BOOK IICHAPTER XADRIFTARCHIErode along in a dream. He had gone straight out of the garden, taken his horse from the stable, and ridden back to Forfar, following the blind resolution to escape from Ardguys before he should have time to realize what it was costing him. He had changed horses at the posting-house, and turned his face along the way he had come. Through his pain and perplexity the only thing that stood fast was his determination not to return to Balnillo. “I will go now,” he had said to Madam Flemington, and he had gone without another word, keeping his very thoughts within the walled circle of his resolution, lest they should turn to look at familiar things that might thrust out hands full of old memories to hold him back.In the middle of his careless life he found himself cut adrift without warning from those associations that he now began to feel he had valued too little, taken for granted too much.Balnillo was impossible for him, and in consequence he was to be a stranger in his own home.Madam Flemington had made no concession and had put no term to his banishment, and though he could not believe that such a state of things could last, and that one sudden impulse of hers could hurl him out of her life for ever, she, who had lived for him, had told him that she would “do without him.” Then, as he assured himself of this, from that dim recess wherein a latent truth hides until some outside light flashes upon its lair, came the realization that she had not lived for him alone. She had lived for him that she might make him into the instrument she desired, a weapon fashioned to her hand, wherewith she might return blow for blow.All at once the thought made him spiritually sick, and the glory and desirableness of life seemed to fade. He could not see through its dark places, dark where all had been sunshine. He had been a boy yesterday, a man only by virtue of his astounding courage and resource, but he was awakening from boyhood, and manhood was hard. His education had begun, and he could not value the education of pain—the soundest, the most costly one there is—any more than any of us do whilst it lasts. He did not think, any more than any of us think, that perhaps when we come to lie on our death-beds we shall know that, of all the privileges of the life behind us, the greatest has been the privilege of having suffered and fought.All he knew was that his heart ached, that he had disappointed and estranged the person heloved best, and had lost, at any rate temporarily, the home that had been so dear. But hope would not desert him, in spite of everything. Madam Flemington had gone very wide of the mark in suspecting him of any leaning towards the Stuarts, and she would soon understand how little intention he had of turning rebel. There was still work for him to do. He had been given a free hand in details, and he would go to Brechin for the night; to-morrow he must decide what to do. Possibly he would ask to be transferred to some other place. But nothing that heaven or earth could offer him should make him betray Logie.Madam Flemington had seen him go, in ignorance of whether he had gone in obedience or in revolt. Perhaps she imagined that her arguments and the hateful story she had laid bare to him had prevailed, and that he was returning to his unfinished portrait. In the excitement of his interview with her, he had not told her anything but that he refused definitely to spy upon James any more.He had started for Ardguys so early, and had been there such a short time, that he was back in Forfar by noon. There he left his horse, and, mounting another, set off for Brechin. He was within sight of its ancient round tower, grey among the yellowing trees above the South Esk, when close to his left hand there rose the shrill screech of a pipe, cutting into his abstraction of mind like a sharp stab of pain. It was so loudand sudden that the horse leaped to the farther side of the road, snorting, and Flemington, sitting loosely, nearly lost his seat. He pulled up the astonished animal, and peered into a thicket of alder growing by the wayside. The ground was marshy, and the stunted trees were set close, but, dividing their branches, he saw behind their screen an open patch in the midst of which was Skirling Wattie’s cart. His jovial face seemed to illuminate the spot.“Dod!” exclaimed the piper, “ye was near doon! A’d no seek to change wi’ you. A’m safer wi’ ma’ doags than you wi’ yon horse. What ailed ye that ye gae’d awa’ frae Balnillo?”“Private matters,” said Archie shortly.“Aweel, they private matters was no far frae putting me i’ the tolbooth. What gar’d ye no tell me ye was gaein’?”“Have you got a letter for me?” said Flemington, as Wattie began to draw up his sliding-board.“Ay, there’s ane. But just wait you, ma lad, till a tell ye what a was sayin’ to auld Davie——”“Never mind what you said to Lord Balnillo,” broke in Flemington; “I want my letter.”He slipped from the saddle and looped the rein over his arm.“Dinna bring yon brute near me!” cried Wattie, as horse and man began to crush through the alders. “A’m fell feared o’ they unchancy cattle.”Archie made an impatient sound and threw therein over a stump. He approached the cart, and the yellow dog, who was for once lying down, opened his wary golden eyes, watching each movement that brought the intruder nearer to his master without raising his head.“You are not often on this side of Brechin,” said Archie, as the beggar handed him the packet.“Fegs, na!” returned Wattie, “but auld Davie an’ his tolbooth’s on the ither side o’t an’ it’s no safe yonder. It’s yersel’ I hae to thank for that, Mr. Flemington. A didna ken whaur ye was, sae a gae’d up to the muckle hoose to speer for ye. The auld stock came doon himsel’. Dod! the doag gar’d him loup an’ the pipes gar’d him skelloch. But he tell’t me whaur ye was.”“Plague take you! did you go there asking for me?” cried Archie.“What was a to dae? A tell’t Davie ye was needin’ me to lairn ye a sang! ‘The painter-lad was seekin’ me,’ says I, ‘an’ he tell’t me to come in-by.’”Flemington’s annoyance deepened. He did not know what the zeal of this insufferable rascal had led him to say or do in his name, and he had the rueful sense that the tangle he had paid such a heavy price to escape from was complicating round him. The officious familiarity of the piper exasperated him, and he resented Government’s choice of such a tool. He put the letter in his pocket, and began to back out of the thicket. He would read his instructions by himself.“Hey! ye’re no awa’, man?” cried Wattie.“I have no time to waste,” said Flemington, his foot in the stirrup.“But ye’ve no tell’t me whaur ye’re gaein’!”“Brechin!”Archie called the word over his shoulder, and started off at a trot, which he kept up until he had left the alder-bushes some way behind him.Then he broke the seal of his letter, and found that he was to convey the substance of each report that he sent in, not only to His Majesty’s intelligence officer at Perth, but to Captain Hall, of the English shipVenture, that was lying under Ferryden. He was to proceed at once to the vessel, to which further instructions for him would be sent in a couple of days’ time.He pocketed the letter and drew a breath of relief, blessing the encounter that he had just cursed, for a road of escape from his present difficulty began to open before him. He must take to his own feet on the other side of Brechin, and go straight to theVenture. He would be close to Montrose, in communication with it, though not within the precincts of the town, and safe from the chance of running against Logie. Balnillo and his brother would not know what had become of him, and Christian Flemington would be cured of her suspicions by the simple testimony of his whereabouts.He would treat the two days that he had spent at the judge’s house as if they had dropped out of his life, and merely report his late presence inMontrose to the captain of the sloop. He would describe his watching of the two men who came out of ‘The Happy Land,’ and how he had followed them to the harbour through the darkness; how he had seen them stop opposite the ship’s light as they discussed their plans; how he had tried to secure the paper they held. He would tell the captain that he believed some design against the ship to be on foot, but he would not let Logie’s name pass his lips; and he would deny any knowledge of the identity of either man, lest the mention of Ferrier should confirm the suspicions of those who guessed he was working with James. When he had reported himself to Perth from the ship, he would no longer be brought into contact with Skirling Wattie, which at that moment struck him as an advantage.The evenings had begun to close in early. As he crossed the Esk bridge and walked out of Brechin, the dusk was enwrapping its parapet like a veil. He hurried on, and struck out along the road that would lead him to Ferryden by the southern shore of the Basin. His way ran up a long ascent, and when he stood at the top of the hill the outline of the moon’s disc was rising, faint behind the thin cloudy bank that rested on the sea beyond Montrose. There was just enough daylight left to show him the Basin lying between him and the broken line of the town’s twinkling lights under the muffled moon.It was quite dark when he stood at last within hail of theVenture. As he went along the bankat the Esk’s mouth, he could see before him the cluster of houses that formed Ferryden village, and the North Sea beyond it, a formless void in the night, with the tide far out. Though the moon was well up, the cloud-bank had risen with her, and taken all sharpness out of the atmosphere.At his left hand the water crawled slithering at the foot of the sloping bank, like a dark, full-fed snake, and not thirty yards out, just where it broadened, stretching to the quays of Montrose, the vessel lay at anchor, a stationary blot on the slow movement. Upstream, between her and the Basin, the wedge-shaped island of Inchbrayock split the mass of water into two portions.Flemington halted, taking in the dark scene, which he had contemplated from its reverse side only a few nights ago. Then he went down to the water and put his hands round his mouth.“Ventureahoy!” he shouted.There was no movement on the ship. He waited, and then called again, with the same result. Through an open porthole came a man’s laugh, sudden, as though provoked by some unexpected jest. The water was deep here, and the ship lay so near that every word was carried across it to the shore.The laugh exasperated him. He threw all the power of his lungs into another shout.“Who goes there?” said a voice.“Friend,” replied Archie; and, fearing to beasked for a countersign, he called quickly, “Despatches for Captain Hall.”“Captain Hall is ashore,” announced a second voice, “and no one boards us till he returns.”TheVenturewas near enough to the bank for Archie to hear some derisive comment, the words of which he could not completely distinguish. A suppressed laugh followed.“Damn it!” he cried, “am I to be kept here all night?”“Like enough, if you mean to wait for the captain.”This reply came from the open porthole, in which the light was obliterated by the head of the man who spoke.There was a sound as of someone pulling him back by the heels, and the port was an eye of light again.Flemington turned and went up the bank, and as he reached the top and sprang on to the path he ran into a short, stoutish figure which was beginning to descend. An impatient expletive burst from it.“You needn’t hurry, sir,” said Archie, as the other hailed the vessel querulously; “you are not likely to get on board?”“What? what? Not board my own ship?”Flemington was a good deal taken aback. He could not see much in the clouded night, but no impression of authority seemed to emanate from the indistinguishable person beside him.“Ten thousand pardons, sir!” exclaimed theyoung man. “You are Captain Hall? I have information for you, and am sent by His Majesty’s intelligence officer in Perth to report myself to you. Flemington is my name.”For a minute the little man said nothing, and Archie felt rather than saw his fidgety movements. He seemed to be hesitating.A boat was being put off from the ship. She lay so near to them that a mere push from her side brought the craft almost into the bank.“It is so dark that I must show you my credentials on board,” said Archie, taking Captain Hall’s acquiescence for granted.He heard his companion drawing in his breath nervously through his teeth. No opposition was made as he stepped into the boat.When he stood on deck beside Hall the ship was quiet and the sounds of laughter were silent. He had the feeling that everyone on board had got out of the way on purpose as he followed the captain down the companion to his cabin. As the latter opened the door the light within revealed him plainly for the first time.He was a small ginger-haired man, whose furtive eyes were set very close to a thin-bridged, aquiline nose; his gait was remarkable because he trotted rather than walked; his restless fingers rubbed one another as he spoke. He looked peevish and a little dissipated, and his manner conveyed the idea that he felt himself to have no business where he was. As Archie remarked that, he told himself that it was a characteristiche had never yet seen in a seaman. His dress was careless, and a wine-stain on his cravat caught his companion’s eye. He had the personality of a rabbit.Hall did not sit down, but stood at the farther side of the table looking with a kind of grudging intentness at his guest, and Flemington was inclined to laugh, in spite of the heavy heart he had carried all day. The other moved about with undecided steps. When at last he sat down, just under the swinging lamp, Archie was certain that, though he could be called sober, he had been drinking.“Your business, sir,” he began, in a husky voice. “I must tell you that I am fatigued. I had hoped to go to bed in peace.”He paused, leaning back, and surveyed Flemington with injured distaste.“There is no reason that you should not,” replied Archie boldly. “I have had a devilish hard day myself. Give me a corner to lie in to-night, and I will give you the details of my report quickly.”He saw that he would meet with no opposition from Hall, whose one idea was to spare himself effort, and that his own quarters on board theVenturewere sure. No doubt long practice had enabled the man to look less muddled than he felt. He sat down opposite to him.The other put out his hand, as though to ward him off.“I have no leisure for business to-night,” he said. “This is not the time for it.”“All the same, I have orders from Perth to report myself to you, as I have told you already,” said Archie. “If you will listen, I will try to make myself clear without troubling you to read anything. I have information to give which you should hear at once.”“I tell you that I cannot attend to you,” said Hall.“I shall not keep you long. You do not realize that it is important, sir.”“Am I to be dictated to?” exclaimed the other, raising his voice. “This is my own ship, Mr. Flem—Fling—Fl——”The name presented so much difficulty to Hall that it died away in a tangled murmur, and Archie saw that to try to make him understand anything important in his present state would be labour lost.“Well, sir,” said he, “I will tell you at once that I suspect an attack on you is brewing in Montrose. I believe that it may happen at any moment. Having delivered myself of that, I had best leave you.”The word “attack” found its way to the captain’s brain.“It’s impossible!” he exclaimed crossly. “Why, plague on’t, I’ve got all the town guns! Nonsense, sir—no’sense! Come, I will call for a bottle of wine, ’n you can go. There’s an empty bunk, I s’pose.”The order was given and the wine was brought. Archie noticed that the man who set the bottle and the two glasses on the table threw a casual look at Hall’s hand, which shook as he helped his guest. He had eaten little since morning, and drunk less. Now that he had attained his object, and found himself in temporary shelter and temporary peace, be realized how glad he was of the wine. When, after a single glassful, he rose to follow the sailor who came to show him his bunk, he turned to bid good-night to Hall. The light hanging above the captain’s head revealed every line, every contour of his face with merciless candour; and Flemington could see that no lover, counting the minutes till he should be left with his mistress, had ever longed more eagerly to be alone with her than this man longed to be alone with the bottle before him.Archie threw himself thankfully into his bunk. There was evidently room for him on the ship, for there was no trace of another occupant in the little cabin; nevertheless, it looked untidy and unswept. The port close to which he lay was on the starboard side of the vessel, and looked across the strait towards the town. The lamps were nearly all extinguished on the quays, and only here and there a yellow spot of light made a faint ladder in the water. The pleasant trickling sound outside was soothing, with its impersonal, monotonous whisper. He wondered how long Hall would sit bemusing himself at the table, and what the discipline of a ship commanded by thiscuriously ineffective personality could be. To-morrow he must make out his story to the little man. He could not reproach himself with having postponed his report, for he knew that Hall’s brain, which might possibly be clearer in the morning, was incapable of taking in any but the simplest impressions to-night.Tired as he was, he did not sleep for a long time. The scenes of the past few days ran through his head one after another—now they appeared unreal, now almost visible to his eyes. Sometimes the space of time they covered seemed age-long, sometimes a passing flash. This was Saturday night, and all the events that had culminated in the disjointing of his life had been crowded into it since Monday. On Monday he had not suspected what lay in himself. He would have gibed had he been told that another man’s personality, a page out of another man’s history, could play such havoc with his own interests.He wondered what James was doing. Was he—now—over there in the darkness, looking across the rolling, sea-bound water straight to the spot on which he lay? Would he—could space be obliterated and night illumined—look up to find his steady eyes upon him? He lay quiet, marvelling, speculating. Then Logie, the shadowy town, the burning autumn-trees of Balnillo, the tulips round the house in far-away Holland, fell away from his mind, and in their place was the familiar background of Ardguys, the Ardguys of his childhood, with the silver-haired figure ofMadam Flemington confronting him; that terrible, unsparing presence wrapped about with something greater and more arresting than mere beauty; the quality that had wrought on him since he was a little lad. He turned about with a convulsive breath that was almost a sob.Then, at last, he slept soundly, to be awakened just at dawn by the roar of a gun, followed by a rattle of small shot, and the frantic hurrying of feet overhead.
ARCHIErode along in a dream. He had gone straight out of the garden, taken his horse from the stable, and ridden back to Forfar, following the blind resolution to escape from Ardguys before he should have time to realize what it was costing him. He had changed horses at the posting-house, and turned his face along the way he had come. Through his pain and perplexity the only thing that stood fast was his determination not to return to Balnillo. “I will go now,” he had said to Madam Flemington, and he had gone without another word, keeping his very thoughts within the walled circle of his resolution, lest they should turn to look at familiar things that might thrust out hands full of old memories to hold him back.
In the middle of his careless life he found himself cut adrift without warning from those associations that he now began to feel he had valued too little, taken for granted too much.
Balnillo was impossible for him, and in consequence he was to be a stranger in his own home.Madam Flemington had made no concession and had put no term to his banishment, and though he could not believe that such a state of things could last, and that one sudden impulse of hers could hurl him out of her life for ever, she, who had lived for him, had told him that she would “do without him.” Then, as he assured himself of this, from that dim recess wherein a latent truth hides until some outside light flashes upon its lair, came the realization that she had not lived for him alone. She had lived for him that she might make him into the instrument she desired, a weapon fashioned to her hand, wherewith she might return blow for blow.
All at once the thought made him spiritually sick, and the glory and desirableness of life seemed to fade. He could not see through its dark places, dark where all had been sunshine. He had been a boy yesterday, a man only by virtue of his astounding courage and resource, but he was awakening from boyhood, and manhood was hard. His education had begun, and he could not value the education of pain—the soundest, the most costly one there is—any more than any of us do whilst it lasts. He did not think, any more than any of us think, that perhaps when we come to lie on our death-beds we shall know that, of all the privileges of the life behind us, the greatest has been the privilege of having suffered and fought.
All he knew was that his heart ached, that he had disappointed and estranged the person heloved best, and had lost, at any rate temporarily, the home that had been so dear. But hope would not desert him, in spite of everything. Madam Flemington had gone very wide of the mark in suspecting him of any leaning towards the Stuarts, and she would soon understand how little intention he had of turning rebel. There was still work for him to do. He had been given a free hand in details, and he would go to Brechin for the night; to-morrow he must decide what to do. Possibly he would ask to be transferred to some other place. But nothing that heaven or earth could offer him should make him betray Logie.
Madam Flemington had seen him go, in ignorance of whether he had gone in obedience or in revolt. Perhaps she imagined that her arguments and the hateful story she had laid bare to him had prevailed, and that he was returning to his unfinished portrait. In the excitement of his interview with her, he had not told her anything but that he refused definitely to spy upon James any more.
He had started for Ardguys so early, and had been there such a short time, that he was back in Forfar by noon. There he left his horse, and, mounting another, set off for Brechin. He was within sight of its ancient round tower, grey among the yellowing trees above the South Esk, when close to his left hand there rose the shrill screech of a pipe, cutting into his abstraction of mind like a sharp stab of pain. It was so loudand sudden that the horse leaped to the farther side of the road, snorting, and Flemington, sitting loosely, nearly lost his seat. He pulled up the astonished animal, and peered into a thicket of alder growing by the wayside. The ground was marshy, and the stunted trees were set close, but, dividing their branches, he saw behind their screen an open patch in the midst of which was Skirling Wattie’s cart. His jovial face seemed to illuminate the spot.
“Dod!” exclaimed the piper, “ye was near doon! A’d no seek to change wi’ you. A’m safer wi’ ma’ doags than you wi’ yon horse. What ailed ye that ye gae’d awa’ frae Balnillo?”
“Private matters,” said Archie shortly.
“Aweel, they private matters was no far frae putting me i’ the tolbooth. What gar’d ye no tell me ye was gaein’?”
“Have you got a letter for me?” said Flemington, as Wattie began to draw up his sliding-board.
“Ay, there’s ane. But just wait you, ma lad, till a tell ye what a was sayin’ to auld Davie——”
“Never mind what you said to Lord Balnillo,” broke in Flemington; “I want my letter.”
He slipped from the saddle and looped the rein over his arm.
“Dinna bring yon brute near me!” cried Wattie, as horse and man began to crush through the alders. “A’m fell feared o’ they unchancy cattle.”
Archie made an impatient sound and threw therein over a stump. He approached the cart, and the yellow dog, who was for once lying down, opened his wary golden eyes, watching each movement that brought the intruder nearer to his master without raising his head.
“You are not often on this side of Brechin,” said Archie, as the beggar handed him the packet.
“Fegs, na!” returned Wattie, “but auld Davie an’ his tolbooth’s on the ither side o’t an’ it’s no safe yonder. It’s yersel’ I hae to thank for that, Mr. Flemington. A didna ken whaur ye was, sae a gae’d up to the muckle hoose to speer for ye. The auld stock came doon himsel’. Dod! the doag gar’d him loup an’ the pipes gar’d him skelloch. But he tell’t me whaur ye was.”
“Plague take you! did you go there asking for me?” cried Archie.
“What was a to dae? A tell’t Davie ye was needin’ me to lairn ye a sang! ‘The painter-lad was seekin’ me,’ says I, ‘an’ he tell’t me to come in-by.’”
Flemington’s annoyance deepened. He did not know what the zeal of this insufferable rascal had led him to say or do in his name, and he had the rueful sense that the tangle he had paid such a heavy price to escape from was complicating round him. The officious familiarity of the piper exasperated him, and he resented Government’s choice of such a tool. He put the letter in his pocket, and began to back out of the thicket. He would read his instructions by himself.
“Hey! ye’re no awa’, man?” cried Wattie.
“I have no time to waste,” said Flemington, his foot in the stirrup.
“But ye’ve no tell’t me whaur ye’re gaein’!”
“Brechin!”
Archie called the word over his shoulder, and started off at a trot, which he kept up until he had left the alder-bushes some way behind him.
Then he broke the seal of his letter, and found that he was to convey the substance of each report that he sent in, not only to His Majesty’s intelligence officer at Perth, but to Captain Hall, of the English shipVenture, that was lying under Ferryden. He was to proceed at once to the vessel, to which further instructions for him would be sent in a couple of days’ time.
He pocketed the letter and drew a breath of relief, blessing the encounter that he had just cursed, for a road of escape from his present difficulty began to open before him. He must take to his own feet on the other side of Brechin, and go straight to theVenture. He would be close to Montrose, in communication with it, though not within the precincts of the town, and safe from the chance of running against Logie. Balnillo and his brother would not know what had become of him, and Christian Flemington would be cured of her suspicions by the simple testimony of his whereabouts.
He would treat the two days that he had spent at the judge’s house as if they had dropped out of his life, and merely report his late presence inMontrose to the captain of the sloop. He would describe his watching of the two men who came out of ‘The Happy Land,’ and how he had followed them to the harbour through the darkness; how he had seen them stop opposite the ship’s light as they discussed their plans; how he had tried to secure the paper they held. He would tell the captain that he believed some design against the ship to be on foot, but he would not let Logie’s name pass his lips; and he would deny any knowledge of the identity of either man, lest the mention of Ferrier should confirm the suspicions of those who guessed he was working with James. When he had reported himself to Perth from the ship, he would no longer be brought into contact with Skirling Wattie, which at that moment struck him as an advantage.
The evenings had begun to close in early. As he crossed the Esk bridge and walked out of Brechin, the dusk was enwrapping its parapet like a veil. He hurried on, and struck out along the road that would lead him to Ferryden by the southern shore of the Basin. His way ran up a long ascent, and when he stood at the top of the hill the outline of the moon’s disc was rising, faint behind the thin cloudy bank that rested on the sea beyond Montrose. There was just enough daylight left to show him the Basin lying between him and the broken line of the town’s twinkling lights under the muffled moon.
It was quite dark when he stood at last within hail of theVenture. As he went along the bankat the Esk’s mouth, he could see before him the cluster of houses that formed Ferryden village, and the North Sea beyond it, a formless void in the night, with the tide far out. Though the moon was well up, the cloud-bank had risen with her, and taken all sharpness out of the atmosphere.
At his left hand the water crawled slithering at the foot of the sloping bank, like a dark, full-fed snake, and not thirty yards out, just where it broadened, stretching to the quays of Montrose, the vessel lay at anchor, a stationary blot on the slow movement. Upstream, between her and the Basin, the wedge-shaped island of Inchbrayock split the mass of water into two portions.
Flemington halted, taking in the dark scene, which he had contemplated from its reverse side only a few nights ago. Then he went down to the water and put his hands round his mouth.
“Ventureahoy!” he shouted.
There was no movement on the ship. He waited, and then called again, with the same result. Through an open porthole came a man’s laugh, sudden, as though provoked by some unexpected jest. The water was deep here, and the ship lay so near that every word was carried across it to the shore.
The laugh exasperated him. He threw all the power of his lungs into another shout.
“Who goes there?” said a voice.
“Friend,” replied Archie; and, fearing to beasked for a countersign, he called quickly, “Despatches for Captain Hall.”
“Captain Hall is ashore,” announced a second voice, “and no one boards us till he returns.”
TheVenturewas near enough to the bank for Archie to hear some derisive comment, the words of which he could not completely distinguish. A suppressed laugh followed.
“Damn it!” he cried, “am I to be kept here all night?”
“Like enough, if you mean to wait for the captain.”
This reply came from the open porthole, in which the light was obliterated by the head of the man who spoke.
There was a sound as of someone pulling him back by the heels, and the port was an eye of light again.
Flemington turned and went up the bank, and as he reached the top and sprang on to the path he ran into a short, stoutish figure which was beginning to descend. An impatient expletive burst from it.
“You needn’t hurry, sir,” said Archie, as the other hailed the vessel querulously; “you are not likely to get on board?”
“What? what? Not board my own ship?”
Flemington was a good deal taken aback. He could not see much in the clouded night, but no impression of authority seemed to emanate from the indistinguishable person beside him.
“Ten thousand pardons, sir!” exclaimed theyoung man. “You are Captain Hall? I have information for you, and am sent by His Majesty’s intelligence officer in Perth to report myself to you. Flemington is my name.”
For a minute the little man said nothing, and Archie felt rather than saw his fidgety movements. He seemed to be hesitating.
A boat was being put off from the ship. She lay so near to them that a mere push from her side brought the craft almost into the bank.
“It is so dark that I must show you my credentials on board,” said Archie, taking Captain Hall’s acquiescence for granted.
He heard his companion drawing in his breath nervously through his teeth. No opposition was made as he stepped into the boat.
When he stood on deck beside Hall the ship was quiet and the sounds of laughter were silent. He had the feeling that everyone on board had got out of the way on purpose as he followed the captain down the companion to his cabin. As the latter opened the door the light within revealed him plainly for the first time.
He was a small ginger-haired man, whose furtive eyes were set very close to a thin-bridged, aquiline nose; his gait was remarkable because he trotted rather than walked; his restless fingers rubbed one another as he spoke. He looked peevish and a little dissipated, and his manner conveyed the idea that he felt himself to have no business where he was. As Archie remarked that, he told himself that it was a characteristiche had never yet seen in a seaman. His dress was careless, and a wine-stain on his cravat caught his companion’s eye. He had the personality of a rabbit.
Hall did not sit down, but stood at the farther side of the table looking with a kind of grudging intentness at his guest, and Flemington was inclined to laugh, in spite of the heavy heart he had carried all day. The other moved about with undecided steps. When at last he sat down, just under the swinging lamp, Archie was certain that, though he could be called sober, he had been drinking.
“Your business, sir,” he began, in a husky voice. “I must tell you that I am fatigued. I had hoped to go to bed in peace.”
He paused, leaning back, and surveyed Flemington with injured distaste.
“There is no reason that you should not,” replied Archie boldly. “I have had a devilish hard day myself. Give me a corner to lie in to-night, and I will give you the details of my report quickly.”
He saw that he would meet with no opposition from Hall, whose one idea was to spare himself effort, and that his own quarters on board theVenturewere sure. No doubt long practice had enabled the man to look less muddled than he felt. He sat down opposite to him.
The other put out his hand, as though to ward him off.
“I have no leisure for business to-night,” he said. “This is not the time for it.”
“All the same, I have orders from Perth to report myself to you, as I have told you already,” said Archie. “If you will listen, I will try to make myself clear without troubling you to read anything. I have information to give which you should hear at once.”
“I tell you that I cannot attend to you,” said Hall.
“I shall not keep you long. You do not realize that it is important, sir.”
“Am I to be dictated to?” exclaimed the other, raising his voice. “This is my own ship, Mr. Flem—Fling—Fl——”
The name presented so much difficulty to Hall that it died away in a tangled murmur, and Archie saw that to try to make him understand anything important in his present state would be labour lost.
“Well, sir,” said he, “I will tell you at once that I suspect an attack on you is brewing in Montrose. I believe that it may happen at any moment. Having delivered myself of that, I had best leave you.”
The word “attack” found its way to the captain’s brain.
“It’s impossible!” he exclaimed crossly. “Why, plague on’t, I’ve got all the town guns! Nonsense, sir—no’sense! Come, I will call for a bottle of wine, ’n you can go. There’s an empty bunk, I s’pose.”
The order was given and the wine was brought. Archie noticed that the man who set the bottle and the two glasses on the table threw a casual look at Hall’s hand, which shook as he helped his guest. He had eaten little since morning, and drunk less. Now that he had attained his object, and found himself in temporary shelter and temporary peace, be realized how glad he was of the wine. When, after a single glassful, he rose to follow the sailor who came to show him his bunk, he turned to bid good-night to Hall. The light hanging above the captain’s head revealed every line, every contour of his face with merciless candour; and Flemington could see that no lover, counting the minutes till he should be left with his mistress, had ever longed more eagerly to be alone with her than this man longed to be alone with the bottle before him.
Archie threw himself thankfully into his bunk. There was evidently room for him on the ship, for there was no trace of another occupant in the little cabin; nevertheless, it looked untidy and unswept. The port close to which he lay was on the starboard side of the vessel, and looked across the strait towards the town. The lamps were nearly all extinguished on the quays, and only here and there a yellow spot of light made a faint ladder in the water. The pleasant trickling sound outside was soothing, with its impersonal, monotonous whisper. He wondered how long Hall would sit bemusing himself at the table, and what the discipline of a ship commanded by thiscuriously ineffective personality could be. To-morrow he must make out his story to the little man. He could not reproach himself with having postponed his report, for he knew that Hall’s brain, which might possibly be clearer in the morning, was incapable of taking in any but the simplest impressions to-night.
Tired as he was, he did not sleep for a long time. The scenes of the past few days ran through his head one after another—now they appeared unreal, now almost visible to his eyes. Sometimes the space of time they covered seemed age-long, sometimes a passing flash. This was Saturday night, and all the events that had culminated in the disjointing of his life had been crowded into it since Monday. On Monday he had not suspected what lay in himself. He would have gibed had he been told that another man’s personality, a page out of another man’s history, could play such havoc with his own interests.
He wondered what James was doing. Was he—now—over there in the darkness, looking across the rolling, sea-bound water straight to the spot on which he lay? Would he—could space be obliterated and night illumined—look up to find his steady eyes upon him? He lay quiet, marvelling, speculating. Then Logie, the shadowy town, the burning autumn-trees of Balnillo, the tulips round the house in far-away Holland, fell away from his mind, and in their place was the familiar background of Ardguys, the Ardguys of his childhood, with the silver-haired figure ofMadam Flemington confronting him; that terrible, unsparing presence wrapped about with something greater and more arresting than mere beauty; the quality that had wrought on him since he was a little lad. He turned about with a convulsive breath that was almost a sob.
Then, at last, he slept soundly, to be awakened just at dawn by the roar of a gun, followed by a rattle of small shot, and the frantic hurrying of feet overhead.