“That was a common enough thing in wild times. Men grew tired of murder and glory and waving banners, and wanted quiet to make their peace with their own souls. I should have thought the craving scarcely extinct yet.”
“Then here is your chance, Mr. Maitland,” said the girl, laughing. “A little trouble would make the hut habitable, and you could simply disappear, leaving no address to forward your letters to. Think of the sensation, ‘Disappearance of a Secretary of State,’ and the wild theories and the obituaries. Then some day when the land question became urgent on the mainland, you would turn up suddenly, settle it with extraordinary wisdom, and die after confiding your life-story to some country reporter. But I am afraid it would scarcely do, for you would be discovered by Scotland Yard, which would be ignominious.”
“It is a sound idea, but the old device is too crude. However, it could be managed differently. Some day, when civilisation grows oppressive, Claire, I will remember your advice.”
The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen, and from the west a light sharp wind was crisping the sea. The yacht was getting up steam, and boats were coming ashore for the party. The deep blue waters were flushing rose-pink as the level westering sun smote them from the summit of a cloud-bank. The stillness had gone, and the air was now full of sounds and colour. Claire, with an eye on the trim yacht, declared her disapproval. “It is an evening for the cutter,” she cried, and in spite of Mrs. Etheridge’s protests she gave orders for it to be made ready. Then the self-willed young woman looked round for company. “Will you come, Mr. Maitland?” she said. “You can sail a boat, can’t you? And Mr. Despencer, I shall want you to talk to me when Mr. Maitland is busy. We shall race the yacht, for we ought to be able to get through the Scart’s Neck with this wind.”
“I am not sure if you are wise, Claire,” and Maitland pulled down his brows as he looked to the west. “It will be wind—in a very little, and you stand the chance of a wetting.”
“I don’t mind. I want to get the full good of such an evening. You want to be near the water to understand one of our sunsets. I can be a barbarian too, you know.”
It was not for Maitland to grumble at this friendliness; so he followed her into the cutter with Despencer, who had no love for the orders but much for her who gave them. He took the helm and steered, with directions from the lady, from his memory of the intricate coast. Despencer with many rugs looked to Claire’s comfort, and, having assured his own, was instantly entranced with the glories of the evening.
The boat tripped along for a little in a dazzle of light into the silvery grey of the open water. Far in front lay the narrow gut called the Scart’s Neck, which was the byway to the loch of Fountainblue. Then Maitland at the helm felt the sheets suddenly begin to strain, and, looking behind, saw that the Isles of the Waves were almost lost in the gloom, and that the roseate heavens were quickly darkening behind. The wind which he had feared was upon them; a few seconds more and it was sending the cutter staggering among billows. He could hardly make himself heard in the din, as he roared directions to Despencer about disposing of his person in another part of the boat. The girl with flushed face was laughing in pure joy of the storm. She caught a glimpse of Maitland’s serious eye and looked over the gunwale at the threatening west. Then she too became quiet, and meekly sat down on the thwart to which he motioned her.
The gale made the Scart’s Neck impossible, and the murky sky seemed to promise greater fury ere the morning. Twilight was falling, and the other entrance to the quiet loch meant the rounding of a headland and a difficult course through a little archipelago. It was the only way, for return was out of the question, and it seemed vain to risk the narrow chances of the shortcut. Maitland looked down at his two companions, and reflected with pleasure that he was the controller of their fates. He had sailed much as a boy, and he found in this moment of necessity that his old lore returned to him. He felt no mistrust of his powers: whatever the gale he could land them at Fountainblue, though it might take hours and involve much discomfort. He remembered the coast like his own name; he relished the grim rage of the elements, and he kept the cutter’s head out to sea with a delight in the primeval conflict.
The last flickering rays of light,
