“Caught anything?” Mr. Sutton inquired at intervals. After a time he said:
“Suppose Anna and I have a try?”
It was agreed.
“What must I do?” asked Anna, brave now.
“You just hold the line—so. And if you feel a little jerk-jerk, that’s a mackerel.” These were the instructions of Beatrice. Anna was becoming excited. She had not held the line ten seconds before she cried out:
“I’ve got one.”
“Nonsense,” said Beatrice. “Everyone thinks at first that the motion of the waves against the line is a fish.”
“Well,” said Henry, giving the tiller to young Tom. “Let’s haul in and see, anyway.” Before doing so he held the line for a moment, testing it, and winked at Anna. While Anna and Henry were hauling in, the Alderman, dropping his pipe, began also to haul in his own line with great fury.
“Got one, father?” Mrs. Sutton asked.
“Ay!”
Both lines came in together, and on each was a pounder. Anna saw her fish gleam and flash like silver in the clear water as it neared the surface. Henry held the line short, letting the mackerel plunge and jerk, and then seized and unhooked the catch.
“How cruel!” Anna cried, startled at the nearness of the two fish as they sprang about in an old sugar box at her feet. Young Tom laughed loud at her exclamation. “They cairn’t feel, miss,” he sniggered. Anna wondered that a mouth so soft and kind could utter such heartless words.
In an hour the united efforts of the party had caught nine mackerel; it was not a multitude, but the sun, in perfecting the weather, had spoilt the sport. Anna had ceased to commiserate the captured fish. She was obliged, however, to avert her head when Tom cut some skin from the side of one of the mackerel to provide fresh bait; this device seemed to her the extremest refinement of cruelty. Beatrice grew ominously silent and inert, and Mrs. Sutton glanced first at her daughter and then at her husband; the latter nodded.
“We’d happen better be getting back, Henry,” said the Alderman.
The Fay swept home like a bird. They were at the quay, and Kelly was dragging them one by one from the black dinghy on to what the Alderman called “terra-firma.” Henry had the fish on a string.
“How many did ye catch, Miss Tellwright?” Kelly asked benevolently.
“I caught four,” Anna replied. Never before had she felt so proud, elated, and boisterous. Never had the blood so wildly danced in her veins. She looked at her short blue skirt which showed three inches of ankle, put forward her brown-shod foot like a vain coquette, and darted a covert look at Henry. When he caught it she laughed instead of blushing.
“Ye’re doing well,” Tom Kelly approved. “Ye’ll make a famous mackerel-fisher.”
Five of the mackerel were given to young Tom, the other four preceded a fowl in the menu of dinner. They were called Anna’s mackerel, and all the diners agreed that better mackerel had never been lured out of the Irish Sea.
In the afternoon the Alderman and his wife slept as usual, Mr. Sutton with a bandana handkerchief over his face. The rest went out immediately; the invitation of the sun and the sea was far too persuasive to be resisted.
“I’m going to paint,” said Beatrice, with a resolute mien. “I want to paint Bradda Head frightfully. I tried last year, but I got it too dark, somehow. I’ve improved since then. What are you going to do?”
“We’ll come and watch you,” said Henry.
“Oh, no, you won’t. At least you won’t; you’re such a critic. Anna can if she likes.”
“What! And me be left all afternoon by myself?”
“Well, suppose you go with him, Anna, just to keep him from being bored?”
Anna hesitated. Once more she had the uncomfortable suspicion that Mynors and herself were being manoeuvred.
“Look here,” said Mynors to Beatrice. “Have you decided absolutely to paint?”
“Absolutely.” The finality of the answer seemed to have a touch of resentment.
“Then”—he turned to Anna—“let’s go and get that dinghy and row about the bay. Eh?”
She could offer no rational objection, and they were soon putting off from the jetty, impelled seaward by a mighty push from Kelly’s arm. It was very hot. Mynors wore white flannels. He removed his coat, and turned up his sleeves, showing thick, hairy arms. He sculled in a manner almost dramatic, and the dinghy shot about like a water-spider on a brook. Anna had nothing to do except to sit still and enjoy. Everything was drowned in dazzling sunlight, and both Henry and Anna could feel the process of tanning on their faces. The bay shimmered with a million diamond points; it was impossible to keep the eyes open without frowning, and soon Anna could see the beads of sweat on Henry’s crimson brow.
“Warm?” she said. This was the first word of conversation. He merely smiled in reply. Presently they were at the other side of the bay, in a cave whose sandy and rock-strewn floor trembled clear under a fathom of blue water.
They landed on a jutting rock; Henry pushed his straw hat back, and wiped his forehead. “Glorious! glorious!” he exclaimed. “Do you swim? No? You should get Beatrice to teach you. I swam out here this morning at seven o’clock. It was chilly enough then. Oh! I forgot, I told you at breakfast.”
She could see him in the translucent water, swimming with long, powerful strokes. Dozens of boats were moving lazily in the bay, each with a cargo of parasols.
“There’s a good deal of the sunshade afloat,” he remarked. “Why haven’t you got one? You’ll get as brown as Tom Kelly.”
“That’s what I want,” she said.
“Look at yourself in the water there,” he said, pointing to a little pool left on the top of the rock by the tide. She did so, and saw two fiery cheeks, and a forehead divided by a horizontal line into halves of white
