“Now I’m delaying you in a most unwarrantable way,” said Charlotte, noting and interpreting the action at once, “but I got so hot and tired running about the woods that I had to take a rest. I was trying to get a chance to say a word to your sister about Francie to ask her to be kind to her, but I daresay it’ll come to the same thing now that I’ve had a chat with you,” she concluded, rising from her seat and smiling with luscious affability.
A little below the pond two great rocks leaned towards each other, and between them a hawthorn bush had pressed itself up to the light. Something like a path was trodden round the rocks, and a few rags impaled on the spikes of the thorn bush denoted that it marked the place of a holy well. Conspicuous among these votive offerings were two white rags, new and spotless, and altogether out of keeping with the scraps of red flannel and dirty frieze that had been left by the faithful in lieu of visiting cards for the patron saint of the shrine. Christopher and Charlotte’s way led them within a few yards of the spot; the latter’s curiosity induced her, as she passed, to examine the last contributions to the thorn bush.
“I wonder who has been tearing up their best pocket-handkerchiefs for a wish?” said Christopher, putting up his eye-glass and peering at the rags.
“Two bigger fools than the rest of them, I suppose,” said Miss Mullen shortly; “we’d better hurry on now, Mr. Dysart, or we’ll get no tea.”
She swept Christopher in front of her along the narrow path before he had time to see that the last two pilgrims had determined that the saint should make no mistake about their identity, and had struck upon the thorn bush the corners of their handkerchiefs, one of them, a silken triangle, having on it the initials G. H., while on the other was a large and evidently home-embroidered F.
CHAPTER XIV.
Late that afternoon, when the sun was beginning to stoop to the west, a wind came creeping down from somewhere back of the mountains, and began to stretch tentative cats’ paws over the lake. It had pushed before it across the Atlantic a soft mass of orange-coloured cloud, that caught the sun’s lowered rays, and spread them in a mellow glare over everything. The lake turned to a coarse and furious blue; all the rocks and tree stems became like red gold, and the polished brass top of the funnel of the steam-launch looked as if it were on fire as Captain Cursiter turned the Serpolette’s sharp snout to the wind, and steamed at full speed round Ochery Point. The yacht had started half an hour before on her tedious zig-zag journey home, and was already far down to the right, her sails all aglow as she leaned aslant like a skater, swooping and bending under the freshening breeze.
It was evident that Lambert wished to make the most of his time, for almost immediately after the Daphne had gone about with smooth precision, and had sprung away on the other tack, the party on the launch saw a flutter of white, and a top-sail was run up.
“By Jove! Lambert didn’t make much on that tack,” remarked Captain Cursiter to his brother-in-arms, as with an imperceptible pressure of the wheel he serenely headed the launch straight for her destination. “I don’t believe he’s done himself much good with that top-sail either.”
Mr. Hawkins turned a sour eye upon the Daphne, and said laconically, “Silly ass; he’ll smother her.”