In peril on the sea

CHAPTER XIV

Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton advances with smiling face and outstretched hand towards two very frightened girls. He is quite aware that they would have cause indeed to feel alarmed if they really knew of the disaster that has happened to the Marathon; but he is also aware that they are in ignorance of this occurrence—and it is up to him to keep them so. Why should they be made to feel this additional shock, after all their sufferings?

So his first greeting is a cheery—

"So I have found you! And given you a fright at the same time, eh? You did not expect to see me again so soon, I suppose? But, as a matter of fact, our cruise was unexpectedly shortened, and I got ashore not so very long after you did."

"Oh, I am so glad, so glad!" Netta exclaims, with the most obvious relief and joy beaming in her pretty grey eyes.

"That's very good of you to say so," returns Stapleton, a little dryly; knowing that the loss of the Marathon is at present a secret he is somewhat at a loss to account for this ebullition of gladness.

There is rather an awkward pause; and Stapleton's usually ready wit fails him when he searches in his mind for the appropriate thing to say next. Netta's uncalled for expressions of joy have made things just a little difficult for him.

Happily, the situation is relieved from an unexpected quarter, Mrs. Shaw coming into view and running—yes, running, and with rather shaky steps, towards her nephew.

"Why—there's—oh, Alick, my boy, my boy!" she cries, hugging him close, then holding him off to take a good look at him, and then hugging him again.

"Hallo, Auntie!" laughs the young man, recovering his self-possession, "why you seem all of a tremble like! Got a job of work to do, or what's affecting you?"

"You cheeky fellow!" is all she answers him: all she answers him openly, that is; for still holding him in her embrace, she finds opportunity to whisper in his ear:

"Hush, I know all about it. I've just seen your admiral. Remember, not a word to these two!"

And then, speaking in her natural tones and turning towards the girls:

"This bad nephew of mine is always giving me the most dreadful shocks! Coming back so soon, when I thought he was hundreds of miles away! Everyone well on board the Marathon, Alick?"

"Thank you, Auntie." Stapleton cannot bring himself to play up to the good soul's sly acting quite so well as she would like; but he does his best.

"I'm very glad indeed to hear that," Netta tells him. "You were all so good to us." So great is her reaction and relief of mind that she cannot help repeating her sentiments. And she looks so very much in earnest about it; her face grows quite pale as she speaks the simple words.

Mrs. Shaw notices this. "Why, child," she observes, "you're looking quite upset! You must have been allowing yourself to get over-excited—now don't tell me you haven't! You had better come indoors and lie down in the shade for a little while; I was half afraid it might be too much for you out here. Alick, you may stay a little and talk to Miss Norah, and then come in and see me before you go back. But don't stay too long, and mind you don't get her excited too!"

Not unwillingly, Netta obediently takes the good woman's proffered arm, and rising from her chair goes to seek the friendly shelter of her room in the hut. Indeed, it is quite true that what she has just now seen and heard has been rather overcoming. She has seen Stapleton alive, and heard from his lips that all on board the Marathon are safe and sound. Norah also has told her that she did not leave the bomb in the ship; and, obviously, Patrick could not have done so either, since no misadventure has occurred. Now, she reflects, Norah's mind as well as her own can be at rest; and nothing remains but to get away as soon as can be arranged and try and live down the memory of this nightmare, taking up some quiet useful walk in life far away from Patrick's dreadful environment. All that will be easy, now that this gigantic load has been removed from their lives.

So thinks Netta, as she departs with her kind friend. And as she rests on the couch where Mrs. Shaw places her with much kind fussing and many injunctions to lie still and rest, she is able already to indulge in rosy visions of the future.

She does not sleep, but just lies motionless with wide-open eyes, and there is a trace of a smile lingering still on her lips. This happy, peaceful face is very different to the care-worn countenance she was wearing but half an hour ago. Like a child, she seems able to put off very quickly the horrors of the past as soon almost as they have gone, and to forget them utterly. Her conscience has never approved of the dreadful deed in which she was to have taken part—and, in fact, did take part up to a certain point; but then, her conscience was a very small factor in comparison with the iron force of her brother's compelling will, and it never really had a chance to assert itself.

Now, however, she is happy in the thought that events have turned out just as she would really have willed them to: it seems almost a miracle, and too good to be true, but the fact remains that she never wanted to blow up the ship, and the ship has not been blown up.

So Netta suffers no mental agonising like that of Norah's, whose purpose has only been broken down by one fearful blow after another.

So she rests with peaceful mind, and begins even now to build up hopeful plans for the better days to come.

Amongst these happy visions there is one that shapes itself very clearly and in the brightest colours: her cousin Norah must surely blend her life with that of the man who has won her heart. Why, the two are even now at this very moment sitting side by side and exchanging close confidences: from this it can only be a step to that chapter of their life story which closes with the words "and they lived happily ever after." What could be simpler or better than this? There is nothing in the world to prevent it, thinks Netta; and, having thoroughly settled this pleasing conclusion to her own complete satisfaction, she at last closes her eyes and falls into a happy slumber.

CHAPTER XV

Norah, meanwhile, is left alone with Stapleton.

She has given him no response to his cheery greetings, not even a smile, and looks at him with a serious and mystified air.

The question which is on her lips finds utterance immediately Mrs. Shaw and Netta have gone out of hearing; she puts it slowly and earnestly:

"How did you come ashore?"

Stapleton laughs away her seriousness, or tries to; "I heard you were here, and I came to see you," he answers readily.

"I don't mean that—you know I don't!" Her earnestness deepens into an anxious craving for the truth, as the quivering voice betrays when she adds the direct question.

"Why was your cruise cut short? And when did you get in?"

Stapleton is not the man to be cornered so easily as this, however, and finds a way to evade the awkward interrogation with every appearance of frankness:

"Now you are asking me to tell you naval secrets! What, do you imagine I am going to trust you with the knowledge of the movements of the fleet? It wouldn't be safe! But I can answer one part of your question; we got in about six o'clock this morning. And, as I told you, I came here to see you as soon as I could find out where you were. You ought to say 'pleased to meet you,' or something like that, you know."

"'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stapleton,'" echoes Norah with mock politeness.

"Yes, but are you really though?" urges Stapleton more earnestly. "Are you pleased to see me again? Are you glad that I came straight here to see you? Tell me!"

"Why, of course I am," answers the girl, fencing off his impulsive attack; "it cannot be anything but a pleasure to see one of those who were so kind to us last night."

"You know perfectly well I don't mean anything like that!" This impetuous lover is so very direct in his speech, it is difficult to keep him at bay; Norah, with a trembling heart, finds all her defences breaking down at once. "I told you last night that if I lived I would search for you until I found you. I meant it. And I have found you—sooner than I dared to hope. Now then, I must hear you tell me, are you glad to see—me?"

A silence.

"Norah—are you?"

"Yes—I—am."

"Norah! My Norah!"

"Ah, no, no!"

"But it is ah, yes, yes! Look me in the face—can you tell me that you do not care for me?"

She does as he bids her; raises her glorious dark eyes to his, fearlessly, like the brave-hearted girl she is, and tells him the truth she is too proud to conceal.

"Yes, I do care. Very much!"

"Surely it is all a dream! It is all too strange, too wonderful, too exquisite to be true! There flashes across the girl's mind, as she speaks her simple confession of love, a sort of instantaneous vision—a mental picture of her life. She sees dark clouds forming, rolling down upon her and growing ever more and more threatening; gloomy black clouds, heavy with doom and horror; they close around her and she is almost engulfed in them—when on a sudden, a dazzling shaft of golden light pierces the thick darkness, rolling back the evil clouds and scattering them into nothingness, leaving her bathed in the gleaming glory.

The vision passes. Her lover has taken her by the hand and is gently compelling her to follow him. His desire is to lead her away, out of sight and hearing of all who may chance to break in upon them. This supreme moment of their lives must not be interrupted; it is for themselves alone.

The hillocky ground of the wild heather-clad island affords many a safe retreat for lovers' confidences, even though it is a fairly well frequented spot. Here is the sailors' hut, and here the recreation ground, and further away some scattered cottages of the highland natives; but there is room enough amongst the rough sedgy wastes where the bog-cotton makes a snowy carpet and the curlew and plover awake the solitudes with their plaintive cries, room enough for two to escape from all the wide world and find a new glorious world in which live none but just themselves alone.

So they walk, side by side, in silence at first: and the rough ground beneath their feel becomes the golden floor of heaven.

And, presently, Alick Stapleton takes his beloved into his arms. "Then you are my Norah, after all," he whispers to her; "my very own Norah! Yet I never doubted it, from the first moment I saw you. Even then as soon as my eyes rested on you, I knew that there could never be any other woman in the world for me but you, and I hoped—yes, I knew, that you would sometime or other come to feel just the same way about me! And do you really and truly mean that you can love me too? That you began to care for me at that very same time? Wonderful!"

A premonition of impending misfortune strikes coldly upon her heart, a dark foreboding such as chilled the passionate rapture of another maiden long ago who, like her, feared a sudden ending to the glories of love at first sight—

            "——Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say 'It lightens.'"

Stapleton feels no such foolish dread, and would laugh her fears away.

"Why, what is there to be afraid of?" he smilingly chides her. "As long as we love each other there is nothing in the world that can come between us!"

Norah sighs, answering him, "Ah, how many who have loved have said the same thing—and believed it!"

"But I believe it, and you must believe it, too," this forceful lover insists—"Norah, my darling, do not let such sad thoughts come upon you at such a moment as this!"

"No," she makes answer, almost fiercely, thrusting aside her dread presentiment, "this hour of love and happiness at least may be allowed me, and nothing shall snatch it away!"

She clings to her lover's arm, leaning upon him as though she would seek shelter there and keep the world at bay, defying fate and all the threats and dangers of the days to come.

"Why, that's my girl," smiles Stapleton. "But not this hour of happiness only, Norah. Love and happiness shall be ours all through our life. It will rest with ourselves to make it so. Every thought of mine shall be for you. Do you know, I kept thinking about you all the time after you left us last night? I could not put you out of my mind—I did not want to!"

Not quite the truth, Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton, first lieutenant of the Marathon, not quite the whole truth and nothing but the truth; for was there not that terrible time when all his thoughts had been for the ship and her crew, suddenly overtaken by that awful disaster!

Yet he must not let his mind dwell upon that horror for a single moment, lest his brain should telegraph to Norah's the sad awfulness of it; for both their minds are surely tuned alike at such a time as this, and it would be very easy for her to receive impressions from the waves of her lover's thoughts. At all costs, the knowledge of the disaster must be kept from her, at least for the present.

So Stapleton dismisses the fearful memory; and a lighter recollection takes its place in his mind. This is better fitted for her ears, and he smiles as he tells her.

"Do you know, when my marine servant brought the hot water to my cabin just before dinner, I said 'Thank you, darling,' to him."

"He must have been surprised," laughs Norah.

"Oh, I don't know; it takes a good deal to surprise a marine!—But tell me, did you think about me, too, just ever so little?"

"More than a little. I thought about you all the time. Oh, I am so glad to know you are safe—all of you!"

"Hm! Why shouldn't we be safe?"—Stapleton thinks it rather a curious remark, and hopes to goodness his face will not betray him into making any unnecessary revelations.

Norah also realises how very inopportune are the words that have slipped out unawares; and endeavours to explain away her real anxieties.

"Oh, I don't know why! There are always dangers at sea, aren't there? And especially now in war-time." The girl turns very white as she voices these stirrings of her heart.

Stapleton feels he must dispel these fears at once. He knows what an agony is endured by sweethearts and wives who let their imagination brood upon the perils of the deep in time of war. His messmates have spoken of such matters in his hearing how the dear women at home endure torturing days and sleepless nights in utter helplessness, thinking of those who go down to the sea in ships, and suffering infinitely more than the objects of their anxiety and compassion—who, indeed, are very often spending a thoroughly comfortable time and would be vastly surprised to be told they were the subjects of so much pity.

It will never do for Norah to start indulging in such worries; so Stapleton turns the subject aside with a light-hearted jest.

"Well," says he, "anyhow, there are no more dangers at sea than there are ashore. Why, the most dreadful things happen to those brave people who have the courage to live on dry land. Think of the—the 'bus accidents, and the—the banana skins! Think of the flag days! More people get killed in one day in London through bursting blood-vessels in altercations with taxi-drivers than have been lost in action at sea since the days of Nelson; there are statistics to prove it! And, then, there was an uncle of mine who spent twenty-nine years afloat, and directly he retired and took to the beach, blessed if he didn't go and marry his cook! Oh yes, the land is far more dangerous than the sea, every time!"

And so, betwixt love and laughter, the happy minutes pass. Norah clings to her hour, the more because she knows full well it must end soon. She must make full confession—that is imperative; and, when she has confessed, there can be no more question of love between her and this gallant, loyal young King's Officer. He will hate her—or, what is worse, will pity her; but in no case can he consent to link his life with hers; she has put herself beyond the pale by her rash and wicked plotting.

But the confession shall not be made just yet. Of that Norah is determined. So little has been her portion of joy in life till now, so little will be hers when this brief hour is gone; now, while love is within her grasp, it shall be hers to enjoy, come what may!

Yes, and there is another consideration that makes her keep silence: the safety of Netta, who is very dear to her. Norah is quite prepared to stand the punishment for her own guilt, but she will not incriminate her cousin.

Wait till they have escaped Southwards, when Netta can hide herself somewhere till the affair has blown over—Patrick doubtless, will be quite able to take care of himself. Then, and not before, Norah says to herself, she will write to Alick Stapleton, openly confessing her own share in the plot—and then she, too, can shrink into obscurity and pray that her life may not be a long one. But, for the present, she bids defiance to black care.

CHAPTER XVI

But the end comes sooner than Norah has planned.

Fate will not be mocked and defied, but demands quick retribution. Even now, while the lovers are wandering idly along the moorland paths and opening their hearts in the first effulgence of their new-found happiness, grim Fate is stalking them over the heather-clad hills and is coming quickly towards the girl who has dared to defy him.

And with cruel irony, Fate chooses for Norah's undoing three instruments which should be the last in the world to bring harm to her—a dog she has petted, a man she has befriended, and a child she has loved.

The dog comes first. He is just a mongrel spaniel, a brown thing with silky ears and most beseechful eyes and a more than human memory for a friend. Oh, that memory! It means the death of love to Norah! Over the ridge of the rough ground the dog appears, ranging from side to side and nosing about in the coarse growth as a spaniel will. Then he stops, seeing the couple beneath, and raises his brown head for a glance at them.

One glance is enough. With a short excited yelp of recognition he comes tumbling down the slope and rushes towards Norah, flattening himself to the ground at her feet, wriggling and dragging his silky body forward in an ecstasy of delight, and all the time flogging the earth with a thudding tail.

"Why, Mopsey, Mopsey!" cries the girl, stooping quietly to pat him.

And then she draws back quickly, biting her lip, knowing that she has betrayed herself.

"Hallo," says Stapleton, astonished, "why, the dog seems to know you!"

Is there any escape from this trap in which Norah has allowed herself to be caught unawares? Yes, perhaps with luck. It means lying, but Norah realises that she must not stick at telling more untruths—if Netta is to be saved.

"And you know him, too," Stapleton adds; "where have you seen him before?"

"Most dogs like me," she answered; "I always make friends with them at once. And this one reminded me of one I used to have at home, two or three years ago. He was called Mopsey, and was so much like this dear thing that for the moment I really half thought it was my old Mopsey come to life again!"

Lies! Lies! They fall awkwardly from the girl's lips, and she hates herself for telling them. She is not accustomed to speaking the thing that is not true—was not accustomed, rather, till forced into it by the mad career upon which she was persuaded to embark. And now it is not easy to step back into the old paths of honour and truth. A hateful necessity holds her in its grip. For her own sake alone she would scorn to take refuge in this lying subterfuge, even though her brief hour of love is at stake and she finds herself standing at bay, faced by the hounds of Fate. But Netta's safety is another matter, and one which unrelentingly demands that she shall pile falsehood upon falsehood.

Even so, with her assumed hardihood, Norah is not able to bring a tone of conviction into her words; they ring false, as false as they are.

Nor does this escape her companion's notice. Stapleton darts a quick glance at her, almost doubting her for a fraction of a second. Then he feels thoroughly ashamed for daring to doubt her and is more than annoyed with himself for having done so. After all, why on earth should any doubt creep into the occasion? It is not such a very strange coincidence, to come across a dog resembling one you have owned in former days, is it?

Now he is all for making honourable amends for his momentary distrust.

"There is nothing very wonderful, Norah, dear," says he, "in all dogs loving you. They know—they have an instinct for recognising people who are genuine and good. You never find a dog making friends with a mean person, a coward, a liar."

Oh! Oh! Inwardly Norah cowers and shrinks beneath this stinging blow, but outwardly she has to keep a bold face and maintain at least the appearance of frankness.

"What was your own Mopsey like?" pursues the girl's lover. "Spaniels are always so intelligent; was yours?"

Norah takes refuge in stooping to fondle the dog at her feet, in order to hide her face while she proceeds to invent the life history of an entirely imaginary dog.

"Intelligent?" she laughs, "why, Mopsey was the cleverest dog that ever lived! He knew as much as most humans, and a good deal more than some! He could do anything but speak. Even from a puppy he seemed to understand everything I said to him. For instance, I only had to say 'Mopsey, go upstairs and fetch my handkerchief, I left it on the bed,' and he would go at once and bring it. But that was nothing; once, I was going out to play tennis and when I had gone about half a mile from the house I discovered that the shoes I was carrying were not my own but Netta's, so I whistled to Mopsey and told him to take them back quickly and bring me my own shoes. You will hardly believe it when I tell you that within a quarter of an hour he was with me again, bringing the right pair of shoes in his mouth! I don't suppose there ever was quite such a clever dog as my dear old Mopsey!"

No, probably there never was!

Perhaps, in her artistic effort to portray the intelligent creature of her imagination, Norah has a little overdrawn the picture: yet Stapleton, blinded with love and devotion, does not see it, and only murmurs admiringly:

"You must have been awfully——"

Exactly how Stapleton intended to conclude his sentence is never known, for he breaks it off in the middle, being interrupted by a voice which comes ringing across the heather, the voice of some man as yet unseen, concealed by the turfy hillocks.

"Mopsey, Mopsey! Good dog, come here then, where are you? Mopsey!"

The dog has pricked up his silken ears at the first sound of the voice. He turns his head, and then for a moment pretends not to have heard, yielding to the pleasurable lure of Norah's caressing hands. Only for a moment, though. As the cry is repeated, coming nearer this time, the dog's instinct of duty proves stronger than the rival attraction, and he bounds off up the bank in a floundering run to seek his master.

His master! Norah gasps as she realises how much greater her danger is than she had fondly imagined. How could she be fool enough, she asks herself, to imagine that Mopsey's master could be very far away from Mopsey?

So now the game is up! All hope is lost, and her ingenious fabrications have been of no avail. She might have known it!

Resigning herself to her fate, she turns and looks upwards to find, as she expected, Stapleton looking down upon her in troubled wonderment.

There is something more than wonder in his handsome face, shadowed now by a look of severity, almost of anger. He is frowning, and a glance of accusation shines from his eyes:

"Why, Norah——" he begins; but proceeds no further. Once more he is interrupted.

Over the top of the bank appear two men in bluejackets' rig, stalwart young able seamen their faces glowing with the healthy buffetings of the North Sea wind and spray. At least one of them possesses this appearance to a marked degree; he has evidently spent a long sojourn up in the Northern Mists. His companion rather lacks that jolly weather-beaten look, though he too is fresh-coloured and healthy; and it is at his heels that the dog Mopsey walks—though he breaks away again at sighting Norah, and comes lolloping up to her again.

The two bluejackets check their stride on seeing an officer before them, and are about to turn respectfully aside and seek another path when Mopsey's master turns his eyes upon the girl at the officer's side—recognises her!

Then, with a leap and a run through the thick scrubby growth of furze and heather, he comes to her with outstretched hand and a smile of astonishment and welcome.

"Why, Miss," he exclaims, "who ever would have thought of seeing you here! I thought you were going to Ireland!"

Stapleton stands apart in silence, looking from one to the other, and not knowing what to make of it all. He thinks he had better watch, and listen; possibly the mystery will explain itself.

It does. He has not long to wait.

"How did you get here, Miss?" continues the sailor; "only last week, when you were staying at our house in Glasgow, you said you were going to your cousin's home in Ireland for six months—how is it that I find you here? Is your—is Miss Netta with you?"

Norah, for one brief moment, has thought wildly of brazening it out and denying that she has ever met this man; of saying that he must be mistaking her for someone else of his acquaintance. But she perceives that this course of action would avail her not at all. It is only too obvious that the man has really recognised her; besides, he has openly mentioned Netta's name. There is no escaping from such a trap as this!

CHAPTER XVII

In her utter dismay and despair the events of the previous week flash across Norah's mind like a swift dream.

They say that even the most cunning criminals, even such astute experts as have learnt every clever device to cover up their tracks, usually neglect some simple precaution or commit some perfectly childish blunder which leads to their undoing.

So it has now proved, after all the ingenious and elaborate precautions of Patrick Sheridan and his fair accomplices; one little fact overlooked, and the whole conspiracy is threatened with exposure.

Or is it not rather one turn of the wheel of fate which was quite beyond the power of the plotters to foresee or to avoid?

For who could have foretold that Dick Baynes, able seaman and volunteer, would have been sent to this remote part of the world when there were so many other places, so many other ships, to which he might have been drafted?

Indeed, Dick Baynes himself had distinctly said that he was expecting to go out to the Mediterranean. He had even named the ship which he was going to join, and the actual date on which he was to depart.

Norah remembers that a certain vague feeling of distrust had chilled her from the very first moment when Baynes came into the house at Glasgow where she and her cousins were staying while making their final plans.

It was the house of certain sympathisers with the great cause. Known and trusted sympathisers; yet not wholly trusted, for it was not well to take too many people into complete confidence in such a desperate venture as this.

So the Maloney family, in their mean house in one of the poorest quarters of Glasgow, knew but little of the doings and plans of the Sheridans beyond the fact that they were to give the visitors shelter for a few days and assist them without questioning in everything that might be required. The word was passed to them to this effect, and it was an order which they dared not disobey even if they desired to do so.

No difficulty was experienced in maintaining the necessary secrecy, owing to the fact that secrecy and mystery were the dearest delights of Sheridan and his fellow-plotters. The society, league, or organisation, or whatever its correct name was, to which he belonged, dabbled in mystery and secrets like a child playing with its pet toys. Indeed, there was very much that was childish in the whole business; coupled with a good deal of malevolent purpose. The conspirators took themselves very seriously: if they had possessed a grain of their proverbial national humour their enterprise would have died at its birth. But just as in the case of similar enterprises emanating from a similar source, that grain of humour was unhappily lacking. So there were pass-words, oaths, secret sessions, codes, signs, and all the rest of it, highly diverting to the very serious conspirators who succeeded thereby in impressing themselves with an enormous sense of their own importance and would sooner have parted with life itself than have divulged a single one of their precious secrets—all of which, by the way, might have been discovered with ease by any village constable had he thought it worth while. But, unhappily, the official mind does not always think it worth while to investigate every hare-brained scheme compounded of play-acting and murder in equal parts; with the result that the comedy sometimes becomes overtaken by the tragedy.

Nor was money lacking to provide for the complete carrying out of the plot. The headquarters of the association supplied ample funds—though where these funds came from originally was not known to every casual member; only the inner circle possessed this particular secret.

As far as the Maloneys were concerned, their only part was to provide a fast sea-going motor-boat, and to give house-room to the Sheridans. The former of these requirements was one which they were easily able to supply, owing to their knowledge of the Clyde and the many firms on its banks. The boat was purchased, not openly—that would never have done!—but by underground channels and devious ways, through sub-agents and second and third parties under assumed names and every conceivable falsification—a process which gave the greatest pleasure to Patrick Sheridan and his mysterious chiefs at headquarters.

Buying an old ship's lifeboat, fitting her out so as to look as she was intended to look, and then concealing her in an unfrequented creek somewhere on the west coast of Scotland was a matter that called for rather more care and precaution. But even this was effected at last, though it necessitated many trips to and fro, always by sea so as to avoid inquisitive observation.

All went very well, so long as the Sheridans had to deal with the Maloneys alone. They were decent enough people in their way, very poor, and in all probability quite ignorant of the blacker side of the organisation to which they belonged as very subordinate members; nothing but their poverty had induced them to join it, poverty and the discontent which ensues therefrom, causing them to leave no source of possible aid untried. And they did find some help in this league; many were the pickings they gained by assisting it in their humble way—and they were content to remain ignorant and ask no questions so long as the trickle of gold continued.

The Maloneys were but two, husband and wife, both of them somewhat over the middle age. Well, there was a third, but so small that it hardly counted. This was wee Sheila, the two-year old child of the Maloneys' only daughter. Kathleen Maloney, at the age of twenty, had disgraced her parents and brought shame upon her home—at least, so the parents themselves said—by marrying a man in the hated uniform of the tyrant English King.

Kathleen however, did not altogether share her parents' sentiments—especially when a counter-argument was presented in the form of handsome young Dick Baynes who came a-courting her and speedily won her.

But as the misguided girl made amends for her treachery by dying at the birth of her child no great harm was done. Wee Sheila was taken to live with her grandparents, and the unhappy widower was packed off to go about his lawful occasions in the British Navy.

Just at the time when the Sheridans came to Glasgow, able seaman Baynes was stationed at Portsmouth Barracks, waiting to be drafted to a ship.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he appeared at Glasgow.

Pat Sheridan scowled darkly when he saw the fresh-complexioned spruce young seaman cross the threshold. Little use had he for any man belonging to the British Navy!

Norah did not scowl; but she understood well all that this man stood for—and all that she was committed to. And she feared, though scarcely knowing why.

As for Netta, she neither scowled nor feared, but was openly and genuinely pleased to have someone about the premises of a different type from the dark conspirators around her—especially one of such a pleasing appearance and manner as the handsome and lively Dick Baynes.

The gallant young sailor was quite wrapped up in his motherless daughter, a fascinating little mite with pretty ways and lovely face; but he found space also in his large heart to devote a good deal of dog-like attention to Miss Netta Sheridan—always with the utmost deference and respect, like a peasant worshipping a princess.

Had Netta been of a humbler station in life, it is just possible that Dick Baynes might have made the attempt to console himself for his lost Kathleen; and who knows but what he might have succeeded, with his honest manly bearing and his handsome open face? As it was, Netta suffered him to the extent of permitting him to act as her escort day after day while the others plotted. And many were the walks they took through the Clydebank suburbs, and sometimes in the parks of Glasgow itself. Mopsey, the sailor's dog, acted as chaperon on these occasions; that is to say, sometimes, for mostly the fickle Mopsey preferred to remain at home in company with Norah, to whom he had taken a very great fancy.

And then wee Sheila fell ill. Very ill indeed was the poor mite, sick nigh unto death.

It was Norah who nursed her, sitting up three nights by the child's bedside and never leaving her even for a single hour. Norah, who soothed her delirium and quieted her with a touch of her tender motherly hand—Norah, in whose heart at the same moment was the plan of sending hundreds of men to their death! It was Norah who remained in the sick-room when the worst peril was past, and amused the child, tossing fretfully on her little bed, by telling her fairy stories for hour after hour, stories woven out of the love in her mother-heart, such as no one can invent but those who love little children and have—or ought to have—little children of their own.

And it was Netta—who scarcely went near the sick room—who got all the gratitude from Dick Baynes. For this is a part of that mysterious thing, the Way of a Man with a Maid, that when he is deeply in love his eyes can see no one else but her, and if the whole world beside come showering gifts upon him he fondly imagines that she alone is the source of all gifts.

Norah saw this, and understood. As for Netta, it is doubtful whether she even saw, and if she did, certainly she took it all as a matter of course and accepted the homage without comment.

When Dick Baynes' leave was up, he went back to Portsmouth, taking Mopsey the dog with him. He said he expected this to be his final visit before going abroad, as he thought he would be leaving for the Mediterranean almost immediately. Whereat Patrick Sheridan was morosely glad, and Norah was unaccountably relieved; and Netta was slightly sorry for at least twenty-four hours.

And none of the three ever dreamed that at the very last moment the drafting of able seaman Baynes to a Mediterranean ship would be cancelled and that he would be sent instead to this Northern base.

Norah, gazing wide-eyed at the man in her utter surprise and dismay, reviews all this in a moment of thought, and even finds time to reflect how utterly powerless one is, after taking the most scrupulous precautions, to foresee or to combat the blind blows of destiny.

CHAPTER XVIII

No, it is useless to pretend she does not know the man.

If he were alone, such a course, though desperate, might perhaps be attempted, even if the chances of its succeeding were small indeed. Still, with some hard lying and a brazen play at indignation, something might possibly come of it.

But, unfortunately Dick Baynes has a chum with him, and what he finds a little difficulty in saying to this fine young lady and her officer companion he manages to express more easily to his own bluejacket friend.

"Bill, this is that young lady I was telling you of," he says, dragging forward his chum—who does not at all appear to appreciate being forced into a conversation with such company, "the young lady who helped the other young lady to nurse my little Sheila when she was so sick. Very good to us, she was, and I shall be ever grateful for all she did—she and the other young lady."

"Many's the time I've 'eard you say so, Dick," says Bill rather sheepishly, as if he is not quite certain what is the correct thing to say under the circumstances; and then, judging that he is called upon to make some appropriate remark to the young lady in question, he adds, "Your servant, Miss." Which is an entirely non-committal statement, showing politeness and a desire to please, and fitting well into any and every sort of circumstance.

Norah ignores the well-meant effort, and turns upon Dick Baynes with a question. Forgetting that he began by asking her a very similar one with regard to her own movements, she voices her surprise and consternation in the query:

"How do you come to be here? I thought you said you were going to the Mediterranean?"

Anything to prolong the time and put off the evil moment when she must be presently left alone with Stapleton! Anything to confuse the details and conceal, if possible, the worst of the truth under a mass of empty talk.

"And I thought you were going to Ireland, Miss," answers the man. "So it seems we were both of us a little out of our reckoning. But I'm glad indeed to meet you again and thank you for all you did for me last week. I was able to look in at Glasgow for a few hours on my way up, and you'll be surprised to find what a difference there is in my little Sheila. She's as bright and bonny as if she had never been ill at all—'tis wonderful how quickly children will recover from an illness, isn't it?—and she is always asking, so her grandma tells me, for Miss Netta and Mr. Sheridan, and you."

Stapleton can keep silence no longer. He has listened to the amazing revelations of this talk quite dumbfounded; scarcely understanding its import at first, till little by little the full meaning of it dawns upon his mind. And he has been looking from Norah to Baynes and from Baynes to Norah with consternation written on every line of his face. At last he breaks out, unable to keep back the question that rises to his lips, and, alas, unable anymore to keep back his growing doubt of Norah.

His voice, as he opens his lips to speak, sounds dry and unnatural; it is the voice of a man suddenly subjected to a terrible mental strain.

"What is this you are saying, my man," he questions, addressing himself to able seaman Baynes; "did I understand you to state that this lady was in Glasgow last week, and that you saw her there?"

Norah, like a drowning man clinging to a straw, has only one last hope, one almost impossible chance remaining. She seizes it in her desperation, and with a frown and a shake of her head, unseen by Stapleton, endeavours to extract from Baynes a denial which she fondly hopes may sound plausible, Dick Baynes is an intelligent man—to a certain extent. That is to say, he is quite able to grasp the fact that the frowning lady whose mouth is silently shaping a "no" for his instruction expects him to contradict everything he has so far said; but his intelligence does not go quite so far as to enable him to invent on the spur of the moment some contradictory statement which can carry conviction with it.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" he stammers. This at least gives him a few seconds more for further thought. And Norah is still making signs to him behind Stapleton's back. Her face, Baynes notices, is very white, white even to the lips.

"You heard what I said perfectly well," snaps out the imperious voice of the officer. "Was this lady staying in Glasgow last week, or was she not?"

Norah's lips are shaping the words "last month; last month." And Baynes is not slow to grasp the significance of this lip-signalling; it is not for nothing that he has been in his youth a frequenter of the picture houses.

His face lights up with relief at being thus helped out of his difficulty; and taking the cue he at once repeats aloud:

"Last month, sir, not last week. Did I say last week, sir? It must have been a slip of the tongue on my part. I meant to say last month."

It is so obviously overdone, this explanation. This is just where Baynes' intelligence fails him; he has not the necessary culture for the higher flights of lying, and ought never to make the attempt.

Stapleton, as was to be expected, sees through the transparent subterfuge at once, and brushes the man and his denial aside with a contemptuous exclamation.

He turns to the other man, whom he has up to now ignored and scarcely even glanced at, overcome as he is by so many conflicting emotions. And, looking at him now, recognises in him a man he has often met and talked to, a seaman employed at one of the signalling stations on the island.

"You, Gibbons, at any rate will tell me the truth," he says almost appealingly. "I want to know exactly what this man has told you about this lady. Keep silence, you," turning sharply upon Baynes who has opened his mouth to attempt some further confused explanation.

"Well, it's like this 'ere, sir," begins the sailor whom Stapleton has addressed as Gibbons; the poor man, evidently at a loss as to how he can satisfy at the same time both his chum and this stern-looking officer, removes his cap and passes the fingers of his brawny hand through his thick, clustering brown hair, combing it into the resemblance of a quickset hedge. "It's like this 'ere, sir. Baynes an' me has been chums for a very long time, sir, ever since we was little boys at the same school, sir. An' I don't want to say nothin' as is contrary to what he might be wishful for me to say, sir."

"I only want you to tell me the truth. I insist upon your telling me," orders the voice of authority. "What I want to know is simply this; has this man Baynes told you that he saw this lady in Glasgow or has he not?"

"He has, sir."

"And when did he tell you he saw her? Was it last week, or was it last month?"

"Well, you see, sir——"

"Answer me."

"Well, sir, as I understood him to say, it was last week. But then, sir, I might 'ave been labouring under a mis—mishapre'ension like."

"That will do. I don't wish to hear any more. You can go now, both of you."

The two sailors, saluting, turn about and move off without another word; neither of them feeling exactly sorry to get away from a situation in which they have felt the very reverse of comfortable. But they are sorry enough for the white-faced lady they have left behind them; and Baynes, for his part, feels rather that he has not played up to her quite as well as he might have done.

The other man is almost equally disturbed about the affair, though with less understanding of its real meaning. He can grasp the fact, though, that there is something more serious than an ordinary lovers' quarrel.

"I wouldn't like to be in 'er shoes, Dick," he blurts out, "and 'im so precious angry. They looks like Othello an' Desdemona in the play. Wot's she done, old man? Wot's all the row about?"

"Oh, hold your tongue, man," curtly answers Baynes. He is grieved for the girl who has befriended him, and fears that trouble is in store for her; though he little knows how bitter the trouble is.

CHAPTER XIX

Norah is left alone with her lover.

No, not her lover any longer;—her accuser.

He stands facing her, in a terrible silence.

Oh, if he would only speak! If only he would hurl at her words of abuse, of condemnation. Anything would be more endurable than the speechless accusation of that grey face and those burning eyes.

The unhappy girl, distracted with remorse and grief, sways and totters, but no hand is extended to support her. Stapleton's arms are folded on his breast, and he does not move an inch to help her as she sinks to the ground and crouches at his feet, hiding her face in her hands.

Then, at last, he breaks the silence. "You told me, only last night you told me," he says, speaking very slowly and clearly, "that you had been at sea for eight days, coming from America. Which is the truth, that story—or this?"

She has raised her face from her covering hands and glanced upwards. It seems as though the compelling gaze of those blazing eyes has forced her against her will to meet them.

"Ah, don't look so terribly at me!" the girl moans. "How can you say you love me, when you look like that?"

The appeal falls on deaf ears.

"Norah. Have you been lying to me?"

She only answers with another moaning lament, spoken rather to herself than to him, though he catches the words,

"Ah, this is the end, then. So soon!"

There is no sign of pity or relenting in the cold command that comes sharply:

"Answer me!"

Norah, in her utter agony, finds the courage of despair. She struggles to her feet and stands boldly facing her accuser, flinging out her arms in a gesture that implies she has cast away all her defences, as, she exclaims wildly:

"Yes—I have lied to you. But I will tell you everything, everything!"

"I think you had better," replies Stapleton, speaking in a very solemn voice, though he is perhaps ever so little disarmed by this belated profession of frankness. "Listen, Norah," he continues, "the young surgeon and Merritt repeated to me some wild ravings of your cousin when she was so overwrought last night. They, both of them, put the whole thing down to the unhinged imagination of a nervous highly-strung girl. And so did I when they told me of it. In fact, till this very moment I assure you that I had completely forgotten all about the matter—even in spite of what happened later."

"What do you mean?" says Norah, with a sudden feeling of cold fear gripping her at the heart. "What happened later?"

Stapleton's words fall on her ears with dreadful meaning. "Two hours after you left us, the Marathon blew up. She now lies—all that is left of her—at the bottom of the North Sea."

"Oh, my God, my God!"

"Tell me," urges the other, disregarding her agonised cry, "speak the truth now; was there anything in this story of your cousin's?"

Norah has a question which she must hear answered, however insistent her accuser may be.

"Was—was anybody lost?" she stammers. There is no relief in the crushing reply:

"Yes, over a hundred officers and men. The doctor and Merritt are both gone. There is no one but myself that knows anything of—of what your cousin raved about. Tell me—was it mere raving?"

"Over a hundred lives!" moans the miserable girl, too much appalled by the fearful news to give an answer to his question. It is not fear that stops her now, nor any desire to hide the truth; the terrible success of her plotting has put all such ideas out of her mind. She is thinking of those men she has sent to their death. "Oh," she wails, "if I could die now and bring them back!"

Stapleton is not turned aside from his purpose.

"Norah! answer my question," he insists; "speak!—ah, there is no need!"

No need for words, indeed. The girls bowed head and her silence are in themselves a confession.

"Have you no pity for me?" she presently makes her appeal.

"Did you have any pity for those men whose eyes are now closed for ever?" comes the stern reply. "Ah, I gave my love to you quickly; but I did not think that I was giving it to a—to a mur——"

"Ah, do not say it!" cries the girl, taking a step towards him and thrusting forward her hand as though to close his lips against the dreadful word—"I am not that—I am not, indeed!"

The impassioned protest brings to Stapleton a faint gleam of hope.

"What do you mean by that?" he cries. "Explain yourself, quickly."

It is possible that there may yet be some strange key to this mystery, something which may even now enable him to retain his faith in this girl to whom he has given his heart to break?

"Yes, I will tell you," answers Norah. And you can believe me this time—you must believe me. I did not set the bomb which blew up the ship. I meant to do it—up to the very last moment I meant to see how honest I am with you now! I am not even attempting to conceal anything from you; you shall know the full extent of my wickedness, to the very utmost. I did mean to destroy the ship. But—I repented at the last and did all that I could to prevent the deed being done. And I thought—I hoped—that I had succeeded. Oh, I know that I am wicked, wicked! But I am not quite so bad as you think me! And now I am punished. Those drowned and maimed sailors will always be before my eyes as long as I live, and—and I shall never see you again. Well, I suppose it will not be long before the law deals out another punishment to me—I hope it will be soon, so that I may draw down the curtain over these sorrows for ever. But will you not at least have this much mercy on me to say you believe me when I tell you that I tried to save the ship, and thought that I had saved it?"

"Yes, I do believe that," agrees Stapleton in a calm judicial manner. And Norah somehow feels that there is less hope for her in this fair and deliberate judge than if he were determined to listen to nothing in her favour.

"But," he continues, "there was your intention! That, at any rate, remains the same. You were saved from putting it into practice only by a sudden impulse. What that impulse was of course I do not know. Perhaps you were afraid—just too much of a coward to carry out what you had been ready enough to plan. I have heard of such people criminals at heart but too poor-spirited to become criminals in act."

"Oh, do you think that?" Norah cries protestingly. "This is the cruellest thing you have said to me yet! But I have no right to complain."

"No, Norah," answers the cold calm voice. "I take back those words. I have no right to say them I might have known that it was not fear that stayed your hand, whatever else it may have been. Let us say it was your better nature asserting itself. But, all the same, you were able to give your consent and aid to this evil plan in its beginning. And—you would have married me and concealed all this!"

"I do not think so," replies the girl with deliberation equal to his own. "No, I am sure I should not have done that. Our engagement has not been a long one," she says this with a bitter smile—"but if it had lasted a little longer I should soon have made a clean breast of everything to you—yes, even if the ship had not been lost. I should have told you everything; and our parting would have taken place only a little later, that is all!"

"But why," the frenzied lover cannot help but ask—for he is still the lover, even though he has become the judge also—"why then did you not tell me all when first you saw me this afternoon? It would have been more honest if you had confessed then, instead of allowing me to continue being deceived in you and to find out the truth only by chance!"

Norah hangs her head, and makes no reply.

"What reason had you for this?" he urges again.

Then she tells him—"It was because I wanted to have your love just for a little time. I knew that I must lose it soon. And this was my only chance. I took it—and I am glad I did so. I have been yours for an hour, and you have loved and believed in me. Now it is over; and, for the rest, I will not shrink from what the future may hold."

There is silence between the two for the space of nearly a minute. The evening sky is darkening and a threatening bank of clouds is beginning to overshadow the western heavens. A chilly breeze has sprung up and sweeps across the heather with a mournful sound.

Stapleton turns to go. Love and faith have died within him and have left him devoid of feeling.

"Well, it seems to me that there is nothing more to be said between us," is his parting word; and then, in a kindlier tone, "you had better go indoors; it is clouding over, and you will be getting wet soon if you stay out here. I kept my boat waiting for me; it is a good thing that I did so."

This is his good-bye—a sorry farewell to love! Not even one tender word to pay a last tribute to his vanished dream of happiness. Perhaps deep down in his mind lies some torturing thought that the girl whom he must hand over to justice is the girl whom for a brief while he has loved; but if such a thought exists, he gives it no utterance.

Without another glance at Norah, he turns and walks slowly away towards the landing-place. Norah stands like a pillar of marble—yes, and white as marble is the girl's face; she follows him with her eyes, and not till he is quite out of sight does she stir from her motionless attitude. Then, with a little staggering forward step she flings out her arms towards the vanished figure as if to draw him back to her. Only for a moment; the sense of her helplessness and hopelessness comes suddenly home to her, and letting fall her hands despairingly she flings herself on the ground in an agony of grief and shame.

CHAPTER XX

It is very trying, to say the least of it, to be overwhelmed by the waves and storms of one fierce emotion after another, and to be left finally stranded well-nigh lifeless on the shores of desolation and despair. But it is still more trying, under such painful circumstances, to be obliged to behave oneself as if nothing particular has occurred and to have to meet one's friends with a complacent expression and talk to them in a well-behaved ordinary manner.

Such, however, is the case with Norah, as she makes her way back to the hut. How she manages to find her way there over the rough ground in the fading light, her eyes half blinded with tears, is something which she herself certainly could not account for. But she does find her path, somehow; and, when nearing the end of it, comes face to face with good Mrs. Shaw, who has set out to meet her, anxious about her charge and prepared to give her a motherly scolding for staying out of doors too long.

Norah is thankful that it is already too dark for her face to be seen very clearly, and furtively dries her eyes as she prepares to listen to Mrs. Shaw; luckily, it is quite certain that the loquacious lady will undertake most of the talking!

"You bad girl," begins the kindly voice, "to stay out to such an hour when I told you that you were only to be out for a little while! You will be catching a cold and getting ill again and I don't know what! Ah; it's no good saying you won't!"—Norah, be it noticed, has not said a word—"I know you will! But, bless me, you young things are all alike; while you are healthy and strong you think you can do anything and laugh at a body who tells you you can't play with your health without paying for it! Wait till you come to my age, my dear—wait till you have your first touch of rheumatism! But I suppose you notice nothing when you are in the company of a fine handsome young man. And quite right too—you can only be young but once! Dear me, what am I saying? I ought to be scolding you, and instead of that—by the way, where is he? What have you done with him?"

"He had to get back," lamely answers the girl in a thin piping voice.

"Had to get back did he? Hm! I should think so—spending the best part of the afternoon philandering with a pretty girl; a nice way to employ his time, when there's a war on! If all young naval officers idle their days like that it's a wonder the navy gets along at all! But I can't be angry with Alick. He's a sad dog, but a dear—don't you think so? Isn't he just the sort of man that any girl might lose her heart to?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Shaw, yes—no, I mean. I'm sorry—I'm afraid I wasn't listening,"—which is not quite true, for, Norah has heard only too well and feels her heart torn by the idle question. She feigns tiredness as an excuse for not making any more coherent reply—and it is not entirely feigning, for she stumbles a little in her walk and is glad enough to support herself on Mrs. Shaw's kindly arm.

So the good woman pilots her charge to the hut, and together they seek the friendly shelter of the room where Netta is lying.

And, oh, how Norah longs to be left alone with her cousin! For she must tell her of the dreadful thing that has happened in the discovery of her secret, and must warn her of the danger that threatens the three of them. Perhaps, even she may find some counsel in Netta—if any counsel can be of avail in such a desperate case!

But for some time the uninterrupted flow of words proceeding from the well-meaning lady's lips leaves little hope of a conversation in private. Mrs. Shaw vents her solicitude for her two patients in a ceaseless torrent of remarks, questions and commands, all of the kindest nature but almost unendurable to the two girls whose chief desire is to be left alone together.

"There now," exclaims the smiling dame, as she plies her patients with steaming hot soup, "that will make you look a little bit brighter by the time the admiral sees you again. He told me he should look in here on his way back. I don't know what he would say to me if he saw you looking as white as you are now!"

At last the good but somewhat trying lady fusses out of the room, having suddenly thought of some other nourishing concoction which she can prepare for the further invigoration of the two girls, and she leaves them free to talk, much to Norah's relief; and to Netta's also, for she has seen that some matter is troubling her cousin.

Norah is not long in pouring forth her story, to which the other girl listens with the utmost concern.

Netta is horrified, as Norah had been, to learn the dread news of the loss of the Marathon with so many lives. At first she could hardly believe it, having been so confident that Patrick's purpose had been foiled at the last; but she is unwillingly forced to give credit to the terrible story, and great indeed is her grief. From the very first, it must be remembered, she had been drawn into the conspiracy largely against her own conviction and consent.

But it is noteworthy that her chief concern is for her cousin, Norah—just as Norah's is for her. These two girls, both of them brave enough to face the consequences of their own misdoings, are both cowards in respect of each other's peril.

"What is to be done?" Norah asks, thinking inwardly how she can shield Netta.

"We must try and think of some plan," answers Netta, eager to light upon some means of securing Norah's immunity.