"d.a.m.n it all!" shouted the man of war busy on the rowlocks. "I beg your pardon, Miss Strong. Here, man, quick, give me the oar--go forward--lie down in the bows and keep her keel stiff. Now then, Cynthia, don't scream, there's a good girl--there's no danger as yet.

Lie down too--then you won't see anything."

She did lie down ignominiously. Right down at his feet, feeling that she would be content to enter Paradise clinging to this man's coat-tails if only that entry was not premature. The whole world, to her, lay in the strength of those arms, and when, meeting her piteous eyes, his face relaxed to something like a smile, and he gasped, "All right--getting along--nicely," she felt once, and for all, that she loved his little finger better than the whole of that abject figure in the bows.

So she crouched, lost in a sort of terrified reliance on him, till with a queer little sound, half sob, half laugh, he slackened, and without a pause proceeded to retransfer a pair of rowlocks to the bows.

"Now then--professor--if you please--sorry to have--been so abrupt--but--one manages better sculling--when there's no rudder." The breaks were caused by his being out of breath. Otherwise he was full of dignity, and Cynthia Strong broke down suddenly into subdued tears.

"You had better lie still," he said. "See--here's my coat." He fumbled it into a pillow with his left hand, as he went on rowing with his right. "Raise your head, please, so;" and, as he bent over her, he whispered, "Don't cry, dear, it's all over now."

What Cynthia Strong did to the hand so near her lips is a dead secret between those two. The captain's fine flush was doubtless due to his previous exertions, but why a pillow should have caused a rush of blood to Cynthia's terror-blanched face, remains a mystery.

"Don't work so hard, professor!" cried the former gaily. "You are pulling me round, and we have to get our head towards home.

Eilean-a-fa-ash is out of the question; besides, Miss Strong will be all the better for a cup of tea. This sort of thing isn't fit for women."

And n.o.body denied it.

VII

A man and a woman looking seawards from Grada point. To the north, the long curve of sands hidden by the flood-tide. A curve ending in the low line of Eilean-a-fa-ash, which, viewed from here, seemed as if it were joined to the mainland. Beyond, the northern headland, whence Roederay Lodge stood out against the sky. To the south, a coast broken into little points and bays, with the slender masts of a yacht standing above a near promontory.

To the west, a spit of rocks running out into the Atlantic, which once more lay like a golden garment stretching far as the eye could reach on either hand. At their feet, a little boat swaying gently against a bare ledge of rock; for the tide was at the full.

"Do come," said the man; "you haven't really seen the yacht, and we can't possibly miss the returning wagonette. I'll send a man to watch, if you like; then there can be no mistake."

He did not look at her, but his voice was instinct with pa.s.sionate entreaty.

"But the men may not be here till late." Lady Maud did not look at him either, yet the same repressed emotion rang in her tone.

"I can row you. We have only to paddle round those rocks, and the current will take us right on to the yacht."

"But the men?"

"Lazy beggars! let them swim. Besides, they should have been here long ago; it is past five."

"Half-past. They have been here and put the stores in the boat."

"It is we who are late."

He moved a step closer, impatiently. "What have the men to do with it, Maud? Don't--don't be childish! What are you afraid of--not of me, surely?"

There was a pause.

"I am afraid of nothing," she said lightly. "Come, it will be pleasant out on that sunny sea at any rate."

He steadied the boat for her, and she stepped in.

"Where to?" he asked, half in jest, when a stroke or two had taken them from the shadow of the rock into the glitter of the sinking sun, where they lay bathed in light, the water dripping from the lifted oars like drops of molten gold. "Why shouldn't we leave everything behind and set sail for nowhere--anywhere?"

With his arms resting on the oars, he leant forwards, fixing his dark eyes on her face. They were full of pity and a great tenderness.

"You look so nice there, Maud. Take off your hat, dear, and let the sun shine on your hair as it used to do when you were a girl. If I had my will, Maud, you should always be in the sunlight; you know that, don't you?"

The oars fell into the water softly as he rowed on, whilst she sate silent, trailing one hand in the water and watching the great big medusae come pulsating past.

"How pleasant it must be to drift--like that!" she said half to herself, and once again the drip, drip, drip, of those golden tears filled up the silence as the boat swayed idly on the breathing of the sea.

"Why shouldn't we drift? There is plenty of time, and G.o.d knows ties enough, as a rule. Grapnels fore and aft and a mud bank under all to stick upon."

"Don't talk of that now, Eustace," she broke in hurriedly. "Let us forget it for this last half hour. Isn't it enough to be here--together?"

"Enough for now--" he replied unsteadily; "but for afterwards?"

"There may be no afterwards."

He shook his head. "A man never thinks of that. He can't live on moonshine; or sunshine either. He wants something real; and so do you.

Maud! what will you do when you go back to him?"

She put out her hand in entreaty with a little cry. "Oh, Eustace! can you not let me be happy for one short half hour?"

"Happy, when we are going to part? Happy, when I know what your future will be? when I know it will be torture to you? Why did you send him away if it was not because the strain was too great for you to bear?"

"I--I did not send him away," she faltered.

"Pshaw! Hooper told me about it--the fool was afraid. Then the wire came, of course, and there was no need for the other. But you meant it, Maud. Ah, my darling! don't think I am blaming you--Blame! How could I blame you save for too much patience?

"Maud, let us cut the knot! We have made a mistake, both of us; for you are miserable, and I--I will not bear it. Come--the yacht is there. Let us go into the sunshine. Come, my darling--see how fate points the way. We are drifting, drifting--a little more and the current will take us. Why should you go back to the empty house? the empty life? Maud! Maud!"

What does a man say to a woman when he has forgotten everything in the world save his mad desire to keep her for his own? All that could be said, in all its tenderness, its pa.s.sion, and its selfishness, was hers as the boat drifted and drifted.

"I am cold!" she said suddenly, giving a little shudder, yet drawing closer to him. "We shall be too late."

"Too late to return," he answered joyously. "Oh, Maud, trust me this once--See, the yacht is close." He turned and gave a quick exclamation of surprise. Where were they? Not, as he expected, within a stone's throw of the coast, drifting surely southwards. Here was nothing save sea, and rising slowly from it on all sides a thin mist, golden in the sunlight through which, in the far distance, a shadow or two loomed faint, unrecognized.

Above them the sky, clear as ever; below them the sea, bright, pellucid; but between them a gathering curtain which even as he looked faded from gold to white, from white to grey, as the unseen sun sank beneath the unseen horizon.

"It is a sea-haugh," he said lightly; "the wind must have changed to the north, and the cold condenses the vapour. I have seen them often after hot weather. But it is all right. We must be close to the yacht, for we were well in the current when I stopped rowing; and it runs insh.o.r.e due south. If I whistle, they must hear and answer."

But none came, and the sound seemed to return resonant from the mist, showing that it had not travelled far. So, whistling, shouting, and rowing, they spent some time in vain, till fear began to invade her courage. What if they had drifted past? What if they were drifting out to sea, further and further from safety? He tried to scoff at her alarm, though his own anxiety grew fast as the mist settled thicker and thicker till he could not see a yard beyond the bows. Suddenly, with a grating shock, the boat stopped abruptly, almost throwing them into each other's arms. His heart seemed to stop also, as he remembered having heard of sunken rocks in mid channel.

"We are aground--stay still, I will see."

He stepped cautiously over the side, one foot into six inches of water and a shelving bottom, the other into three. Then on to firm dry warm sand. His laugh of relief was genuine.

"The adventure is over, Maud. Come! let me help you out. This must be the mainland; but where, I can't say."