I Saw Three Ships | Page 8

spray of the monthly-rose
bush on the quarrels of the window, filling the pauses during which
Mary Jane wrestled with a hard word. Ruby herself had taught the girl
this accomplishment--rare enough at the time--and Mary Jane handled

it gingerly, beginning each sentence in a whisper, as if awed by her
own intrepidity, and ending each in a kind of gratulatory cheer. The
work was of that class of epistolary fiction then in vogue, and the
extract singularly well fitted to Ruby's mood.
"My dearest Wil-hel-mina," began Mary Jane, "racked with a hun-dred
conflicting em-otions, I resume the nar-rative of those fa-tal moments
which rapt me from your affec-tion-ate em-brace. Suffer me to re--to
re-cap--"
"Better spell it, Mary Jane."
"To r.e., re--c.a.p., cap, recap--i.t, it, re--capit--Lor'! what a twister!--u,
recapitu--l.a.t.e, late, re-cap-it-u-late the events de-tailed in my last
letter, full stop--there! if I han't read that full stop out loud! Lord
Bel-field, though an ad-ept in all the arts of dis-sim-u-la-tion (and how
of-ten do we not see these arts al-lied with un-scru-pu-lous pas-sions?),
was un-able to sus-tain the gaze of my in-fu-ri-a-ted pa-pa, though he
com-port-ed himself with suf-fic-ient p.h.l.e.g.m--Lor'! what a funny
word!"
Ruby yawned. It is true she had drawn the dimity curtains--all but a
couple of inches. Through this space she could see the folk busy on the
beach below like a swarm of small black insects, and continually
augmented by those who, having run off to snatch their Christmas
dinner, were returning to the spoil. Some lined the edge of the breakers,
waiting the moment to rush in for a cask or spar that the tide brought
within reach; others (among whom she seemed to descry Young Zeb)
were clambering out with grapnels along the western rocks; a third
large group was gathered in the very centre of the beach, and from the
midst of these a blue wreath of smoke began to curl up. At the same
instant she heard the gate click outside, and pulling the curtain wider,
saw her father trudging away down the lane.
Mary Jane, glancing up, and seeing her mistress crane forward with
curiosity, stole behind and peeped over her shoulder.
"I declare they'm teening a fire!"

"Who gave you leave to bawl in my ear so rudely? Go back to your
reading, this instant." (A pause.) "Mary Jane, I do believe they'm
roastin' chestnuts."
"What a clever game!"
"Father said at dinner the tide was bringin' 'em in by bushels. Quick!
put on your worst bonnet an' clogs, an' run down to look. I must know.
No, I'm not goin'--the idea! I wonder at your low notions. You shall
bring me word o' what's doin'--an' mind you're back before dark."
Mary Jane fled precipitately, lest the order should be revoked. Five
minutes later, Ruby heard the small gate click again, and with a sigh
saw the girl's rotund figure waddling down the lane. Then she picked
up the book and strove to bury herself in the woes of Wilhelmina, but
still with frequent glances out of window. Twice the book dropped off
her lap; twice she picked it up and laboriously found the page again.
Then she gave it up, and descended to the back door, to see if anyone
were about who might give her news. But the town-place was deserted
by all save the ducks, the old white sow, and a melancholy crew of
cocks and hens huddled under the dripping eaves of the cow-house.
Returning to her room, she settled down on the window-seat, and
watched the blaze of the bonfire increase as the short day faded.
The grey became black. It was six o'clock, and neither her father nor
Mary Jane had returned. Seven o'clock struck from the tall clock in the
kitchen, and was echoed ten minutes after by the Dutch clock in the
parlour below. The sound whirred up through the planching twice as
loud as usual. It was shameful to be left alone like this, to be robbed,
murdered, goodness knew what. The bonfire began to die out, but every
now and then a circle of small black figures would join hands and
dance round it, scattering wildly after a moment or two. In a lull of the
wind she caught the faint sound of shouts and singing, and this
determined her.
She turned back from the window and groped for her tinder-box. The
glow, as she blew the spark upon the dry rag, lit up a very pretty but
tear-stained pair of cheeks; and when she touched off the brimstone

match, and, looking up, saw her face confronting her, blue and tragical,
from the dark-framed mirror, it reminded her of Lady Macbeth. Hastily
lighting the candle, she caught up a shawl and crept down-stairs. Her
clogs were in the hall; and four