The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER FOUR

TEN MINUTES AFTER Ariadne had tied up at her mooring, when the crew were sitting down gratefully to mugs of tea and hunks of bread and honey, there was the unmistakable bumping of a dinghy alongside, and David’s voice called, “Anybody at home?”

“Come aboard,” said Alastair, peering out through the hatchway.

A moment later, David Crowther came into the cabin. “I just wondered,” he said diffidently, “if you could lend me some whipping. I seem to have run out.”

Rosemary looked at Alastair and grinned. “What did I say?” she remarked. “Sorry, David, dear—you’re out of luck. We haven’t any. But have a cuppa while you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

David lowered his six feet of lanky body onto a bunk and said, “Had a good day?”

“No, dreadful,” said Rosemary quickly. “I put Ariadne on the mud. Please don’t let’s talk about it. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, nothing much. This and that. Sorting things out below and reeving some new rigging. Didn’t think there was enough of a breeze for a decent sail.” David took a gulp of tea and glanced at his watch. “Colin and Anne should be here soon. Perhaps they’ll have some whipping.”

“Have you tried Hamish?” Alastair asked. “He’s in—we came up the river together.”

“No,” said David, shortly. He contemplated the interior of his tea mug in silence.

Henry watched him with interest. Last night, in the smoky, badly lit bar of The Berry Bush, he had put David Crowther down as an engaging, carefree young man—the sort of character whom one associates with old motor cars and decrepit boats and cheerful, badly channelled enthusiasms. Now he saw that the thin, attractive face was finely lined, that the sun-bleached hair had traces of grey in it—and he decided that David was nearer forty than thirty. He also remarked that the long, sensitive hands were restless and nervy, and trembled slightly as David lit a cigarette. The tiny cabin seemed alive with vibrant and unstable energy.

David looked up, met Emmy’s clear, direct gaze, and looked away again quickly, as he said, “Not a very pleasant introduction to sailing for you people, a day on the mud.”

“I enjoyed it,” Emmy said stoutly.

“The perfect crew,” remarked Alastair. “Six hours on Steep Hill, and not a word of complaint from either of them. In fact—”

“Steep Hill,” said David. “Yes. Well, I think I’ll be off now. I thought I heard... Thanks for the tea, Rosemary. See you later.” And, abruptly, he was gone.

“Dear David,” said Rosemary. “I don’t know why he keeps a boat. There’s always either too much wind or too little. It’s the hardest thing in the world to induce him to leave his moorings.”

“He’s perfectly happy,” said Alastair. “He loves just sitting there by himself sorting out his little boxes. You should see Pocahontas,” he added to Henry. “David’s a bit of an old woman in some ways. One box for inch screws. Another for shackles. Another for bits of string. All neatly labelled. The funny thing is that he never seems to have what he needs when it comes to doing a job.”

“Don’t be catty, Alastair,” said Rosemary.

“What does David do for a living?” Henry asked.

“He’s an artist, believe it or not,” Alastair replied. “Has a studio in Islington. Commercial stuff, mainly, but he does serious painting on the side. I believe he even sells some of his things.”

“He seems rather a restless sort of character,” said Emmy. “Not tranquil, like you two.”

“David was a fighter pilot in the war,” said Rosemary. “He got badly shot up. It’s left him a bit...well, a bit un-tranquil, as you said.”

“Earlier on,” said Henry, “Alastair referred to him as ‘good old reliable David.’ I was expecting something rather different from that description.”

“Were you?” Rosemary opened her blue eyes wide. “I wonder why. David’s a tower of strength.”

“But not tranquil.”

“Goodness, no. But the two things don’t necessarily go together, do they? David’s kind and straightforward and tremendously loyal. The sort of person you could turn to at any time for help or moral support or just a shoulder to cry on. He’d do anything for a friend—and no questions asked.”

“That’s a rema

rkable tribute,” said Henry. “You must be very fond of him.”

To his surprise, Rosemary blushed very slightly. “I am,” she said.

The tea mugs had only just been washed up when Hamish arrived. Alastair produced a bottle of whisky from under one of the bunks.

“I like the way Ariadne behaves with that new jib,” Hamish remarked, as he tried vainly to find room for his long legs. The cabin seemed very full with Hamish in it.

“Yes, we’re delighted with it,” said Alastair.

“When I get my new boat,” said Hamish, “I want a proper complement of sails. Storm jib, beating jib, a Genoa for reaching and a spinnaker. I’m fed up with this one-main-two-jib setup on Tideway.” There was a strong undercurrent of excitement in his voice.

“Why ever do you want a new boat?” Emmy asked. “Tideway looks lovely to me.”

“Not big enough,” said Hamish. “I want to do some real cruising—Holland, France, Spain, the Med. Perhaps even the Canaries and the West Indies. I’ve been coast-hopping long enough.”

Rosemary smiled indulgently. “Don’t listen to him,” she said. “Hamish has been talking about this mythical new boat ever since we’ve known him. Personally, I’m prepared to take a small bet that he’ll still be sailing Tideway in and out of the Berry in ten years’ time.”

“Then you’ll lose your money,” said Hamish. The excitement had reached boiling point. “Look at these.”

He pulled a large envelope out of his pocket, and spread its contents out on the table.

“What on earth have you got there?” demanded Alastair.

“Plans,” said Hamish.

Alastair and Rosemary craned to look, immensely interested. Over their shoulders, Henry glimpsed the graceful skeleton of a yacht design. Alastair drew his breath in sharply.

“By Giles,” he said. “I say, you are going it. What is she? Doesn’t look like one of his regular designs.”

“She’s not,” said Hamish. “He’s done her specially for me. A ten-ton ketch for extensive off-shore cruising.”

There was a small, awkward silence, and then Rosemary said bluntly, “Hamish, you must be mad. Have you any idea how much this is going to cost?”

Hamish lit his pipe with a certain bravado. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am mad. But this is something I’ve wanted all my life. The only thing I’ve ever really wanted. If I choose to behave like a lunatic with my own money, surely that’s my business.”

“Yes, but—” Rosemary began, and then stopped, embarrassed. As if reading her thoughts, Hamish said, “Pete would have approved. He knew how much I’d set my heart on it. In fact, he as good as promised me the money before—”

“Of course Pete would have loved her.” Alastair’s voice was just a fraction too loud and too cheerful. “She’s a beauty, Hamish. Let’s see. You don’t think the turn of the bilges is a bit too steep? I know she’ll draw six-foot-six, but...”

In a moment, Hamish and Alastair were deeply involved in a technical discussion of the proposed boat. A long time later, when Alastair had practically redesigned the hull and sail-plan, using the stub of a pencil and the back of an old envelope, Rosemary interrupted them to say, “Look here, you two. It’s after seven. Colin and Anne will have been in the Bush for hours. Put it away, like good boys, and let’s go ashore.”

Reluctantly, the precious drawings were returned to their envelope, and the two dinghies skidded their way over the quiet water to the shore.

The tide was at its highest. Indeed, the water was lapping right up against the wall of The Berry Bush, and Alastair remarked, unoriginally, that this was one of the few places where one really could tie up snug to a pub.

The bar was almost empty. The locals were at home, having supper. Most of the yachtsmen who based their boats on Berrybridge had taken advantage of the good weather to make a cruise to some other harbour.

Colin and Anne were at the bar, talking to David. In the mêlée of greetings and introductions, Henry took a good look at Anne Petrie—and understood at once why Colin Street wanted to marry her, and why Pete Rawnsley had attempted to add her to his list of conquests. She was a tiny slip of a girl: indeed, with her cropped dark hair and faded blue jeans, she might almost have been taken for a schoolboy, were it not for a certain very definite femininity of contour that even a sweater several sizes too large could not hide. She was as brown as honey, and her green eyes—which slanted upwards as delicately as a cat’s—sparkled with high spirits and a zest for life which was immensely attractive. She had, Henry decided, the miniature perfection of a Japanese girl, without the latter’s doll-like fragility. In fact, even as he admired, the thought crossed his mind, This girl’s like a nut—smooth and brown and sweet and hard.

“And so I said to Colin”—Anne was chattering away as merrily as a chipmunk, in a delicious, slightly husky voice—“‘It’s monstrous,’ I said, ‘and if you won’t tell Herbert what you think of him, I jolly well will.’ You know how hopeless Colin is. So anyway, the moment we arrived this evening, I collared Herbert and I told him just what I thought of him. I mean, I ask you—water over the floor boards. I swear he hasn’t been near her all the week. ‘If you’re not very careful, Herbert,’ I said, ‘we’ll hand the boat over to Bill Hawkes, and see how you like that.’”

“What did Herbert say?” Rosemary asked.

“He said ‘Hay?’” Anne cupped a hand to her ear, in a wickedly accurate imitation of the Harbour Master of Berrybridge Haven. “So I said, ‘It’s no good pretending you can’t hear, Herbert, you old rogue. You’re no more deaf than I am—especially when somebody’s offering you a drink.’ And do you know what he did then?” Anne paused, to give the denouement its full effect. “He slapped my bottom!”

“He didn’t!” Alastair gave a great roar of laughter, in which everybody joined, with the exception of Colin.

“Herbert adores Anne,” Rosemary said to Emmy. “She’s the only person who stands up to him and says exactly what she thinks. I wouldn’t dare.”

“So if the boat’s not pumped dry next weekend—just watch out. There’ll be trouble,” said Anne darkly. But her eyes were laughing over the rim of the pint mug.

In contrast to Anne’s vivacity, Colin was silent and grave. He looked the picture of a young intellectual, with his pale face and untidy brown hair. His features were pleasant enough, and there was a lively intelligence in his dark eyes. Only in his hands and his jawline—both of which were strong and square—was there a hint of stubbornness and power. He seemed torn between pride in Anne’s animation and a certain disapproval of those very qualities which he obviously found so attractive.

“Get on with your drink,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re talking too much.”

“I always do. I can’t help it.” Anne turned her kitten eyes to Henry. “I hear you had a dreadful day on the mud. Steep Hill, of all places. I’m sure it’s haunted.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Anne!” Colin’s voice was brusque and angry.

“No, but really,” Anne went on, quite unperturbed, “when we were coming into the river in the dark last Sunday night, we passed the very spot where—where it happened—and I swear I heard something. I swear it.”

“What did you hear?” Henry asked, intrigued.

“I don’t know.” Anne wrinkled her nose. “Just a sort of something. And I said—”

“Shut up, Anne,” said Hamish suddenly. To Henry’s surprise, Anne shut up. She buried her nose in her tankard and looked abashed. David glared at Hamish, but the latter had already started talking to Alastair about the new boat, and apparently did not notice.

A few minutes later, Anne said gravely to Henry, “You never knew Pete, did you?”

“No,” said Henry.

“I loved him,” said Anne. Colin’s face darkened with sudden anger, and he slammed his glass just too forcibly onto the table. Anne added quickly, “Now don’t start bristling like an old bear, darling. You know what I mean. I just loved him in a friend

ly way, as darling David loves me.”

David said nothing, but turned away to the bar and ordered another drink. When David picked up his beer tankard, Henry saw that his hands were trembling again.

The hands of the big white-faced clock on the wall crept towards eight o’clock, and The Berry Bush began to fill up. Herbert arrived in garrulous mood.

“Fine tickin’ off I had from your young lady,” he remarked to Colin, winking incessantly. “Proper little spitfire. I wouldn’t be in your shoes, I can tell you.”

“I must say, we were both very upset to find Mary Jane in such a state, Herbert,” said Colin pompously. “I know you have a lot to do, but—”

“Leaks like a bloody sieve,” said Herbert, promptly and defiantly. “Pumped ’er every day. I can’t help it if she’s rotten. You want your garboards recaulking, that’s what you want.” He managed to make it sound like an unmentionable insult.

Colin flushed angrily. “I don’t need any advice from you on how to look after my boat,” he said.

“Some people...” remarked Herbert ominously, to the bar in general. He turned his back rudely on Colin, and went over to inflict himself on Hamish and Alastair. Anne, Colin and David drifted over to the bar and began a lively conversation with a venerable, grey-bearded fisherman whom Henry had heard alluded to as Old Ephraim.

“Poor Colin,” said Rosemary. “He’s so nice really, but he does put people’s backs up. Anne can tear a strip six feet wide off Herbert, and he just adores her all the more. But Colin only has to remonstrate mildly, and—”

“I know,” said Henry. “Anne has the very rare gift of being able to speak her mind without offending anybody.”

“I don’t know either of them, of course,” said Emmy, “but—well, they seem rather an oddly assorted couple to me. Do you think they’ll be happy?”

Henry glanced crossly at Emmy. It always annoyed him deeply when his wife made what he considered to be a typically female, platitudinous and prying remark such as this. In his masculine estimation, she was letting herself down by conforming to the conventions of her own sex. Rosemary, however, pondered the question gravely.

“I wish I knew,” she said. “We’ve often wondered ourselves. But of course, it’s entirely their business. They keep on having the most monumental fights, and every time we expect to hear that the whole thing is off. But a couple of days later they’re together again. I suspect that it’s always Colin who climbs down and apologises.”

“What does Colin do?” Henry asked.

“He’s a barrister,” said Rosemary, “and absolutely brilliant, by all accounts. Of course, he’s young yet, but everybody is convinced he’s going right to the top. Sir Colin Street, Q.C., without a doubt. I sometimes wonder if that’s why Anne—” She stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m being bitchy. I don’t really mean that at all.”

The bar door swung open, and the burly figure of Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby came in. He greeted Rosemary warmly.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Benson,” he boomed. “Pity you don’t spend more time down here. Priscilla was saying only the other day that we never see you up at the Hall.”

Rosemary introduced Henry and Emmy, and then said, “It’s so difficult when we’re only here for weekends, Sir Simon. But this time we’re on holiday—two whole weeks. So we’d love to come and see you while we’re here.”

“You do that, Mrs. Benson. Priscilla will be delighted. She doesn’t get out much, y’know. Does her good to see some young faces about the place. Come whenever you like, and bring these good people with you. Any time. Any time at all.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Rosemary.

“Nonsense. A great pleasure. Of course,” added Sir Simon, with a smile, “I know you sailing folk. Never waste a good day ashore. We’ll expect you the first time it rains. You’ll have to come when the sun’s shining, though, if you want to see the way the west terrace has been repaired. A beautiful job. And the Adam Room is completely restored now. Only got rid of the workmen last week.”

“Oh, yes—I’m longing to see that.” Rosemary turned to Henry and Emmy. “The Adam Room is marvellous—one of the finest in England. Sir Simon’s just had a lot of work done on it.”

“Well, Mrs. Benson, the invitation’s open. Come soon.”

Sir Simon made his way over to the bar, obviously not ill-pleased by the gratifying number of raised caps and tugged forelocks that accompanied his progress. Emmy and Rosemary became engrossed in a discussion on eighteenth-century architecture. Anne was talking to Herbert and Old Ephraim—a process which evoked much cackling and thumping of mugs on the table from the two old men. Colin had joined Hamish and Alastair, and the plans were out of their envelope again. Henry spotted David Crowther sitting by himself on one of the high-backed wooden settles, and made his way over.

“This new boat of Hamish’s seems to be causing quite a stir,” he remarked as he sat down. “Alastair seems very critical of it.”

David looked up and said, “It’s Hamish’s business what he does with his own money.”

“Of course it is,” said Henry, embarrassed at being misunderstood. “And I’m sure that his uncle—”

“What does it matter now what Pete would have said?” said David. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“He must have been a remarkable character by all accounts,” said Henry. “I wish I’d known him.”

“Pete was a strange mixture,” said David. He spoke quietly, as if to himself. “So bloody high-minded in some ways and absolutely unprincipled in others. It’s all very well to talk about responsibility to the community, but—” He looked straight at Henry. “Which do you think is the worse sin?” he demanded. “To run a harmless racket just a shade outside the law, or to play fast and loose with the life of another human being?”

Henry considered. “It depends how harmless the racket is,” he said at length.

“Absolutely harmless,” said David without hesitation. “Just making a few bob on the side. That was a deadly sin to Pete. The authorities must be informed. No chance of an appeal. And yet, when it came to his private life...” There was a pause, and then he added, “I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for Pete Rawnsley. I think there’s such a thing as loyalty.”

Feeling his way carefully, Henry said, “He must have been very fond of Hamish.”

“Hamish.” David brooded for a moment. “Yes, I suppose he was, in his own way. Tried to drum a sense of proportion into him. If Pete had been alive, Hamish wouldn’t have had this new boat, I can tell you.”

“Well, I suppose he’s only able to afford it now that he’s inherited—”

“Even if he’d had the money.” David lit a cigarette. “You know what he plans to do, don’t you? Throw up his job—everything. Take his boat round the world, picking up a bit here and there by chartering and odd jobs. He wouldn’t have dared to do that if Pete had been alive. Pete was the only person Hamish was afraid of.” He paused, and then went on, “I’m not saying I approve of what Hamish is doing. I think he’s a bloody fool. But I’ll defend to my last breath his right to do it if he wants to.”

“I didn’t realize,” said Henry, “that sailing could get such a hold on people.”

David smiled, a secret smile. “It’s a disease,” he said. “Usually fatal. I haven’t caught it myself. I love my boat—she’s an escape, a safety valve. And there’s so much beauty... I don’t do very much sailing, actually. I suppose they told you that. I’m quite content to sit in harbour, and potter about the boat and be alone. Hamish and Alastair are only really happy if they’re soaked to the skin in the middle of the North Sea with a gale blowing and the lee rail awash. That’s not my idea of fun.”

“You said today,” said Henry, gently, “that there wasn’t enough wind for your liking.”

David looked at him, and smiled ruefully. “One plays the game according to the rules,” he said. “I suppose they all see through me. I don’t much care.”

“David, darling, are you going to buy me a beer?” Anne’s husky voice broke the silence that had fallen, and David jumped up.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Sit down. Bitter?”

“Please.” Anne sat down astride the bench on the other side of the table, and smiled ravishingly. “A pint, David. None of your mingy halves.”

“I don’t know where you put it,” said David. “A pint for you, Henry?”

“Half will do me, thanks.”

David departed to the bar, and Anne said, “Coward.” Her green eyes glistened across the table at Henry. “You can’t come into our pub and drink halves.”

“I drink what I like,” said Henry, good-humouredly. “I’m quite old enough to make up my own mind on such matters, worse luck.”

Anne eyed him appraisingly. “Yes, you are older than most of us,” she said. “Almost as old as Pete.”

“How old was he?”

“Fifty-one,” said Anne promptly.

“And you loved him?” asked Henry gravely.

Anne wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I did. In a funny way. I’ve never met anyone else quite like him. He was such an exciting man. And so wise.”

“Just as a matter of interest,” said Henry, “how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“So Pete was more than old enough to be your father.”

Anne sat up very straight, her small mouth hardened into an angry line. “For heaven’s sake, don’t you start,” she said. “I’m sick and tired of hearing people say that—especially Colin. Well, he’s had his revenge. Pete’s dead. I hope he’s happy.”

“You don’t mean that Colin...?”

All the anger had gone out of Anne’s face, and she looked like a small, bewildered child. “I don’t know what I mean,” she said quietly. “It’s just something I feel. Like the feeling that Steep Hill is haunted.” She was silent for a moment, her dark head bent. Then she looked up and smiled at Henry. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she said. “I’ve had too much beer. It always makes me talk nonsense.”

“Anne,” said Henry very seriously, “forgive me for asking you this—but it inter

ests me very much. Besides yourself, who else really liked Pete Rawnsley? It’s obvious that Colin hated him, and David doesn’t seem—”

Before Henry could finish, Anne burst out, “Nobody! Nobody at all! Except Hamish, of course. But all the others—they pretended to like him, but they loathed him!”

“Why?”

For a moment Anne didn’t answer. When she did, it was in an entirely different voice—a voice of deliberate seduction. “They were jealous,” she said.

“Jealous of what?”

Anne gave him a slow look from her slanting green eyes.

“Guess,” she said.

Then David came back with the beer, and Anne began to recount the gist of her recent conversation with Herbert, which seemed to centre round the latter’s chances of being elected Mayor of Berrybridge Haven when the unofficial voting took place the following week.

“Herbert’s a three to one chance,” Anne confided, “according to Sam Riddle, who’s making the book. Bill Hawkes is fancied in some quarters, but the more conservative element say he’s too young and hasn’t lived in the borough long enough. He’s four to one. Old Ephraim, the sitting mayor, is odds-on favourite for re-election, but Herbert says to his face that he’s too old to know a chain from a cocked hat. I mean a mayoral chain, of course,” she added demurely. “Herbert’s also accusing Bill Hawkes of bribing the electorate and providing an illicit bicycle to convey voters to the polls. But that’s only to be expected. And talking of illegal transport—the gossip is that if Mrs. Hole’s feet are too bad, Herbert intends to trundle her down to the booths in a wheelbarrow. He can’t afford to lose a vote—not with four candidates and a voting population of forty-seven.”

“Who’s the fourth candidate?” Henry asked.

“Sam Riddle,” said Anne. “The big fisherman over there. Father of George Riddle, who works at the hall. He’s not much fancied. He’s giving six to one against himself.”

“What a pity we can’t vote,” said Henry.

“I’m just as glad,” David remarked. “I couldn’t stand Herbert’s canvassing. Anyway, we’re all invited to the inauguration ceremony next weekend, so we get the best of both worlds.”

“What happens?” Henry asked.

“Beer is drunk,” said David, “in unbelievable quantities, both before and after a rather splendid cold collation donated by Bob, the landlord. The newly elected mayor is robed and invested by Sir Simon, and they both make speeches. Then we all sing the Berrybridge anthem. Then more beer is drunk. By about ten o’clock, the mayor is generally unrobed again, and most of the aldermen are under the table. Those who can still stand are all making speeches. It’s all very foolish and great fun. There’s seldom any fighting, and not more than three or four civic dignitaries are sick. A charming piece of old English folklore.”

“How long has this tradition been going on?” Henry asked.

“Its origins,” Anne replied solemnly, “are lost in the mists of time. About six years, actually, but don’t tell anybody. The landlord who had The Berry Bush before Bob heard about the election of the Mayor of Pin Mill, and decided to imitate it. Of course, Pin Mill is quite different. Much more dignified and ancient. Anyhow, Bob has kept it on here to boost the sale of bitter.”

“Which is Bob?” Henry asked, surveying the three or four figures who scurried busily on the far side of the bar.

“He’s away for the weekend,” said David. “You’ll meet him when he comes back tomorrow. He’s quite a character.”

“You seem to go in for characters in this part of the world.”

“All part of the show,” said Anne pertly. “Give the customers what they want. It’s amazing how a few local eccentrics can stimulate trade in the public bar.”

“You’re a horrible little cynic,” said David, fondly. Anne rewarded him with a sidelong grin. “I don’t hold much brief for Herbert,” David went on, “but I do believe he’s genuine.”

“Oh, Herbert’s a genuine character all right,” said Anne. “But not quite in the way that people think.”

David looked at her sharply, but said nothing.

“If you knew what I know about Herbert,” added Anne, “you’d be amazed.” She gave Henry a provocative look.

“Go on, then,” said Henry obediently. “Tell us. What do you know?”

“It’s a secret,” Anne said virtuously. “I can’t possibly tell you.”

“You’re dying to tell me,” said Henry. “You may as well get it over.”

Anne grinned, like a street urchin. “O.K.,” she said. “Well, the fact is that Herbert—”

“Anne,” said David suddenly, “you’ve got a smut on your nose.”

“I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have. Take a look.”

Anne pulled a tiny powder compact out of her pocket, and studied her face with loving care.

“You liar,” she said, at length. “I haven’t.” All the same, she began to dab at her nose energetically with a small pink puff.

David turned to Henry and demanded a full account of the day’s misfortunes on Steep Hill Sands. The secret life of Herbert Hole was forgotten. Henry made a mental note to return to the subject at a more propitious moment. Meanwhile he gave himself up to the undeniable pleasure of relating his experiences to an enthralled audience, and to the stimulus of Anne’s company.

At nine o’clock, Rosemary announced that whatever the rest of the party might want to do, she personally was going back to the boat for supper. So they all went.

In a ridiculously short time, a delicious meal emerged, steaming, from the galley. While Emmy and Rosemary washed up, Alastair and Henry smoked a last cigarette in the cockpit under the clear night sky.

Henry said, “Anne’s a fascinating girl.”

Alastair did not take his eyes off the particular star which he was studying. “Do you think so?” he said.

“Don’t you?”

There was a silence, and then, softly, Alastair quoted,

“Dorinda’s sparkling wit and eyesUnited cast too fierce a light,

Which blazes high, but quickly dies,

Pains not the heart, but burns the sight.

Love is a calmer, gentler joy,Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace.

Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,That runs his link full in your face.”

There was a moment of absolute silence under the stars. Then Alastair smiled shyly. “Learned it at school,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’ve always remembered it. It reminds me of Anne.”

Henry looked steadily at Alastair’s thin, handsome profile. He heard Rosemary’s soft laughter from the cabin, and vividly, he remembered the expression in Anne’s slanting green eyes as she said the one word—“Guess.”

I wonder, thought Henry. I wonder very much.