Chapter Eight.

After All.

Mrs Lascelles would not perhaps have recognised Everitt, whom she had only seen in the chapel, if the disturbance in Kitty’s looks had not at once caused her to leap to a conclusion which absolutely took away her breath. She was quick-sighted enough to see that he was himself as yet unconscious, for Kitty’s face was turned from him, and he was engaged in tucking his ulster round his legs; and even this momentary reprieve was welcome, as it gave her a few instants in which to collect her thoughts. She did not credit him with all the innocence which was rightfully his, for she imagined that he had heard of their travels, and had followed them; and though she was enough of a woman to be conscious of a sneaking kindness for such a daring act, she felt that its audacity would have to be met with displeasure. There would be no help from Kitty. Kitty was actually trembling, and the best mode of treatment would be to ignore the presence of anything at all out of the commonplace, and when the moment of recognition came, refuse to see in it more than a chance and quite uneventful coincidence.

The old sailor was in the stern of the boat, steering, while the boy managed the brown sail. Kitty was next to Stevan, her mother next to her, opposite to her the curé, who had taken out a small breviary, and next to him Everitt. Everitt, having arranged himself and turned up the collar of his ulster, began to look about him at his companions. Mrs Lascelles saw a perception that she was English begin to dawn in his mind, then he glanced at Kitty, and she fancied a sudden suspicion crossed it. She took her resolution in a moment; the flash of knowledge would have to come sooner or later; and for the girl to stare persistently in an opposite direction would only give him an impression of consciousness on her part, which, of all things, had better be avoided. She touched her to emphasise her words, pointed directly opposite, and said—

“Kitty, do you suppose that to be Gavr Innis?”

For an instant the girl hesitated, but she felt and understood her mother’s momentary pressure on her arm, and turned her glowing face in Everitt’s direction. He was looking full at her, and Mrs Lascelles, who watched him closely, saw his sudden start and that he became pale. Kitty, when she caught his eye, bowed slightly, and he immediately lifted his hat and looked at Mrs Lascelles, who leaned forward.

“I think,” she said, and there was no cordiality in her manner, “that it is Mr Everitt.” She was angry, but was quite at her ease; he was delighted, and yet felt extremely awkward. He murmured something about the unexpectedness of the meeting. Mrs Lascelles bowed again, and made a remark to her daughter as if the other slight conversation were at an end. But Everitt was not the man to be put on one side in this easy fashion. He moved to the cross-seat, where he was next to Mrs Lascelles.

“This is a strange meeting, and a strange place for an explanation,” he began rapidly; “yet I can’t afford to let any opportunity slip.”

“There is no need of an explanation,” said Mrs Lascelles, hastily.

“Oh, there is!” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “Even at the risk of once more seeming to force myself upon you, I must ask you to let me apologise in the fullest manner possible for a most thoughtless act.”

He did not look at Kitty; the girl leant back, with her eyes fixed on her hands, which lay loosely in her lap. The old brown-faced patron was stooping forward, one arm on the tiller, the other on his knee, his whole attention absorbed by the still freshening wind, and the long roll of breakers farther out in the bay, the thunder of which came in above the rush of wind and rain. As for the curé, apparently absorbed in his breviary, he was not unconscious of the little drama which was being played before him. He now and then glanced from Everitt to Kitty with an air of interest. Mrs Lascelles, however, was not to be melted into cordiality.

“After an apology,” she returned, “there is nothing to be said. I hoped that Mrs Marchmont would have expressed this to you. And, permit me to say, that since it was, as you describe it, a thoughtless act, it will be as well now for us to allude to it no more.”

“That is easier for you than for me,” he said, looking at her appealingly.

But she made no answer. To begin with, she was in difficulties with her umbrella, which threatened to be blown inside out, unless she held it in front of her, and this meant putting it like a barricade between herself and Everitt. Then she was beyond measure provoked with him for coming and reviving the annoying memories which she intended these three weeks to sweep away out of her Kitty’s heart. And added to this was the offence of his having followed and forced himself upon them in such a fashion. Everitt, who was not accustomed to have his advances snubbed, drew back to his seat by the curé. The rain drove in wilder gusts; Kitty, under her hooded waterproof, safe miserable. She would have liked to have said something that might soften her mother’s coldness, but what could she say across wet planks, a boatman, and a curé? She felt utterly helpless, and the last thing that would have occurred to her was that she was looking so pretty, so fresh, and so glowing, that Everitt’s resentment, though he tried to fan it, could not stand against the charm of her beauty.

Yet he would not allow Mrs Lascelles to imagine that she would have him thrust upon them. When the boat reached the little island, Everitt sprang out, and stood with as much dignity as a somewhat humiliating wind would allow, to help Mrs Lascelles and Kitty over the slippery rocks. When they had arrived at a safe footing, he lifted his hat and went back to the boat to speak to the patron, who was making it fast. The boy ran on to show the two ladies the way to the house where a guide for the cave was to be found, the curé, strode past them.

“Oh, mother!” cried Kitty, the instant they were out of hearing.

Mrs Lascelles laughed without real enjoyment of the situation.

“Yes, it’s an odd coincidence, and annoying. But, as he could not have known who was in the boat, I hope he will see the propriety of not forcing himself upon us. He didn’t behave so badly, Kitty.”

“You were so dreadfully stiff.”

The mother looked at her with a little surprise.

“Is that what’s troubling you? Oh, never mind that! I was only afraid of not being stiff enough. Do open your umbrella; no waterproof can stand this rain. The whole thing is very ludicrous,” she added, laughing again in a vexed way. “What do you suppose he has gone to the boat for?”

“To arrange to go back without us,” said the girl, walking quickly on.

“Well—if he can,” said Mrs Lascelles, lightly. “Is this the place?”

It was a sombre granite house, built strongly to resist the sweep of the great winds which roared across the bay and the barren islands. When they went into it, welcomed by a wizened old woman, so deep was the gloom that they paused on the threshold, uncertain where their next step might land them, until their eyes became accustomed to the half-light, and they could make out the old oak benches and table, and the cupboard bed high in the wall. A guide for the cavern? Oh yes! her husband would be there in a moment. He had seen the boat, and was getting lights; but it was a wild day for ladies to cross. Would they please write their names while they were waiting? The curé had come before them; her daughter was ill—very ill. Wouldn’t they please to dry their wet clothes? Her husband was ready, but there was plenty of time.

No, Mrs Lascelles said; they would go at once. Like other energetic people, she was impatient to finish what she had begun, and she told herself that if Everitt had the grace to keep out of the way, they had better take advantage of his absence. Kitty was silent; she made no remonstrance, but when the boy prepared to follow, she informed him rather authoritatively that he had better go back to the boat.

The famous cavern is a long narrow passage, traversed with lights, like the Roman catacombs, and worked with strange and ancient carvings, in which the serpent plays a prominent part. There is not much to be told of them, and Kitty and her mother knew less; they finished their investigations without much sense of gain. Kitty was restless, and yet silent; her mother was restless and talkative. Once or twice their guide lifted his hand and listened.

“There was another monsieur,” he said, “in the boat. My wife said she would send him on.”

“Perhaps he is not coming,” Mrs Lascelles suggested.

The man stared at her.

“There is nothing else to cross to the island for,” he said stolidly.

“We will get back as quickly as we can, Kitty,” said her mother. “The wind is certainly higher.”

When they came out, indeed, it was evident that the storm had increased. The clouds were darker and more menacing; the water, even under the lee of the island, was surging forward in long heavings which looked like iron; the wind rushed against them with a fierce persistence, different from the wet squalls which had faced them as they came. The women hurried on, refusing to take shelter again in the grey house, from the doorway of which the boatman and the curé were watching for them. Old Stevan was brief in his remarks.

Yes, he said, they should start at once. The wind was freshening to a gale, and if they delayed—

Where was the other gentleman? Kitty inquired.

He was not coming, it appeared. He intended to wait on the island until a boat could cross for him; and that would not be to-day, Stevan answered, with a shrug. The people who lived there had a boat, of course, but the young son-in-law had taken it to fetch something for the sick wife.

Then Kitty stopped resolutely, and demanded that the boy should be sent back to the house to tell the gentleman that they would not start until he came.

“Kitty!” exclaimed her mother, in amazement.

But Kitty’s eyes were shining with resolute determination. The curé, who perhaps understood more than they thought, smiled resignedly, and sheltered himself as best he could from the driving rain.

“We have been unjust, mother,” said the girl, in a low voice.

Mrs Lascelles said nothing. Kitty was going her own way, and she was unwilling to interfere. She was uneasy, but interested, and perhaps a little amused; besides, it must be owned the sea looked so fierce that she was not sorry to have another man in the boat. Presently she saw Everitt coming towards them, quickening his pace when he perceived they were waiting on the shore. Kitty did not draw back, as her mother expected; she made a few steps to meet him, and said quietly—

“It would have been a great pity if you had stayed at that place all night because you were afraid of overcrowding the boat. We hope you will cross with us.”

“Thank you,” said Everitt, briefly. He wasted no more words, but occupied himself in doing what he could to shelter them from rain: in a few moments the driving foam would be dashing over the boat. The old boatman looked up and down uneasily; Everitt said certain words to him, and his face cleared. “We are going to wrap the heavy brown sail round you,” Everitt added to Mrs Lascelles; “it can’t be used in any other way.”

“The old man will never be able to row us across,” she said, anxiously.

“I am going to help him,” he said; “and, if necessary, I have no doubt the curé could bear a hand. All these Bretons are born sailors. Don’t be alarmed. I hope a wetting will be your worst misfortune.”

In spite of his cheery words, when they got out into the more open sea the waves ran so high, and the fierce pressure of the wind was so strong, that Mrs Lascelles looked round her in terror. Their boat seemed as if it could be nothing but a plaything between these mighty powers. Now and then the priest murmured words which they could not distinguish; the boy crouched, a brown heap, on a pile of brown nets in the stern; the two men—the old and the young—with strong, set faces, worked steadily at their oars. Hard rowing was not necessary, for the wind swept them along; but there were cross currents, and these were dangerous seas; and the threatening gloom of the sky, touched here and there with a lurid light, and the strong rush of the waves with their scud of flying foam, made Mrs Lascelles glance at her daughter with a tightening of her heart. As for Kitty herself, the girl sat leaning a little forward. Her mother’s hand had sought hers, and Kitty had clasped it with both her own. Her hood had been blown a little back from her face, and her sweet eyes were fixed upon the shore towards which they were driving. Not a shadow of fear had touched them, as the mother saw with a little sigh; nay, the next moment the girl turned and looked at her with a smile.

Meanwhile, as they rapidly neared the shore, it became evident that some anxiety was aroused in the little village, for half a dozen men and women had collected near the landing-place, their figures blurred and dimmed by the rain and mist. Old Stevan, too, seemed uneasy. He stopped rowing at last, just keeping the boat’s course with his oar, and exchanged a few words with Everitt. The curé bent forward and put a question; Mrs Lascelles tightened her clasp on Kitty’s hand.

It was easy to see that the danger lay in attempting to land. The landing-place was merely a little run between rocks at the best of times, and at present, owing to the gale coming from rather an unusual point of the compass, such a surf was running as was rarely seen. The men on shore yelled directions, which could not be distinguished in the boat. Old Stevan turned and for an instant surveyed the wild, tumbling mass before him; then he spoke to Everitt, who nodded, and the next moment the two men bent once more to their work, and it seemed to Mrs Lascelles that they were in such a whirl of tossing, raging waters that the boat must be swamped or stove in beyond hope of help. She clutched Kitty’s hand, and even cried out, though she could not hear her own voice. The flying foam was over her head, beating at her face; she was stunned, bewildered, almost senseless, when the boat was caught by strong hands and drawn up into safety.

“Mother!” cried Kitty, looking at her with, for the first time, terror in her eyes.

But it did not take Mrs Lascelles long to recover. Half a dozen hands were stretched to help her out of the boat, half full of water from the attack of the last wave, and she stumbled out, still grasping Kitty’s band. For the first time, the curé addressed them.

“It has been a hazardous voyage,” he remarked, “and,”—bowing to Kitty—“mademoiselle has a great courage.” Then he lifted his wet hat from his head, and marched away in his dripping clothes to the presbytère.

And now it was Everitt who, as it seemed to the girl, made everything smooth before them. The little village had little enough to boast of, but he had got them—in a shorter time than seemed possible—up to the small inn, where a good fire was lit in a room where they could dry their clothes, and where the landlady provided them with stout full skirts and warm stockings. Arrayed in these, and sitting over the fire until the carriage which was to take them to Auray was ready, Mrs Lascelles soon forgot the battering and drenching she had gone through—even began to smile at the recollection. And then she touched on another subject.

“Kitty,” she said, solemnly, “Mr Everitt must be forgiven.”

“Forgiven!” The girl looked up with a proud glance in her eyes. “Mother, I am ashamed to have thought so much about such a little thing. It was all kindness and good-nature on his part to save me from disappointment, and see how I returned it! When he wanted to explain, we would not even listen, or allow him the opportunity of setting himself right. And now,” she added passionately, “he comes and saves our lives, and so he is to be forgiven! Mother, you don’t mean that!”

Mrs Lascelles felt more surprise than she showed. In the vehemence of her speaking, Kitty had started up, and her mother laid her hand on her arm and drew her down again to her side. She spoke very quietly; no one knew what a sharp pang preceded her words.

“My dear,” she said, smiling—“my dear, how long have you felt this?”

Kitty looked at her.

“Ever since I knew that we had been unjust,” she said, simply. “I think, almost from the first.”

“Ah!” said Mrs Lascelles, slowly, and still smiling; “and that seems a long while ago, doesn’t it?” Then she stooped and kissed her. “God bless you, my Kitty,” she said, softly and earnestly.

The girl’s eyes brightened.

“Then, mother, you will thank him, and not talk any more about forgiving?”

“No; that is certainly past,” said Mrs Lascelles, still slowly; “and, as you say, I must thank him—as well as I can. I suppose,” she added, following a little irresistible impulse, “that the curé could have taken his place?”

“No,” said Kitty, earnestly, “no. Stevan told me himself that the curé had not the strength. ‘If it had not been for the English gentleman, mademoiselle, the boat might not have weathered it.’ Those were his very words.”

Oh, Stevan, Stevan, had he too fathomed that wonderful secret!

“Ah!” Mrs Lascelles said again; “that of course decides it.”

“Mother, you are sure you are not ill?” said the girl, anxiously.

There was a hesitation in her mother’s words which made her uneasy, so unlike was it to her usual prompt and brisk decision. But she shook off the question with more of her ordinary manner.

“Ill? Not in the least. It has been a little bewildering, that is all. The waves of the Atlantic do hit rather hard. I don’t see any bell; shall we go down and find out if the carriage is ready?”

But at this moment there arrived two massive white cups full of steaming coffee, and news that they might start whenever they wished. Everitt was waiting for them when they went down, and Mrs Lascelles went up to him at once.

“Kitty,” she said, cordially, “tells me I have been very ungrateful—indeed, that we have been ungrateful all through, at any rate now, when it appears we owe you our lives.”

He coloured.

“Your lives!” he repeated, in amazement.

“Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling; “and you mustn’t say it’s nothing, because at this moment it seems to me a very great deal.”

“But there is a great mistake. Who could have told you anything so preposterous? I am much obliged to you for finding myself on the right side of the water.”

“Well,” she said, “we will each keep our private views on the matter. Now, tell me, what are you going to do?”

He hesitated.

“I am going to walk to Auray, and—take the train back to Paris.”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head; “we will drive you to Auray. You must sleep there, and to-morrow you can decide whether to go to Paris or to come with us to Quimper.”

“Do you mean that?” he asked, eagerly, speaking to her, but looking at Kitty.

“Yes,” said Mrs Lascelles, quietly. Nobody heard the little sigh which fell from her lips, and if she looked pale, they thought it was the result of the storm.

There is a charming, picturesque cheerfulness about Quimper. The storm of the preceding day had left the air clear and delicious; the sunset colouring fell very softly on the delicate cathedral spires, on the shallow brawling river, on the trees which bordered the broad promenade by its side. Numbers of people were standing or sitting about, but there were two for whom, all their lives long, the beauty of that sunset will never be equalled.

“We,” one of them was saying—“we will certainly live at Quimper,”—and then he wisely tempered his rashness—“for part of every year.”

“And you shall paint,” said she.

“And you shall be my model this time. It’s my turn,” he added, looking at her with a laugh. For Mrs Lascelles had heard his explanation, learnt how what began in thoughtless good-nature ended in sober earnest, and how Everitt had known nothing of their coming abroad, but, growing weary of Auvergne, had hurried down to the coast of Brittany, hoping to find an incitement to work. Instead of which he found—something else!

“How shall I explain to Bell and Mary?” cried Kitty.

“You need not. I wrote to Jack to-day, and that will do it all.”

“Already!” she said, with a blush.

He held her from him, and for a moment stood looking down into her sweet eyes.

“My darling,” he said, “I should like the whole world to know to-day how much I love you?”

The End.