“To the mill, by all means,” Mrs. Falchion replied; “I have never been in a great saw-mill, and I believe this is very fine. Then,” she added, with a little wave of the hand towards the cable running down from Phil Boldrick’s eyrie in the mountains, “then I want to see all that cable can do—all, remember.”
Mr. Devlin laughed. “Well, it hasn’t many tricks, but what it does it does cleverly, thanks to The Padre.”
“Oh yes,” responded Mrs. Falchion, still looking at the cable; “The Padre, I know, is very clever.”
“He is more than clever,” bluffly replied Mr. Devlin, who was not keen enough to see the faint irony in her tones.
“Yes,” responded Mrs. Falchion in the same tone of voice, “he is more than clever. I have been told that he was once very brave. I have been told that once in the South Seas he did his country a great service.”
She paused. I could see Ruth’s eyes glisten and her face suffuse, for though she read the faint irony in the tone, still she saw that the tale which Mrs. Falchion was evidently about to tell, must be to Galt Roscoe’s credit. Mrs. Falchion turned idly upon Ruth and saw the look in her face. An almost imperceptible smile came upon her lips. She looked again at the cable and Phil Boldrick’s eyrie, which seemed to have a wonderful attraction for her. Not turning away from it, save now and then to glance indolently at Mr. Devlin or Ruth, and once enigmatically at myself, she said:
“Once upon a time—that is the way, I believe, to begin a pretty story—there were four men-of-war idling about a certain harbour of Samoa. One of the vessels was the flag-ship, with its admiral on board. On one of the other vessels was an officer who had years before explored this harbour. It was the hurricane season. He advised the admiral not to enter the harbour, for the indications foretold a gale, and himself was not sure that his chart was in all respects correct, for the harbour had been hurriedly explored and sounded. But the admiral gave orders, and they sailed in.
“That day a tremendous hurricane came crying down upon Samoa. It swept across the island, levelled forests of cocoa palms, battered villages to pieces, caught that little fleet in the harbour, and played with it in a horrible madness. To right and left were reefs, behind was the shore, with a monstrous surf rolling in; before was a narrow passage. One vessel made its way out—on it was the officer who had surveyed the harbour. In the open sea there was safety. He brought his vessel down the coast a little distance, put a rope about him and in the wild surf made for the shore. I believe he could have been court-martialled for leaving his ship, but he was a man who had taken a great many risks of one kind and another in his time. It was one chance out of a hundred; but he made it—he got to the shore, travelled down to the harbour where the men-of-war were careening towards the reefs, unable to make the passage out, and once again he tied a rope about him and plunged into the surf to try for the admiral’s ship. He got there terribly battered. They tell how a big wave lifted him and landed him upon the quarter-deck just as big waves are not expected to do. Well, like the hero in any melodrama of the kind, he very prettily piloted monsieur the admiral and his fleet out to the open sea.”
She paused, smiling in an inscrutable sort of way, then turned and said with a sudden softness in her voice, though still with the air of one who wished not to be taken with too great a seriousness: “And, ladies and gentlemen, the name of the ship that led the way was the ‘Porcupine’; and the name of the hero was Commander Galt Roscoe, R.N.; and ‘of such is the kingdom of heaven!’”
There was silence for a moment. The tale had been told adroitly, and with such tact as to words that Roscoe could not take offence—need not, indeed, as he did not, I believe, feel any particular self-consciousness. I am not sure but he was a little glad that such evidence should have been given at the moment, when a kind of restraint had come between him and Ruth, by one who he had reason to think was not wholly his friend might be his enemy. It was a kind of offset to his premonitions and to the peril over which he might stumble at any moment.