In peril on the sea

CHAPTER VII

A high-spirited, deeply sensitive girl, caring nothing for such blows and buffetings as life may please to deal her so long as they touch herself alone, but very keenly alive to the wrongs and injuries of others—especially those near and dear to her. Such is Norah Sheridan, and such has she been from her childhood.

Hers is a poor little life-story; rather sordid, and rather pathetic. It is a record of things that might easily have been so different, that ought never to have been as they were. The record of a life spent under conditions of topsy-turveydom, under the guidance of a wrong-headed charming fool whom no one could ever advise: a man who, with a brilliant intellect and immense powers of perception could always be counted on to do the wrong thing under all possible circumstances. It is, to say the least of it, a heavy handicap to have such a man for a father!

His course of conduct, pursued consistently all through his life, speaks the nature of the man. Daniel Sheridan while still a youngster, is offered by a distant English relative a well-paid post on a big estate; he refuses and elects instead to pick up the scantiest of livings in the shady by-paths of literature—for which he has not even a natural aptitude.

In the course of his career he falls under the influence of the craziest firebrands of his countrymen, and imbibes a fierce hatred against a land which has never done him the slightest harm in the world.

After a while he migrates to this same hated land, settles down there in the most elegant poverty, and remains there happily for the rest of his life! He even marries an English girl, he is on the best of terms with his English neighbours; he makes many close friends amongst the English; if he has to leave the country to go to the land of his birth he always comes back again with all possible speed and with most obvious content. But, in spite of these things, it must always be quite clearly understood that he hates England. Oh yes,—and he writes endless poems on this theme, for now he has become—by correspondence—one of the inner set of the Irish "Intellectuals," and his own contribution to the new learning takes the form of quite brilliantly clever but equally unwarranted poetry, which no one will ever read unless it be his fellow Intellectuals; and they are for the most part too busy writing their own works of burning genius to read those of anyone else.

It is these same pungently clever poems that are the cause of his daughter Norah's first enmity against society. Her first childish recollection is that of seeing her father angrily rending the reviews which have slated his works or worse still have treated them to a few lines of insipid comment, and of hearing him break out into a tirade against the dull-witted English who are too jealous or too brainless to appreciate works entirely devoted to their abuse. She sees him fling himself out of the house in a passion—and cannot follow him in his encounter ten minutes later, with three or four cronies of the theoretically hated Sassenach race with whom he discusses rose-growing and the pre-Raphaelites with the utmost amiability and complete forgetfulness of his financial and literary troubles. For Norah there only remains seared on her brain the memory of her father's bitterness.

And the knowledge of his poverty. That of course, is an ever present fact. How the man manages to live he alone knows—he, and possibly that distant English relative whose kindness was not soured by Daniel's youthful refusal of his offer of work.

What more natural than that the grinding poverty and the conspiracy to throw contempt on the genius of the brilliant Irish poet should always be attributed in the girl's mind to the despicable tyranny of the English despots? Her father has stated the fact a thousand times in her hearing, and therefore, it must be so.

True, there have been moments when this theory has not appeared to fit in altogether with her own reading of the facts of life. For example, it is difficult to reconcile it with the witness of her own English mother, who is neither tyrannical, despotic, nor despicable; but the sweetest and most adorable mother in the world.

Only once did the puzzling contrast vent itself in an open question: and that only after many days of silent heart-burnings:

"Mother darling, are the English all as horrid and hateful as Daddy says they are?"

Mother darling finds it hard to reply. She is somewhat of a weakling, though a very dear and good woman; and much as she loves her little daughter she is still more devoted, even ridiculously so, to her fascinating irresponsible husband whose rodomontades she can assess at their true value. Loyalty to him constrains her to reply with a weak compromise:

"Not all of them perhaps, dearest one; but I do not like to hear my little girl questioning the truth of what she hears her father say."

Amiable fool! Or, perhaps it may be kinder to say, fond foolish loving heart! The result is, of course, that Norah grows up from childhood to girlhood all aflame with the sense of bitter injustice done to her father, and accepts the alleged cause of it without further questioning.

Occasionally she takes a trip to Ireland in company with her father. And once is left behind with some Irish cousins for six months while he returns to his home in England.

This visit has a great and lasting effect on Norah's character. Those sentiments which were up till now merely fluid and formless become crystallised, assuming a very definite shape—and hardness.

To begin with, she is greatly delighted at being able to have a friend of her own sex in the person of her cousin Netta: she has never had a girl friend before—indeed no friend of any sort except her own parents; seclusion and poverty coupled with pride and gentility do not tend much to the promotion of friendships.

So Netta comes into her life almost as a revelation. Intercourse with another girl opens up a vista of happiness hitherto almost undreamt of. What Netta does and what Netta says become in the first flush of the newly-formed attachment a perfect model and a true gospel.

What Netta says, unfortunately, is often no more than an echo caught from the dark sayings of her elder brother Patrick. There are but these two, brother and sister, the former older by some fifteen years than Netta. To the authority due to his greater age, is added the weight of a dominating character, sombre and gloomy.

Like his Uncle Daniel, Norah's father, whom he nearly equals in age, Patrick Sheridan is a professed hater of England and all things English. But the difference between the two men is just this, that whereas in Daniel the professed hatred dissipates itself in an effervescence of words, in Patrick it is a living faith, the guiding motive of his whole life. He is misguided, unreasonable, fanatical, anything you like; but at least he is sincere and lives for his convictions. He despises the dilettante nationalism of his poetical cousin, and only waits for the day to put his professions into practice.

In Norah he finds the ground already prepared by the willing though shallow tillage effected by Netta's feeble copy of his words and sentiments. Patrick enters the field with all the forcibility of his overwhelming character, digs furiously and deeply into the soil, breaks it up and turns it over effectively to absorb the air of his stormy reasonings, and sows it well with the seeds of his political faith.

Norah was ready from the first to give him hero-worship; but the effect of the two highly-strung dispositions meeting together is something far more tempestuous and forceful than what she was prepared for. She finds herself carried off her feet and swept away by the violence of the man's passionate character.

To a certain extent she is repelled by him; his thoughts and words are so dark and malignant. But in spite of this she never for a moment hesitates to follow him implicitly in his devious paths. Where he leads she must perforce follow.

And always for this reason above all others: that he is continually sounding the chord of injustice, tyranny, and oppression, a chord which finds an immediate response in her sensitive soul.

Thus is worked out by degrees the result, strange but not unintelligible, of a pure and high-minded young girl devoting herself to black dishonour for honour's sake, calling evil good and good evil from motives which seem to her lofty beyond all others, hypnotised by morbid suggestion into a state of mind where the gravest inconsistences are possible. And at last all her whole being is so lulled into this dangerous somnabulistic state that only two things remain to be made clear, two questions to be answered—will her dark dreams take form in action? And will she ever awake again to her true self? Ah, the awaking is to come, indeed, but too late! First comes the dreadful deed; and it comes as the culmination of a great tragedy in Norah's young life.

A tragedy to her; to her father it is a tragedy made ironical by the intermingling of farce, consistently with all his career. Such as his life has been, such is his death.

Going over to Ireland on one of his periodical visits, Daniel Sheridan has no deeper purpose than that of interviewing a publisher who, to his great surprise, has made him quite a favourable offer for his latest volume of poems. Such a thing has never happened to him before, and it almost seems as though the tide is turning and setting in the direction of prosperity. The reason is really not far to seek. The cult of Irish letters has lately spread from an insignificant circle of literary people to widen out and embrace almost the whole of the nation. A real native Irish poet above the class of minor rhymesters is just what the nation has been crying aloud for, and in Daniel Sheridan the nation's literary aspirations bid fair to be realised.

The poet is almost beside himself with joy at his pleasant prospects. Not only does he secure a substantial sum for his present work, but he also carries away with him a very handsome offer for his literary output of the next two years. He looks forward to spending his remaining days in England with ease and comfort, and sketches many a rosy picture of the future.

What he does not quite understand, however, is the extent to which the intellectual movement in his native land is intertwined with political aspirations. And subsequently, when carried away by the stream of Patrick's wild oratory and the enthusiasm of his other intellectual associates he finds himself drawn into the whirlpool of a Dublin riot on the larger scale, he is to the last unable to discriminate entirely between what is the desire to revive the ancient glories of the land of saints and scholars, and what is mere hot-headed revolt.

Still in this state of indecision he unfortunately gets in the way of a bullet not intended for him, and never knows for what cause he lays down his life.

But when he is lowered into his grave by a band of sworn patriots—and when his weak and adoring wife, bereft of her pillar of life, collapses and dies heart-broken at the very graveside, Norah clutches at the hand of her cousin Patrick and looks at him from that moment onwards to help her in her sacred quest for justice and vengeance.

CHAPTER VIII

First the deed, and then the awakening. And, what a terrible awakening!

The destroyer is racing back to the base: for the mist has now cleared and high speed is once more possible.

Norah, in the tiny wardroom which has been given up to the three passengers, is a prey to the most poignant remorse and anxiety.

She sits with bowed head, her eyes fixed in a steady gaze yet seeing nothing; her arms, stretched put limply before her with the clasped hands lying in her lap would seem nerveless and lifeless but for the perpetual wreathing and untwining of her restless fingers, the outward symbol of the working of her tortured brain.

No gentle waking, this, no gradual realisation of the truth by means of observations gathered here and there and ideas slowly accumulating, such as is granted to many a one whose whole life is changed and reversed. Let this girl's past be condemned as pitilessly as you will, yet there must be some pity for the cruel shock of this blinding light that has suddenly blazed in upon her darkened mind.

Not two hours ago she was a devoted instrument of righteous vengeance, vowed to a high task whose awful nature inspired her all the more deeply.

Now, she sees very clearly the utter enormity of the thing she had planned to do. She realises the baseness of the deed itself, and the full extent of the dreadful consequences of it. But most of all she loathes and despises herself for having ever been so warped and twisted mentally as not to have known herself for what she was.

Her self-scourgings are, as with most penitents in the zeal of new conversion, laid on with too heavy a hand. She is to blame, indeed, but not so greatly as she now imagines, not so greatly as those who have moulded her to their own evil pattern. The truth was in her always, stirring to burst from this false mould—else how has she broken free now at the very moment when temptation was at its strongest?

Yet she will not spare herself nor accept a single drop of the balm of self-pity. All excuses she thrusts from her, before there is time for them to become properly visualised.

"I did not do it—that at least is true.

"But I meant to. Though I had days and weeks to think it over, I really meant to do it. And even at the very last moment, or almost, I still clung to my purpose.

"Yet—after all, I changed my mind.

"Yes, but why? Was it because I saw the enormity of the crime I was about to commit?

"Partly that; but not altogether. It was through an accident—the accident of a man looking at me in the way he did. And if I was hindered merely by an accident, then my real intention remains unchanged, and I am as guilty as though the deed were actually done."

—And so on, in endless self-torment.

Happily for her, she is not allowed to continue without intermission in her bitter reflections. There are two of the destroyer's officers, a surgeon-probationer, and a midshipman, who are not on duty and are therefore free to attend to the comfort and well-being of their guests, a task which they feel it incumbent upon them to perform with all the hospitality at their command.

These two seem to think they must lend their presence and the consolations of cheerful small-talk as much as possible; and although the surgeon-probationer disappears from the little wardroom from time to time in order to give an eye to Netta who is lying exhausted in the destroyer captain's cabin, he soon darts back again and joins the midshipman in a well-meaning attempt at inducing cheerfulness.

It is an uphill task, certainly. Patrick is even more silent and moody here than he was on board the Marathon. He answers in gruff monosyllables to such remarks as are addressed to him, and never advances a single observation on his own account.

So the two young officers soon give up the attempt in his case, and turn all their energies upon Norah. The more readily since beauty in distress is very much more attractive than a surly unprepossessing man, and there can be no doubt either of Norah's distress or of her beauty.

Patrick therefore, is left to the material consolations of a whisky bottle and a soda syphon, which his hosts feel confident must be what he needs in a case like this. And it seems that they are not far wrong, for the silent morose man does not decline the proffered hospitality, but on the contrary pours out for himself glass after glass—and the soda-water disappears a good deal more slowly than the whisky.

Against her will, then, Norah is forced to join in conversation; or rather to force herself to listen with just sufficient attention to enable her to make suitable replies when speech is demanded of her. It is a trying ordeal for the unhappy girl; but a merciful one in reality, for probably this enforced concentration is just the one thing that keeps madness at bay.

Yet all the time she is consumed with a gnawing anxiety. There is a question she would give almost anything to be able to answer:

She herself was providentially foiled in her dread attempt; but—did Patrick succeed in bringing it to completion?

When he wrested the bomb from her grasp the moment before the Marathon's officers came into the wardroom, what did he do with it?

She knows he could not have disposed of it in the room itself; for they left on the instant, and Patrick preceded her so that she was able to keep her eyes on him the whole time.

But afterwards? When they were out in the less brightly lit alleyway? Or during the few minutes' delay before they actually left the ship to go on board the destroyer?

There might have been an opportunity then; or was such opportunity impossible on account of the presence of other people and Patrick's ignorance of his surroundings?

He could not, surely, have just placed the bomb in any chance spot, stooping quickly in an undetected movement amidst the crowd. That would have been to court discovery, almost to a certainty, and Patrick would never be so simple as that.

Yet, was it not possible that his quick eyes might have been able to spy a hiding-place into which he might slip his hand as he passed, behind an arm-rack, under a steam-pipe, or some such likely corner? If such a chance offered itself, be sure he must have taken it!

But oh, if only Norah could know for certain!

Instead, the miserable girl has to listen and reply to the kindly talk and questionings of her two well-intentioned hosts. And, worse still, out of sheer politeness she has to recount at their eager enquiry all the wretched falsehood of the torpedoed steamer.

To the ears of her auditors it is a romantic and exciting tale of misadventure, and they press for the story in its entirety.

And Norah tells them. She is not going to make a confession to these two young officers, whatever she may do later. This, at any rate, is not the time nor the place. And what other course is open to her?

Therefore, with wild abandonment she heaps up the agony of the tale, repeating every detail of what has been already told to the Marathon's officers, and even adding more.

She feels, rather than sees, the glaring eyes of Patrick fixed upon her face as she fires off the rapid narration of their pretended sufferings; and somehow this keeps her from giving way to hysterical shrieks and laughter as otherwise she would: but the compelling glance restrains her.

But at what an effort! And how thankful she is when, at the end of it, her two listeners happen to go out of the room both together for the first time, and leave her alone with her cousin!

This is the chance she has been waiting for. Immediately, with one rapid backward glance to make sure the two officers have really gone, she strides quickly across to Patrick and grasping him by the shoulder as though she would shake the answer out of him, asks in a tense, quivering voice:

"Oh, Patrick, did you do it? Tell me!"

He shrinks from her grasp, and crouches back in his chair, glancing upwards and sideways at the girl standing over him. Hatred gleams from his reddened eyes, the hatred of fanaticism made fiercer by the unstinted whisky he has been drinking. It is evident that he deems the girl a treacherous renegade, and spurns her with loathing for her having deserted the great Cause.

"For why should I tell you anything, wretched girl?" he mutters. "You would only use it to betray me!"

"Oh, Patrick, tell me, tell me!"

"Curse you, keep away from me! I want no speech with you, nor ever to set eyes on you again. No kith or kin are ye of mine from this day on! Leave me alone, I bid ye!"

Nor will he deign to open his lips to say another word. Norah gives a gesture of despair and with drooping head goes back to her place.

She had had her chance, and it has been of no avail. A repetition of it is not to be hoped for, even were there any hopes of its being of any use, for the midshipman comes back again and soon his fellow officer also joins him.

CHAPTER IX

On board the Marathon, as she speeds once more on her lawful occasions, fore and aft throughout the ship all tongues are wagging on the subject of the evening's occurrences.

As a general rule, life on board a man-of-war at sea passes without any incident worthy of remark; and this is true to a great degree in war time, just as much as in times of peace. Anything therefore, so out of the common as this timely rescue of shipwrecked people met just in the nick of time provides welcome conversational material for every officer and man; for naval men are, it is well known, the biggest gossips in the world and can give points to any charwoman in the art of discussing a bit of news from every imaginable point of view.

Dinner has been cleared away, and the topic which has held sole sway all through the meal is not yet exhausted. Stapleton alone has taken but little part in the talk; he is remarkably silent, for him—as a rule he can find plenty to say for himself. But, as a matter of fact, he has not been listening much to the chattering voices around him; his sole thought is, how different the wardroom looks now that it no longer holds the presence of his beloved.

For she is his, he thinks. Surely he is not mistaken in believing that Norah really did understand him and was not entirely unmoved by his sudden and violent love-making? When two affinities meet like this, it is as though their souls have been wandering through space for countless ages in the endeavour to find each other; and when at last the encounter takes place, it is inevitable that the truth should come home with equal force to both of them. So, at least, thinks Stapleton; and he is convinced that Norah had not at any rate looked upon him unkindly. For the rest, he will make sure of things at their next meeting.

But, good heavens! Why—the thought has not struck him till this moment—in spite of all his pressing entreaties. Norah never told him where she might be found! Something happened—he cannot remember exactly what it was—to change the conversation, and she left the ship without giving him any clue as to where he may meet her again!

So then, he has lost her. No—surely he will be able to find out something when the ship returns to the base, something that will enable him to trace her even though it may turn out to be a long job. So he plucks up heart again.

These reflections are interrupted by a remark from Merritt:

"I say, that was a funny yarn of the fair-haired one, wasn't it? I wonder how anyone could have the imagination to invent such a pack of stuff!"

Stapleton pricks up his ears. "What yarn was that?" he asks.

Merritt is only too willing to repeat the story of Netta's delirious ravings; but thinks it hardly fair on the girl to give her away in the presence of so many of the other officers; Stapleton is different—he can be trusted not to spread the yarn. For all his youthful simplicity Merritt has the delicacy to realise that Netta would not be pleased if the story should travel back to her: as he expresses it in his own mind, it would make her feel such a silly fool!

So, with an apologetic "tell you presently," he glides gracefully to another topic, and does not return to Netta's wonderful revelations till the wardroom is emptied of all but Stapleton, Dale and himself.

"Well, what about this yarn of yours that you were so full of just now?" queries the first lieutenant.

Merritt tells him.

"What an absurd story," comments Stapleton, when the other has come to the end of his extraordinary narrative. "How on earth could the girl get such weird ideas into her head?"

"Purely and simply the result of the workings of a brain thrown out of gear by physical suffering," Dale informs him; "sub-conscious ideas come to the surface under such conditions, and the memories and fancies gleaned from books, conversations, and a thousand similar sources weave themselves together into a fabric which sometimes, as in this present case, possesses a wonderful consistency."

"Pity she couldn't invent something a little more convincing while she was about it," smiles Stapleton.

"How do you mean? I thought it was rather a good effort, for a piece of pure imagination."

"Well, yes; all but one thing. Anybody that had the slightest knowledge—real knowledge of the subject, would never have made such a howler as to talk of blowing up a ship with a bomb small enough to be concealed in one's clothing. That's the weak point of the story which gives it away at once."

"Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't like to say that, exactly. Modern developments in high explosives have been pretty marvellous and according to what I have read about these things I see no reason why you shouldn't be able to pack into a cigarette-case enough stuff to wreck all London."

"Yes, you could, certainly—in theory. But when it comes to practice you find yourself up against certain difficulties—the chief one being that you would be almost dead sure to wreck yourself first. Very powerful explosives are nothing new—take fulminate of mercury, for instance; that is an old discovery, yet so tremendously potent that a teaspoonful of it would be sufficient to blow this room to blazes."

"If that's the case," asks Merritt, "why do you say that a small-sized bomb couldn't be made with enough of it to blow up a ship?"

"Because, my son, all these very high explosives are what is called very unstable, they won't stand any knocking about. Why, supposing you had the teaspoonful of fulminate I spoke about, it would probably explode if someone were to slam the door or even walk across the deck with a heavy tread. So you see, you can't put stuff of that sort into bombs and cart it round with you."

Dale has an objection to make, as a scientist. "What you say is true enough, Number One, but only as far as our knowledge goes at present. There has been a lot of progress made lately in these affairs and what I say is that there is no reason why someone should not have discovered a means of overcoming the instability."

"Someone such as——?"

"Oh, possibly one of those German chemists; a secret of that sort would be just the very thing they would be all out to discover. It would make a tremendous difference to them in this war. It might, for instance, encourage them to attempt just such a scheme as our imaginative young friend raved about."

"You speak as though you were not entirely convinced that she was raving, Dale."

Stapleton looks sharply at the surgeon as he snaps out these words. The love which has sprung up in his heart makes him keenly jealous of the least shadow of a slur being cast upon anyone belonging to her.

"Not at all, not at all!" rejoins Dale; "as a matter of fact, it was the evident absurdity of the girl's story that convinced me of the bona fides of the party."

"What in the world do you mean?"—Stapleton has all his hackles up now and is quite prepared to take serious offence.

"I mean," says Dale calmly, taking no notice of his friend's annoyance, "that up to the time when the girl chucked her fit I was rather inclined to think there was something darned fishy about the whole affair; but no one in his senses could concoct such a marvellous yarn as that one about a bomb and a plot and a motor-boat and all the rest of it, so as soon as I heard it I knew that it was nothing but delirium, and that proved to my mind that the three of them had been through all that they said they had."

"And what was it, if I may ask, that made you suspicious at first?" The first lieutenant is properly on his high horse now.

Indeed, the air appears so threatening that the assistant paymaster, not willing to be dragged into a quarrel, thinks it opportune to make himself scarce. He has indeed, a very good excuse, as he is the ship's Intelligence Officer and it is time for him to go to the office beneath the fore bridge where he employs himself in that capacity.

Stapleton, left alone with Dale, presses the question.

"There were one or two things that didn't seem quite to fit in, to my mind," Dale replies.

"What things?"

"Well, one was that for people who had been drifting all day in an open boat with hardly any clothing to speak of, and in this weather, they didn't strike me as being quite so much done in as one might expect. The tall girl, the one you were so chummy with, for instance——"

"Yes? What about her?" almost ferociously.

"Eh? What are you looking so shirty about? I was only going to say that she didn't look as if she had been under the weather to any extent. No more did the man. Indeed, except for the fact that they both had very red noses there didn't seem much matter with either of them!"

An indignant snort is Stapleton's reply. Red noses! Norah's nose—red, indeed! He contrives to smother his indignation, and remarks in an unnaturally calm voice:

"And the younger girl? Perhaps you thought her, too, in a buxom state of health, what?"

"No, of course not. That's just what I told you—it was her evident condition of collapse which told me that the others also must have really suffered even if they didn't show it so much."

"How very observant of you!"—Stapleton is not showing the best side of his character now. It is unlike him to sneer in this way, and to quarrel with his old friend; but love is responsible, very often, for upsetting people's tempers.

"And what else did you notice that was suspicious?" he goes on, still aggrieved.

"Oh, that was the chief thing. But there was another little point also—didn't you notice it?—one of 'em said their ship was torpedoed at five o'clock, and the other, your girl, I think it was—said seven."

"My girl!" echoes Stapleton, now thoroughly angry. "I can see no occasion for coarseness on your part, Dale, and I'll thank you not to speak of the lady again in that way!" A curious point to quarrel about, since if there is one particular light in which he regards Norah Sheridan it is undoubtedly as his girl! But again, there is no accounting for the whimsies of a man in love.

"And what's more," continues the irate officer, "I consider you no better than a suspicious-minded busybody to entertain for a single moment such ideas as these. They don't do you much credit, I must say!"

Dale is surprised at the other man's vehemence. "All right, old man," he says kindly, "don't get annoyed about it. Sorry if I've said anything to offend you. Anyhow, I've got to go for'ard to the sick bay now, so you can just calm down and forgive me by the time I come back."

He goes, leaving Stapleton still angry and unappeased.

Which is a very great pity. Stapleton remembers this one-sided quarrel afterwards with bitter shame and grief.

For it is the last time he ever sets eyes on his old friend.

CHAPTER X

Half-an-hour later Stapleton is sitting in his cabin in the after part of the ship.

It is a pleasant little place to look at, with its shining green-lacquered corticene deck and the framed pictures against the white enamelled bulkheads. In one respect it is very much like every other naval officer's cabin; that is to say it makes a subtle combination of elegance and severity.

The severity is provided by the plain Admiralty furniture, which is designed rather for usefulness and hard wear than for ornament. There is an austere looking kneehole table at one side of the cabin, and on the opposite side a plain rectangular chest of drawers, made of steel painted to look like mahogany and relieved by shining brass drawer-handles. The end of the narrow room, otherwise the ship's side end, where the round scuttle gives light and air to the cabin, is completely filled with a harrow bunk resting on top of a long cupboard cunningly contrived with sliding shelves for holding uniform and other personal gear.

Everything is arranged with this same cunning economy of space. For it must be understood that his cabin is the sole apartment that an officer can call his very own, reserved for his own private use, and it has to fulfil the functions of bedroom, drawing-room and study all combined in one. Witness the round tin bath which hangs from the deck overhead, suspended by iron hooks, and the little mahogany two-shelf book-case at the foot of the bunk; these are but a couple of the incongruities to be found in that curious blend of rooms which constitutes a cabin on board ship; and taken in conjunction with the various adornments which the occupier introduces to beautify the place, and give it a little reminiscence of home, they certainly must strike the eye of a stranger as very curious indeed; but there is no denying that the combined result is very attractive.

But there is one point which Stapleton's cabin offers a contrast to most of those belonging to his brother officers throughout the navy; there is no silver-framed photograph placed prominently upon the kneehole table where the owner of the cabin, when busied in making up his reports or in the more pleasant task of writing home letters, can refresh himself by letting his eyes rest from time to time upon the beloved features of wife or sweetheart.

No, Stapleton was speaking no more than the truth when he told Norah that never before had he looked with love into a woman's eyes. Possibly this explains why he has now taken such a bold and sudden header into the dangerous alluring waters of desire; it very often happens that way, doesn't it?

Yet, although he has not before him anything visible and tangible to remind him of his beloved, he feels no need of any such outward assistance. Sitting at his writing-table with one hand supporting his head and the other stretched out idly before him, he gazes upward with a fixed and rapturous stare at the frosted bulb of an electric light on the bulkhead in front of him; but it is quite evident that his open eyes see nothing; nothing, that is, of a mere material nature; their gaze is visualising, by the magic of love, the face and form of that dark beautiful girl who has come into his life.

Perhaps it is as well that he does not see her as she actually is, at this very moment, in the wardroom of the destroyer!

All his peevish annoyance with Dale has vanished completely. As a matter of fact, he has quite forgotten about it; and if Dale were to remind him of it—and the surgeon, good-natured man, would be the last person in the world to do such a thing—he would probably ask with a laugh if it were really possible that he could have made such a fool of himself as to get annoyed with his best pal over so trifling a matter.

But he never gets this chance. The thing happens with such terrible swiftness that for a moment it is just a meaningless shock, too sudden for the brain to comprehend.

Darkness, and a dull roar: a tinkle of breaking glass, and the deck rising beneath his feet; a sharp blow on the back of his head with a swift concussion of air which takes his breath away. All happening in an instant. A bright purple light shines at the back of Stapleton's eyes, changing quickly to a vivid orange and dissolving into a million wandering specks of fire.

Then, as he picks himself up from the deck and comes again to his senses, he realises that the electric lights have gone out and he is in total darkness.

All this happens in the veriest flash of time; and even as he rises to his feet, the whole cabin is still trembling, Stapleton realises the meaning of it, and his brain is silently framing the word—

"Torpedoed!"

Speech comes thickly to his lips, and in a stupid dazed fashion he keeps saying to himself, as he fumbles and gropes his way to the door across the overturned furniture, "Torpedoed! My God, we've got it this time: we're torpedoed!"

No need for the loud ringing calls of "Clear lower deck," resounding everywhere. Stapleton himself joins in the cry: but already the mess-deck ladders are thronged with men filing upwards in a constant stream. There is no crowding though, and no confusion. The electric lights have been extinguished here also, but a match struck here and there, soon followed by a dozen more, make little points of light in the general darkness, and a moment later the emergency candle lamps are lit, and it is now possible to see more or less clearly and to regulate better the human traffic.

"Steady, lads, steady—the old ship's not done for yet," rings out the voice of Stapleton as he makes his way swiftly along the mess-deck. "Everyone on deck and get to your stations for abandoning ship."

There is seriousness on all faces—so far as they can be seen in the feeble light of the candles which cast thick massed shadows with Dantesque effect upon the congregated men—but no sign of panic or even of anxiety. The British Blue takes the event with his invincible calmness as something which is all in the day's work: he is even a little elated and cheerful about it, or at any rate tries to assume that appearance.

It is this feeling that cheerfulness is the proper thing under the circumstances which causes one of the men to sing out the obvious "Are we down-hearted?" And the immediate answering chorus is cut short by the first lieutenant's:

"That will do, lads. Quietly does it—keep your breath, you may need it presently."

He has made his way through the thronging crowd of men, and at the foot of the ladder is assisted by the stentorian voice of a petty officer which rings out, "Gangway there! Make way there for the first lieutenant!" He knows, as do all the men, that if their officer wishes to force his way on deck before the others it is not for the sake of saving his own skin, but in order that he may take charge of affairs and give orders for the safety of all.

From the moment of groping his way out of his cabin till his foot steps over the hatchway coaming on to the upper-deck less than a minute has elapsed. But Stapleton already finds that the ship is down by the head and fears the worst.

Fortunately it is a clear moonlight night, and almost as bright as day. That makes things easier, as it is possible for all hands to get their places and set about what has to be done with the least possible difficulty.

As soon as he stands on the upper-deck Stapleton finds himself facing one of the lieutenants. It is Morley, who was officer of the watch during the last doer, when that other exciting incident occurred, an incident now forgotten and obliterated by a greater happening.

"Where is the captain—have you seen him anywhere?" is Stapleton's first question.

"Killed I believe. The foremast has gone over the side and carried away the whole of the bridge. What's left of it is on fire."

Little need to say that; a cloud of thick smoke obscures the fore part of the ship, and even as Morley speaks a tongue of flame leaps upward through the smoke, high into the air.

"Call away the fire party. Take a few hands with you and go and see if there is anyone left alive there—look out for yourself though. Here, bugler"—the first lieutenant providentially descries a passing bluejacket who is in fact looking for him—"sound the Still."

The clear notes of the bugle ring out, and there is silence throughout the ship, fore and aft, save for the roar and crackle of the gathering fire forward.

"Send the carpenter to me at once."

The warrant officer carpenter appears immediately in response to the call, clattering down the foc'sle ladder and running smartly along the deck to. Stapleton.

The latter's unspoken question is anticipated and replied to in a few brief words.

"Not a dog's chance, sir. There's a hole in her side big enough to drive a wagon through. I give her ten minutes at the most; but she may go any moment."

"Everybody up from the engine-room and stoke-hold. Pass the word quickly," orders Stapleton quietly. And in response to the order more men come quickly pouring up on deck.

The boats, meanwhile, have been swung outboard and lowered part way down the ship's side.

The vessel begins to lose her way; the engineer officers, coming up last of all those down below, have stopped the engines before leaving, and have opened the valves so that from the escape-pipes at the top of the funnels immense jets of steam pour forth like thick white clouds into the air with a deafening, vibrating roar.

"Abandon ship! Everyone down into the boats!" The ominous order is executed as though at general drill, and the men make their way quietly into the boats. Happily the ship is sinking by the head and without any list to speak of, so there is no difficulty about getting the boats into the water. Morley comes back at this instant, and reports that he has seen no one alive, nor indeed anyone at all, alive or dead.

"The whole place is blazing," he says, "there is nothing left of it at all. The fore magazine must have been touched off by the explosion of the torpedo. As far as I can see, the foc'sle has been blown off, or very nearly."

"The foremost bulkhead has gone, and the ship is filling quickly," adds the carpenter; the zealous individual, reckless of his own safety, has been down below again to make another inspection and see if there is any chance at all of keeping the ship afloat. At the first sign of the disaster, the unmistakable sound of the explosion, the Marathon's one remaining destroyer escort had circled round and raced back to render assistance. Now she has stopped her engines and lies abreast of the cruiser, half a cable away.

Her searchlights are turned on the sinking cruiser, lighting up the deck and the men now swarming down into the boats.

"Shall I come alongside to take you off?" shouts her commander through a megaphone.

"No—keep away," answers Stapleton; "she may blow up as she goes down. We will pull off to you. Keep your searchlights on the water in case any of our boats get into trouble."

This is his last order. With a nod to the other officers who are remaining by him on deck he signs to them to get down into the boats. Last of all, he leaves himself.

Most of the boats are already pulling away in the direction of the destroyer. Those which are still alongside unhook from the falls as their officers jump into them, and follow as fast as the oars can strike the water.

None too soon. Scarce is the last boat fifty yards from the doomed ship when the Marathon plunges forward and dips half her length into the water. There is no further explosion—it is a quiet end for the gallant ship. For a few seconds her stern hangs poised almost perpendicular in the air; then, with a forward glide, it sinks beneath the waves, and the Marathon has disappeared for ever.

CHAPTER XI

It is the afternoon of the following day. A brilliant clear afternoon without a cloud in the sky, and warm sunshine flooding the calm blue sea and making the distant cliffs and islands of the naval base appear as though they were made of delicately tinted enamels. Such days are not infrequent in autumn even in the far north of Scotland; they make a sort of fairy midsummer at a time when the icy fingers of winter are already fast closing their grip upon the land.

In the sunshine it is quite hot; but directly one steps into the shade one feels the chilly nip in the air, tingling and bracing.

That is why the matronly lady who has just dragged a couple of deck-chairs across the grass from a building near by is careful to place them well out in the sunlight, giving a careful glance to make sure that no neighbouring shadow in its swift advance shall presently cover the spot she has chosen.

Mrs. Shaw prides herself on being thoughtful about little details of this sort. And, indeed, her pride is thoroughly justified, for she is an extremely capable lady as all her friends are willing to admit, even though they may sometimes add that she is a trifle fussy.

However, her fussiness is always of a kindly type, like that of a motherly hen in charge of a big brood of chicks. And the chicks which are dearer to her heart than any others are those big ones whose plumage is the dark blue of the British sailor.

"What ever will you do now, without all your beloved sailor-boys to look after?" said her friends when the first outbreak of war suddenly spirited away the fleet and emptied the streets of our seaport towns of all those fine lads whose neat blue rig had up till then made an ever welcome relief to the sombre suits of the civilians.

"What will I do?" replied the energetic lady, "why, go after 'em, to be sure!"

"Oh, but how? Do you think the Admiralty will let you?"

"Hm! If I want to go and be with my boys and the Admiralty stand in my light, well, so much the worse for the Admiralty, that's all I've got to say about the matter. But they won't stand in my way—you can always bluff these official people, if you know the right way to set to work about it!"

"And what is the right way, Mrs. Shaw?"

"Meet officialdom with officialdom. If I were to request permission to go in a private capacity to run a home for sailors at one of their precious secret bases, I should only get a polite snub and a very definite refusal. But if I can persuade one of the big societies to let me join up with them—well, I'll stand the racket and the society can take the credit so long as it lends its name and patronage. That'll do the trick, I'll be bound!"

The event proved that Mrs. Shaw's psychology was not at fault. Very few ladies can boast of being present with the fleet in the early days of the war and of sharing the secrets of the fleet's hiding-places; but Mrs. Shaw and her helpers were amongst those few.

Her hut, the constant rendezvous of hundreds of bluejackets, bore the name of a deservedly well-known society painted in big letters across its tin roof; but to the men who frequented it and found in it a real home it was known by no other name than that of "Mother Shaw's."

"Mother Shaw's" has been an established institution on the island for a long time now; but Mother Shaw herself has never yet had to undertake a job so much out of her ordinary line as that which is occupying her this sunny autumn afternoon.

Having arranged the two deck-chairs with most precise care, she goes back to the hut and emerges again with her arms laden with rugs and cushions. These also seem to need the skill of a master-mind to get them into just the exact position, for Mrs. Shaw arranges and re-arranges them with many a pat and a pull before they are settled entirely to her satisfaction.

Once more she makes the short journey to the hut. This time she stays longer inside; and when she reappears she comes out arm in arm with a tall dark girl who seems glad of her support.

It is Norah Sheridan. She is very pale. The strain of all she has been through has left its mark upon her. Yet she holds herself gallantly, and though the drawn lips indicate the shame and anxiety still gnawing at her heart she does her best to smile her gratitude for Mrs. Shaw's kindly mothering, and speaks bravely and cheerfully—when she can get a word in edgeways, which to tell the truth is not very often.

She is dressed in a plain tweed costume which fits her graceful figure to a marvel—better, indeed, than the girl for whom it was originally made, one of Mrs. Shaw's young helpers who has come to the aid of Norah's distinctly sketchy wardrobe.

The older woman settles her young charge into a deck chair, covering her knees with a thick rug and arranging cushions behind her shoulders and head. Then she stands off and with a kindly scrutiny reviews her work.

Apparently it satisfies even her exacting nature.

"There now, my dear," the good lady announces, giving the cushions just one more pat, "I think you'll be snug enough like that! Don't I make a good nurse? I ought to, considering the number of times I've had to nurse my own daughter, a delicate girl of just about the same age as you, my dear, but not nearly as good-looking, she takes after me, the plain but useful type. It takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it? We can't all be good-looking! Now, my husband was a very handsome man, and my boys are exactly like him; I only had the one girl, and she must needs go and turn after me! Often the way, haven't you noticed it? It does seem a shame—what do boys want with good looks? They can get on perfectly well without 'em, whereas the girls, poor things—but there, I managed to get married in spite of my face, so perhaps it doesn't really matter so much, after all! As for you, I don't think girls of your type ought to be allowed at large at all—you're a positive danger to society!"

Norah starts, and her hands grip the sides of her chair. Her pale face goes a shade paler still. Mrs. Shaw's well-intentioned flattering words have come home to her in a sense that was far from the speaker's thoughts!

"Why, what's the matter with you, child?" the observant lady remarks, "Cushions not very comfortable? There, that'll be better. Another one just here under your back? No? Don't mind saying so if you would really like one, I can easily get it for you. Dear me, I can see I shall have to take my broom to keep off all the young naval officers from this place, or else you'll be wrecking the peace of mind of the whole lot of 'em!"

"Do the officers come ashore here then, Mrs. Shaw? I was hoping that we might just remain here quietly and see nobody until we can get away and go home."

"You need not see anyone if you really don't wish to do so, my dear. I can always say you are not well enough—and it won't be much of a fib either, because you certainly do look a poor wisht creature, and I don't wonder at it after what you have been through. But as soon as it begins to get known that you are here I know I shall have my work cut out! I have three girls helping me here, and you would be astonished at the number of naval officers who drop in to tea at the hut now; they never used to come before those girls arrived on the scene! Of course, they all say that it is me they come to see, the monkeys!"

"I hope I shan't see anyone. I don't want to," repeats Norah in a plaintive little voice.

"No? Well, you shan't then, dear. Of course not. I'm not surprised at your wanting to be as quiet as you can, after such a dreadful experience. Fancy your being picked up by the Marathon! I have a nephew on board that ship—a dear boy he is, too!"

"Have you, Mrs. Shaw? Which is he? I wonder if he was one of those I saw?"—Norah somehow has a presentiment of what the answer is going to be. It was too much to hope for that she might flee away and hide in obscurity. Fate was bound to weave its cruel net of complications around her feet; but oh, the irony of it, that this kind motherly soul should be the one to commence the dreaded weaving!

CHAPTER XII

"Alick Stapleton is my nephew's name. He is the first lieutenant of the ship, so naturally you must have met him. What did you think of him? Isn't he a dear fellow?"

"Oh, was that your nephew, Mrs. Shaw, the first lieutenant? Yes, I did meet him. He was very kind to me—to all of us. Indeed, I don't know what I should have done if it had not been for him!"

This is not quite strictly true. Norah does know very well what she would have done if it had not been for Alick Stapleton: and even as she utters these words of gratitude she is fully aware of the sinister inner meaning which they conceal.

"I can quite imagine it!" answers Mrs. Shaw briskly. "I daresay he was good to you, the wicked scamp! In my opinion, it is a very good thing that the Marathon will be away for some little time. I'm quite certain that if Alick were only to see you as you are looking now he would fall in love with you at once, with those eyes of yours! Well, well, I'm a garrulous old woman, am I not? Gossiping here like this when I ought to be working. Though you know, my dear, I look upon you as an out-and-out fraud!—Cushion slipping again? How you do start! Nerves, I suppose. You must be in a weaker state than I imagined; I was just going to say that I didn't think there was really very much the matter with you. You're one of the strong kind, not like your—your cousin, didn't you say she is? Poor girl, in a perfect state of collapse ever since she was carried on board that destroyer last night—and I'm sure I don't wonder at it!"

"But she is better now, Mrs. Shaw, isn't she? Thanks to your kindness. May I not see her presently? Or isn't she well enough for that yet?"

"Yes, yes, my dear, certainly you shall see her. That's really the reason why I've brought you out here, more for her sake than yours. As soon as I can get her dressed I'm going to fetch her out here and fix her up in this chair by your side, and you can have a good talk to each other. I thought it best to keep her in bed all the morning, and she has been sleeping all the time till an hour ago, which proves I was right in keeping her there."

"Will she be ready soon? I should so like to see her!"

"Very soon now. Fortunate, wasn't it, that the girls who are helping me were able to rig you out with some of their clothes? You would have looked funny if you had had to get into some of mine!"

"You have all been awfully kind. And there is just one thing more I should like—couldn't you give me something to do while I'm sitting out here? I am quite strong and well, really I am. There is nothing the matter with me—except that I cannot bear to sit still, alone, with my thoughts; it is quite unendurable! Couldn't I do something?"

"Nonsense, my dear, you must really try and be more cheerful. I declare, you're looking utterly miserable! You simply must make an effort to calm yourself, you know! And, if you want something to do, you might go on with these sea-boot stockings for me. Can you knit?"

With a woman like the indefatigable Mrs. Shaw one outlet for her energies is not enough; so even while she is busying herself about the thousand and one things connected with the management of the sailors' hut she generally carries about with her a piece of knitting to occupy her tireless fingers.

She has just such a piece now, and pulls it out from one of her ample pockets and offers it to her patient, who grasps it eagerly, exclaiming:

"Oh, yes, I can knit. Let me have the stockings, do!"

"They are for our poor sailors," says Mrs. Shaw, beaming with motherly kindness as she hands over the work; "I am sure you can sympathise with them in all they have to go through, now that you have experienced a little of it yourself. I always feel that we can never do enough for them. Remember, what would be the fate of us women if it were not for our sailors—and our soldiers, God bless them! And so many of them have given up their lives for us, poor gallant lads. Killed, maimed, blown up, burnt, drowned——"

Norah springs to her feet, trembling all over, thrusting out her hands as if to ward off some unseen evil.

"Oh, don't, don't!" she cries wildly. "Can I not forget such horrors for one single moment? Why must you remind me of them?" Then she sinks back into her chair again, and seems to be ashamed of having given way to such emotion; for she adds in a quieter voice, "Oh, forgive me, Mrs. Shaw. I did not mean to be rude to you, really I didn't. But I am—my nerves are——"

"Of course, of course, poor lamb! You are not so strong as you think you are. I am a foolish old woman, and ought to have had more sense! Hallo, there's someone coming!"

Norah follows with her eyes the direction in which Mrs. Shaw has turned her head. From the landing-place, out of sight beneath the slope of the hill two men are approaching, two naval officers. At first, only their heads and shoulders are visible; but as they mount the hill and come more into view they are recognised by Mrs. Shaw as the admiral in charge of the base and his secretary.

"Oh, can't I get away somewhere? I don't want to meet anybody!" cried Norah in distress at the prospect of having to talk to strangers—especially strangers who may ask awkward questions!

But Mrs. Shaw will not listen to anything of the sort.

"Why, child," she reassures her, "you need not mind these two. In fact, I think you really ought to see them, they have evidently come to enquire for you. It's only Admiral Darlington, such a nice man! And his secretary too, Mr. Dimsdale, a charming fellow and a most able man—but a thorough woman hater. It even makes him nervous to talk to an old woman like myself; and I think he would run a mile sooner than talk to a pretty girl like you!"

"Not like most naval men, then, is he?" smiles Norah, endeavouring to act a cheerful part, though her own sinking heart knows well enough that it is only acting.

"Ha! Mrs. Shaw, good afternoon, good afternoon," the admiral hails her as soon as he gets within earshot. "So I see you've got one of your patients out in the sunshine. That's good—nothing like sunshine and fresh air to bring back the roses into pale cheeks."

"Yes, Admiral," replies the good lady, "and I was just going this very moment to fetch the other one out too. Miss Sheridan, let me introduce Admiral Darlington, and Mr. Dimsdale.

"Now you know one another, and I can leave you for a few minutes while I get the other poor thing. Now, Mr. Dimsdale, you must be entertaining. Try and brighten her up a little; she wants rousing! Well, I'll be off now." And so saying she bustles off to the hut, full of energy and kindness as usual.

Admiral Darlington settles himself comfortably in the vacant deck chair at Norah's side, and to judge by the satisfied appearance of his beaming face is thoroughly pleased with the situation. It is a long time since he has had the opportunity of talking to such a pretty girl as this, and the gallant old sea-dog is ready to make the most of the chance.

The secretary, however, is left standing awkwardly in face of the seated pair. He looks rather a forlorn sight. So much so that the wicked old admiral chuckles inwardly at his discomfiture, and slyly says:

"You can sit on the ground, Dimsdale. It won't hurt you, you are younger than I am. Besides, it's the correct thing for youth to bask at the feet of beauty!"

"I—I'd rather stand, thank you. I'm quite comfortable like this, thank you," stammers the unhappy secretary.

Oh, if the conversation can only be confined to pleasantries and small-talk, thinks Norah. Anything, rather than that it should veer round to herself and her experiences! So, with an effort, she continues to act her part:

"Oh, Mr. Dimsdale, please do sit down. Perhaps you are afraid of the damp? You can have a corner of my rug to sit on, if you like. Isn't that nice of me?"

"Oh no, not at all, not at all!—I mean—yes, very. But really, I'd rather stand."

"I see," answers Norah, "I quite understand. No giving way to idleness—the alert, active temperament—always ready for instant action. I, expect you are just longing for an engagement, aren't you?"

"An engagement?" cries the thoroughly flustered secretary. "No, certainly not! Oh, I see what you mean—yes, yes, of course—stupid of me—I should love to be engaged. I mean—dear me, how very oppressive it is this afternoon. Quite hot, isn't it? I think, sir, I had better be getting back to the ship to write out that report for you."

"Oh, no hurry, Dimsdale, no hurry at all," answers the wicked admiral. "In fact, I don't even know what report you are talking about. But whatever it is I am quite sure it can perfectly well wait for a while. You don't come ashore often enough; and now that you are out of the ship for once you may as well stay and get the benefit of the fresh air."

"Yes, do stay," adds Norah's voice, which can be meltingly persuasive when she tries to make it so. In this instance the earnestness is not altogether assumed; three's company, two's none, when it is a question of a tête-à-tête with the admiral.

"It's—it's rather cold out of doors this afternoon, sir. I think I'd better be getting back to the ship."

"Nonsense, man, nonsense," says Admiral Darlington. "You can stay awhile, surely. We'll go back together, presently."

"Mr. Dimsdale," insinuates Norah, "I should think that you—all of you—must find it very trying to be cooped up on board a ship month after month all by yourselves and never having any ladies' society, don't you?"

This is a subject on which the secretary can be really eloquent. His face quite lights up as he replies:

"I never enjoyed being in the Navy so much before in all my life!" And then, suddenly awaking to the enormity of these sentiments, he tries to cover it by adding, "Oh, I don't mean that, I mean it's very——"

"It's perfectly damnable, Miss Sheridan. Tut, tut, perfectly dreadful, I should say," breaks in the admiral.

"I am sure it must be," smiled the girl. "How beautiful it is to sit here, Admiral Darlington, with such a view, and all these ships to look at."

The admiral's beaming face becomes suddenly grave and thoughtful, as he lifts his eyes to rest them on those distant ships lying at anchor which his young companion has remarked as a beautiful sight.

"It is something more than beautiful," he says meaningly; "it is an impressive sight—next to the Grand Fleet itself, perhaps the most impressive sight to be seen anywhere on the seas at this present moment! When you go home, Miss Sheridan, you will be able to tell your friends that you have seen some of those ships that stand between Germany and her monstrous dreams of world-power. Were it not for the Fleet, the war would have come to an end long ago, with Europe blackened and devastated, crushed under Germany's iron heel. Look well at those ships, young lady. They are just a part of the protecting shield that keeps our country from the invader. His foot will never defile our shores so long as the Fleet is above water!"

This is trying enough to Norah's ears, but not so bad as it might be.

And, to her great relief and joy, Mrs. Shaw rejoins the group at this moment, with Netta. The two girls meet in a close embrace with hurried, whispered greetings. No time for confidences now, for Mrs. Shaw is already clucking over her chickens.

"Here is our other patient, Admiral," she says; "Not very strong yet, I'm afraid. We shall have to take great care of her for a few days, before she will be fit to travel."

"She can't be in better hands than yours, Mrs. Shaw," replies the admiral gallantly. "I hope, young ladies, you will consider yourselves the guests of the British Navy for as long as you like. We shall be only too delighted to do what little we can for you, knowing what you women have done to alleviate the hardships of us sailormen. We can never repay what we owe to you!"

How sharp is the stab which such a kindly hand can deal unknowingly. It is more than Norah can bear.

"You too?" she cries, hiding her face in her hands. "Must everyone remind me?"

"Remind you?" echoes the admiral, slightly puzzled. "Oh, of your sex's kindness towards the Navy, you mean. Well, my dear young lady, you will have to accustom yourself to being thanked for that. I can tell you, we shall never forget what you have done. Mrs. Shaw, let us leave these young people for a few minutes; I have something I want to say to you."

"Certainly, Admiral," assents the good lady, a little surprised, but nevertheless allowing him to lead her away where they can talk without being overheard. "Is it anything I can do?"

"Well, it was not merely to enquire for these two poor things that I came ashore this afternoon. I have something rather serious to tell you, something that I don't want anybody to know. But it is only right that you should hear it."

"Not about Alick?" anxiously asks the other, clutching her companion's arm.

"Your nephew is quite safe; you can be perfectly easy in your mind about him. But his ship, the Marathon—however, come a little further away, where we can be sure they won't hear us. We don't want the matter to become public property yet, you understand."