Then Peter Walsh did an unexpected thing. He put the tiller down and began to haul in his main-sheet. The boat rounded up into the wind, headed straight northwards for the sh.o.r.e of Inishlean. She listed heavily, lay over till it seemed as if the sail would touch the water.

For an instant she paused, half righted, moved sluggishly towards the sh.o.r.e. Then, very slowly as it seemed, she leaned down again till her sail lay flat in the water.

At the moment when she righted, before the final heel over, a man flung himself across the gunwale into the sea. In his hands he grasped one of the life buoys.

"It's father," shouted Lady Isabel. "Oh, save him!"

"If he'd stuck to the boat," said Priscilla, "he'd have been all right.

She's ash.o.r.e this minute on the point of Inishlean. Unless Peter Walsh has gone suddenly mad I can't imagine why he tried to round up the boat there and why he hauled in the main-sheet. He was absolutely bound to go over."

"Perhaps he wanted to land there," said Frank.

"Well," said Priscilla, "he has landed, but he's upset the boat. I never thought before that Peter Walsh could be such an absolute idiot."

The condemnation was entirely unjust Peter Walsh had, in fact, performed the neatest feat of seamanship of his whole life. Never in the course of forty years and more spent in or about small boats had he handled one with such supreme skill and accuracy. Driven desperately by a squally and uncertain southeast wind, with a welter of short waves knocking his boat's head about in the most incalculable way, he had succeeded in upsetting her about six yards from the sh.o.r.e of an island on to the point of which she was certain to drift, with no more than four feet of water under her at the critical moment The _Tortoise_, having no ballast in her and depending entirely for stability on her fin-like centreboard was not, as Peter Walsh knew very well, in the smallest danger of sinking. He climbed quietly on her gunwale as she finally lay down and sat there, stride-legs, not even wet below the waist, until she grounded on the curved point of the island. The performance was a triumphant demonstration of Peter Walsh's unmatched skill.

In one matter only did he miscalculate. Lord Torrington knew something about boats, possessed that little knowledge which is in all great arts, theology, medicine and boat-sailing, a dangerous thing. He knew, after the first immersion of the gunwale, when the water flowed in, that the boat was sure to upset. He knew that the greatest risk on such occasions lies in being entangled in some rope and perhaps pinned under the sail.

He seized the moment when the _Tortoise_ righted after her first plunge, grasped a life buoy and flung himself overboard. He was just too soon.

A moment later and he would have drifted ash.o.r.e as the boat did on the point of Inishlean. If he had let go his life buoy and struck out at once he might have reached it. But the sudden immersion in cold water bewildered him. He clung to the life buoy and was drifted past the point.

Then he regained his self-possession and looked round him. As a young man he had been a fine swimmer and even at the age of fifty-five, with the cares of an imperial War Office weighing heavily on him, he had enough presence of mind to realise his situation. A few desperate strokes convinced him of the impossibility of swimming back to Inishlean against the wind and tide. In front of him lay a quarter of a mile of broken water. Beyond that was Inishbawn. It was a long swim, too long for a fully dressed man with no support. But Lord Torrington had a life buoy, guaranteed by its maker to keep two men safely afloat. He had a strong wind behind him and a tide drifting him down towards the island.

The water was not cold. He realised that all that was absolutely necessary was to cling to the life buoy, but that he might, if he liked, slightly accelerate his progress by kicking. He kicked hard.

Joseph Antony Kinsella wanted no more visitors on Inishbawn. Least of all did he want one whom he knew to be a "high-up gentleman" and suspected of being a government official of the most dangerous and venomous kind, but Joseph Antony Kinsella was not the man to see a fellow creature drift across Inishbawn Roads without making an effort to help him ash.o.r.e. With the aid of Jimmy he launched the stout, broad-beamed boat from which Miss Rutherford had fished for sponges.

Priscilla raced down from the tents and sprang on board just as Jimmy, knee deep in foaming water, was pushing off. She shipped the rudder.

Joseph Antony and Jimmy pulled hard. They forced their way to windward through clouds of spray and before Lord Torrington was half way across the bay Joseph Antony hauled him dripping into the boat.

Peter Walsh, standing in the water beside the stranded _Tortoise_, saw with blank amazement that Kinsella turned the boat's head and rowed back again to Inishbawn.

"Bed.a.m.n," he said, "but if I'd known that was to be the way it was to be I might as well have put him ash.o.r.e there myself and not have wetted him."

On the beach at Inishbawn when the boat grounded, were Lady Isabel, Mrs.

Kinsella with her baby, the three small Kinsella boys, Frank Mannix, who, to the further injury of his ankle, had hobbled down the hill, and in the far background, the Reverend Barnabas Pennefather.

Lady Isabel rushed upon her father, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him pa.s.sionately with tears in her eyes. Lord Torrington did not seem particularly pleased to see her.

"Hang it all, Isabel," he said, "I'm surely wet enough. Don't make me worse by s...o...b..ring over me. There's nothing to cry about and no necessity for kissing."

"Mrs. Kinsella," said Priscilla, "go you straight up to the house and get out your husband's Sunday clothes. If he hasn't any Sunday clothes, get blankets and throw a couple of sods of turf on the fire."

"Glory be to G.o.d!" said Mrs. Kinsella.

Priscilla took Joseph Antony by the arm and led him a little apart from the group on the beach.

"Get some whisky," she said, "as quick as you can."

"Whisky!" said Kinsella blankly.

"Yes, whisky. Bring it in a tin can or anything else that comes handy."

"Is it a tin can full of whisky? Sure, where could I get the like? Or for the matter of that where would I get a thimble full? Is it likely now that there'd be a tin can full of whisky on Inishbawn?"

Priscilla stamped her foot.

"You've got quarts," she said, "and gallons."

"Arrah, talk sense," said Kinsella.

"Very well," said Priscilla. "I don't want to give you away, but rather than see Lord Torrington sink into his grave with rheumatic fever for want of a drop of whisky I'll expose you publicly. Cousin Frank, come here."

"Whist, Miss, whist! Sure if I had the whisky I'd give it to you."

Lord Torrington, with Lady Isabel weeping beside him, was on his way up to the Kinsellas' cottage. Frank was speaking earnestly to Mr.

Pennefather, who seemed disinclined to follow his father-in-law. When he heard Priscilla calling to him he hobbled towards her.

"Cousin Frank," she said, "here's a man who grudges poor Lord Torrington a drop of whisky to save his life, although for weeks past he has been?what is it you do when you make whisky? I forget the word. It isn't brew."

Frank, vaguely recollecting the advertis.e.m.e.nts which appear in our papers, suggested that the word was required "pot".

Priscilla pointed an accusing finger at Kinsella.

"Here's a man," she said, "who for the last fortnight has been potting whisky?what a fool you are, Cousin Frank! Distil is the word. Joseph Antony Kinsella has been distilling whisky on this island for the last month as hard as ever he could. He's been shipping barrels full of it underneath loads of gravel into Rosnacree, and now he's trying to pretend he hasn't got any. Did you ever hear such utter rot in your life? I'm not telling Lord Torrington yet, Joseph Antony; but in a minute or two I will unless you go and get a good can full."

"For the love of G.o.d, Miss," said Kinsella, "say no more. I'll try if I can find a sup somewhere for the gentleman. But as for what you're after saying about distilling??"

"Hurry up," said Priscilla threateningly.

Kinsella went off at a sharp trot towards the south end of the island.

"Of course," said Priscilla in a calmer tone, "he really may not have any more. That might have been the last barrel which I saw under the gravel the day before yesterday when our anchor rope got foul of the centreboard. I don't expect it was quite the last, but it may have been.

It's very hard to be sure about things like that. However, if it was the last he'll just have to turn to and distil some more. I don't suppose it takes very long, and there was a fire burning on the south end of the island this morning. I saw it."

Half an hour later Lord Torrington, wrapped in two blankets and a patchwork quilt, clothing which he had chosen in preference to Joseph Antony's Sunday suit, was sitting in front of a blazing fire in the Kinsellas' kitchen. He held in his hand a mug full of raw spirit and hot water, mixed in equal proportions. Each time he sipped at it he coughed.

Priscilla sat beside him with a bottle from which she offered to replenish the mug after each sip. Lady Isabel, looking frightened but obstinate, stood opposite him, holding the Reverend Barnabas Pennefather by the hand.

CHAPTER XXII

"To Miss Martha Rutherford, Sponge Department, British Museum, London.

"My dear Miss Rutherford?Having promised to write you the denouement, I do, of course; though the delay is longer than I expected when promising. It was most exciting. Peter Walsh upset the _Tortoise_?on purpose I now think?but no one else has said so _yet_?and Lord Torrington swam for his life while his lovely daughter wrung her lily hands in shrill despair, this being the exact opposite of what was the case with Lord Ullin's daughter. Joseph Antony Kinsella and Jimmy and I rescued the drowning mariner in your boat. Frank would have done so too, for he says he never rescued any one from a watery grave?though he won a prize for life-saving in his swimming bath at school and I think he wanted to get a medal?but none of us have as yet, nor won't?but he couldn't get down the hill quick enough on account of his sprained ankle, so we were off without him. I jolly well ballyragged Joseph Antony Kinsella until he opened his last cask of illicit whisky.

'Illicit' is what both father and Lord Torrington called it and at first I didn't know what that meant, but I looked it out in the dict. and now do know, also how to spell it, which I shouldn't otherwise. Then we had a most frightful scene in Joseph Antony Kinsella's cottage. Lady Isabel was splendid. I never knew any one could be in love so much, especially with Barnabas. The salt sea was frozen on her cheeks (it had been raining hard), and the salt tears in her eyes. Sylvia Courtney told me that that poem was most affecting, so I read it Have you? Lord Torrington was frightfully stony-hearted at first and finished two mugs of illicit whisky (with hot water), coughing and swearing the whole time. Barnabas crawled. Then Mrs. Kinsella made tea and hot pancakes in spite of the baby, which screamed; and all was gay, though there was no b.u.t.ter. Peter Walsh came in while we were at tea, having righted the _Tortoise_ and bailed her out, but he and Joseph Antony Kinsella went off together, which was just as well, for there weren't too many pancakes, and Lord Torrington, when he began to soften down a bit, turned out to be hungry. In the end we all went home together in Joseph Antony Kinsella's big boat, Lord Torrington having put on his clothes again and father's oilskins, which were providentially saved from the wreck. Lady Isabel and Barnabas held each other's hands the whole time in a way that I thought rather disgusting, though Cousin Frank says it is common enough among those in that state. I hope I never shall be; but of course I may. One can't be really sure beforehand. Anyhow I shan't like it if I am. Lady Isabel did, which made it worse. Father met us at the quay and said he didn't believe there was a single grain of shot in the whole of Timothy Sweeny's fat body and that the entire thing was a plant I didn't understand this at the time, though now I do; but it's too long to write; though it would interest you if written.

"For days and days Lady Torrington was more obdurate than the winter wind and the serpent's tooth. She said those two things often and often, and the one about the winter wind shows that she has read 'As You Like It.' I don't know the one about the serpent's tooth. It may be in Shakespeare, but is _not_ in Wordsworth's 'Excursion.' I think she meant Lady Isabel, not herself. Barnabas slept in the Geraghtys' gate lodge, a bed being made up for him and food sent down, though he was let in to lunch with us after a time. There were terrific consultations which I did not hear, being of course regarded as a child. Nor did Cousin Frank, which was rather insulting to him, considering that he can behave quite like a grown up when he tries. But all came right in the end. We think that Lord Torrington has promised to make Barnabas a bishop in the army, which Cousin Frank says he can do quite easily if he likes, being the head of the War Office. Father kept harping on, especially at luncheon, when Barnabas was there, to find out why they fled to Rosnacree. Rose, the under housemaid, told me that it came out in the end that Lady Isabel simply went to the man at Euston station and asked for a ticket to the furthest off place he sold tickets to. This, may be true.

Rose heard it from Mrs. Geraghty, who came up every day to hook Lady Torrington's back. But I doubt it myself. There must be further off places than Rosnacree, though, of course, not many. At one time there threatened to be rather a row about our not giving up the fugitives to justice, and Aunt Juliet tried to say nasty things about aiding and abetting (whatever they mean). But I said that wouldn't have happened because we didn't particularly care for Lady Isabel and simply loathed Barnabas, if it hadn't been for the dastardly way Lord Torrington sprained Frank's ankle, so that they had no one to blame but themselves.

Lord Torrington, who isn't really a bad sort at times, quite saw this and said he wouldn't have sprained Frank's ankle if he hadn't been upset at the time on account of Lady Isabel's having eluded his vigilance and escaped. This just shows how careful we ought to be about our lightest and most innocent actions. No one would expect any dire results to come of simply spraining a young man's ankle on a steamer; but they did; which is the way many disasters occur and often we don't find out why even afterwards, though in this case Lord Torrington did, thanks to me.