“What was all that whistling about, Captain Cursiter?” asked Lady Dysart, with a certain vicarious severity.
Captain Cursiter seemed indisposed for discussion. “Mr. Hawkins was trying the whistle, I think,” he replied with equal severity.
“Oh, yes, Lady Dysart!” broke in Miss Hope-Drummond, apparently much amused; “Mr. Hawkins has nearly deafened us with that ridiculous whistle; they would go off down the lake, and when we called after them to ask where they were going, and told them they would be late for tea, they did nothing but whistle back at us in that absurd way.”
“Why? What? Who have gone? Whom do you mean by they?” Lady Dysart’s handsome eyes shone like stars as they roved in wide consternation from one speaker to another.
“Miss Fitzpatrick and Mr. Hawkins!” responded Miss Hope-Drummond with childlike gaiety; “we were all talking on the pier, and we suddenly heard them calling out ‘good-bye!’ And Mr. Hawkins said he couldn’t stop the boat, and off they went down the lake! I don’t know when we shall see them again.”
Lady Dysart’s feelings found vent in a long-drawn groan. “Not able to stop the boat! Oh, Captain Cursiter, is there any danger? Shall I send a boat after them? Oh, how I wish this house was in the Desert of Sahara, or that that intolerable lake was at the bottom of the sea!”
This was not the first time that Captain Cursiter had been called upon to calm Lady Dysart’s anxieties in connection with the lake, and he now unwillingly felt himself bound to assure her that Hawkins thoroughly understood the management of the Serpolette, that he would certainly be back in a few minutes, and that in any case, the lake was as calm as the conventional mill-pond. Inwardly he was cursing himself for having yielded to Hawkins in putting in to Bruff; he was furious with Francie for the vulgar liberties taken by her with the steam-whistle, an instrument employed by all true steam-launchers in the most abstemious way; and lastly, he was indignant with Hawkins for taking his boat without his permission, and leaving him here, as isolated from all means of escape, and as unprotected, as if his clothes had been stolen while he was bathing.
The party proceeded moodily into the house, and, as moodily, proceeded to partake of tea. It was just about the time that Mrs. Lambert was asking that nice, kind Miss Dysart for another cup of very weak tea—“Hog-wash, indeed, as Mr. Lambert calls it”—that the launch was sighted by her proprietor crossing the open space of water beyond Bruff Point, and heading for Lismoyle. Almost immediately afterwards Mrs. Lambert received the look from her husband which intimated that the time had arrived for her to take her departure, and some instinct told her that it would be advisable to relinquish the prospect of the second cup and to go at once.
If Mr. Lambert’s motive in hurrying back to Lismoyle was the hope of finding the steam-launch there, his sending along our friend the black mare, till her sleek sides were in a lather of foam, was unavailing. As he drove on to the quay the Serpolette was already steaming back to Bruff round the first of the miniature headlands that jagged the shore, and the good turkey-hen’s twitterings on the situation received even less attention than usual, as her lord pulled the mare’s head round and drove home to Rosemount.
The afternoon dragged wearily on at Bruff; Lady Dysart’s mood alternating between anger and fright as dinner-time came nearer and nearer and there was still no sign of the launch.