffle toward the door and they filed out one by one, and Gilbot, his fuddled brain just realizing that the merriment had suddenly died down, began to pipe cheerfully: