Chapter Seven.Flight.With regard to Everitt and Jack Hibbert, a change had taken place which could not but be considered remarkable. Everitt, who had hitherto been noted for the energy and industry of his work, now was frequently absent from his studio, and when there painted in a half-hearted fashion, which was not likely to do him much good. He was conscious of it, annoyed, and was always expecting a return of his old enthusiasm; as it did not arrive, he became depressed, and told Jack that he believed he had lost the trick of it. The change in Jack himself fortunately lay in quite another direction; Everitt could not tell what had come over the lad, who was early and late in his studio, and worked with a purpose and intensity which he had never known before. Me used at intervals to rush into Everitt’s studio to ask his advice and assistance. Smitten with compunction one morning when the artist had spent a good deal of time over a question of colour, he expressed himself to that effect.“My dear fellow,” said Everitt, “don’t disturb yourself. I don’t know that I am of much good to you, but I’m very sure I’m of less to myself. If it wasn’t for you, I suspect I should drop it all for a month or two.”“Oh, you’ve been overworking yourself; that will pass,” said Jack, sagely.Everitt walked over to his own canvas and stood regarding it with his hands thrust into his pockets. It was a forge, where two horsemen, escaping from pursuit, had pulled up to get a thrown shoe replaced; one had dismounted; the other, turned sideways on his horse, was anxiously looking back along the road by which they had ridden; a girl pressed forward to see the riders.“There’s my morning’s work,” said Everitt, pointing to her figure; “and it’s wood—no life, no go in it.”“Well, you know I don’t think much of that model.”“The model’s good enough,” said the other man impatiently. “She never stood better. The fault lies somewhere else. I wish it didn’t.”Jack glanced at him with an honest expression of dismay.“Oh, I say, Everitt,” he exclaimed, “it’s absurd to talk like that. Everybody’s got their slack times. To-morrow you’ll paint better than ever you did in your life. You’ve run down—that’s all.”“I’ve half a mind to go away,” Everitt said.“Well,” Jack replied, heroically, “perhaps that would set you up. Where shall we go?”“We?”“You didn’t suppose you were going to get rid of me?”“If I go, I go by myself,” Everitt answered, with decision. “You’ve got into the swing of work at last; stick to it, my boy, and you’ll do something good. As to where I shall go, I’m not in the mood for any place in particular. Toss up, if you choose, and settle for me.”Jack made a further endeavour to persuade him to let him be his companion, but the elder man was quite resolute in his determination to be alone. He did not care where he went, and no place offered any particular attraction; he had only a restless desire to shake off an influence which seemed to be in some strange way paralysing his work. The fact that it was so paralysing it no doubt alarmed him; he had not been prepared for such a result, and all his instincts revolted against it. He argued that an infatuation springing from so slight a foundation should be under reasonable control. He would not have parted from it for worlds, but was it to be suffered to wreck his life? He tried another day with his model; at the end of it he painted out her figure and turned his canvas with its face to the wall. When Jack came in, he found Hill at work under Everitt’s directions.“I’m off,” the latter said, briefly.“Where?”“To the other side of the channel. Perhaps by that time my ideas will have taken shape. At present they only consist of hazy notions of the coast of Brittany—unoriginal, but that’s what I suffer from being just at present.”When Mrs Marchmont heard of this move, she was greatly disconcerted.“I didnotexpect,” she remarked, severely, “that you would have left the field in this fashion.”“I don’t find myself in the field at all, that’s the truth,” Everitt said, with a laugh.“Well, you might have been there,” she said. “Pray, do you expect me to keep off other people?”“I expect nothing,” he replied. “Seeing what a mess I have made of the thing myself, it would be unjust to suppose that others are to set it right.”“Where are you going?” she demanded, suddenly. “At any rate, keep me informed of your movements, so that if there should be anything to write—”“Would you be so kind!” he said, eagerly. “But, of course, there can’t.”Still he told her what there was to tell, and gave her a list of places where he would apply for letters. With these in her mind, Mrs Marchmont went off the next day to the Lascelles’, at a time when she knew that Kitty was out. She saw Mrs Lascelles.“How is Kitty?” she inquired. “It strikes me that she is looking pale and thin.”“She is not very well,” the mother admitted. “The weather has been hot lately. I’m not sure that so much painting is good for her, and, to tell you the truth, I think Kitty has worried over this foolish affair. I wish she would forget it.”“So do I,” said Mrs Marchmont, candidly.“What shall we do to her?”“She has plenty of sense,” said Mrs Lascelles, “and if no more is said about it, and she finds there is no danger of meeting Mr Everitt, I hope she will cease to think about it all.”“Poor man!”—with a sigh.“Oh, come, Mary,” Mrs Lascelles said, with a laugh, “I am not going to have him pitied. He has caused us a great deal of annoyance, and if Kitty gets ill, I shan’t forgive him in a hurry.”“Why don’t you take her away for a change? The inestimable Miss Potter would look after the children, and Captain Lascelles could dine with us whenever he pleased.”Mrs Lascelles looked doubtful.“Where could we go?”“Oh, to the Channel Islands, or Brittany, or Normandy. Have you ever done Brittany? Kitty could draw, and would be very happy.”“It has been a sort of dream between us,” Mrs Lascelles admitted; “and to tell you the truth, my husband has to go down to Yorkshire next week. Still—for me to go away!”She protested a little in fact, but when Mrs Marchmont left her she was well on the way to yielding. Her visitor departed in high spirits, and her next point was to see Bell.“Bell,” she said, confidentially, “I’ve something to tell you. Mr Everitt is going abroad.”“I know,” remarked Bell, calmly. “I heard that yesterday.”Now, this somewhat astonished Mary Marchmont. She began to think that Bell’s means of information were remarkably efficient, and to wonder what they were. Meanwhile she begged her to say nothing about it to the Lascelles’.“Mrs Lascelles talks of taking Kitty to Brittany, and if by any happy chance they were to meet, everything might come right. But, you know, if a hint reached them—”“I know,” repeated Bell. “Well, but you will not set him on their track?”“He would not go if I did. I shall not tell him that they are even leaving England. Everything must be quite accidental and unpremeditated. Indeed, Bell, I have done nothing beyond suggesting that Kitty wanted change of air, and that Brittany was a nice near place.”“Oh!” said the girl, with a laugh. However, in spite of her mockery she was very ready to promise, and when Jack arrived later in the day, he was admitted into the new conspiracy, which he was to aid by keeping Everitt to the starting-point.It was not difficult. Everitt had too little inclination for any place but London to be disposed to resist even the gentlest pushes in a given direction. Once, indeed, he gave Jack a shock by declaring positively that he was going to Russia, where it was very certain there would be no Kitty for him to meet. The bare idea necessitated Jack’s seeking advice from Miss Aitcheson, but by the time he came back, armed with invincible suggestions, Everitt had forgotten his fancy, and announced that he should go to Havre that night.Jack went to the station with him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him take his ticket, and of extracting all the certainty he could from that fact. It was not absolute, because Everitt announced that, once on the other side, chance or the fancy of the moment were likely enough to direct his steps, but, setting this aside, his plan, so far as he had one, was to go leisurely through some of the old Normandy towns, and to work along the coast to the neighbouring province. As for work, he meant, to see on what terms with it he found himself. If the spring came back, well and good. If not, he would not force himself, but turn to anything which presented itself. He was fully aware of the unreasonableness of his present mood; it seemed nothing short of ludicrous that the experiences of a day or two—and such experiences—should be sufficient to change his life. But the very unreasonableness prevented argument from producing its effect. He had seen Kitty, and he loved her—that was the long and short of it, which nothing could alter.Mrs Marchmont, meanwhile, had been triumphantly successful with the Lascelles. Kitty, it is true, had not taken to the idea so keenly as her mother anticipated, but this, if it proved anything, proved that she was not quite herself, and when she saw that her mother was disappointed at her want of enthusiasm, she promptly set to work to present an outward show at least equal to what was required. She only begged that a definite time might be fixed for their return.So they, too, went off, with Paris for their first resting-place, and it was quite astonishing how many consultations became necessary between Bell and Jack, before it could be at all decided whether there was a chance of the three drifting together in some odd corner. Considering how often, with all the pains in the world taken to bring it about, some meeting towards which hearts are straining fails, it had to be owned that this chance was slight. Bell and Jack, however, were young enough to think very well of a slight chance. Bell argued that in small country places, where only one tolerable inn existed, there was a far greater likelihood of meeting than in a great city where there were fifty, and Jack was certain, from no grounds at all, that something would throw Everitt into Kitty’s path. But they were doomed to receive a blow. Bell one day found a distracted letter from Mrs Marchmont.“It has all come tonothing! I have just heard from Charlie that he is already sick of Normandy cider and cart horses, that he has met with a horrid man—helikes him—who has persuaded him to try Auvergne, and that they will go off there at once. Auvergne! Did you ever know anything so stupid? My one consolation is that it is the very plainest country I ever beheld, and I hope he will be bored to death by it. Of course, there is not the smallest chance of the Lascelles going to Auvergne; I should not have the face even to suggest it to them. So there’s an end of it all, and I think men are the most tiresome creatures in the world—except women.”It was too true.Led away by this tempter in the person of another artist, Everitt had broken off from the path of duty so carefully marked out for him by his cousin, and made his way towards Paris. He reached it on the day the Lascelles left.With Kitty the experiment had apparently been very successful. It was the first time that she had crossed the Channel, and the lightness of the air, the freshness of the colouring, and the general picturesqueness of things, delighted her from the moment of landing. She and her mother were excellent companions, and, indeed, to Mrs Lascelles the sense of holiday-making was even stronger than with her daughter. She was like a girl again, enjoying everything with a keen sense of reprieve from the duties of ordering dinner and thinking of dishes which should please, at any rate, the majority. She liked Paris better than Kitty liked it, and would have been well enough content to have stayed there, and made excursions to the old towns; but Brittany had an attraction for the girl, so they kept to their first plan, and left Paris for Dinanonthe day, as has been said, that Everitt arrived there.At Dinan, Kitty was seized with a severe attack of industry. She painted the clock-tower, and the market, and the old steep smelly streets, the walls, and the Rance, and every picturesque thing that came before her. Her mother laughed at her, but in her heart fancied the girl was trying to shut out intrusive thoughts, and felt the more glad that she had taken her away from London. It was early in the season for the rush of travellers, but Dinan carries on small social distractions throughout the year, and they knew one family, half English and half French, who lived in a charming old black and white château, with avenues and a stone dovecot, and a walled garden with a gateway to which you ascended by steps, and where it was not difficult to believe that you were in another world.Kitty would have been well content to have stayed here for the rest of their time, but Mrs Lascelles was not going to be defrauded of her holiday. She had planned a very comprehensive ten-days’ round, having been carefully drawn on to this by Mrs Marchmont. They were to go to Vannes and Auray, see Carnac, take Quimper and Morlaix, and any other tempting places that layen route, and return to Dinan and Saint Malo, going home by the Channel Islands. She wrote to Mary Marchmont that after all the trouble she had taken in finding out the most interesting places and the best inns, she could not venture to diverge a mile from the lines laid down. Mrs Marchmont showed the letter to Bell, almost crying.“Isn’t it too provoking!” she exclaimed. “If only that stupid Charlie had been half so conscientious!”Quite unconscious, meanwhile, that they were provoking their friends at home by the implicit obedience with which they had kept within the lines ruled for them by these kindly despots, Kitty and her mother went on their cheerful way by slow and dawdling trains, leaving behind them pretty Dinan, with its river and its rich and fertile country, exploring Vannes, sitting down to sketch in the centre of uneven streets, where some little bit—some rich colouring on the stone, some dark cavern of a doorway, framing a white-capped group, some delicate wreath of greenery flinging itself out joyously to meet the sun—attracted Kitty. The people came round to watch and to suggest themselves as pictures; they were all on the most friendly yet independent terms with the girl, who smiled and nodded at them and sketched bravely on, undismayed by her increasing crowd of admirers. Auray did not offer so much of the picturesque; but Mrs Lascelles would not let Kitty escape her duties, so she carried her off to Carnac.But it was Kitty herself who proposed the next excursion. She was already tired of menhirs and dolmens; but she had a longing for a little boating on this wild and windy coast. They would drive to Locmariaker, and go across to the little Gavr Innis, where there are some carvings in a cave which give people an excuse for visiting the island. The morning was very rainy, and gusts of wind rushed up from the south-west. Her mother would have begged off, but Kitty was resolute, “They will not take us if there is any danger,” said Mrs Lascelles, at last surrendering.Kitty mocked at the idea of danger; and, indeed, when they readied Locmariaker and walked down to the little landing-place, the boatmen showed no unwillingness to convey them across. For though the rain still fell, there were rifts in the grey fast-driven clouds which looked as if brighter weather might be near, and the freshness of it all—the grey-green of the water, the saltness of the wind, the swoop of the white gulls—made Kitty the more eager to be out on the dancing waves. She pulled the hood of her waterproof over her hat, her cheeks glowed under the strong wet wind; and her mother, already seated in the boat, looked at her as she stood lightly-poised on the slippery stones, with a smile of satisfaction. Certainly the experiment had been quite successful; and, as they were well out of the reach of hearing anything which might keep up the remembrance of an unifying incident, she might hope to take the girl home with the shadow all gone.Meanwhile, all seemed ready, and yet they did not start. The old boatman—Stevan—his brown face deeply seamed with lines, made some excuse about his sail, which was not in order, and the boy was sent up to one of the small cottages which straggle down towards the water.“Kitty, do make him understand that we wish to start,” said Mrs Lascelles. “If I am to be drowned, I don’t want to be all day about it.”But now the boy reappeared followed by a dark figure in a shabby soutane.“It isM. le curé,” said old Stevan, addressing himself politely to Kitty. “He has to cross to the island to see a sick person. These ladies will not object.”Thecurécame deliberately down with firm, quick steps; he lifted his hat, stepped into the boat, and sat down. Kitty stepped after him; the boy took the oar to push off, but the old sailor still looked towards the land and lingered.“I believe this is a ferry boat,” cried Mrs Lascelles, impatiently. “Look, Kitty, there is some one else!”Some one else was in a big ulster; a woman—probably Stevan’s wife—a woman in a whitecoiffeand blue dress was hastening before him, and pointing eagerly to the boat. It was evident that she had an eye for business, and would not lose a passenger who might add a franc or two to her husband’s gains. Mrs Lascelles was vexed.“We shall wait here all day at this rate,” she said.Kitty was gathering up her dress, for the boat was wet. The boatman turned to her.“We start this moment, immediately,” he assured her, apologetically. “There is not a better boat at Locmariaker. We shall soon be across.”Thecurélooked round at the green waves and slightly shrugged his shoulders. Kitty herself turned to see the coming passenger. The woman had stopped; she stood with her arms folded under her apron, watching him. He had not run, but had come quickly down, and was close to the boat before Kitty had time to do more than turn a startled face to her mother; he lifted his hat and sprang in, the boy hurriedly shoved off from the weed-covered stones, and the next moment they were out in the tossing bay, with Charles Everitt for their companion.
With regard to Everitt and Jack Hibbert, a change had taken place which could not but be considered remarkable. Everitt, who had hitherto been noted for the energy and industry of his work, now was frequently absent from his studio, and when there painted in a half-hearted fashion, which was not likely to do him much good. He was conscious of it, annoyed, and was always expecting a return of his old enthusiasm; as it did not arrive, he became depressed, and told Jack that he believed he had lost the trick of it. The change in Jack himself fortunately lay in quite another direction; Everitt could not tell what had come over the lad, who was early and late in his studio, and worked with a purpose and intensity which he had never known before. Me used at intervals to rush into Everitt’s studio to ask his advice and assistance. Smitten with compunction one morning when the artist had spent a good deal of time over a question of colour, he expressed himself to that effect.
“My dear fellow,” said Everitt, “don’t disturb yourself. I don’t know that I am of much good to you, but I’m very sure I’m of less to myself. If it wasn’t for you, I suspect I should drop it all for a month or two.”
“Oh, you’ve been overworking yourself; that will pass,” said Jack, sagely.
Everitt walked over to his own canvas and stood regarding it with his hands thrust into his pockets. It was a forge, where two horsemen, escaping from pursuit, had pulled up to get a thrown shoe replaced; one had dismounted; the other, turned sideways on his horse, was anxiously looking back along the road by which they had ridden; a girl pressed forward to see the riders.
“There’s my morning’s work,” said Everitt, pointing to her figure; “and it’s wood—no life, no go in it.”
“Well, you know I don’t think much of that model.”
“The model’s good enough,” said the other man impatiently. “She never stood better. The fault lies somewhere else. I wish it didn’t.”
Jack glanced at him with an honest expression of dismay.
“Oh, I say, Everitt,” he exclaimed, “it’s absurd to talk like that. Everybody’s got their slack times. To-morrow you’ll paint better than ever you did in your life. You’ve run down—that’s all.”
“I’ve half a mind to go away,” Everitt said.
“Well,” Jack replied, heroically, “perhaps that would set you up. Where shall we go?”
“We?”
“You didn’t suppose you were going to get rid of me?”
“If I go, I go by myself,” Everitt answered, with decision. “You’ve got into the swing of work at last; stick to it, my boy, and you’ll do something good. As to where I shall go, I’m not in the mood for any place in particular. Toss up, if you choose, and settle for me.”
Jack made a further endeavour to persuade him to let him be his companion, but the elder man was quite resolute in his determination to be alone. He did not care where he went, and no place offered any particular attraction; he had only a restless desire to shake off an influence which seemed to be in some strange way paralysing his work. The fact that it was so paralysing it no doubt alarmed him; he had not been prepared for such a result, and all his instincts revolted against it. He argued that an infatuation springing from so slight a foundation should be under reasonable control. He would not have parted from it for worlds, but was it to be suffered to wreck his life? He tried another day with his model; at the end of it he painted out her figure and turned his canvas with its face to the wall. When Jack came in, he found Hill at work under Everitt’s directions.
“I’m off,” the latter said, briefly.
“Where?”
“To the other side of the channel. Perhaps by that time my ideas will have taken shape. At present they only consist of hazy notions of the coast of Brittany—unoriginal, but that’s what I suffer from being just at present.”
When Mrs Marchmont heard of this move, she was greatly disconcerted.
“I didnotexpect,” she remarked, severely, “that you would have left the field in this fashion.”
“I don’t find myself in the field at all, that’s the truth,” Everitt said, with a laugh.
“Well, you might have been there,” she said. “Pray, do you expect me to keep off other people?”
“I expect nothing,” he replied. “Seeing what a mess I have made of the thing myself, it would be unjust to suppose that others are to set it right.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded, suddenly. “At any rate, keep me informed of your movements, so that if there should be anything to write—”
“Would you be so kind!” he said, eagerly. “But, of course, there can’t.”
Still he told her what there was to tell, and gave her a list of places where he would apply for letters. With these in her mind, Mrs Marchmont went off the next day to the Lascelles’, at a time when she knew that Kitty was out. She saw Mrs Lascelles.
“How is Kitty?” she inquired. “It strikes me that she is looking pale and thin.”
“She is not very well,” the mother admitted. “The weather has been hot lately. I’m not sure that so much painting is good for her, and, to tell you the truth, I think Kitty has worried over this foolish affair. I wish she would forget it.”
“So do I,” said Mrs Marchmont, candidly.
“What shall we do to her?”
“She has plenty of sense,” said Mrs Lascelles, “and if no more is said about it, and she finds there is no danger of meeting Mr Everitt, I hope she will cease to think about it all.”
“Poor man!”—with a sigh.
“Oh, come, Mary,” Mrs Lascelles said, with a laugh, “I am not going to have him pitied. He has caused us a great deal of annoyance, and if Kitty gets ill, I shan’t forgive him in a hurry.”
“Why don’t you take her away for a change? The inestimable Miss Potter would look after the children, and Captain Lascelles could dine with us whenever he pleased.”
Mrs Lascelles looked doubtful.
“Where could we go?”
“Oh, to the Channel Islands, or Brittany, or Normandy. Have you ever done Brittany? Kitty could draw, and would be very happy.”
“It has been a sort of dream between us,” Mrs Lascelles admitted; “and to tell you the truth, my husband has to go down to Yorkshire next week. Still—for me to go away!”
She protested a little in fact, but when Mrs Marchmont left her she was well on the way to yielding. Her visitor departed in high spirits, and her next point was to see Bell.
“Bell,” she said, confidentially, “I’ve something to tell you. Mr Everitt is going abroad.”
“I know,” remarked Bell, calmly. “I heard that yesterday.”
Now, this somewhat astonished Mary Marchmont. She began to think that Bell’s means of information were remarkably efficient, and to wonder what they were. Meanwhile she begged her to say nothing about it to the Lascelles’.
“Mrs Lascelles talks of taking Kitty to Brittany, and if by any happy chance they were to meet, everything might come right. But, you know, if a hint reached them—”
“I know,” repeated Bell. “Well, but you will not set him on their track?”
“He would not go if I did. I shall not tell him that they are even leaving England. Everything must be quite accidental and unpremeditated. Indeed, Bell, I have done nothing beyond suggesting that Kitty wanted change of air, and that Brittany was a nice near place.”
“Oh!” said the girl, with a laugh. However, in spite of her mockery she was very ready to promise, and when Jack arrived later in the day, he was admitted into the new conspiracy, which he was to aid by keeping Everitt to the starting-point.
It was not difficult. Everitt had too little inclination for any place but London to be disposed to resist even the gentlest pushes in a given direction. Once, indeed, he gave Jack a shock by declaring positively that he was going to Russia, where it was very certain there would be no Kitty for him to meet. The bare idea necessitated Jack’s seeking advice from Miss Aitcheson, but by the time he came back, armed with invincible suggestions, Everitt had forgotten his fancy, and announced that he should go to Havre that night.
Jack went to the station with him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him take his ticket, and of extracting all the certainty he could from that fact. It was not absolute, because Everitt announced that, once on the other side, chance or the fancy of the moment were likely enough to direct his steps, but, setting this aside, his plan, so far as he had one, was to go leisurely through some of the old Normandy towns, and to work along the coast to the neighbouring province. As for work, he meant, to see on what terms with it he found himself. If the spring came back, well and good. If not, he would not force himself, but turn to anything which presented itself. He was fully aware of the unreasonableness of his present mood; it seemed nothing short of ludicrous that the experiences of a day or two—and such experiences—should be sufficient to change his life. But the very unreasonableness prevented argument from producing its effect. He had seen Kitty, and he loved her—that was the long and short of it, which nothing could alter.
Mrs Marchmont, meanwhile, had been triumphantly successful with the Lascelles. Kitty, it is true, had not taken to the idea so keenly as her mother anticipated, but this, if it proved anything, proved that she was not quite herself, and when she saw that her mother was disappointed at her want of enthusiasm, she promptly set to work to present an outward show at least equal to what was required. She only begged that a definite time might be fixed for their return.
So they, too, went off, with Paris for their first resting-place, and it was quite astonishing how many consultations became necessary between Bell and Jack, before it could be at all decided whether there was a chance of the three drifting together in some odd corner. Considering how often, with all the pains in the world taken to bring it about, some meeting towards which hearts are straining fails, it had to be owned that this chance was slight. Bell and Jack, however, were young enough to think very well of a slight chance. Bell argued that in small country places, where only one tolerable inn existed, there was a far greater likelihood of meeting than in a great city where there were fifty, and Jack was certain, from no grounds at all, that something would throw Everitt into Kitty’s path. But they were doomed to receive a blow. Bell one day found a distracted letter from Mrs Marchmont.
“It has all come tonothing! I have just heard from Charlie that he is already sick of Normandy cider and cart horses, that he has met with a horrid man—helikes him—who has persuaded him to try Auvergne, and that they will go off there at once. Auvergne! Did you ever know anything so stupid? My one consolation is that it is the very plainest country I ever beheld, and I hope he will be bored to death by it. Of course, there is not the smallest chance of the Lascelles going to Auvergne; I should not have the face even to suggest it to them. So there’s an end of it all, and I think men are the most tiresome creatures in the world—except women.”
It was too true.
Led away by this tempter in the person of another artist, Everitt had broken off from the path of duty so carefully marked out for him by his cousin, and made his way towards Paris. He reached it on the day the Lascelles left.
With Kitty the experiment had apparently been very successful. It was the first time that she had crossed the Channel, and the lightness of the air, the freshness of the colouring, and the general picturesqueness of things, delighted her from the moment of landing. She and her mother were excellent companions, and, indeed, to Mrs Lascelles the sense of holiday-making was even stronger than with her daughter. She was like a girl again, enjoying everything with a keen sense of reprieve from the duties of ordering dinner and thinking of dishes which should please, at any rate, the majority. She liked Paris better than Kitty liked it, and would have been well enough content to have stayed there, and made excursions to the old towns; but Brittany had an attraction for the girl, so they kept to their first plan, and left Paris for Dinanonthe day, as has been said, that Everitt arrived there.
At Dinan, Kitty was seized with a severe attack of industry. She painted the clock-tower, and the market, and the old steep smelly streets, the walls, and the Rance, and every picturesque thing that came before her. Her mother laughed at her, but in her heart fancied the girl was trying to shut out intrusive thoughts, and felt the more glad that she had taken her away from London. It was early in the season for the rush of travellers, but Dinan carries on small social distractions throughout the year, and they knew one family, half English and half French, who lived in a charming old black and white château, with avenues and a stone dovecot, and a walled garden with a gateway to which you ascended by steps, and where it was not difficult to believe that you were in another world.
Kitty would have been well content to have stayed here for the rest of their time, but Mrs Lascelles was not going to be defrauded of her holiday. She had planned a very comprehensive ten-days’ round, having been carefully drawn on to this by Mrs Marchmont. They were to go to Vannes and Auray, see Carnac, take Quimper and Morlaix, and any other tempting places that layen route, and return to Dinan and Saint Malo, going home by the Channel Islands. She wrote to Mary Marchmont that after all the trouble she had taken in finding out the most interesting places and the best inns, she could not venture to diverge a mile from the lines laid down. Mrs Marchmont showed the letter to Bell, almost crying.
“Isn’t it too provoking!” she exclaimed. “If only that stupid Charlie had been half so conscientious!”
Quite unconscious, meanwhile, that they were provoking their friends at home by the implicit obedience with which they had kept within the lines ruled for them by these kindly despots, Kitty and her mother went on their cheerful way by slow and dawdling trains, leaving behind them pretty Dinan, with its river and its rich and fertile country, exploring Vannes, sitting down to sketch in the centre of uneven streets, where some little bit—some rich colouring on the stone, some dark cavern of a doorway, framing a white-capped group, some delicate wreath of greenery flinging itself out joyously to meet the sun—attracted Kitty. The people came round to watch and to suggest themselves as pictures; they were all on the most friendly yet independent terms with the girl, who smiled and nodded at them and sketched bravely on, undismayed by her increasing crowd of admirers. Auray did not offer so much of the picturesque; but Mrs Lascelles would not let Kitty escape her duties, so she carried her off to Carnac.
But it was Kitty herself who proposed the next excursion. She was already tired of menhirs and dolmens; but she had a longing for a little boating on this wild and windy coast. They would drive to Locmariaker, and go across to the little Gavr Innis, where there are some carvings in a cave which give people an excuse for visiting the island. The morning was very rainy, and gusts of wind rushed up from the south-west. Her mother would have begged off, but Kitty was resolute, “They will not take us if there is any danger,” said Mrs Lascelles, at last surrendering.
Kitty mocked at the idea of danger; and, indeed, when they readied Locmariaker and walked down to the little landing-place, the boatmen showed no unwillingness to convey them across. For though the rain still fell, there were rifts in the grey fast-driven clouds which looked as if brighter weather might be near, and the freshness of it all—the grey-green of the water, the saltness of the wind, the swoop of the white gulls—made Kitty the more eager to be out on the dancing waves. She pulled the hood of her waterproof over her hat, her cheeks glowed under the strong wet wind; and her mother, already seated in the boat, looked at her as she stood lightly-poised on the slippery stones, with a smile of satisfaction. Certainly the experiment had been quite successful; and, as they were well out of the reach of hearing anything which might keep up the remembrance of an unifying incident, she might hope to take the girl home with the shadow all gone.
Meanwhile, all seemed ready, and yet they did not start. The old boatman—Stevan—his brown face deeply seamed with lines, made some excuse about his sail, which was not in order, and the boy was sent up to one of the small cottages which straggle down towards the water.
“Kitty, do make him understand that we wish to start,” said Mrs Lascelles. “If I am to be drowned, I don’t want to be all day about it.”
But now the boy reappeared followed by a dark figure in a shabby soutane.
“It isM. le curé,” said old Stevan, addressing himself politely to Kitty. “He has to cross to the island to see a sick person. These ladies will not object.”
Thecurécame deliberately down with firm, quick steps; he lifted his hat, stepped into the boat, and sat down. Kitty stepped after him; the boy took the oar to push off, but the old sailor still looked towards the land and lingered.
“I believe this is a ferry boat,” cried Mrs Lascelles, impatiently. “Look, Kitty, there is some one else!”
Some one else was in a big ulster; a woman—probably Stevan’s wife—a woman in a whitecoiffeand blue dress was hastening before him, and pointing eagerly to the boat. It was evident that she had an eye for business, and would not lose a passenger who might add a franc or two to her husband’s gains. Mrs Lascelles was vexed.
“We shall wait here all day at this rate,” she said.
Kitty was gathering up her dress, for the boat was wet. The boatman turned to her.
“We start this moment, immediately,” he assured her, apologetically. “There is not a better boat at Locmariaker. We shall soon be across.”
Thecurélooked round at the green waves and slightly shrugged his shoulders. Kitty herself turned to see the coming passenger. The woman had stopped; she stood with her arms folded under her apron, watching him. He had not run, but had come quickly down, and was close to the boat before Kitty had time to do more than turn a startled face to her mother; he lifted his hat and sprang in, the boy hurriedly shoved off from the weed-covered stones, and the next moment they were out in the tossing bay, with Charles Everitt for their companion.
Chapter Eight.After All.Mrs Lascelles would not perhaps have recognised Everitt, whom she had only seen in the chapel, if the disturbance in Kitty’s looks had not at once caused her to leap to a conclusion which absolutely took away her breath. She was quick-sighted enough to see that he was himself as yet unconscious, for Kitty’s face was turned from him, and he was engaged in tucking his ulster round his legs; and even this momentary reprieve was welcome, as it gave her a few instants in which to collect her thoughts. She did not credit him with all the innocence which was rightfully his, for she imagined that he had heard of their travels, and had followed them; and though she was enough of a woman to be conscious of a sneaking kindness for such a daring act, she felt that its audacity would have to be met with displeasure. There would be no help from Kitty. Kitty was actually trembling, and the best mode of treatment would be to ignore the presence of anything at all out of the commonplace, and when the moment of recognition came, refuse to see in it more than a chance and quite uneventful coincidence.The old sailor was in the stern of the boat, steering, while the boy managed the brown sail. Kitty was next to Stevan, her mother next to her, opposite to her thecuré, who had taken out a small breviary, and next to him Everitt. Everitt, having arranged himself and turned up the collar of his ulster, began to look about him at his companions. Mrs Lascelles saw a perception that she was English begin to dawn in his mind, then he glanced at Kitty, and she fancied a sudden suspicion crossed it. She took her resolution in a moment; the flash of knowledge would have to come sooner or later; and for the girl to stare persistently in an opposite direction would only give him an impression of consciousness on her part, which, of all things, had better be avoided. She touched her to emphasise her words, pointed directly opposite, and said—“Kitty, do you suppose that to be Gavr Innis?”For an instant the girl hesitated, but she felt and understood her mother’s momentary pressure on her arm, and turned her glowing face in Everitt’s direction. He was looking full at her, and Mrs Lascelles, who watched him closely, saw his sudden start and that he became pale. Kitty, when she caught his eye, bowed slightly, and he immediately lifted his hat and looked at Mrs Lascelles, who leaned forward.“I think,” she said, and there was no cordiality in her manner, “that it is Mr Everitt.” She was angry, but was quite at her ease; he was delighted, and yet felt extremely awkward. He murmured something about the unexpectedness of the meeting. Mrs Lascelles bowed again, and made a remark to her daughter as if the other slight conversation were at an end. But Everitt was not the man to be put on one side in this easy fashion. He moved to the cross-seat, where he was next to Mrs Lascelles.“This is a strange meeting, and a strange place for an explanation,” he began rapidly; “yet I can’t afford to let any opportunity slip.”“There is no need of an explanation,” said Mrs Lascelles, hastily.“Oh, there is!” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “Even at the risk of once more seeming to force myself upon you, I must ask you to let me apologise in the fullest manner possible for a most thoughtless act.”He did not look at Kitty; the girl leant back, with her eyes fixed on her hands, which lay loosely in her lap. The old brown-facedpatronwas stooping forward, one arm on the tiller, the other on his knee, his whole attention absorbed by the still freshening wind, and the long roll of breakers farther out in the bay, the thunder of which came in above the rush of wind and rain. As for thecuré, apparently absorbed in his breviary, he was not unconscious of the little drama which was being played before him. He now and then glanced from Everitt to Kitty with an air of interest. Mrs Lascelles, however, was not to be melted into cordiality.“After an apology,” she returned, “there is nothing to be said. I hoped that Mrs Marchmont would have expressed this to you. And, permit me to say, that since it was, as you describe it, a thoughtless act, it will be as well now for us to allude to it no more.”“That is easier for you than for me,” he said, looking at her appealingly.But she made no answer. To begin with, she was in difficulties with her umbrella, which threatened to be blown inside out, unless she held it in front of her, and this meant putting it like a barricade between herself and Everitt. Then she was beyond measure provoked with him for coming and reviving the annoying memories which she intended these three weeks to sweep away out of her Kitty’s heart. And added to this was the offence of his having followed and forced himself upon them in such a fashion. Everitt, who was not accustomed to have his advances snubbed, drew back to his seat by thecuré. The rain drove in wilder gusts; Kitty, under her hooded waterproof, safe miserable. She would have liked to have said something that might soften her mother’s coldness, but what could she say across wet planks, a boatman, and acuré? She felt utterly helpless, and the last thing that would have occurred to her was that she was looking so pretty, so fresh, and so glowing, that Everitt’s resentment, though he tried to fan it, could not stand against the charm of her beauty.Yet he would not allow Mrs Lascelles to imagine that she would have him thrust upon them. When the boat reached the little island, Everitt sprang out, and stood with as much dignity as a somewhat humiliating wind would allow, to help Mrs Lascelles and Kitty over the slippery rocks. When they had arrived at a safe footing, he lifted his hat and went back to the boat to speak to thepatron, who was making it fast. The boy ran on to show the two ladies the way to the house where a guide for the cave was to be found, thecuré, strode past them.“Oh, mother!” cried Kitty, the instant they were out of hearing.Mrs Lascelles laughed without real enjoyment of the situation.“Yes, it’s an odd coincidence, and annoying. But, as he could not have known who was in the boat, I hope he will see the propriety of not forcing himself upon us. He didn’t behave so badly, Kitty.”“You were so dreadfully stiff.”The mother looked at her with a little surprise.“Is that what’s troubling you? Oh, never mind that! I was only afraid of not being stiff enough. Do open your umbrella; no waterproof can stand this rain. The whole thing is very ludicrous,” she added, laughing again in a vexed way. “What do you suppose he has gone to the boat for?”“To arrange to go back without us,” said the girl, walking quickly on.“Well—if he can,” said Mrs Lascelles, lightly. “Is this the place?”It was a sombre granite house, built strongly to resist the sweep of the great winds which roared across the bay and the barren islands. When they went into it, welcomed by a wizened old woman, so deep was the gloom that they paused on the threshold, uncertain where their next step might land them, until their eyes became accustomed to the half-light, and they could make out the old oak benches and table, and the cupboard bed high in the wall. A guide for the cavern? Oh yes! her husband would be there in a moment. He had seen the boat, and was getting lights; but it was a wild day for ladies to cross. Would they please write their names while they were waiting? Thecuréhad come before them; her daughter was ill—very ill. Wouldn’t they please to dry their wet clothes? Her husband was ready, but there was plenty of time.No, Mrs Lascelles said; they would go at once. Like other energetic people, she was impatient to finish what she had begun, and she told herself that if Everitt had the grace to keep out of the way, they had better take advantage of his absence. Kitty was silent; she made no remonstrance, but when the boy prepared to follow, she informed him rather authoritatively that he had better go back to the boat.The famous cavern is a long narrow passage, traversed with lights, like the Roman catacombs, and worked with strange and ancient carvings, in which the serpent plays a prominent part. There is not much to be told of them, and Kitty and her mother knew less; they finished their investigations without much sense of gain. Kitty was restless, and yet silent; her mother was restless and talkative. Once or twice their guide lifted his hand and listened.“There was another monsieur,” he said, “in the boat. My wife said she would send him on.”“Perhaps he is not coming,” Mrs Lascelles suggested.The man stared at her.“There is nothing else to cross to the island for,” he said stolidly.“We will get back as quickly as we can, Kitty,” said her mother. “The wind is certainly higher.”When they came out, indeed, it was evident that the storm had increased. The clouds were darker and more menacing; the water, even under the lee of the island, was surging forward in long heavings which looked like iron; the wind rushed against them with a fierce persistence, different from the wet squalls which had faced them as they came. The women hurried on, refusing to take shelter again in the grey house, from the doorway of which the boatman and thecuréwere watching for them. Old Stevan was brief in his remarks.Yes, he said, they should start at once. The wind was freshening to a gale, and if they delayed—Where was the other gentleman? Kitty inquired.He was not coming, it appeared. He intended to wait on the island until a boat could cross for him; and that would not be to-day, Stevan answered, with a shrug. The people who lived there had a boat, of course, but the young son-in-law had taken it to fetch something for the sick wife.Then Kitty stopped resolutely, and demanded that the boy should be sent back to the house to tell the gentleman that they would not start until he came.“Kitty!” exclaimed her mother, in amazement.But Kitty’s eyes were shining with resolute determination. Thecuré, who perhaps understood more than they thought, smiled resignedly, and sheltered himself as best he could from the driving rain.“We have been unjust, mother,” said the girl, in a low voice.Mrs Lascelles said nothing. Kitty was going her own way, and she was unwilling to interfere. She was uneasy, but interested, and perhaps a little amused; besides, it must be owned the sea looked so fierce that she was not sorry to have another man in the boat. Presently she saw Everitt coming towards them, quickening his pace when he perceived they were waiting on the shore. Kitty did not draw back, as her mother expected; she made a few steps to meet him, and said quietly—“It would have been a great pity if you had stayed at that place all night because you were afraid of overcrowding the boat. We hope you will cross with us.”“Thank you,” said Everitt, briefly. He wasted no more words, but occupied himself in doing what he could to shelter them from rain: in a few moments the driving foam would be dashing over the boat. The old boatman looked up and down uneasily; Everitt said certain words to him, and his face cleared. “We are going to wrap the heavy brown sail round you,” Everitt added to Mrs Lascelles; “it can’t be used in any other way.”“The old man will never be able to row us across,” she said, anxiously.“I am going to help him,” he said; “and, if necessary, I have no doubt thecurécould bear a hand. All these Bretons are born sailors. Don’t be alarmed. I hope a wetting will be your worst misfortune.”In spite of his cheery words, when they got out into the more open sea the waves ran so high, and the fierce pressure of the wind was so strong, that Mrs Lascelles looked round her in terror. Their boat seemed as if it could be nothing but a plaything between these mighty powers. Now and then the priest murmured words which they could not distinguish; the boy crouched, a brown heap, on a pile of brown nets in the stern; the two men—the old and the young—with strong, set faces, worked steadily at their oars. Hard rowing was not necessary, for the wind swept them along; but there were cross currents, and these were dangerous seas; and the threatening gloom of the sky, touched here and there with a lurid light, and the strong rush of the waves with their scud of flying foam, made Mrs Lascelles glance at her daughter with a tightening of her heart. As for Kitty herself, the girl sat leaning a little forward. Her mother’s hand had sought hers, and Kitty had clasped it with both her own. Her hood had been blown a little back from her face, and her sweet eyes were fixed upon the shore towards which they were driving. Not a shadow of fear had touched them, as the mother saw with a little sigh; nay, the next moment the girl turned and looked at her with a smile.Meanwhile, as they rapidly neared the shore, it became evident that some anxiety was aroused in the little village, for half a dozen men and women had collected near the landing-place, their figures blurred and dimmed by the rain and mist. Old Stevan, too, seemed uneasy. He stopped rowing at last, just keeping the boat’s course with his oar, and exchanged a few words with Everitt. Thecurébent forward and put a question; Mrs Lascelles tightened her clasp on Kitty’s hand.It was easy to see that the danger lay in attempting to land. The landing-place was merely a little run between rocks at the best of times, and at present, owing to the gale coming from rather an unusual point of the compass, such a surf was running as was rarely seen. The men on shore yelled directions, which could not be distinguished in the boat. Old Stevan turned and for an instant surveyed the wild, tumbling mass before him; then he spoke to Everitt, who nodded, and the next moment the two men bent once more to their work, and it seemed to Mrs Lascelles that they were in such a whirl of tossing, raging waters that the boat must be swamped or stove in beyond hope of help. She clutched Kitty’s hand, and even cried out, though she could not hear her own voice. The flying foam was over her head, beating at her face; she was stunned, bewildered, almost senseless, when the boat was caught by strong hands and drawn up into safety.“Mother!” cried Kitty, looking at her with, for the first time, terror in her eyes.But it did not take Mrs Lascelles long to recover. Half a dozen hands were stretched to help her out of the boat, half full of water from the attack of the last wave, and she stumbled out, still grasping Kitty’s band. For the first time, thecuréaddressed them.“It has been a hazardous voyage,” he remarked, “and,”—bowing to Kitty—“mademoiselle has a great courage.” Then he lifted his wet hat from his head, and marched away in his dripping clothes to thepresbytère.And now it was Everitt who, as it seemed to the girl, made everything smooth before them. The little village had little enough to boast of, but he had got them—in a shorter time than seemed possible—up to the small inn, where a good fire was lit in a room where they could dry their clothes, and where the landlady provided them with stout full skirts and warm stockings. Arrayed in these, and sitting over the fire until the carriage which was to take them to Auray was ready, Mrs Lascelles soon forgot the battering and drenching she had gone through—even began to smile at the recollection. And then she touched on another subject.“Kitty,” she said, solemnly, “Mr Everitt must be forgiven.”“Forgiven!” The girl looked up with a proud glance in her eyes. “Mother, I am ashamed to have thought so much about such a little thing. It was all kindness and good-nature on his part to save me from disappointment, and see how I returned it! When he wanted to explain, we would not even listen, or allow him the opportunity of setting himself right. And now,” she added passionately, “he comes and saves our lives, and so he is to be forgiven! Mother, you don’t mean that!”Mrs Lascelles felt more surprise than she showed. In the vehemence of her speaking, Kitty had started up, and her mother laid her hand on her arm and drew her down again to her side. She spoke very quietly; no one knew what a sharp pang preceded her words.“My dear,” she said, smiling—“my dear, how long have you felt this?”Kitty looked at her.“Ever since I knew that we had been unjust,” she said, simply. “I think, almost from the first.”“Ah!” said Mrs Lascelles, slowly, and still smiling; “and that seems a long while ago, doesn’t it?” Then she stooped and kissed her. “God bless you, my Kitty,” she said, softly and earnestly.The girl’s eyes brightened.“Then, mother, you will thank him, and not talk any more about forgiving?”“No; that is certainly past,” said Mrs Lascelles, still slowly; “and, as you say, I must thank him—as well as I can. I suppose,” she added, following a little irresistible impulse, “that thecurécould have taken his place?”“No,” said Kitty, earnestly, “no. Stevan told me himself that thecuréhad not the strength. ‘If it had not been for the English gentleman, mademoiselle, the boat might not have weathered it.’ Those were his very words.”Oh, Stevan, Stevan, had he too fathomed that wonderful secret!“Ah!” Mrs Lascelles said again; “that of course decides it.”“Mother, you are sure you are not ill?” said the girl, anxiously.There was a hesitation in her mother’s words which made her uneasy, so unlike was it to her usual prompt and brisk decision. But she shook off the question with more of her ordinary manner.“Ill? Not in the least. It has been a little bewildering, that is all. The waves of the Atlantic do hit rather hard. I don’t see any bell; shall we go down and find out if the carriage is ready?”But at this moment there arrived two massive white cups full of steaming coffee, and news that they might start whenever they wished. Everitt was waiting for them when they went down, and Mrs Lascelles went up to him at once.“Kitty,” she said, cordially, “tells me I have been very ungrateful—indeed, that we have been ungrateful all through, at any rate now, when it appears we owe you our lives.”He coloured.“Your lives!” he repeated, in amazement.“Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling; “and you mustn’t say it’s nothing, because at this moment it seems to me a very great deal.”“But there is a great mistake. Who could have told you anything so preposterous? I am much obliged to you for finding myself on the right side of the water.”“Well,” she said, “we will each keep our private views on the matter. Now, tell me, what are you going to do?”He hesitated.“I am going to walk to Auray, and—take the train back to Paris.”“No,” she replied, shaking her head; “we will drive you to Auray. You must sleep there, and to-morrow you can decide whether to go to Paris or to come with us to Quimper.”“Do you mean that?” he asked, eagerly, speaking to her, but looking at Kitty.“Yes,” said Mrs Lascelles, quietly. Nobody heard the little sigh which fell from her lips, and if she looked pale, they thought it was the result of the storm.There is a charming, picturesque cheerfulness about Quimper. The storm of the preceding day had left the air clear and delicious; the sunset colouring fell very softly on the delicate cathedral spires, on the shallow brawling river, on the trees which bordered the broad promenade by its side. Numbers of people were standing or sitting about, but there were two for whom, all their lives long, the beauty of that sunset will never be equalled.“We,” one of them was saying—“we will certainly live at Quimper,”—and then he wisely tempered his rashness—“for part of every year.”“And you shall paint,” said she.“And you shall be my model this time. It’s my turn,” he added, looking at her with a laugh. For Mrs Lascelles had heard his explanation, learnt how what began in thoughtless good-nature ended in sober earnest, and how Everitt had known nothing of their coming abroad, but, growing weary of Auvergne, had hurried down to the coast of Brittany, hoping to find an incitement to work. Instead of which he found—something else!“How shall I explain to Bell and Mary?” cried Kitty.“You need not. I wrote to Jack to-day, and that will do it all.”“Already!” she said, with a blush.He held her from him, and for a moment stood looking down into her sweet eyes.“My darling,” he said, “I should like the whole world to know to-day how much I love you?”The End.
Mrs Lascelles would not perhaps have recognised Everitt, whom she had only seen in the chapel, if the disturbance in Kitty’s looks had not at once caused her to leap to a conclusion which absolutely took away her breath. She was quick-sighted enough to see that he was himself as yet unconscious, for Kitty’s face was turned from him, and he was engaged in tucking his ulster round his legs; and even this momentary reprieve was welcome, as it gave her a few instants in which to collect her thoughts. She did not credit him with all the innocence which was rightfully his, for she imagined that he had heard of their travels, and had followed them; and though she was enough of a woman to be conscious of a sneaking kindness for such a daring act, she felt that its audacity would have to be met with displeasure. There would be no help from Kitty. Kitty was actually trembling, and the best mode of treatment would be to ignore the presence of anything at all out of the commonplace, and when the moment of recognition came, refuse to see in it more than a chance and quite uneventful coincidence.
The old sailor was in the stern of the boat, steering, while the boy managed the brown sail. Kitty was next to Stevan, her mother next to her, opposite to her thecuré, who had taken out a small breviary, and next to him Everitt. Everitt, having arranged himself and turned up the collar of his ulster, began to look about him at his companions. Mrs Lascelles saw a perception that she was English begin to dawn in his mind, then he glanced at Kitty, and she fancied a sudden suspicion crossed it. She took her resolution in a moment; the flash of knowledge would have to come sooner or later; and for the girl to stare persistently in an opposite direction would only give him an impression of consciousness on her part, which, of all things, had better be avoided. She touched her to emphasise her words, pointed directly opposite, and said—
“Kitty, do you suppose that to be Gavr Innis?”
For an instant the girl hesitated, but she felt and understood her mother’s momentary pressure on her arm, and turned her glowing face in Everitt’s direction. He was looking full at her, and Mrs Lascelles, who watched him closely, saw his sudden start and that he became pale. Kitty, when she caught his eye, bowed slightly, and he immediately lifted his hat and looked at Mrs Lascelles, who leaned forward.
“I think,” she said, and there was no cordiality in her manner, “that it is Mr Everitt.” She was angry, but was quite at her ease; he was delighted, and yet felt extremely awkward. He murmured something about the unexpectedness of the meeting. Mrs Lascelles bowed again, and made a remark to her daughter as if the other slight conversation were at an end. But Everitt was not the man to be put on one side in this easy fashion. He moved to the cross-seat, where he was next to Mrs Lascelles.
“This is a strange meeting, and a strange place for an explanation,” he began rapidly; “yet I can’t afford to let any opportunity slip.”
“There is no need of an explanation,” said Mrs Lascelles, hastily.
“Oh, there is!” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “Even at the risk of once more seeming to force myself upon you, I must ask you to let me apologise in the fullest manner possible for a most thoughtless act.”
He did not look at Kitty; the girl leant back, with her eyes fixed on her hands, which lay loosely in her lap. The old brown-facedpatronwas stooping forward, one arm on the tiller, the other on his knee, his whole attention absorbed by the still freshening wind, and the long roll of breakers farther out in the bay, the thunder of which came in above the rush of wind and rain. As for thecuré, apparently absorbed in his breviary, he was not unconscious of the little drama which was being played before him. He now and then glanced from Everitt to Kitty with an air of interest. Mrs Lascelles, however, was not to be melted into cordiality.
“After an apology,” she returned, “there is nothing to be said. I hoped that Mrs Marchmont would have expressed this to you. And, permit me to say, that since it was, as you describe it, a thoughtless act, it will be as well now for us to allude to it no more.”
“That is easier for you than for me,” he said, looking at her appealingly.
But she made no answer. To begin with, she was in difficulties with her umbrella, which threatened to be blown inside out, unless she held it in front of her, and this meant putting it like a barricade between herself and Everitt. Then she was beyond measure provoked with him for coming and reviving the annoying memories which she intended these three weeks to sweep away out of her Kitty’s heart. And added to this was the offence of his having followed and forced himself upon them in such a fashion. Everitt, who was not accustomed to have his advances snubbed, drew back to his seat by thecuré. The rain drove in wilder gusts; Kitty, under her hooded waterproof, safe miserable. She would have liked to have said something that might soften her mother’s coldness, but what could she say across wet planks, a boatman, and acuré? She felt utterly helpless, and the last thing that would have occurred to her was that she was looking so pretty, so fresh, and so glowing, that Everitt’s resentment, though he tried to fan it, could not stand against the charm of her beauty.
Yet he would not allow Mrs Lascelles to imagine that she would have him thrust upon them. When the boat reached the little island, Everitt sprang out, and stood with as much dignity as a somewhat humiliating wind would allow, to help Mrs Lascelles and Kitty over the slippery rocks. When they had arrived at a safe footing, he lifted his hat and went back to the boat to speak to thepatron, who was making it fast. The boy ran on to show the two ladies the way to the house where a guide for the cave was to be found, thecuré, strode past them.
“Oh, mother!” cried Kitty, the instant they were out of hearing.
Mrs Lascelles laughed without real enjoyment of the situation.
“Yes, it’s an odd coincidence, and annoying. But, as he could not have known who was in the boat, I hope he will see the propriety of not forcing himself upon us. He didn’t behave so badly, Kitty.”
“You were so dreadfully stiff.”
The mother looked at her with a little surprise.
“Is that what’s troubling you? Oh, never mind that! I was only afraid of not being stiff enough. Do open your umbrella; no waterproof can stand this rain. The whole thing is very ludicrous,” she added, laughing again in a vexed way. “What do you suppose he has gone to the boat for?”
“To arrange to go back without us,” said the girl, walking quickly on.
“Well—if he can,” said Mrs Lascelles, lightly. “Is this the place?”
It was a sombre granite house, built strongly to resist the sweep of the great winds which roared across the bay and the barren islands. When they went into it, welcomed by a wizened old woman, so deep was the gloom that they paused on the threshold, uncertain where their next step might land them, until their eyes became accustomed to the half-light, and they could make out the old oak benches and table, and the cupboard bed high in the wall. A guide for the cavern? Oh yes! her husband would be there in a moment. He had seen the boat, and was getting lights; but it was a wild day for ladies to cross. Would they please write their names while they were waiting? Thecuréhad come before them; her daughter was ill—very ill. Wouldn’t they please to dry their wet clothes? Her husband was ready, but there was plenty of time.
No, Mrs Lascelles said; they would go at once. Like other energetic people, she was impatient to finish what she had begun, and she told herself that if Everitt had the grace to keep out of the way, they had better take advantage of his absence. Kitty was silent; she made no remonstrance, but when the boy prepared to follow, she informed him rather authoritatively that he had better go back to the boat.
The famous cavern is a long narrow passage, traversed with lights, like the Roman catacombs, and worked with strange and ancient carvings, in which the serpent plays a prominent part. There is not much to be told of them, and Kitty and her mother knew less; they finished their investigations without much sense of gain. Kitty was restless, and yet silent; her mother was restless and talkative. Once or twice their guide lifted his hand and listened.
“There was another monsieur,” he said, “in the boat. My wife said she would send him on.”
“Perhaps he is not coming,” Mrs Lascelles suggested.
The man stared at her.
“There is nothing else to cross to the island for,” he said stolidly.
“We will get back as quickly as we can, Kitty,” said her mother. “The wind is certainly higher.”
When they came out, indeed, it was evident that the storm had increased. The clouds were darker and more menacing; the water, even under the lee of the island, was surging forward in long heavings which looked like iron; the wind rushed against them with a fierce persistence, different from the wet squalls which had faced them as they came. The women hurried on, refusing to take shelter again in the grey house, from the doorway of which the boatman and thecuréwere watching for them. Old Stevan was brief in his remarks.
Yes, he said, they should start at once. The wind was freshening to a gale, and if they delayed—
Where was the other gentleman? Kitty inquired.
He was not coming, it appeared. He intended to wait on the island until a boat could cross for him; and that would not be to-day, Stevan answered, with a shrug. The people who lived there had a boat, of course, but the young son-in-law had taken it to fetch something for the sick wife.
Then Kitty stopped resolutely, and demanded that the boy should be sent back to the house to tell the gentleman that they would not start until he came.
“Kitty!” exclaimed her mother, in amazement.
But Kitty’s eyes were shining with resolute determination. Thecuré, who perhaps understood more than they thought, smiled resignedly, and sheltered himself as best he could from the driving rain.
“We have been unjust, mother,” said the girl, in a low voice.
Mrs Lascelles said nothing. Kitty was going her own way, and she was unwilling to interfere. She was uneasy, but interested, and perhaps a little amused; besides, it must be owned the sea looked so fierce that she was not sorry to have another man in the boat. Presently she saw Everitt coming towards them, quickening his pace when he perceived they were waiting on the shore. Kitty did not draw back, as her mother expected; she made a few steps to meet him, and said quietly—
“It would have been a great pity if you had stayed at that place all night because you were afraid of overcrowding the boat. We hope you will cross with us.”
“Thank you,” said Everitt, briefly. He wasted no more words, but occupied himself in doing what he could to shelter them from rain: in a few moments the driving foam would be dashing over the boat. The old boatman looked up and down uneasily; Everitt said certain words to him, and his face cleared. “We are going to wrap the heavy brown sail round you,” Everitt added to Mrs Lascelles; “it can’t be used in any other way.”
“The old man will never be able to row us across,” she said, anxiously.
“I am going to help him,” he said; “and, if necessary, I have no doubt thecurécould bear a hand. All these Bretons are born sailors. Don’t be alarmed. I hope a wetting will be your worst misfortune.”
In spite of his cheery words, when they got out into the more open sea the waves ran so high, and the fierce pressure of the wind was so strong, that Mrs Lascelles looked round her in terror. Their boat seemed as if it could be nothing but a plaything between these mighty powers. Now and then the priest murmured words which they could not distinguish; the boy crouched, a brown heap, on a pile of brown nets in the stern; the two men—the old and the young—with strong, set faces, worked steadily at their oars. Hard rowing was not necessary, for the wind swept them along; but there were cross currents, and these were dangerous seas; and the threatening gloom of the sky, touched here and there with a lurid light, and the strong rush of the waves with their scud of flying foam, made Mrs Lascelles glance at her daughter with a tightening of her heart. As for Kitty herself, the girl sat leaning a little forward. Her mother’s hand had sought hers, and Kitty had clasped it with both her own. Her hood had been blown a little back from her face, and her sweet eyes were fixed upon the shore towards which they were driving. Not a shadow of fear had touched them, as the mother saw with a little sigh; nay, the next moment the girl turned and looked at her with a smile.
Meanwhile, as they rapidly neared the shore, it became evident that some anxiety was aroused in the little village, for half a dozen men and women had collected near the landing-place, their figures blurred and dimmed by the rain and mist. Old Stevan, too, seemed uneasy. He stopped rowing at last, just keeping the boat’s course with his oar, and exchanged a few words with Everitt. Thecurébent forward and put a question; Mrs Lascelles tightened her clasp on Kitty’s hand.
It was easy to see that the danger lay in attempting to land. The landing-place was merely a little run between rocks at the best of times, and at present, owing to the gale coming from rather an unusual point of the compass, such a surf was running as was rarely seen. The men on shore yelled directions, which could not be distinguished in the boat. Old Stevan turned and for an instant surveyed the wild, tumbling mass before him; then he spoke to Everitt, who nodded, and the next moment the two men bent once more to their work, and it seemed to Mrs Lascelles that they were in such a whirl of tossing, raging waters that the boat must be swamped or stove in beyond hope of help. She clutched Kitty’s hand, and even cried out, though she could not hear her own voice. The flying foam was over her head, beating at her face; she was stunned, bewildered, almost senseless, when the boat was caught by strong hands and drawn up into safety.
“Mother!” cried Kitty, looking at her with, for the first time, terror in her eyes.
But it did not take Mrs Lascelles long to recover. Half a dozen hands were stretched to help her out of the boat, half full of water from the attack of the last wave, and she stumbled out, still grasping Kitty’s band. For the first time, thecuréaddressed them.
“It has been a hazardous voyage,” he remarked, “and,”—bowing to Kitty—“mademoiselle has a great courage.” Then he lifted his wet hat from his head, and marched away in his dripping clothes to thepresbytère.
And now it was Everitt who, as it seemed to the girl, made everything smooth before them. The little village had little enough to boast of, but he had got them—in a shorter time than seemed possible—up to the small inn, where a good fire was lit in a room where they could dry their clothes, and where the landlady provided them with stout full skirts and warm stockings. Arrayed in these, and sitting over the fire until the carriage which was to take them to Auray was ready, Mrs Lascelles soon forgot the battering and drenching she had gone through—even began to smile at the recollection. And then she touched on another subject.
“Kitty,” she said, solemnly, “Mr Everitt must be forgiven.”
“Forgiven!” The girl looked up with a proud glance in her eyes. “Mother, I am ashamed to have thought so much about such a little thing. It was all kindness and good-nature on his part to save me from disappointment, and see how I returned it! When he wanted to explain, we would not even listen, or allow him the opportunity of setting himself right. And now,” she added passionately, “he comes and saves our lives, and so he is to be forgiven! Mother, you don’t mean that!”
Mrs Lascelles felt more surprise than she showed. In the vehemence of her speaking, Kitty had started up, and her mother laid her hand on her arm and drew her down again to her side. She spoke very quietly; no one knew what a sharp pang preceded her words.
“My dear,” she said, smiling—“my dear, how long have you felt this?”
Kitty looked at her.
“Ever since I knew that we had been unjust,” she said, simply. “I think, almost from the first.”
“Ah!” said Mrs Lascelles, slowly, and still smiling; “and that seems a long while ago, doesn’t it?” Then she stooped and kissed her. “God bless you, my Kitty,” she said, softly and earnestly.
The girl’s eyes brightened.
“Then, mother, you will thank him, and not talk any more about forgiving?”
“No; that is certainly past,” said Mrs Lascelles, still slowly; “and, as you say, I must thank him—as well as I can. I suppose,” she added, following a little irresistible impulse, “that thecurécould have taken his place?”
“No,” said Kitty, earnestly, “no. Stevan told me himself that thecuréhad not the strength. ‘If it had not been for the English gentleman, mademoiselle, the boat might not have weathered it.’ Those were his very words.”
Oh, Stevan, Stevan, had he too fathomed that wonderful secret!
“Ah!” Mrs Lascelles said again; “that of course decides it.”
“Mother, you are sure you are not ill?” said the girl, anxiously.
There was a hesitation in her mother’s words which made her uneasy, so unlike was it to her usual prompt and brisk decision. But she shook off the question with more of her ordinary manner.
“Ill? Not in the least. It has been a little bewildering, that is all. The waves of the Atlantic do hit rather hard. I don’t see any bell; shall we go down and find out if the carriage is ready?”
But at this moment there arrived two massive white cups full of steaming coffee, and news that they might start whenever they wished. Everitt was waiting for them when they went down, and Mrs Lascelles went up to him at once.
“Kitty,” she said, cordially, “tells me I have been very ungrateful—indeed, that we have been ungrateful all through, at any rate now, when it appears we owe you our lives.”
He coloured.
“Your lives!” he repeated, in amazement.
“Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling; “and you mustn’t say it’s nothing, because at this moment it seems to me a very great deal.”
“But there is a great mistake. Who could have told you anything so preposterous? I am much obliged to you for finding myself on the right side of the water.”
“Well,” she said, “we will each keep our private views on the matter. Now, tell me, what are you going to do?”
He hesitated.
“I am going to walk to Auray, and—take the train back to Paris.”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head; “we will drive you to Auray. You must sleep there, and to-morrow you can decide whether to go to Paris or to come with us to Quimper.”
“Do you mean that?” he asked, eagerly, speaking to her, but looking at Kitty.
“Yes,” said Mrs Lascelles, quietly. Nobody heard the little sigh which fell from her lips, and if she looked pale, they thought it was the result of the storm.
There is a charming, picturesque cheerfulness about Quimper. The storm of the preceding day had left the air clear and delicious; the sunset colouring fell very softly on the delicate cathedral spires, on the shallow brawling river, on the trees which bordered the broad promenade by its side. Numbers of people were standing or sitting about, but there were two for whom, all their lives long, the beauty of that sunset will never be equalled.
“We,” one of them was saying—“we will certainly live at Quimper,”—and then he wisely tempered his rashness—“for part of every year.”
“And you shall paint,” said she.
“And you shall be my model this time. It’s my turn,” he added, looking at her with a laugh. For Mrs Lascelles had heard his explanation, learnt how what began in thoughtless good-nature ended in sober earnest, and how Everitt had known nothing of their coming abroad, but, growing weary of Auvergne, had hurried down to the coast of Brittany, hoping to find an incitement to work. Instead of which he found—something else!
“How shall I explain to Bell and Mary?” cried Kitty.
“You need not. I wrote to Jack to-day, and that will do it all.”
“Already!” she said, with a blush.
He held her from him, and for a moment stood looking down into her sweet eyes.
“My darling,” he said, “I should like the whole world to know to-day how much I love you?”
The End.
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