Anny sat on the bank where he had left her. She was very sorry for herself, too, and she looked round her through tearful eyes.
No one was in sight. Behind her the bright sun lit up the countryside with beautiful green and yellow light, while in front, the sea, clear and smooth as glass, sparkled and glittered peacefully. She got up slowly, and started back for the Ship, and for the first time a sense of insecurity came upon her, and she realized rather fearfully that she was very much alone. Hitherto, she had always relied on Hal to take care of her, but now he was angry, very angry, she could see that; perhaps he would never forgive her. She shivered involuntarily. Old Ben was her only relative, and the thought of him and Pet Salt frightened her. Sue and Gilbot were very kind, but would they trouble themselves to protect a little serving-wench from a wealthy customer?
All these questions ran through her head, and the image of the dark, wanton-eyed, debonair little captain rose up in her mind like a spectre. She knew now that she did not like him, and she began to be afraid. She remembered the times he had tried to kiss her; and how each time at the thought of Hal she had repulsed him successfully. Now Hal would be indifferent. A sob stuck in her throat, and she swallowed painfully.
Then an idea struck her. There was always Nan Swayle—poor, disappointed Mother Swayle had always a soft spot in her hard-crusted heart for little Anny Farran, her old lover’s grandchild. She would go to Nan—but then the picture of the lonely old woman living with her cats in a tumble-down shed on one of the many small dyke-surrounded islands in the marshes presented itself to her, and she began to cry afresh as she walked wearily up to the Ship.
Meanwhile, out in the river’s mouth, alone between sea and sky, the little white-sailed craft patrolled steadily to and fro, as Master Thomas Playle, a telescope to his eye, swept the horizon anxiously and impatiently.
CHAPTER XVI
THE sun was just about to set over the Island in a blaze of glorious colour when the Anny, sailing peacefully under half canvas, came in sight of Bradwell Point.
Blueneck and Habakkuk Coot were below deck in a little bunk-hole which they had fitted up as a sort of wash-house. It was one of Black’erchief Dick’s fads to have his linen always spotless and marvellously laundered, and, as this was a luxury hardly dreamed of on the Island, during his visits to England the valiant Captain had to have his washing done aboard. The job of laundryman had almost naturally fallen to Habakkuk, who had accepted the office joyfully, and he now stood, clad in nothing but his breeches, in front of an emptied Canary tub immersed up to the elbows in soapy water.
Blueneck leaned against the doorway watching him.
“Santa Maria! what an occupation,” he remarked contemptuously.