“What?”
“Well, you said I looked a perfect fright,” Sophie pointed out.
Chapter Four
Dane was very glad to be back at Fernacres—even more glad than usual—he had been given a task to accomplish and he had accomplished it, but the information which he had procured for Colonel Carter was not the information he had hoped for and the skies over Europe were darkening rapidly. He was aware from the quality of Sophie’s welcome that she had been more than usually anxious about him during his absence, and after Wynne had gone up to bed he began to explain to her how impossible it had been to let her know his whereabouts.
“I know,” said Sophie quietly. “It doesn’t matter, Dane. You’re home now—that’s what really matters—and I don’t want you to feel you have to tell me things, because I know you can’t.”
“I was at Danzig—it doesn’t matter telling you now.”
“Will you have to go back?”
“No, not for some time. As a matter of fact I told Colonel Carter I wanted a long holiday.”
“It’s lovely to have you home,” declared Sophie, smiling at him.
The words were so warmly spoken and the smile which accompanied them was so affectionate that Dane’s heart gave a little leap. “Sophie!” he said eagerly, “you really are glad!”
“Why, of course,” she replied, nodding her head.
Dane hesitated—it was as if he were trying to make up his mind to some course of action—and there was a little silence.
At last Sophie said, “Wynne and I have been rather dull … but now you’re home and Roy’s coming tomorrow for the week-end … so we shall all be together.”
“Good,” said Dane.
“And I think it would be fun to go for a picnic, don’t you? We haven’t had a picnic for ages.”
The idea of a picnic—a family picnic—appealed to everyone, and Roy’s suggestion that they should hire a boat and row round the coast to the Smuggler’s Cave was acceded to.
“Aren’t you tired of the sea?” Dane inquired with a smile, but the question was not taken seriously.
“It will be more fun than going by car,” Roy declared, “and it will save us that hot walk up the cliff afterwards. I’ll row, of course … and be sure to take lots of food.…”
There was always far too much food in the picnic basket when Sophie had anything to do with it so Roy’s request was unnecessary, and Dane pointed this out and begged that moderation should be observed.
The following day was bright and sunny with a pleasant breeze—an admirable day for the picnic. Wynne ran the party down to the harbour and left them there and went to park her car. She found an excellent parking place in a back street—a parking place to which Sergeant White’s superiors could not possibly object—and following the others to the harbour she found them engaged in a somewhat heated discussion as to what kind of craft should be hired. A rowing boat had been Roy’s first suggestion, but now he had seen a small sailing dinghy and his heart yearned for her. She was about twelve feet long, her lines were beautiful and she had a brown sail.
“Do let’s,” he said earnestly. “It’ll be much more fun.”
Dane was quite agreeable to the change of plan but Sophie was dubious; she distrusted sails unless there was “somebody in the boat who understood about them.” She was explaining this to her son when Wynne arrived upon the scene.
“But I know about them,” Roy pointed out, “and so does Dane. Dane has done a lot of sailing.”
“I mean a man,” explained Sophie, pointing to a disreputable-looking old fisherman with a red nose who was lounging against a bollard on the quay.
“Can you beat it?” inquired Roy with justifiable indignation. “Can you beat it, Dane? Am I, or am I not a naval officer—and what about you? Neither of us are men—Oh no! Sophie would feel much happier with a drunken old longshore-man on board …”
“It will be quite all right, Sophie darling,” said Wynne, taking the situation in hand. “Roy knows all about it and so does Dane … and anyhow we can all swim. Hop along, Roy, and hire the boat for the day.”
Roy hopped along and the bargain was concluded in record time. He brought the dinghy alongside the steps and Sophie was handed in … the basket, and various coats and waterproof rugs were handed in after her.
“All aboard,” said Dane cheerfully.
Roy had already disposed his passengers in suitable positions and the sail was ready; he hauled up the sail and made the halyards fast; Dane took the tiller; Wynne pushed off with an oar; the little boat slid gently away and the houses at the harbour receded slowly.
At first there was only just enough wind to fill the sail, and there was little noise and scarcely any wake; but when they got clear of the houses they found a quite good breeze and the dinghy responded nobly. She heeled over to it and rose to the waves and there was a pleasant lapping sound of water under her stern.
Roy had constituted himself skipper and Dane was quite pleased for he was aware that Roy was more knowledgeable than he. It was years since Dane had sailed … but the feel of the tiller beneath his hand was familiar and enjoyable. They held straight out of the little bay and it was not until they were well clear of the point that Roy gave the signal for the helm to be put over. “Ready about,” he said as he let out the sheet … the boom swung out and the little boat came round beautifully.
“She’s a darling!” exclaimed Roy, and Dane agreed that she was, for she had responded to their combined efforts with the precision of a racehorse.
Dane was steering straight down the coast now, and the wind was aft. They slid along at a good pace and left a creamy wake behind them. The sea was blue, the air was clear and sparkling, and the sun twinkled merrily amongst the waves. Sea-gulls hovered high above the water and dived suddenly with a piercing shriek and a flash of white wings. Wynne sat near Dane and she leaned over the side and trailed her hand in the water, it was so blue that one might have thought it would stain one’s hand. Sophie sat up very straight—she had recovered from her nervous feelings and had begun to enjoy herself—she watched the shore and thought how strange it looked. If she had not known it was Chellford she would not have recognised it.
“And that’s why sailors are different,” she said aloud.
“Why?” inquired Roy, who was enjoying himself too, and felt in tune with the universe. “Why are sailors different … if they are different … and what are they different from?”
“Of course they are,” replied Sophie firmly, “and of course it’s because they see the land from the sea instead of the sea from the land. That’s enough to make anybody different.”
Dane smiled at this very Sophie-ish statement—as usual it contained the germ of an exceedingly interesting psychological problem—but he had no time to think about it seriously for his skipper was speaking to him again.
“Look out, Dane, we don’t want to gybe,” said Roy anxiously—it would have lowered his prestige and, what was worse, the prestige of the British Navy. “Look out, Dane!”
“Aye aye, sir,” replied Dane, bending himself to his task.
For about a mile the cliffs stood up sheer out of the water with tumbled heaps of boulders below, and the waves were breaking amongst the boulders with white spray; beyond the stretch of cliff was the headland with the lighthouse on it, jutting into the sea. The Smuggler’s Cave was beyond that again and Roy signalled to his helmsman to keep well out.
“There may be rocks,” said Roy, who was a blue water sailor, “there are often rocks round a headland like this—besides we’re in no hurry, are we?”
They kept well out and rounded the headland without mishap.
“There’s the cove!” exclaimed Wynne, pointing to the narrow strip of sand between the rocks. “There it is, Roy—how fast we’ve come! There will be lots of time for a bathe before lunch.”
It was much too short a voyage for Roy’s liking and he suggested that they should sail a bit further down the coast, but Wynne w
as anxious to bathe and Dane was aware that their voyage home would take much longer for they would have to tack. He did not want to try the patience of the passengers too severely.
“We’ll land, I think,” he said. “Let out the sheet, Roy.”
Once more the boom swung over and they headed for the shore, gliding very slowly. There was little wind in the lee of the headland, only just sufficient to give the tiny craft way. She slid into the cove and came to rest beside a ledge of rock, and Roy, with Naval celerity, sprang ashore and made fast the painter.
It was here in this sheltered cove that the bathing party had taken place—more than a year ago—and neither Roy nor Wynne had been here since. They looked round them, at the rocks and the sand and the blue sea with its sprightly waves and they both remembered—but with very different feelings.
“D’you remember the last time we were here?” Roy inquired. “We came by road in Agatha … I wonder where old Frank is now …”
“Yes,” agreed Wynne in a non-committal tone, “I remember it quite well.”
“Gosh, he could dive, couldn’t he?”
“Yes, he dives beautifully,” agreed Wynne.
She had not forgotten that first swan dive which had surprised them all so much. She had not forgotten the grace and precision with which that flashing white body had taken first to the air and then to the water as if both elements were its natural playground. Wynne remembered it as a little picture in her heart and she always would remember it just like that. Coming here today, to the very spot where the little picture had been made, brought it before her eyes with almost unbearable lucidity, and for a moment Wynne wished that they had not come … and then she was glad they had, for, even if it hurt to remember Frank so clearly, she wanted to remember him. His image must never fade, it must never lose its bright colours … nor the power to make her suffer.
Wynne leapt ashore; Roy and Dane helped Sophie to land and handed out the bulging picnic basket.
“This is nice,” Sophie said, with satisfaction. “The sky is so blue. I suppose you children are going to bathe before lunch … it’s lovely just the four of us,” she added.
The other three were thinking the same. Roy had invited Nina and Migs but they had not been able to come, and, although he had been sorry at the time, he was glad now … Nina and Migs would have made the whole atmosphere entirely different. This expedition had a “family atmosphere” and it made Roy feel extremely young and cheerful.
“We’re silly not to do this oftener,” he said.
“You’re always so busy,” complained Sophie.
He took his bundle and leapt away over the rocks, his fair hair standing on end with the breeze of his passage. Wynne followed him more slowly. Dane carried the basket to a shallow cave just above the line of sea-weed which marked high water, and spread a mackintosh rug for Sophie to sit on. Then he straightened his back and looked round. He had been here before, of course, but not for a long time and he had forgotten what a pleasant place it was … sheltered, peaceful and extraordinarily beautiful in its own particular way. On the black cliffs there were little ledges, where feathery grasses had taken root, and there were dark fissures, damp with moss and delicate ferns.
Sophie had sat down on the rug and was watching Roy and Wynne, and when Dane looked at her he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“Sophie!” he said uncertainly.
“It’s just that they’re so young,” she explained, shaking the tears away and trying to smile at him. “So young, Dane … and there’s going to be another war.”
“It … it looks like it, I’m afraid.”
“They’re so young,” she repeated. “So young and good. It isn’t fair. I feel I ought to apologise to them.”
“For the war?” asked Dane, smiling a little; “but surely the condition of Europe isn’t your fault, Sophie?”
She shook her head. “No, for having them, Dane. I wouldn’t have had them if I’d known there was going to be another war just when they were grown up.”
Dane sat down beside her, his heart was very full of love and tenderness for Sophie. “I understand,” he said, “but we can only do our best.”
“We should have prayed harder,” said Sophie. “Harder and oftener.”
Dane was inclined to disagree for he could not believe that God would pay more attention to prayers which were prayed hard and often. The idea was almost an insult to God’s intelligence. He, himself, disliked it intensely if people came to him, reiterating their requests, when he already knew quite well what they wanted and had decided either to withold or to give in his own good time.
“What are you thinking about?” Sophie inquired.
“About Miss Halton,” replied Dane with a smile. “She came again this morning and tried to make me sign that absurd petition of hers. She seems to have got the idea of hard and often …”
“But it isn’t the same!” cried Sophie. “I know I’m not clever enough to argue with you, but it isn’t the same.”
Chapter Five
Dane lay back with his hands beneath his head and looked at Sophie’s profile outlined against the brilliant blue sky. She had a charming nose—or so Dane had always thought—it was an unusual shape and slightly blunted at the tip. Her skin was smooth and soft, and the few lines which the passing years had written upon her face were all pleasant and kind. On the surface Sophie was vague and sometimes even foolish, but if one took the trouble to look deeper there was treasure to be found. There was goodness and wisdom and, better still, a streak of humour all the more valuable because it was a humour peculiar to herself and because it functioned rarely and at unexpected moments. Everyone was fond of her, but it took a connoisseur to appreciate the subtle and delicate flavour of Sophie Braithwaite—and Dane was a connoisseur. Dane had always loved her of course, he had wanted to marry her twenty-six years ago when he was an undergraduate at Oxford; but an undergraduate is seldom in a position to marry and Dane was no exception to the rule. He had wanted to marry her then, and he still wanted to marry her, and just lately he had begun to hope that Sophie was ready to turn to him. He had begun to hope, but he was not sure and he was very much afraid of putting his fate to the test for, if Sophie refused to be his wife, his position at Fernacres would become untenable and he would have to go. This would be nothing short of a disaster, thought Dane, as he continued to observe Sophie’s profile against the blue sky; it would be a disaster for himself, because he could not bear the idea of leaving Sophie, and it would be a disaster for Sophie because she would be lost without somebody to manage her affairs.
Dane sighed.
“What are you thinking about?” Sophie inquired.
He smiled at her. “You’re very inquisitive this afternoon and that’s unusual, Sophie.”
“I feel unusual,” she replied unhappily. “Everything is so—so insecure. I don’t believe I shall be able to bear it … if there is a war.”
“Sometimes I feel the same,” said Dane gravely, “as if it were too much to bear … to go through it all again, only much worse, because now one understands more, and there’s none of the glitter and excitement. Now one sees the futility of the sacrifice.…”
“Oh Dane!” Sophie implored him. “Please don’t. I mean don’t be miserable, too. You’re always so strong and comforting.”
She turned towards him and held out her hand, and Dane drew her into his arms and kissed her … he simply could not help it. She was so sweet and dear, so confiding, so near his heart.
Sophie did not withdraw from his embrace, indeed she seemed to like it, but now that Dane had got her, (where he had wanted for so long to have her) in his arms with her dear head lying snugly against his shoulder, he scarcely knew what to do next. Sophie had accepted it all so calmly that he wondered whether she realised what it meant. Perhaps she took this as a brotherly embrace … she was such a little innocent.
He kissed her again, more warmly than before, and again Sophie let him.
“I
love you, Sophie,” he said.
“Yes dear,” she replied, letting her head rest against his shoulder.
“I’ve always loved you,” declared Dane.
“Yes,” she repeated with a little sigh. “Yes I know. You’ve always been so sweet to me, Dane. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”
Dane wondered what to say next. He wanted to marry her, and there was no reason why they should not marry, but it seemed so crude to put it into plain words. Besides he wasn’t sure, even yet, that Sophie understood—and he did not want to alarm her. There was still time to draw back from the edge of the precipice … if Sophie had not understood.
“I wish I were younger,” said Sophie at last in a dreamy voice. “It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever wished it, really.”
His arm tightened round her and he said softly.
“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.”
She turned her head and looked up at him. “Oh, Dane!” she said. “How clever of you to remember that! It’s so nice, isn’t it? It’s almost as if Browning had made it up on purpose for us. You always liked Browning, so I used to read his poems and try to understand them, but I never could understand them unless I learnt them by heart.”
“It’s the right way to understand them,” Dane replied.
“And the next bit,” said Sophie. “Say the next bit—it’s even better.”
Dane said it obediently.
“Our times are in His hand
Who saith, ‘A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God:
see all, nor be afraid!’ ”
“Dane, He planned a whole,” she murmured.
“Yes,” said Dane softly. “Yes, Sophie—”
“So we shall be able to bear it.”
“Yes.”
“Whatever comes.”
“Yes,” he said.
“… and we shall be bearing it together.”
“Yes,” said Dane. He saw now that it was quite all right. Sophie understood … he kissed her again.
The English Air Page 20