THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL"
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
VICTOR BRIDGES
AUTHOR OF "A ROGUE BY COMPULSION,"
"THE LADY FROM LONG ACRE," ETC.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1920
Copyright, 1920
by
VICTOR BRIDGES
To
COUSIN ROSE
I am indebted to the Editors of The Red Magazine, The Bystander, and to Messrs. C. Thomas & Co., for their kind permission to reproduce portions of this work.
V. B.
PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION
To offer a volume of short stories to the countrymen of Edgar Allan Poe and O. Henry is an operation which requires nerve. According to my publisher it also requires "a foreword" which I find, after consultation with the dictionary, is the same thing as a preface. Now to write a preface to one's own book seems to me about as embarrassing a task as any author can be asked to undertake. It is like standing outside the front door calling the attention of indifferent passers-by to the more attractive features of one's own house. They managed things better in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when for a comparative trifle some great artist like John Dryden was cheerfully prepared to furnish a flattering introduction to the work of any author on the simple understanding that he was not expected to read the volume in question.
Not possessing the pen of Dryden, and being additionally handicapped by the fact that I have read the accompanying stories, I find myself very much at a loss how to fulfil my publishers' request. Desperate situations demand desperate remedies, and I will, therefore, tell the truth. I wrote these stories in order to satisfy an inward craving—not for artistic expression, but for food and drink. I took a great deal of trouble over them, and if they are not good they are at least as good as I could make them. I should not, however, have had the audacity to offer them to the American public in book form, except for the fact that they have sold well and are continuing to sell well in England. The most curious phenomena occasionally repeat themselves, and it is with a wistful hope that something of the sort may occur in the present case that I venture to launch the Scandal on the time-honoured trail of Columbus.
VICTOR BRIDGES.
CHELSEA; LONDON,
January 2, 1920.
CONTENTS
[The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates]
The Cruise of the "Scandal"
"One must never forget," said George solemnly, "that rank has its duties as well as its privileges." I helped myself to another glass of champagne.
"What is it you want me to do?" I asked.
"I have no wish to dictate to you in any way," he answered. "I am merely offering you my advice. As your elder brother and the head of the family, I naturally take an interest in your career."
"Fire ahead," I replied gratefully. "I'm always ready to listen to wisdom, especially from a Cabinet Minister."
There was a short pause.
"Well, then," said George, taking a thoughtful pull at his cigar, "my advice is that you should accept this invitation from Lady Bulstrode, and make up your mind to settle down."
"To do what?" I asked in dismay.
"To settle down," repeated George, with some firmness. "If you are ever going to do anything with your life, it's quite time you started. You can't go wandering about the world in this aimless fashion for ever."
"But it isn't aimless, George," I protested. "I always have an excellent reason for going anywhere."
"And may I ask what your 'excellent reason' was for spending the whole of last year in the wilds of Kashmir?"
"I wanted to shoot a snow leopard," I said.
George shrugged his shoulders.
"Exactly what I mean. A year of your life thrown away on a frivolous piece of sport."
"Frivolous!" I echoed. "There's devilish little frivolity about shooting a snow leopard. You try it."
"Thank you," said George coldly. "I have something better to do with my time."
It was plain that he was getting a little huffy, and my conscience pricked me. With all his seriousness George is an excellent fellow.
"Look here, old son," I said. "Politics are all very well for you—you've got a turn for that sort of thing—but what on earth use should I be? I can't talk for nuts, and know rather less about the game than this cigar."
George frowned slightly.
"Politics," he observed, "are not a game, and with regard to your knowing nothing about them—I suppose you can learn. You have plenty of ability if you care to use it. Sir Henry Martin was telling me only yesterday that your paper about New Guinea in the Fortnightly was quoted by practically every witness at the Royal Commission.
"Good!" said I. "That must be why the editor wants me to write him something about Kashmir."
George nodded his head approvingly.
"I hope you will do so. Nowadays serious journalism is as good an introduction to a political career as you could possibly have. Besides, one would like to feel that all these years of wandering about have not been entirely wasted."
"Oh, they've not been wasted, George," I said. "I've enjoyed 'em enormously. The only thing is they've rather put me off what people call civilization. I can stand a couple of months of London, but I'm afraid I should get frightfully fed up if I stopped here much longer."
George leaned back in his chair and drummed lightly on the table with his fingers.
"That," he said, "is due to the fact that you have no steadying influence in your life. When you have once settled down to regular work, you will find that this unfortunate restlessness will disappear." Then he paused: "It would be a good thing if you were to get married," he added.
"What, on my income?" I exclaimed; for I knew George had rather spacious notions about the family dignity.
George nodded.
"There is no greater help for a rising politician than the right sort of wife," he remarked oracularly.
"My dear George," I said, "I don't want to grumble about the size of my income—it has always been ample for my simple tastes—but when it comes to marriage and living in London and being in Parliament, what the devil's the good of nine hundred pounds a year? Why, it wouldn't keep some women in frocks!"
"There are some women," replied George, "who can very well afford to pay for their own frocks."
I looked at him with surprise and pain.
"You are not doing anything so immoral as to suggest that I should marry for money?" I asked.
George carefully removed the ash from his cigar.
"To contract an alliance with a wealthy woman," he observed, "is not necessarily the same as what you are pleased to call marrying for money."
"No, George," I said. "I hope I'm sufficiently English to appreciate the difference."
"Besides," he went on, disregarding my interruption, "marriage must always be a matter of give and take. If a woman brings you a reasonable dowry, you, on the other hand, are able to offer her one of the oldest names in the country, an unimpeachable social position, and—er—a certain measure of youth and good looks."
I picked up one of the Savoy tablespoons, and contemplated my reflection in its highly polished surface. I can only conclude that it did not do me justice.
"That's all very well," I said; "but where does one find these gilded and easily pleased females?"
Again George's brow contracted.
"There are plenty of charming girls in society, who at the same time are by no means paupers. You are sure to find one or two at Grendon, for instance."
I put down the spoon slowly.
"Oh, ho!" said I. "Now I begin to understand. We are expected to combine business and pleasure this trip—eh?"
"If you mean to suggest that I have been talking the matter over with Lady Bulstrode," said George coldly, "you are quite mistaken. At the same time, I know she would be only too pleased to see you make a sensible marriage. She has often asked after you when you've been away, and when she heard you were in London she insisted on my sending her your address at once."
"Lady Bulstrode," I said, "is a dear old soul. I've always been in love with her ever since I was a kid at Strathmore and she used to ask me over to Grendon to shoot rabbits. By the way, who's living at Strathmore now?"
George looked at me a little suspiciously. I think he believed me guilty of trying to change the conversation.
"There's no one there at present," he replied, "except old Donald Ross and his wife. I want to sell the place if I can; it's no good to us."
"Oh, don't sell it," I protested. "It's the only one of our numerous family mansions I could ever stand." Then I paused. "I left a boat there last time I was in England," I added. "I wonder what's happened to it?"
"I should imagine it was there still," replied George.
I laughed, and finished my champagne.
"I wasn't suggesting you'd pawned it, George," I said.
A sense of humour not being my brother's strong point, this little pleasantry fell on stony ground.
"Aren't we wandering rather from the point?" he asked.
"Not a bit," I said, with some cheerfulness. "I was just thinking that if I'm booked to go to Grendon in ten days' time it's highly necessary that I should have a short holiday first. A smart country house-party bang on top of two months of London would just about finish me."
"Well?" said George, raising his eyebrows.
"Well, that's why I inquired about the boat," I finished. "I could just put in a week's sailing nicely, and write my paper for the Fortnightly at the same time."
George looked at me with a kind of pitying interest.
"Am I to understand that you intend sailing about the coast of Scotland for a week by yourself?"
I nodded.
"A certain amount of solitude," I observed, "is necessary for the production of great literature."
George shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose you are serious. Personally I should find it difficult to imagine anything less enjoyable, or anything less conducive to work."
"I shan't be sailing all the time," I explained. "I shall make a snug little base on Kerrin Island, and do my scribbling there."
"Kerrin Island!" repeated George incredulously. "Why, the place is deserted. No one has been there for years."
"Yes, they have, George," I said. "I spent a fortnight there last time I was home, and, what's more, I built myself a most superior hut. Unless some of the fisher-boys have been monkeying around, it ought to be as sound as ever. I took a lot of trouble over that hut."
At this point George, who had been consulting his watch, apparently decided that I had wasted quite enough of his time for the present.
"Well, please yourself," he said, beckoning the waiter with a peremptory wave of his hand. "So long as you go to Grendon I suppose that's all we can expect. I shall hope to hear soon, however, that you are adopting some really serious and permanent interest in life."
"If it should take the form of an heiress, George," I said, "I will wire you at once without fail."
* * * * * * *
Exactly two days after this sporting promise I found myself in the excellent company of the sea and the sky about three miles off the land, near Inverness. I was not alone. Sitting in the bows of the boat, and looking out with interest towards the approaching coast of Kerrin Island, was the most disreputable rough-haired terrier puppy that ever forced his society upon his betters. His name was Rufus, and he had been presented to me by Donald Ross. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he had presented himself, and that Donald, with the simple philosophy of his race, had merely acquiesced in the arrangement. For from the moment that I had arrived at Strathmore, Rufus had joyously but firmly adopted me as his new owner, and nothing short of prussic acid would, I think have terminated the engagement.
I must admit that I was glad of his society. Not that solitude had any terrors for me, but still a dog undoubtedly lends it a certain harmony that it otherwise lacks. One feels this more especially at meal-times.
Anyhow, there we were, Rufus and I, quite contented with each other's company, and thrusting our way merrily through the small white-capped waves that rose and sank in the brisk off-shore breeze. Although only a four-tonner, my little boat, the Scandal, was a rare sea-going craft, and the faithful Donald had looked after her with such honest care that the sails and rigging were as sound as on the day when I laid her up.
Dressed in an old pair of grey flannel trousers and a still older shirt, I must have cut almost as disreputable a figure as Rufus. George would have had a fit on the spot if he could have seen me, but I can't say that even this sombre reflection depressed me very much. Stowed away in the locker I had a large hamper from Harrods', a change of kit, a "Primus" stove, and a generous supply of baccy and books; and if a man can't be happy for a week on an outfit like that, all I can say is that I'm devilish sorry for him.
There are two places on the island where you can get a safe anchorage, one a small sheltered bay on the further side, and the other a kind of shallow estuary looking out towards Strathmore. I decided on the latter as being the nearer, and steered the Scandal towards the struggling growth of trees that half hid the entrance. I struck the channel all right first shot, and, running up the cove, came round head to wind and let down my anchor.
Rufus watched the proceedings with considerable interest. He evidently realized we were going ashore; for the moment I hauled alongside the tiny collapsible Berthon boat which we had been towing behind us, he jumped in hurriedly with a little yelp of approval, and sat down in the stern-sheets. Then he looked up at me and grinned.
I hesitated for a minute as to whether I should cart any of my stores ashore at once; then I decided that it would be better to land first and make certain that my hut was still in existence. Quite possibly it had been spirited away in the interval by some enterprising fisherman, and in that case I intended to make the tiny cabin of the Scandal my headquarters. I am not lazy, but there is a limit to one's enthusiasm for single-handed house-building.
A very few strokes brought us to the shore, which at this point consisted of a marshy stretch of saltings about twenty yards broad. I tugged the boat up out of the water, and, preceded by Rufus, who kept on looking round to see that there was not some dark plot to maroon him, I picked my way from tuft to tuft towards the edge of the wild, heather-covered down of which Kerrin Island is chiefly composed.
The whole place is only about half a mile wide, but one cannot see the hut until one is almost up to it, as it stands on the further side of the island under the shelter of some rising ground. I had built it there purposely, so that it should be invisible from the mainland.
Rufus reached it before I did. Rounding the base of the little hill, and coming suddenly into full view of it, I found him lying on the grass, contemplating his discovery with every symptom of surprised approval.
"Yes, my son," I said, "you may well look awe-struck. That superb edifice—" Then I stopped.
"Well, I'm hanged!" I added incredulously.
There, just to the right of the hut door, I had suddenly caught sight of a wood fire, crackling and blazing away in the most cheerful and unabashed fashion. I stared at it for a moment in amazement. Yes, it was a wood fire all right. There could be no doubt about that. And furthermore, sitting complacently amongst the flames, I perceived a large black kettle, from the spout of which little jets of steam were shooting up into the air.
"Rufus," I observed, "there is some cursed intruder here!"
Rufus looked thoughtfully at the kettle, and put his tongue out.
"Yes," I said sternly, "I've seen that, but if you imagine I am going to sell my birthright for a mess of pottage you're mistaken. Tea or no tea, out he comes!"
I strode across the intervening grass to the door of the hut, and rapped loudly with my knuckles. The result was unexpected. I heard a slight exclamation, accompanied almost simultaneously by the crash of falling china. Then, very clearly and earnestly, a rather sweet voice remarked "Damn!"
I turned to fly, but it was too late. There was a sound of quick footsteps, the door opened abruptly, and I found myself confronted by the prettiest girl I have ever seen in my life.
She was dressed in a short blue skirt, with a soft cream-coloured shirt, open at the neck. From under a red tam-o'-shanter her dark brown hair hung down her back in two long plaits, reaching just below her waist. As for her face—well, I always think a beautiful face is the most difficult thing to describe in the world, but if you can picture a Madonna turned wood nymph, and delightfully sunburned at that, you'll be somewhere around the mark.
For a moment her grey eyes contemplated me with calm surprise; then her gaze travelled to Rufus, who promptly sat up and wagged his tail.
"That," I explained, "is his manner of apologizing."
She turned back to me, and her lips parted in a frank smile.
"I expect," she said, "that I ought to be apologizing instead. This is not my island, as—as you probably know."
"It certainly isn't mine," I returned, "and you were here first."
"Very well," she said. "I'll accept the apology. After all, you've made me break a plate."
"Your nerves must be splendid," I said. "I should have broken a whole dinner-service."
She laughed cheerfully.
"It was silly of me to be startled, but somehow or other one doesn't expect afternoon visitors here." Then she paused. "I don't know whether you are a friend of the owner of the island," she added. "Indeed, I'm afraid I don't even know who he is."
"His name," I said, "is George. We are slightly acquainted."
"And did he build this hut?"
"No," I said proudly; "I did that."
She looked a little embarrassed.
"I really must apologize then," she said. "I'm afraid I've been making free with your property in the most unpardonable manner. I thought it was a kind of desert island."
"So it was," I said, "before you came—a most hopeless desert." Then I hesitated. "If you won't think me inquisitive," I went on, "may I ask how you managed to get here?"
She smiled.
"The same way that you did, I expect. My boat's round the bend there behind the trees." She pointed away to the left towards the small bay which formed the island's other anchorage. "It's only a three-tonner though," she added regretfully.
I looked at her with some interest.
"Are you accustomed to roam about the high sea single-handed in a three-ton boat?" I inquired.
"Oh, yes," she said. "Why not? After all, they are the easiest to handle."
"They are certainly the easiest to get drowned in," I replied.
She shrugged her shoulders. "One must take what one can get in this world. It's not my boat, you see. I only——"
She was interrupted by a violent hissing from the fire, which temporarily disappeared in a cloud of steam.
"Oh, dear!" she cried, in dismay. "There's the kettle boiled over. You'll excuse me a minute while I make tea, won't you?"
She dived into the hut, reappearing almost immediately with a brown earthenware teapot in her hand.
"You'll have a cup?" she asked, pausing for a moment on her way to the fire. "There ought to be enough for two, unless it's all boiled away."
"You're very forgiving," I said. "It's more than I deserve after making you break a plate."
"It's the least I can do," she retorted, "after jumping your hut like this."
She filled up the pot, and, coming back, placed it carefully on the stump of one of the trees which I had cut down when I built the place.
"This is the table," she said. "If you'll sit down on the grass and wait one minute, I'll bring the tea out."
The suggestion seemed a sound one, so I accepted it without protest. Whoever my hostess might be, she was certainly not lacking in self-possession, and I felt sure that if she had wanted any help she would have asked for it.
Selecting a comfortable place, I spread myself out on the grass, and Rufus, who had apparently been on a short tour of inspection, came up sideways and licked my boot.
"Rufus," I said, "we have struck a remarkable adventure."
He lay down and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
"We have discovered a mermaid, a sea-dryad, an island goddess," I went on. "In fact, I'm not at all sure that we haven't found Astarte herself."
He rolled slowly over on his back and pointed all four feet towards the sky.
"I'm glad to see," said I, "that you have a sense of reverence."
It was at this point that, heavily burdened with accessories, the goddess emerged from her retreat.
"I'm afraid it's a poor sort of tea," she said, as I jumped up to help her unload. "Do you mind a mug and condensed milk? They're all I've got to offer you."
"On a desert island," I said, "both a cup and a cow would be painfully out of place."
"Still," she laughed, "I think if I were going to be here long I'd give them a trial. They might get acclimatized."
"It's an interesting question," I said, "as to which of them would be broken first."
Taking her various burdens from her, I began to set them out in a half-circle round the teapot.
"If I'd known I was going to have a visitor," she said, "I'd have made some hot cakes. As it is, you'll have to be content with gingerbread and biscuits."
Then she sat down opposite me, and began to pour out tea. I watched her with a most pleasant curiosity. I have been in a good many parts of the world, and met some distinctly quaint people, but this beautiful girl, with her perfect self-possession and astounding absence of convention, baffled me completely. Who on earth could she be, and what was she doing on the island—my island—or, to be strictly accurate, George's island? That she was well educated—what I believe is known in refined circles as "a lady"—was of course obvious, but this only made the situation more puzzling than ever. I simply gave it up, and, accepting the cup of tea which she handed across, waited calmly for any further enlightenment that Fate might vouchsafe.
"You shall have your hut by six o'clock," she said, breaking a biscuit and offering half of it to Rufus. "I'll get my belongings on board directly after tea."
"I hope you won't do anything of the kind," I answered promptly. Then, feeling that my remark, though true and distinctly well intended, was perhaps a trifle obscure, I hastened to add: "I never use the hut when I come here. I always sleep on the Scandal."
"On the what?" she asked, opening her nice grey eyes.
"On my boat," I explained. "I call her the Scandal because she travels faster than anything else in Scotland."
Her eyes sparkled. "I wonder if she could beat the Penguin? That's my boat. I've only hired her, but she goes like a bird."
"Well, if you'll stay till tomorrow, we'll have a race," I said.
She clasped her hands. "It would be fun, wouldn't it?" Then she paused. "But I don't think I ought to," she added regretfully.
"Why not?" I asked. "Are you too proud to share an island?"
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling. "No, I'm not proud; but it would put me in rather an awkward position if somebody found out."
"Nobody will find out," I said reassuringly. "The only person who will ever know anything about it is Rufus, and he's a tactful dog—aren't you, my son?"
Rufus, who was sitting up in expectation of some more biscuits, gave a corroborative wag of his tail.
"Besides," I went on, "you ought to give me a chance of returning your hospitality. I was hoping you'd come and have breakfast with me on the Scandal to-morrow."
"Oh!" she said frankly, "I'd love to. Please don't think I'm being silly about it, but I really have to be careful what I'm doing. You see, I'm not supposed to be here at all."
"Of course not," I said. "In fact, I don't believe you are here. Things like this don't happen in real life. I shall wake up in a minute and find you were just a delightful dream."
She laughed merrily. "Well, have some more tea first," she suggested, holding out the pot.
I waited until she had filled the cup, and then I asked her a question.
"Now, I want you to tell me the truth," I said. "If I hadn't come blundering in here, how long were you going to stay on the island?"
She hesitated for a moment.
"The truth!" I repeated firmly.
"Another three days," she admitted. "I have to be back on Friday."
"Well," I said, "if you don't stay those three days, I shall never forgive myself. I really don't want to use either the hut or the island, on my honour. I've got my anchorage, and we shan't be in each other's way. In fact, you needn't see me at all if you don't want to."
"But you've just asked me to breakfast," she objected. "You're not trying to back out of it now, are you?"
"Then you'll stay!" I cried joyfully.
Her eyes twinkled.
"I might," she said, "if you can really guarantee the discretion of Rufus."
I drank up three-quarters of my tea, and poured out the rest as a libation.
"It just occurs to me," I said, "that I haven't introduced myself."
She made a quick, protesting gesture with her hand.
"Don't then," she said, smiling. "Let's stop just as we are. It will be much jollier if we know nothing about each other, and Rufus can't betray us then, even if he wants to."
"But we've christened you already," I objected. "We've decided that you must be Astarte. I think she was the lady who came out of the sea foam, wasn't she?"
Astarte made me a little mocking bow.
"You pay compliments very prettily," she said. "I shall call you Stephen."
"Why Stephen?" I inquired.
She jumped up smiling, and brushed some crumbs from her skirt.
"You're shockingly ignorant of English history. Don't you remember that Stephen followed Rufus?"
I shook my head.
"Your wisdom leaves me breathless," I said. "I can't go further back than Victoria myself."
She laughed.
"Well, if I didn't know that, I shouldn't be much——" Then she suddenly stopped.
"You wouldn't be much what?" I asked.
"Never mind," she said. "Let's put these things away, and then I'll take you down and show you the Penguin. I'd like to know what you think of her."
* * * * * * *
To describe the next few days would be rather like trying to recapture some strange, delightful dream after one has woken up. I only know that the time hurried away at that absurd and unnecessary pace which Providence seems to reserve for the more charming moments of life. Of course, our surroundings were not unfavourable to romance; but, apart from that, Astarte was one of those fragrant people who have the power of throwing a kind of happy glamour over everything. Underneath all her self-possession and efficiency she had the heart of a frank and joyous child.
I shall never forget her delight when she helped me unpack Harrods' hamper on the first morning, and dragged out the various delicacies those thoughtful gentlemen had provided me with.
"Well, you're the sort of person I like to be asked to breakfast by," she laughed, dumping them down one after another. "A tongue, cold chicken, paté de foie gras, champagne, cigars. Oh, Stephen, you are greedy! Do you always look after yourself like this when you go exploring?"
"I lived for a month once on dried apricots and snow," I returned; "but I don't do that sort of thing from choice. Besides," I added recklessly, "I had a sort of feeling I was going to meet you."
She held up a reproving finger.
"You're not ashore now," she said, smiling; "and no sailor should tell fibs at sea."
"Have you been reading Kipling's Brass-bound Man?" I asked.
"No," she said simply. "My father told me that."
And this, I think, was the only occasion in all the three days in which she volunteered any information about herself or her life apart from Kerrin Island.
It must be admitted that we had plenty of time for exchanging confidences had we wished to, Our day started at about 9 A.M., when, after an early morning dip, Rufus and I would pull off to the shore in the dinghy and meet Astarte, who had walked over from the hut.
Breakfast followed, a merry, easy meal, lasting about an hour and a half, after which I would sail the Scandal round to the farther anchorage; while my guest, in the teeth of all polite convention, cheerfully washed up the cups and plates.
Then came the great event of the day, our race round the island for the Kerrin Cup.
This trophy had been presented by Astarte herself on the morning after my arrival. She had brought it over to breakfast with her—a painful atrocity in green and white and gold, bearing a purple label announcing that it was "A present from Strathpeffer."
"We must have a prize, you see," she had explained; "and I've been wanting to get rid of this ever since I stole it."
"It's hardly an inducement to pulling out one's best sailing," I objected, eyeing it with a slight shudder.
All the same, we most decidedly did pull out our best sailing; and the Kerrin Cup changed hands with spirited frequency. Astarte won it the first day, I wrested it from her on the second, only, however, to lose it finally and for good on the last morning. She sailed her little three-tonner with wonderful skill and daring; and, seasoned as I am at handling small boats, I found I was up against an opponent whose education was every bit as complete as my own.
It was all very jolly, but I think the evenings were the best part. We always had supper outside the hut, to which I had transferred about half the contents of my hamper. With the aid of these and Astarte's dazzling skill with the "Primus," we used to fare as sumptuously as Dives, and I warrant with much better appetite than that hardly treated capitalist.
And when supper was over, and the things washed up, we would lie round the wood fire that we always made and discuss the morning's race, and sailing generally, and any other pleasing topic that happened to roll up.
And later on, when we had exchanged enough wisdom, we used to sing songs to each other, accompanying ourselves on the banjo which a thoughtful Providence had inspired me to ship on board the Scandal. My own repertoire is confined to strenuous efforts such as Rolling Down to Rio and Drake's Drum. But Astarte had a charming voice—a deep, sorrowful contralto—and she used to sing sad little songs about love and death, which always seem to me the two best things to make music out of. Besides, they were in such delightful contrast to her own splendid joy in life.
It was only on the night before she went away that I found out how fond I was of her. She was lying on the grass, her chin in her hand, and her grey eyes staring thoughtfully into the fire, as she listened to my description of some impossible place in the ends of the earth which I had once visited. Anything about the ends of the earth seemed to appeal to her with peculiar force.
In the middle of my story it suddenly struck me with an abrupt and painful sense of desolation that on the following evening she would not be there. I went on talking, but somehow or other all the interest and colour had died out of my yarn, and I finished as lamely as George making one of his official excuses for the Government.
For a moment or two she looked at me without speaking. Then she sat up.
"What's the matter, Stephen?" she asked, pushing her hair back from her eyes.
"Nothing just now," I said. "I was wondering what Rufus and I were going to do to-morrow."
"You must do that mysterious work you were talking about. You haven't begun it yet; and it's all my fault."
"But I can't work when I feel lonely," I objected.
"Two days ago," she said, "you told me a desert island was the only place you could write in."
"Yes," I said; "but I was younger then, and not so experienced."
She laughed—that low, sweet laugh of hers that always reminded me of deep water. Then she leaned forward again, and a sudden flicker of the fire fit up her eyes and hair, and showed me the soft curve of her lips. She looked so utterly adorable that for a moment I as nearly as possible forgot the rules. It was only with a big effort that I crushed back a sudden wild impulse to take her in my arms.
As it was I jumped up, just a little abruptly.
"Astarte," I said, "it's time you went to bed. All good sailors turn in early the night before a voyage."
She looked up at me for a second with a grave, almost a wistful expression. Then she held out her hand.
"You're right, Stephen," she said. "Good-night."
I bent down, and very lightly I kissed the tips of her fingers.
* * * * * * *
Midday the next morning found me, with Rufus by my side, standing in sombre isolation on the extremest promontory of the island. Three miles away the Penguin, now merely a white speck on the water was just rounding the big bluff of Strathmore Head.
"She's gone, my dog," I said, "she's gone!" Rufus looked out to sea and whined dismally.
"Yes," I said; "that's exactly how I feel. But it won't bring her back."
He threw up his head and howled.
"That's no use, either!" I added bitterly. "If it was I should do it myself."
Then, with a last glance seawards, I turned round, and, followed by a very depressed puppy, I made my way slowly across the saltings to where the Scandal was at anchor.
I forget who first launched the theory that work was a successful anodyne for baffled love. Anyway, I can bear personal witness that he was mistaken. No one has ever worked much harder than I did during my remaining three days on the island, and no one has ever been more persistently haunted by the vision of an absent face. I wrote the whole of my article for the Fortnightly—thirteen solid, chunky pages all about Kashmir—and at the end of it I found that I was even fonder of Astarte than when she had left the island.
"This is the mischief," I observed to Rufus. "What are we going to do about it, my dog?"
Rufus wagged his tail and looked immensely sympathetic, but beyond that he made no attempt to help.
"We must find her, Rufus," I went on. "We must find her, even if we have to spend the rest of our lives wandering about Scotland."
There was a short pause while we both contemplated this appalling possibility. Then, with a deep sigh, Rufus twisted himself round and began to scratch his ear.
I watched him gloomily, wondering what was the best way of setting to work. If I had only had some due, however vague, I could at least have followed it up; but Astarte had gone away from me leaving herself as much a mystery as ever.
Apart from sheer luck, my only chance of finding her seemed to lie in tracing the Penguin. She had told me she had hired the latter, but when and from whom were matters of which I knew nothing. Still, a boat is a boat, and any yachtsman or yacht-hand about the coast would probably be acquainted with the little three-tonner, at all events by reputation. Of course, even then it by no means followed that I should be very much forrader, for, granted that the owner knew all about Astarte, he might quite conceivably see no reason for confiding in me.
It was a pretty little problem, and after pondering over it all ends up I eventually decided that the best thing to do at the moment was to go on to Grendon, as I had originally arranged. In the first place, I couldn't get out of the visit now without appearing rather rude; and, secondly, I was just as likely to pick up some information about the Penguin there as I was anywhere else. Besides I very much wanted to see old Lady Bulstrode. She had always been nice to me when I was a boy, and she was almost the only one of our family friends who was not a confounded prig.
So on the Saturday morning, after fastening up the hut, I came back on board the Scandal and pulled up my anchor for the last time. I couldn't help feeling rather sad as we sailed down the little estuary and turned our backs on the island, but Rufus, with the callousness of extreme youth, appeared to be in the best of spirits. Anyhow—he stood up in the bows and barked at the seagulls with a vigour that suggested an entire lack of any decent sentiment.
His only excuse for such disgraceful cheerfulness was the weather. It was an ideal September morning, all blue and gold, with a nice breeze off the sea, and that faint delicious crispness in the air that almost reconciles one to the death of summer.
The Scandal, with every bit of sail she could carry, leaped merrily through the water, revelling in her job like the gallant little boat she was. Even my own depression was not quite proof against such joyous influences, and by the time we ran alongside the Strathmore landing-stage I had as nearly as possible recovered my usual serenity. As medicine for a disordered heart, I'll back the sea against literature any day in the week.
Grendon, Lady Bulstrode's place, is only about twenty miles from Strathmore as the crow flies, but when one is hampered with a fortnight's luggage and a dog, a crow is devilish little use as a means of conveyance. A motor would have been by far my easiest method of getting there, but George had not suggested lending me his, and it was impossible to hire one nearer than Rothnairn.
So after changing into the garments of civilization and collecting my traps, which I had left with Donald Ross, I was driven to jogging eight miles in the latter's open trap, and picking up the local Highland railway at Craigmuir. This abandoned me late in the afternoon at a little wayside station some six miles from Grendon, where I had wired to be met.
The Bulstrode family turn-out, with its magnificent red wheels, black horses, and orange livery, was waiting there in answer to my summons. Rufus and I got in amid a general touching of hats, and, reclining comfortably on the cushions, rolled noiselessly off through the magnificent Highland scenery. For the first time I began to fear that Rufus was a bit of a snob. The languid hauteur with which he acknowledged the subservience of the staff was worthy of a newly ennobled lawyer.
It was just six o'clock when we turned in at the lodge gates of Grendon and drove up the long avenue of fir trees. I was received at the hall door by the butler—a delightful old man whom I remembered perfectly well from the days of my boyish visits.
With the charming candour of an ancient retainer, he at once began to comment on my appearance.
"Eh, Master Guy, but you've grown, sir!" he remarked in an approving voice.
"It's quite possible, Parkes," I said cheerfully; "especially as I was only fourteen when I was here last."
"Fair grown out of all knowledge," he repeated, looking at me with his head on one side. "And brown, too, though you were always a one for getting sunburnt, Master Guy."
"I've not lost any of my bad habits, Parkes," I replied. "Where's Lady Bulstrode?"
"Her leddyship's upstairs in her own room. I'm to bring you straight up to her, sir."
"Lead on, then, Macduff!" I said, smiling, and, tossing my cap on to the table, I followed the old man through the big hall with its innumerable weapons and stags' heads and up the broad stone staircase that led to the gallery above.
He stopped outside the door and tapped gently:
"Come in," called out a decisive voice, and, turning the handle, Parkes stepped forward.
"Master Guy, milady," said he, as though I were about fourteen, and just come home for the holidays.
Lady Bulstrode, who had been writing letters, jumped up with surprising alacrity.
"My dear boy!" she said, taking my hand in both of hers. "My dear boy! I am so pleased to see you!"
She looked just as she did when I had seen her last in London, five years before—old, shrewd, and kindly, with the same twinkling black eyes, and, unless I am much mistaken, precisely the same wig.
"It's charming of you to remember me at all," I said. "Parkes tells me I've grown so big and black that no one would know me."
Parkes, who was still standing by the door, made a kind of expostulating murmur, and Lady Bulstrode, with a laugh, pushed me gently backwards into a chair.
"Sit down!" she said. "Sit down and let me have a good look at you." Then, turning to Parkes, she added: "Bring the whisky and soda up here, Parkes. I am sure Mr. Guy would like a drink after his travels."
As the old man went out, Rufus, who up till then had been keeping modestly in the background, apparently decided that it was time he introduced himself. Anyhow, he came squirming out from under the sofa and sat down with much tail-wagging, in the middle of the room.
"I couldn't help bringing him," I explained apologetically. "He adopted me at Strathmore last week, and his motto seems to be the same as Ruth's, 'Where thou goest I will go.' Do you mind dogs in the house?"
"I mind nothing," said Lady Bulstrode, "except rheumatism and travelling third-class. Come here, boy!"
She held out a hand to Rufus, who crawled up and seated himself carefully with his back against her skirt.
"George told me you were in these parts," she went on; "or, as he put it, 'pigging it upon some absurd island off Strathmore.'"
"Dear George!" I said. "He has all the simple candour of a British statesman."
"He has quite a high opinion of you," returned Lady Bulstrode, "though he thinks you're a little mad."
"He's probably right. Anyhow, I'm very thirsty," I replied, as the door opened and Parkes came in with the whisky.
I mixed myself a long drink and, at Lady Bulstrode's command, lighted a cigarette.
"I had a talk with George the other day," I said, when the door closed behind us again. "He thinks it's quite time I settled down."
"What do you think about it?" asked Lady Bulstrode.
"That doesn't matter," I said—"at least, not to George."
My hostess smiled.
"Still, even unimportant things are sometimes interesting."
"I think," said I, "that one Cabinet Minister in the family is quite enough."
"Ample," agreed Lady Bulstrode hastily; "but, after all, there are plenty of other openings in life for an energetic and honest young man."
"Yes," I said, "and I've found mine. So long as my nine hundred pounds a year lasts, and I can live on the workers, I'm quite content to go on tramping round the world—especially if editors will pay me for scribbling about it. I'm a born loafer, and I suppose when the world is properly organized I shall be locked up in a labour colony."
"At least you'll be in good company," said Lady Bulstrode, "though I think you make yourself out worse than you are," she added.
"No," I said. "Mine is a useless life. I've never had any illusions on the point. If I had, George would have shattered them long ago."
"George," she returned, "is too serious to live. I tried to get him up here for a few days, and he said things were so bad at Westminster that he couldn't be spared. Those were his actual words."
I nodded.
"They would be. There's no bally mock modesty about George! Who is here, by the way?"
"Well, there's no one at the present moment except Alan's two children and old Mrs. Fawcett. I have got a regular smart house-party coming for you to-morrow, though."
She looked at me mischievously.
"Go on," I said; "I can bear it."
"There's Miss Faversham and her mother"—she began to tick them off on her fingers—"a good-looking girl, lots of money; her father is the big contractor, Faversham and Kent, you know. Then there are the Gordons—the K.C. and his wife; and the McCullochs from Innestair—another pretty girl there; and Raymond Sturgis—he's a sort of cousin of yours; and old Lord Pembery and——"
"Great Scott!" I interrupted. "Do you mean they're all coming in a bunch?"
"More or less. They will be here to dinner, anyhow. I shall want you to play host, Guy."
I groaned.
"Oh, it will do you good," she went on ruthlessly. "You shall have Miss Faversham on one side and the McCulloch girl on the other."
"If you're going to use threats—" I began with some dignity.
A sudden tap at the door interrupted me.
"Come in!" called out Lady Bulstrode.
I looked up, casually expecting Parkes, and for one radiant, blinding moment I thought I'd gone mad.
Standing in the doorway was Astarte. She was dressed in a plain black evening frock, and the plaits of brown hair no longer hung down her back. But I knew her—knew her as instantly and surely as I should know the sun or the stars.
So did Rufus. With one loud yell of joy he leapt to his feet and hurled himself upon her in wild and vociferous delight.
"Bless my soul!" remarked Lady Bulstrode.
"Rufus!" I said, with a tremendous effort, "control yourself!"
Astarte picked him up in her arms, and with a couple of pats soothed him into something like sanity. She was plainly as amazed as I was, and I could see her breast rising and falling rapidly as she looked first at me and then at Lady Bulstrode. When she spoke, however, it was in her usual delightfully calm manner.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I thought you were alone."
"My dear Grace," said Lady Bulstrode, fanning herself gently, "do all dogs take to you like that?"
Astarte put Rufus down with a little laugh.
"Only well-bred ones," she said.
"Well, let me introduce you both. This is Guy Heathcote, Grace; I've often talked to you about him. Guy, this is my friend, Miss Grace Conway."
I bowed.
"I don't know how to apologize for Rufus," I said. "I can only think you must be like someone he knows."
"I expect I am," she answered with delightful frankness. Then, turning to Lady Bulstrode, she added, "I came to bring you your change. Here it is—four pound ten." And she put down a little pile of gold on the desk.
"Did the mare go all right?"
She nodded.
"Oh, yes, we went in and out in great style, and the children enjoyed themselves enormously. I mustn't stop to talk now, though. I've promised to tell them a story before dinner, and they won't go to sleep if I disappoint them. You shall hear all about our adventures later."
She smiled—that dear, merry smile I knew so well—and the next moment she had gone.
There was a short pause. Then I took a deep steadying breath.
"Who is that beautiful thing?" I asked.
"That," said Lady Bulstrode with some pride, "is my governess."
"Your governess!" I repeated. "What does she teach you?"
Lady Bulstrode chuckled.
"Well, when I say my governess, I am speaking as a grandmother. She is supposed to be looking after Alan's children, though as a matter of fact she looks after me just as much. I don't know what I should do without Grace."
I glanced at her with some sympathy.
"And how did you find Grace?" I asked.
Lady Bulstrode shivered slightly.
"Don't, Guy," she said; "it reminds me of our local 'minister'—a dreadful person. Grace is the daughter of the only man I ever loved—poor Jack Conway."
"What, the explorer?" I said.
She nodded.
"When he fell down that stupid cliff and killed himself, he left Grace absolutely unprovided for. It was just like poor Jack—a dear, delightful man, but quite hopeless about anything to do with money. I don't suppose he'd ever thought what would happen to Grace if he died. He took her away from school when she was about sixteen, and for the last three years before he was killed they'd been wandering about the world together in that absurd little ship of his, just as if she'd been a boy."
"Ah!" I said thoughtfully, for I was beginning to "smell land," as sailors put it.
"You see," went on Lady Bulstrode, "all Jack's income, such as it was, died with him, and there was nothing left for Grace except the copyright of his books. Well, goodness knows Grace isn't a girl who wants luxuries, but, all the same, you can't live on three volumes of travels, even if they have been praised by the Royal Geographical Society."
"It sounds rather indigestible," I admitted.
"And so," finished Lady Bulstrode triumphantly, "I persuaded her to come to me and help me look after Alan's children. Of course, she's much too good to be a governess all her life, but I mean to marry her to the first nice rich man who's got the sense to appreciate her. I've got one in my mind's eye now."
I suddenly conceived a violent dislike for this promisingly placed gentleman.
"I shouldn't think it would be difficult to fall in love with her," I remarked casually, "unless one has a rooted objection to girls being sunburned."
Lady Bulstrode laughed.
"Oh, most of that will wear off—she has just been for her holiday, staying with some old school friends, and sailing about the coast, and living in the open air. I told her she'd ruined her complexion, but I don't think she worries her head about that kind of thing. She's a born gipsy, just like her father."
The booming sound of a gong from the hall interrupted our conversation. Glancing at the clock, Lady Bulstrode got up from her chair.
"Come along, Guy," she said; "that's the dressing-bell. I will take you up to your room, and then you can tell me if there's anything you want."
Closely followed by Rufus, who was obviously determined not to lose sight of me in this strange establishment, I accompanied my hostess along one side of the gallery, and up a small flight of stairs which led to a couple of doors.
"Here we are!" she said, opening the one on the left hand. "It's Alan's old room. I hope you'll be comfortable, Guy."
I glanced round the big, splendidly furnished apartment, and saw that my things were all unpacked and laid out ready for use. My eyes took in the thick Turkey carpet, the deep easy chairs, and the luxurious brass bedstead.
I looked up with a smile.
"I think I can rough it here for a night or so," I said. "I'm used to hardships."
Lady Bulstrode laughed again, and, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, left me to my toilet—and my reflections.
I could have desired no better company than the latter. Indeed, my first impulse on finding myself alone was to indulge in a kind of sacramental joy-dance round the room; but the thought that there might be someone underneath was sufficient to restrain my ardour. So I contented myself with going up to Rufus, who had jumped on to one of the chairs, and warmly shaking him by the paw.
"Rufus," I said, "we've found her—found her first shot! Who says there's no such thing as Destiny?"
Rufus licked my hand, and then looked up as though to convey his congratulations.
"We'll run no more risks," I went on. "We won't let her sail away this time, eh, my dog?" Then I paused. "Why, damn it, Rufus," I added, "you're sitting on my dress-coat! Get off it, confound you!"
He jumped down hastily in some apprehension, but I was feeling far too cheerful to be annoyed. When you have just found the woman you love, even the spectacle of your dress-coat being used as a door-mat fails to arouse any serious resentment.
While I changed I reflected pleasantly upon what I would say to Astarte. It was evident that she had told Lady Bulstrode little or nothing about her holiday; and I was glad to feel that the whole of those delicious three days was still a secret between us. One thing I was determined about, and that was that, if she was under any misapprehension as to my feelings towards her, it should be swiftly and effectively removed. On the island I had been handicapped, for any departure from the jolly fiction that we were just casual pals would have spoilt everything. Here, however, there was no such barrier. We were meeting on level terms, and it would not be my fault if Astarte remained in any doubt as to how much I loved her. I went downstairs feeling what a journalist would call "agreeably elated."
Dinner passed off in a very cheerful fashion. Even the most sombre person would find it difficult to be dull with dear old Lady Bulstrode, and sombreness was not a vice from which any of us suffered acutely. Astarte, who had quite recovered her usual self-possession, talked away with all her customary good spirits and humour. She told us about her afternoon's adventures with the children—two little girls of five and seven, to whom she seemed devoted—and discussed and described the coming house-party, most of whom had apparently been there the previous year. Like Lady Bulstrode, she seemed to entertain a high opinion of the beauty and charms of Miss Faversham and Miss McCulloch.
I kept up my end with a few picturesque details about the ends of the earth which I still had left over from our conversations on the island; and Mrs. Fawcett, a charming old white-haired lady, with a peculiarly sweet smile, gave us some delicious reminiscences of the late Queen Victoria at Balmoral, near which historic spot she herself resided.
Afterwards we all adjourned to the big, rambling, book-lined apartment which served a kind of triple function as a library, a billiard-room, and a smoking lounge. Here, with the stimulus of coffee and cigarettes, we continued to talk until about half-past nine, when Lady Bulstrode got up from her chair.
"I am going to bed, Guy," she said. "These good people are sure to keep me up to the most scandalous hours all next week, and I mean to get some beauty sleep while I have the chance. I am growing too old for prolonged dissipation."
"So am I, Mary," chimed in Mrs. Fawcett. "I shall come with you."
"I don't want to drag you off, Grace, unless you're sleepy," went on Lady Bulstrode, turning to Astarte. "Perhaps you'll stop and play Guy a game of billiards."
"Yes, please do, Miss Conway," I said. "It's against my principles to turn in before ten, and I shall be frightfully lonely if you desert me too."
"Very well," said Astarte quietly; "but I expect you're too strong for me."
Lady Bulstrode accepted the candle I offered her.
"Don't you believe her, Guy," she said. "Grace is a sort of female John Roberts. She beats all the men we have here."
"Mine will be an easy scalp, then," I returned. "I haven't touched a cue for two years."
"I am sorry for you," said Mrs. Fawcett kindly. "Good-night."
"Good-night," I replied, opening the door. "At least one can die gracefully."
For a moment after they had gone out we both stood silent and still. Then I closed the door, and came up to where Astarte was standing under the big lamp.
"My dear," I said. "Oh, my dear!" And taking her hands, I gazed steadily and happily into her wide grey eyes. She made no attempt to release herself.
"It just shows," she said, "that you can't play tricks with life. I thought that for once we'd managed to break the rules without being noticed."
"What does it matter?" I retorted. "I have found you now, and I'm not going to lose you again. Oh, Astarte, if you only knew how I've missed you!"
"Dear Stephen," she said gently. Then she released her hands, and put them behind her back. "I want to make things quite clear," she added. "It's all one can do now."
"Go on," I said encouragingly.
"I suppose Lady Bulstrode has told you who I am?"
I nodded.
"Well, in a way that explains everything. You see, I spent three years with father before he was killed, and the whole of that time we were either sailing about in the Hyacinth, or else making little expeditions into places like Patagonia or New Guinea. You can imagine what effect a life like that would have on a girl of seventeen. By the time I was twenty I'd almost forgotten that there was any other way of living except in a ship or in a tent. As for wanting anything else," she shrugged her shoulders, "I don't suppose two people have ever been happier together than father and I were."
For a moment she paused.
"Then," she went on, a little wearily, "he was killed. I can't tell you what that time meant to me. You see, somehow or other I had never thought of life without him. He was so strong and brave and splendid, it seemed impossible that he could die like other people. I was trying to think things out, trying to make up my mind what to do, when Lady Bulstrode wrote to me and asked me to come here. So I came, and here I've been ever since."
"And you've been—been happy?" I asked, for want of a better word.
"Oh, yes. Who could help being happy with Lady Bulstrode? She's the dearest, kindest, jolliest soul in the world, and I owe everything to her. Still, as you see, I don't always tell her the whole truth."
"No intelligent person ever tells the whole truth," I said reassuringly. "Half of it is quite enough, as a rule."
"I thought it was—about my holiday. You see, Lady Bulstrode would have been miserable if she had known that I had hired a boat and was camping out on an island by myself! Of course, it does sound rather a mad proceeding. But after wandering about with father all that time, I've got a sort of craving for the wilds, and now and then it gets so strong I simply can't resist it."
"I know, Astarte," I said. "I know."
"After all, there was no harm in it," she went on. "If you and Rufus hadn't turned up, no one would ever have been any the wiser. That did complicate matters."
"You make me feel like one of George's official explanations," I protested. "I'd have gone, you know, if you'd insisted on it."
She nodded.
"I didn't want you to go a bit. I was awfully glad to have someone to play with. You see, I thought I should never see you again, and that it wouldn't matter. You can imagine what I felt like when I found you were Mr. Heathcote."
"No," I said. "I wish I could. If it was anything like as——"
"I suppose George is your brother—Lord Mapleton?" she interrupted hastily.
"You're right," I replied. "Though George wouldn't be pleased at your way of putting it."
She made a pretty little gesture with her hands.
"Well," she said, "it can't be helped." Then she looked up smiling. "We must just forget all about it," she added.
I shook my head.
"I don't think we can do that," I answered. "You see, I want to go to Kerrin Island for part of our honeymoon."
She made a slight movement, but I went on without giving her time to speak.
"My dear heart," I said, "do you imagine that I'm going to let you go again unless you absolutely send me away from you?"
Coming up to her, I took her two hands, and, lifting them up to my lips, kissed them alternately.
She looked down on me with something very like tears in her eyes.
"You're a dear, Stephen," she said softly, "you're a dear; but—but it can't be."
"And why not?" I demanded.
"Oh," she said pitifully. Then, with an effort: "You see, I don't love you, Stephen."
I looked steadily into her eyes.
"That's not true," I said calmly. "I think we'll tell each other the truth, dear, whatever it is."
"Very well." She drew herself up, and her gaze met mine frankly and unflinchingly. "I do love you, Stephen," she said, "but I'm not going to marry you, because I know all about you."
"I'm sorry for that," I said. "It's certainly enough to prejudice any one."
She smiled a wan little smile.
"Oh, my dear, I didn't mean anything unkind. I only meant that Lady Bulstrode has told me all about your career and your ambitions, and how necessary it is you should marry a rich woman. Do you think I'm going to spoil your life because I'm fond of you?"
"No, I don't," I returned, "but I think you would if I gave you half a chance." Then I paused. "As it is," I went on, "I shall simply buy a marriage licence and a good second-hand thirty-ton boat, and come and carry you off by force."
"I won't, Stephen—I won't. I'm simply not going to ruin your career for you."
"My career!" I echoed. "Do you imagine I want to be a politician? Do you think I want to sit on a stuffy green bench and listen to people like dear old George, when I can sail the blue seas and love you?"
"It certainly does sound more attractive," she admitted weakly.
"Of course it is," I said. "It was what we were created for. We'll simply take up life where you left it off when your father died. I'll buy that boat, and we'll wander about the world just as we please for a thousand years, and we'll love each other like the sea loves the wind and the night loves the stars."
I stopped for breath, and, with shining eyes. Astarte leaned forward.
"My Stephen," she said, "you make it very hard."
I took her in my arms and kissed her dear, soft, half-open lips.
"Well," I asked softly, "have you anything else to say, Astarte, before we play billiards?"
She looked up, and I saw the old, delicious smile breaking through her tears.
"Only that I was right after all," she whispered. "I said you were too strong for me, Stephen."