The Last Hope | Page 6

sun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening brooded hazily.
Captain Clubbe had taken 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 and fall of the crack little vessel as the tide
lifted her from behind. She seemed to be dancing to her home like a
maiden back from school. The swing of her tapering masts spoke of the
heaving seas she had left behind.
It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River Andrew
was already in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain Clubbe
wish to send a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the captain meant to
anchor in the stream for the night: so obvious that if any one on shore
had mentioned the conclusion his speech would have called for nothing
but a contemptuous glance from the steady blue eyes all round him.
It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were no
greetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the
burly form of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives
could distinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these
were attending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand
was raised in salutation.
The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights and
boisterous days. The tide was almost slack. "The Last Hope" was

scarcely moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship
sailing out of a dreamy sunset sky.
Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, that
the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appeal
with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startled
eyes 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 monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout."
Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of
a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling
contrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was a
clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears,
such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a
dumb feeling of shame and shyness.
But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there by
this time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance
and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood
between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent.
"We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate," said a man, bearing the
reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciators
answered:
"You're right," and laughed good-humouredly.
The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at
self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some
generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with
Dormer 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 a sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes
were only fine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his
heart was as human as any beating under a homelier coat.
"There's Passen," said one woman to another, behind the corner of her
apron, 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
the pause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once
in the direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waited
until a change of position enabled him to turn his head without undue
curiosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the
manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude.
A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, a
grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a
boy of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty
at a quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity
and looking back toward the man who followed them with the
abstraction and indifference of a student.
Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance.
But he turned again as the singer on board