'My dear lady,' he said, 'there is nothing you can do, except ask your husband to come down, and rally round his friends, so that we can fight this damned Frenchman.'
'Frenchman?' she said.
'Why, yes, that's the plague of it,' he said, almost shouting in his anger; 'the fellow's a low sneaking foreigner, who for some reason or other seems to know our coast like the back of his hand, and slips away to the other side, to Brittany, before we can lay our hands on him. His craft is like quicksilver, none of our ships down here can catch him. He'll creep into our harbours by night, land silently like the stealthy rat he is, seize our goods, break open our stores and merchandise, and be away on the morning tide while our fellows are rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.'
'In fact, he is too clever for you,' said Dona.
'Why, yes, madam-if you like to put it that way,' he answered haughtily, at once taking offence.
'I'm afraid Harry would never catch him, he is far too lazy,' she said.
'I do not for a moment suggest that he could,' said Godolphin, 'but we need heads in this business, the more heads the better. And we have to catch this fellow if it means spending all the time and money at our disposal. You perhaps do not realise how serious the matter is. Down here we are constantly robbed, our womenfolk sleep in terror of their lives, and not only their lives.'
'Oh, he is that sort of pirate, then?' murmured Dona.
'No lives have been lost as yet, and none of our women have been taken,' said Godolphin stiffly, 'but as the fellow is a Frenchman we all realise that it is only a question of time before something dastardly occurs.'
'Oh, quite,' said Dona, and seized with sudden laughter she rose to her feet and walked towards the window, for his gravity and pomposity were beyond bearing, she could stand it no longer, her laughter would win control. But, thank heaven, he took her rising as a gesture of dismissal, for he bowed solemnly, and kissed the hand she gave him.
'When you next send messages to your husband I trust you will remember me to him, and give him some account of our troubles,' he said, and 'Yes, of course,' answered Dona, determined that whatever happened Harry should not come hot-foot down to Navron to deal with elusive pirates, breaking in upon her privacy and lovely freedom. When she had promised that she would call upon his wife, and he had uttered a few more formalities, she summoned William, and he withdrew, and she heard the steady trot of his horse as he vanished down the drive.
She hoped he would be the last visitor, for this sort of thing was not what she intended; this solemn sitting around on chairs exchanging small conversation with a turnip-head was one degree worse than supping at the Swan. William must be warned, in future she would not be at home to callers. He must make an excuse: she would be out walking, or asleep, or ill, or mad even-confined to her room in chains-anything, rather than face the Godolphins of the county, in all their grandeur and pomposity.
How dull-witted they must be, these local gentry, to be robbed in this way, their goods and merchandise seized in the night, and unable to prevent it, even with the help of soldiers. How slow they must be, how inefficient. Surely if they kept a watch, were constantly on the alert, it would be possible to lay some trap for the foreigner as he crept into their harbours. A ship was not a phantom thing, it depended on wind and tide, nor were men soundless, their feet must echo on the quays, their voices fall upon the air. That day she dined early, at six, and talked to William as he stood behind her chair, bidding him close the door to visitors in future.
'You see, William,' she said, 'I came to Navron to avoid people, to be alone. My mood is to play the hermit, while I am here.'
'Yes, my lady,' he said, 'I made a mistake about this afternoon. It shall not occur again. You shall enjoy your solitude, and make good your escape.'
'Escape?' she said.
'Yes, my lady,' he answered, 'I have rather gathered that is why you are here. You are a fugitive from your London self, and Navron is your sanctuary.'
She was silent a minute, astonished, a little dismayed, and then: 'You have uncanny intuition, William,' she said, 'where does it come from?'
'My late master talked to me long and often, my lady,' he said; 'many of my ideas and much of my philosophy are borrowed from him. I have made a practice of observing people, even as he does. And I rather think that he would term your ladyship's arrival here as an escape.'
'And why did you leave your master, William?'
'His life is such, at the moment, my lady, that my services are of little use to him. We decided I would do better elsewhere.'
'And so you came to Navron?'
'Yes, my lady.'
'And lived alone and hunted moths?'
'Your ladyship is correct.'
'So that Navron is also, possibly, an escape for you as well?'
'Possibly, my lady.'
'And your late master, what does he do with himself?'
'He travels, my lady.'
'He makes voyages from place to place?'
'Exactly, my lady.'
'Then he also, William, is a fugitive. People who travel are always fugitives.'
'My master has often made the same observation, my lady. In fact I may say his life is one continual escape.'
'How pleasant for him,' said Dona, peeling her fruit; 'the rest of us can only run away from time to time, and however much we pretend to be free, we know it is only for a little while-our hands and our feet are tied.'
'Just so, my lady.'
'And your master-he has no ties at all?'
'None whatever, my lady.'
'I would like to meet your master, William.'
'I think you would have much in common, my lady.'
'Perhaps one day he will pass this way, on his travels?'
'Perhaps, my lady.'
'In fact, I will withdraw my command about visitors, William. Should your late master ever call, I will not feign illness or madness or any other disease, I will receive him.'
'Very good, my lady.'
And looking round, for she was standing now, and he had pulled away her chair, she saw that he was smiling, but instantly his smile was gone, when he met her eyes, and his mouth was pursed in its usual button. She wandered into the garden. The air was soft and languid and warm, and away to the west the sun flung great patterns across the sky. She could hear the voices of the children as Prue put them to bed. It was a time for going forth alone, a time for walking. And fetching a shawl and throwing it across her shoulders she went out of the garden and across the parkland to a stile, and a field, and a muddied lane, and the lane brought her to a cart-track, and the cart-track to a great stretch of rough wild grass, of uncultivated heath land, leading to the cliffs and the sea.
She had the urge within her to walk then to the sea, to the open sea itself, not the river even, and as the evening cooled and the sun sank in the sky, she came at length to a sloping headland where the gulls clamoured furiously at her approach, for it was the nesting season, and flinging herself down on the tussocky earth and the scrubby stones of the headland she looked out upon the sea. There was the river, away to the left, wide and shining as it met the sea, and the sea itself was still and very calm, while the setting sun dappled the water with copper and crimson. Down below, far and deep, the little waves splashed upon the rocks.
The setting sun behind her made a pathway on the sea, stretching to the far horizon, and as Dona lay and watched, her mind all drowsy and content, her heart at peace, she saw a smudge on the horizon, and presently the smudge took shape and form, and she saw the white sails of a ship. For a while it made no progress, for there was no breath upon the water, and it seemed to hang there, between sea and sky, like a painted toy. She could see the high poop-deck, and the fo'c'sle head, and the curious raking masts, and the men upon her must have had luck with
