“That is why, Mr. Whish,” said Attwater; “that is why the house is empty and the graveyard full.”
“Twenty-nine out of thirty-three!” exclaimed Herrick. “Why, when it came to burying—or did you bother burying?”
“Scarcely,” said Attwater; “or there was one day at least when we gave up. There were five of the dead that morning, and thirteen of the dying, and no one able to go about except the sexton and myself. We held a council of war, took the ... empty bottles ... into the lagoon, and ... buried them.” He looked over his shoulder, back at the bright water. “Well, so you’ll come to dinner, then? Shall we say half-past six? So good of you!”
His voice, in uttering these conventional phrases, fell at once into the false measure of society; and Herrick unconsciously followed the example.
“I am sure we shall be very glad,” he said. “At half-past six? Thank you so very much.”
| “‘For my voice has been tuned to the note of the gun That startles the deep when the combat’s begun,’” |
quoted Attwater, with a smile, which instantly gave way to an air of funereal solemnity. “I shall particularly expect Mr. Whish,” he continued.—“Mr. Whish, I trust you understand the invitation?”
“I believe you, my boy!” replied the genial Huish.
“That is right, then; and quite understood, is it not?” said Attwater. “Mr. Whish and Captain Brown at six-thirty without fault—and you, Hay, at four sharp.”
And he called his boat.