The Last Hope | Page 5

Mrs. Clopton whether it
was true that there was claret in the cellars of "The Black Sailor." And
any one having 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 of
Farlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford to
see Captain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford was
proud of Captain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into
the world and making a great name there, forgets his birthplace and the
rightful claim to a gleam of reflected glory which the relations of a
great man--who have themselves stayed at home and done nothing--are
always ready to consider their due reward for having shaken their heads
over him during the earlier struggles.
Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of hospitable
inclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as for a race destined to
smart for all time under the recollection of many disastrous defeats at
sea. And of course they could not help being ridiculous. Heaven had
made them like that while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining
to good seamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in their
midst, not by the usual channel indeed, but by a carriage and pair from
Ipswich. He must feel lonesome, they thought, and strange. They,
therefore, made an effort 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 and usually denotes the desire to keep strictly within the
limits of acquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer Colville they gave the
upward lift of the chin as to a person too facile in speech to be
desirable.

The dumbness of the Marquis de Gemosac appealed perhaps to a race
of seafaring men very sparingly provided by nature with words in
which to clothe thoughts no less solid and sensible by reason of their
terseness. It was at all events unanimously decided that everything
should be done to make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of "The
Last Hope." A similar unanimity characterised the decision that he
must without delay be shown Frenchman's grave.
River Andrew's action and the unprecedented display of his Sunday hat
on a week-day were nothing but the outcome of a deep-laid scheme.
Mrs. Clopton had been instructed to recommend the gentlemen to
inspect the church, and the rest had been left to the wit of River
Andrew, a man whose calling took him far and wide, and gave him
opportunities of speech with gentlefolk.
These opportunities tempted River Andrew to go beyond his
instructions so far as to hint that he could, if encouraged, make
disclosures of interest respecting Frenchman. Which was untrue; for
River Andrew knew no more than the rest of Farlingford of a man who,
having been literally cast up by the sea at their gates, had lived his life
within those gates, had married a Farlingford woman, and had at last
gone the way of all Farlingford without telling any who or what he was.
From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea-tables glances of
inquiry were directed toward the strangers' faces as they walked down
the street after having viewed the church. Some prescient females went
so far as to state that they could see quite distinctly in the elder
gentleman's demeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at the
knowledge thus tactfully conveyed to him that he was not the first of
his kind to be seen in Farlingford.
Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River Andrew, wearing his
sou'wester now and carrying the news that "The Last Hope" was
coming up on the top of the tide.
Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, and no ship can
well arrive unexpected at the quay; for the whole village may see her
tacking up under shortened sail, heading all ways, sometimes

close-hauled, and now running free as she follows the zigzags of the
river.
Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of being
able to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quay
in time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. One by one the
men of Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting
the kindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman already
waiting there.
It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelled and
gurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its surface
tokens from the sea--shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth. "The Last
Hope" was quite close at hand now, swinging up in mid- stream. The