CHAPTER II
VIVE LE ROI
"The Last Hope" had been expected for some days. It was known inFarlingford that she was foul, and that Captain Clubbe had decided to puther on the slip-way at the end of the next voyage. Captain Clubbe was aFarlingford man. "The Last Hope" was a Farlingford built ship, and SethClubbe was not the captain to go past his own port for the sake of savinga few pounds.
"Farlingford's his nation," they said of him down at the quay. "Born andbred here, man and boy. He's not likely to put her into a Thames dry-dockwhile the slip-way's standing empty."
All the village gossips naturally connected the arrival of the twogentlemen from London with the expected return of "The Last Hope."Captain Clubbe was known to have commercial relations with France. It wascurrently reported that he could speak the language. No one could tellthe number of his voyages backward and forward from the Bay to Bristol,to Yarmouth, and even to Bergen, carrying salt-fish to those countrieswhere their religion bids them eat that which they cannot supply fromtheir own waters, and bringing back wine from Bordeaux and brandy fromCharente.
It is not etiquette, however, on these wind-swept coasts to inquire tooclosely into a man's business, and, as in other places, the talk wasmostly among those who knew the least--namely, the women. There had beena question of repairing the church. The generation now slowly finding itsway to its precincts had discussed the matter since their childhood andnothing had come of it.
One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two gentlemen wereLondon architects sent down by the Queen to see to the church. But theidea fell to the ground before the assurance from Mrs. Clopton's own lipsthat the old gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman.
Mrs. Clopton kept "The Black Sailor," and knew a deal more than she wasready to tell people; which is tantamount to saying that she was a womanin a thousand. It had leaked out, however, that the spokesman of theparty, Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton whether it was truethat there was claret in the cellars of "The Black Sailor." And any onehaving doubts could satisfy himself with a sight of the empty bottles,all mouldy, standing in the back yard of the inn.
They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the wiseacres ofFarlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford to seeCaptain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford was proud ofCaptain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into the worldand making a great name there, forgets his birthplace and the rightfulclaim to a gleam of reflected glory which the relations of a greatman--who have themselves stayed at home and done nothing--are alwaysready to consider their due reward for having shaken their heads over himduring the earlier struggles.
Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of hospitableinclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as for a race destined tosmart for all time under the recollection of many disastrous defeats atsea. And of course they could not help being ridiculous. Heaven had madethem like that while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining to goodseamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in their midst, not bythe usual channel indeed, but by a carriage and pair from Ipswich. Hemust feel lonesome, they thought, and strange. They, therefore, made aneffort to set him at his ease, and when they met him in "the street"jerked their heads at him sideways. The upward jerk is less friendly andusually denotes the desire to keep strictly within the limits ofacquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer Colville they gave the upward lift of thechin as to a person too facile in speech to be desirable.
The dumbness of the Marquis do Gemosac appealed perhaps to a race ofseafaring men very sparingly provided by nature with words in which toclothe thoughts no less solid and sensible by reason of their terseness.It was at all events unanimously decided that everything should be doneto make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of "The Last Hope." Asimilar unanimity characterised the decision that he must without delaybe shown Frenchman's grave.
River Andrew's action and the unprecedented display of his Sunday hat ona week-day were nothing but the outcome of a deep-laid scheme. Mrs.Clopton had been instructed to recommend the gentlemen to inspect thechurch, and the rest had been left to the wit of River Andrew, a manwhose calling took him far and wide, and gave him opportunities of speechwith gentlefolk.
These opportunities tempted River Andrew to go beyond his instructions sofar as to hint that he could, if encouraged, make disclosures of interestrespecting Frenchman. Which was untrue; for River Andrew knew no morethan the rest of Farlingford of a man who, having been literally cast upby the sea at their gates, had lived his life within those gates, hadmarried a Farlingford woman, and had at last gone the way of allFarlingford without telling any who or what he was.
From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea-tables glances ofinquiry were directed toward the strangers' faces as they walked down thestreet after having viewed the church. Some prescient females went so faras to state that they could see quite distinctly in the elder gentleman'sdemeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at the knowledge thustactfully conveyed to him that he was not the first of his kind to beseen in Farlingford.
Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River Andrew, wearing hissou'wester now and carrying the news that "The Last Hope" was coming upon the top of the tide.
Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, and no shipcan well arrive unexpected at the quay; for the whole village may seeher tacking up under shortened sail, heading all ways, sometimesclose-hauled, and now running free as she follows the zigzags of theriver.
Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of beingable to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quayin time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. One by one the menof Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting thekindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman already waitingthere.
It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelled andgurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its surface tokensfrom the sea--shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth. "The Last Hope" wasquite close at hand now, swinging up in mid-stream. The sun had set andover the marshes the quiet of evening brooded hazily. Captain Clubbe hadtaken in all sail except a jib. His anchor was swinging lazily overside,ready to drop. The watchers on the quay could note the gentle rise andfall of the crack little vessel as the tide lifted her from behind. Sheseemed to be dancing to her home like a maiden back from school. Theswing of her tapering masts spoke of the heaving seas she had leftbehind.
It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River Andrew wasalready in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain Clubbe wish tosend a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the captain meant to anchorin the stream for the night: so obvious that if any one on shore hadmentioned the conclusion his speech would have called for nothing but acontemptuous glance from the steady blue eyes all round him.
It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were nogreetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the burlyform of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives coulddistinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these wereattending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand wasraised in salutation.
The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights andboisterous days. The tide was almost slack. "The Last Hope" was scarcelymoving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing outof a dreamy sunset sky.
Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, thatthe old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appealwith a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startledeyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken joyously into song,and the words it sang were French:
"C'est le Hasard,Qui, tot ou tard,Ici bas nous seconde;Car,D'un bout du mondeA l'autre bout,Le Hasard seul fait tout."
Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of adead epoch of music and poetry;
but the voice was in startling contrastto the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was a cleartenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, suchas no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a dumbfeeling of shame and shyness.
But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there bythis time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance andmade imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood betweenmothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.
"We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate," said a man, bearing thereputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciatorsanswered:
"You're right," and laughed good-humouredly.
The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort atself-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by somegenerations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance withDormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane.Colville's expression seemed to say:
"I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come."
His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchanged asympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were onlyfine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was ashuman as any beating under a homelier coat.
"There's Passen," said one woman to another, behind the corner of herapron, within Colville's hearing. "It takes a deal to bring him out o'doors nowadays, and little Sep and--Miss Miriam."
Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in thepause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once in thedirection indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waited until achange of position enabled him to turn his head without undue curiosity.He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the manner ofone cramped by standing too long in one attitude.
A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, agrey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a boyof ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty at aquicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity andlooking back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction andindifference of a student.
Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance. Buthe turned again as the singer on board "The Last Hope" began anotherverse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the language, andColville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen tothem.
"Un tel qu'on vantaitPar hasard etaitD'origine assez minoe;Par hasard il plut,Par hasard il futBaron, ministre, et prince."
Captain Clubbe's harsh voice broke into the song with the order to let gothe anchor. As the ship swung to the tide the steersman, who wore neithercoat nor waistcoat, could be seen idly handling the wheel still, thoughhis duties were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and a gaysalutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled people--as if hewere sure that they were all friends--stamped him as the light-heartedsinger, so different from the Farlingford men, so strongly contrasted tohis hearers, who nevertheless jerked their heads sideways in response. Hehad, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of these cold East Anglians.They were his friends.
River Andrew's boat was alongside "The Last Hope" now. Some one hadthrown him a rope, which he had passed under his bow thwart and now heldwith one hand, while with the other he kept his distance from the tarryside of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner felt her moorings,then Captain Clubbe looked over the side and nodded a curt salutation toRiver Andrew, bidding him, by the same gesture, wait a minute until hehad donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman was pulling on his coatwhile he sought among the crowd the faces of his more familiar friends.He was, it seemed, a privileged person, and took it for granted that heshould go ashore with the captain. He was, perhaps, one of those whoseemed to be privileged at their birth by Fate, and pass through life onthe sunny side with a light step and laughing lips.
Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one comprehensive nodof the head for all Farlingford. Close on his heels the younger sailorwas already returning the greetings of his friends.
"Hullo, Loo!" they said; or, "How do, Barebone?" For their tongues are noquicker than their limbs, and to this day, "How do?" is the usualgreeting.
The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharplittle exclamation of surprise when Barebone stepped ashore, and turnedto Dormer Colville to say in an undertone:
"Ah--but you need say nothing."
"I promised you," answered Colville, carelessly, "that I should tell younothing till you had seen him."
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