Selected Stories (73 page)

‘“To speak wi'oot prejudice,” I said, “there was some watter.”

‘“They thought she was sinkin' after the propeller went. She filled with extraordinary rapeedity. Calder said it grieved him an' Bannister to abandon her.”

‘I thought o' the dinner at Radley's, an' what like o' food I'd eaten for eight days.

‘“It would grieve them sore,” I said.

‘“But the crew would not hear o' stayin' an' takin' their chances. They're gaun up an' down saying' they'd ha' starved first.”

‘“They'd ha' starved if they'd stayed,” said I.

‘“I tak' it, fra Calder's account, there was a mutiny a'most.”

‘“Ye know more than I, McRimmon,” I said. “Speakin' wi'oot prejudice, for we're all in the same boat,
who
opened the bilge-cock?”

‘“Oh, that's it – is it?” said the auld man, an' I could see he was surprised. “A bilge-cock, ye say?”

‘“I believe it was a bilge-cock. They were all shut when I came aboard, but someone had flooded the engine-room eight feet over all, and shut it off with the worm-an'-wheel gear from the second gratin' afterwards.”

‘“Losh!” said McRimmon. “The ineequity o' man's beyond belief. But it's awfu' discreditable to Holdock, Steiner, and Chase, if that came oot in court.”

‘“It's just my own curiosity,” I said.

‘“Aweel, Dandie's afflicted wi' the same disease. Dandie, strive
against curiosity, for it brings a little dog into traps an' suchlike. Whaur was the
Kite
when yon painted liner took off the
Grotkau's
people?”

‘“Just there or thereabouts,” I said.

“‘An' which o' you twa thought to cover your lights?” said he, winkin'.

‘“Dandie,” I said to the dog, “we must both strive against curiosity. It's an unremunerative business. What's our chance o' salvage, Dandie?”

‘He laughed till he choked. “Tak' what I gie you, McPhee, an' be content,” he said. “Lord, how a man wastes time when he gets old. Get aboard the
Kite
, mon, as soon as ye can. I've clear forgot there's a Baltic charter yammerin' for you at London. That'll be your last voyage, I'm thinkin', excep' by way o' pleasure.”

‘Steiner's men were comin' aboard to take charge an' tow her round, an' I passed young Steiner in a boat as I went to the
Kite
. He looked down his nose; but McRimmon pipes up: “Here's the man ye owe the
Grotkau
to – at a price, Steiner – at a price! Let me introduce Mister McPhee to you. Maybe ye've met before; but ye've vara little luck in keeping your men – ashore or afloat!”

‘Young Steiner looked angry enough to eat him as he chuckled an' whustled in his dry old throat.

‘“Ye've not got your award yet,” Steiner says.

‘“Na, na,” says the auld man, in a screech ye could hear to the Hoe, “but I've twa million sterlin', an' no bairns, ye Judeeas Apella,
²⁴
if ye mean to fight; an' I'll match ye p'und for p'und till the last p'und's oot. Ye ken
me
, Steiner? I'm McRimmon o' McNaughten and McRimmon!”

‘“Dod,” he said betwix' his teeth, sittin' back in the boat, “I've waited fourteen year to break that Jew-firm, an' God be thankit I'll do it now.”

‘The
Kite
was in the Baltic while the auld man was warking his warks, but I know the assessors valued the
Grotkau
, all told, at over three hunder and sixty thousand – her manifest was a treat o' richness – and McRimmon got a third for salvin' an abandoned ship. Ye see, there's vast deeference between towin' a ship wi' men on her and pickin' up a derelict – a vast deeference – in pounds sterlin'. Moreover, twa three o' the
Grotkau's
crew were burnin' to testify about food, an' there was a note o' Calder to the Board in regard to the tail-shaft that would ha' been vara damagin' if it had come into court. They knew better than to fight.

‘Syne the
Kite
came back, and McRimmon paid off me an' Bell personally, and the rest of the crew
pro rata
, I believe it's ca'ed. My share – oor share, I should say – was just twenty-five thousand pounds sterlin'.

At this point Janet jumped up and kissed him.

‘Five-and-twenty thousand pound sterlin'. Noo, I'm fra the North, and I'm not the like to fling money awa' rashly, but I'd gie six months' pay – one hunder an' twenty pound – to know
who
flooded the engine-room of the
Grotkau
. I'm fairly well acquaint wi' McRimmon's eediosyncrasies, and he'd no hand in it. It was not Calder, for I've asked him, an' he wanted to fight me. It would be in the highest degree unprofessional o' Calder – not fightin', but openin' bilge-cocks – but for a while I thought it was him. Ay, I judged it might be him – under temptation.'

‘What's your theory?' I demanded.

‘Weel, I'm inclined to think it was one o' those singular providences that remind us we're in the hands o' Higher Powers.'

‘It couldn't open and shut itself?'

‘I did not mean that; but some half-starvin' oiler or, maybe, trimmer must ha' opened it a while to mak' sure o' leavin' the
Grotkau
. It's a demoralizin' thing to see an engine-room flood up after any accident to the gear – demoralizin' and deceptive both. Aweel, the man got what he wanted, for they went aboard the liner cryin' that the
Grotkau
was sinkin'. But it's curious to think o' the consequences. In a' human probability, he's bein' damned in heaps at the present moment aboard another tramp-freighter; an' here am I, wi' five-an-twenty thousand pounds invested, resolute to go to sea no more – providential's the preceese word – except as a passenger, ye'll understand, Janet.'

McPhee kept his word. He and Janet went for a voyage as passengers in the first-class saloon. They paid seventy pounds for their berths; and Janet found a very sick woman in the second-class saloon, so that for sixteen days she lived below, and chatted with the stewardesses at the foot of the second-saloon stairs while her patient slept. McPhee was a passenger for exactly twenty-four hours. Then the engineers' mess – where the oilcloth tables are – joyfully took him to its bosom, and for the rest of the voyage that company was richer by the unpaid services of a highly certificated engineer.

‘They'
¹

One view called me to another; one hill top to its fellow, half across the county, and since I could answer at no more trouble than the snapping forward of a lever, I let the county flow under my wheels. The orchid-studded flats of the East gave way to the thyme, ilex, and grey grass of the Downs; these again to the rich cornland and fig-trees of the lower coast, where you carry the beat of the tide on your left hand for fifteen level miles; and when at last I turned inland through a huddle of rounded hills and woods I had run myself clean out of my known marks. Beyond that precise hamlet
²
which stands godmother to the capital of the United States, I found hidden villages where bees, the only things awake, boomed in eighty-foot lindens that overhung grey Norman churches; miraculous brooks diving under stone bridges built for heavier traffic than would ever vex them again; tithe-barns larger than their churches, and an old smithy that cried out aloud how it had once been a hall of the Knights of the Temple. Gipsies I found on a common where the gorse, bracken, and heath fought it out together up a mile of Roman road; and a little farther on I disturbed a red fox rolling dog-fashion in the naked sunlight.

As the wooded hills closed about me I stood up in the car to take the bearings of that great Down whose ringed head is a landmark for fifty miles across the low countries. I judged that the lie of the country would bring me across some westward-running road that went to his feet, but I did not allow for the confusing veils of the woods. A quick turn plunged me first into a green cutting brim-full of liquid sunshine, next into a gloomy tunnel where last year's dead leaves whispered and scuffled about my tyres. The strong hazel stuff meeting overhead had not been cut for a couple of generations at least, nor had any axe helped the moss-cankered oak and beech to spring above them. Here the road changed frankly into a carpeted ride on whose brown velvet spent primrose-clumps showed like jade, and a few sickly, white-stalked blue-bells nodded together. As the slope favoured I shut off the power and slid over the whirled leaves, expecting every moment to meet a keeper; but I only heard a jay, far off, arguing against the silence under the twilight of the trees.

Still the track descended. I was on the point of reversing and working
my way back on the second speed ere I ended in some swamp, when I saw sunshine through the tangle ahead and lifted the brake.

It was down again at once. As the light beat across my face my fore-wheels took the turf of a great still lawn from which sprang horsemen ten feet high with levelled lances, monstrous peacocks, and sleek round-headed maids of honour – blue, black, and glistening – all of clipped yew. Across the lawn – the marshalled woods besieged it on three sides – stood an ancient house of lichened and weather-worn stone, with mullioned windows and roofs of rose-red tile. It was flanked by semicircular walls, also rose-red, that closed the lawn on the fourth side, and at their feet a box hedge grew man-high. There were doves on the roof about the slim brick chimneys, and I caught a glimpse of an octagonal dove-house behind the screening wall.

Here, then, I stayed; a horseman's green spear laid at my breast; held by the exceeding beauty of that jewel in that setting.

‘If I am not packed off for a trespasser, or if this knight does not ride a wallop at me,' thought I, ‘Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth at least must come out of that half-open garden door and ask me to tea.'

A child appeared at an upper window, and I thought the little thing waved a friendly hand. But it was to call a companion, for presently another bright head showed. Then I heard a laugh among the yew-peacocks, and turning to make sure (till then I had been watching the house only) I saw the silver of a fountain behind a hedge thrown up against the sun. The doves on the roof cooed to the cooing water; but between the two notes I caught the utterly happy chuckle of a child absorbed in some light mischief.

The garden door – heavy oak sunk deep in the thickness of the wall – opened further: a woman in a big garden hat set her foot slowly on the time-hollowed stone step and as slowly walked across the turf. I was forming some apology when she lifted up her head and I saw that she was blind.

‘I heard you,' she said. ‘Isn't that a motor car?'

‘I'm afraid I've made a mistake in my road. I should have turned off up above – I never dreamed –‘ I began.

‘But I'm very glad. Fancy a motor car coming into the garden! It will be such a treat–' She turned and made as though looking about her. ‘You – you haven't seen anyone, have you – perhaps?'

‘No one to speak to, but the children seemed interested at a distance.'

‘Which?'

‘I saw a couple up at the window just now, and I think I heard a little chap in the grounds.'

‘Oh, lucky you!' she cried, and her face brightened. ‘I hear them, of course, but that's all. You've seen them and heard them?'

‘Yes,' I answered. ‘And if I know anything of children, one of them's having a beautiful time by the fountain yonder. Escaped, I should imagine.'

‘You're fond of children?'

I gave her one or two reasons why I did not altogether hate them.

‘Of course, of course,' she said. ‘Then you understand. Then you won't think it foolish if I ask you to take your car through the gardens, once or twice – quite slowly. I'm sure they'd like to see it. They see so little, poor things. One tries to make their life pleasant, but–' she threw out her hands towards the woods. ‘We're so out of the world here.'