The next morning saw the Croonah speeding past Trafalgar's heights.

There was a whistling breeze from the west; and over the mountains of Tarifa and the far gloomy fastness of Ceuta hung clouds and squalls. The sea, lashed to white flecks, raced through the straits, and every now and then a sharp shower darkened the face of the waters. There was something forbidding and mysterious in the scene, something dark and foreboding over the coast-line of Africa.

All eyes were fixed on the Rock, now slowly appearing from behind the hills that hide Algeciras.

Luke was on duty on the bridge, motionless at his post. It was a simple matter to these mariners to make for the anchorage of Gibraltar, and Luke was thinking of Agatha. He was recalling a thousand little incidents which came back with a sudden warm thrill into his heart, the chilled, stern heart of a disappointed man. He was recollecting words that she had said, silences which she had kept, glances which she had given him. And all told him the same thing. All went to the core of his pa.s.sionate, self-consuming heart.

The bay now lay before him, dotted here and there by close-reefed sails. A few steamers lay at anchor, and, beyond the old Mole, black coal hulks peacefully stripped of rigging. Suddenly Luke lifted the lid of the small box affixed to the rail in front of him and sought his gla.s.ses. For some seconds he looked through the binoculars fixedly in the direction of the Mole. Then he moved towards the captain.

"That is the Kittiwake," he said.

"Thought it looked like her!" replied the captain, intent on his own affairs.

Luke went back to his post. The Kittiwake! And he was not glad.

It was that that puzzled him. He was not glad. He was going to see Fitz after many years, and twins are different from other brothers.

They usually see more of each other all through life. They are necessary to each other. Fitz and Luke had always corresponded as regularly as their roaming lives allowed. But for three years they had never met.

Luke stood with beating heart, his eyes fixed on the trim rakish- looking little gunboat lying at anchor immediately off the Mole. He was suddenly breathless. His light oil-skins oppressed him. There was a vague feeling within him that he had only begun to live within the last two weeks--all before that had been merely existence. And now he was living too quickly, without time to define his feelings.

But the sensations were real enough. It does not take long to acquire a feeling.

After all he was not glad. His attention was required for a few moments to carry out an order, and he returned to his thought. He did not, however, think it out. He only knew that if Agatha had not been on board the Croonah he would have been breathlessly impatient to see his brother. Therefore he did not want Agatha and Fitz to meet. And yet Fitz was quite different from other men. There was no harm in Fitz, and surely he could be trusted to see Agatha for a few hours without falling in love with her, without making Agatha love him.

Yet--Fitz had always succeeded where he, Luke, had failed. Fitz had always the good things of life. It was all luck. It had been luck from the very beginning. Another order required the second officer's full mind and attention. There were a thousand matters to be attended to, for the Croonah was enormous, unwieldy.

In the execution of his duties Luke began presently to forget himself. He did not attempt to define his thoughts. He did not even reflect that he knew so little of his brother that this meeting could not possibly cause him this sudden uneasiness, this foreboding care, from THAT side of the question. He did not fear for Fitz to meet Agatha, he really dreaded Agatha seeing Fitz.

The Croonah moved into her anchorage with that gentle strength which in a large steamer seems to indicate that she is thinking about it and doing it all herself. For in these days there is no shouting, no call of boatswain's whistle; and the ordinary observer hardly notices the quiet deus ex machina, the man on the bridge.

Hardly had the anchor splashed home with a rattle of cable that vibrated through the ship, when a small white boat shot out from behind the smart Kittiwake, impelled by the short and regular beat of ten oars. There was a man seated in the stern enveloped in a large black boat cloak--for Gibraltar harbour is choppy when the westerly breezes blow--a man who looked the Croonah up and down with a curious searching eye. The boat shot alongside the vast steamer-- the bowman neatly catching a rope that was thrown to him--and the officer clambered up the swaying gangway.

He pushed his way gently through the pa.s.sengers, the cloak flying partially open as he did so and displaying Her Majesty's uniform.

He treated all these people with that patient tolerance which belongs to the mariner when dealing with landsmen. They were so many sheep penned up in a conveyance. Well-dressed sheep, he admitted tacitly by the withdrawal of his dripping cloak from their contact, but he treated them in the bulk, failing to notice one more than another. He utterly failed to observe Agatha Ingham-Baker, dainty and fresh in blue serge and a pert sailor hat. She knew him at once, and his want of observation was set down in her mind against him. She did not want him to recognise her. Not at all.

She merely wanted him to look at her, and then to look again--to throw a pa.s.sing crumb of admiration to her greedy vanity, which lived on such daily food.

Fitz, intent on his errand, pushed his way towards the steps leading up through the awning to the bridge. He seemed to know by some sailor instinct where to find it. He paused at the foot of the iron steps to give an order to the man who followed at his heel, and the att.i.tude was Luke's. The onlookers saw at a glance who this must be. The resemblance was startling. There was merely Luke FitzHenry over again, somewhat fairer, a little taller, but the same man.

The captain gave a sudden bluff laugh when Fitz emerged on the little spidery bridge far above the deck.

"No doubt who you are, sir," he said, holding out his hand.

Then he stepped aside, and the two brothers met. They said nothing, merely shaking hands, and Luke's eyes involuntarily went to the smart, simple uniform half hidden by the cloak. Fitz saw the glance and drew his cloak hastily round him. It was unfortunate.

And this was their meeting after three years.

"By George!" exclaimed Fitz, after a momentary pause, "she IS a fine ship!"

Luke rested his hands on the white painted rail--almost a caress to the great steamer--and followed the direction of his brother's glance,

"Yes," he admitted slowly, "yes, she is a good boat."

And then his deep eyes wandered involuntarily towards the tiny Kittiwake--smart, man-of-war-like at her anchorage--and a sudden sharp sigh broke from his lips. He had not got over it yet. He never would.

"So you have got away," he went on, "from Mahon at last?"

"Yes," answered Fitz.

"I should think you have had enough of Minorca to last you the rest of your life," said Luke, looking abruptly down at the quarrelling boatmen and the tangle of tossing craft beneath them.

"It is not such a bad place as all that," replied Fitz. "I--I rather like it."

There was a little pause, and quite suddenly Luke said -

"The Ingham-Bakers are on board."

It would almost seem that these twin minds followed each other into the same train of thought. Fitz frowned with an air of reflectiveness.

"The Ingham-Bakers," he said. "Who are they?"

Luke gave a little laugh which almost expressed a sudden relief.

"Don't you remember?" he said. "She is a friend of Mrs.

Harrington's, and--and there is Agatha, her daughter."

"I remember--stout. Not the daughter, the old woman, I mean. Oh-- yes. Where are they going?"

"To Malta."

It was perfectly obvious, even to Luke, that the Ingham-Bakers'

immediate or projective destination was a matter of the utmost indifference to Fitz, who was more interested in the Croonah than in her pa.s.sengers.

They were both conscious of an indefinite feeling of disappointment.

This meeting after years of absence was not as it should be.

Something seemed to stand between them--a shadow, a myth, a tiny distinction. Luke, with characteristic pessimism, saw it first-- felt its chill, intangible presence before his less subtle-minded brother. Then Fitz saw it, and, as was his habit, he went at it unhesitatingly

"Gad!" he explained, "I am glad to see you, old chap. Long time, isn't it, since we saw each other? You must come back with me, and have lunch or something. The men will be awfully glad to make your acquaintance. You can look over the ship, though she is not much to look at, you know! Not up to this. She is a fine ship, Luke! What can she steam?"

"She can do her twenty," answered the second officer of the Croonah, indifferently.

"Yes, she looks it. Well, can you get away now?"

Luke shook his head.

"No," he answered almost ungraciously, "I can't leave the ship."

"What! Not to come and look over the Kittiwake?" Fitz's face fell visibly. He did not seem to be able to realise that any one should be equal to relinquishing without a murmur the opportunity of looking over the Kittiwake.

"No, I am afraid not. We have our discipline too, you know.

Besides, we are rather like railway guards. We must keep up to time. We shall be under way by two o'clock."

Fitz pressed the point no further. He had been brought up to discipline since childhood--moreover, he was rather clever in a simple way, and he had found out that it would be no pleasure but a pain to Luke to board a ship flying the white ensign.