Ships in the Bay!. D. K. Broster

name seemed almost longer than himself, though not as long as his embroidered robes, in which he had something the semblance of a tadpole with a white and inordinately flowing tail. No such irreverent simile, to be sure, occurred to Nest when she visited him in the room set apart as his nursery, or, feeling very important, walked slowly to and fro upon the terrace bearing him in her arms. It was delightful having this little creature here, it was a joy to see Jane once more, the young mother so proud of her offspring (to whom, in spite of her strictures on the position of the Cathedral, she had given the Saint’s for a second name). As for the Precentor, he was in great spirits, and Mrs. Pennefather had quite abandoned Cicero and Euripides for Dr. Brownlow’s Nursery Guide, though she was understood to be perpending some Lines to a Great-Nephew.

      Although the whole household, with the exception of the Precentor himself, appeared to revolve round the tadpole, yet he could on occasion be left, since he had a nurse to tend him and still passed much of his existence in sleep. His mother and aunt were therefore able to take a walk together without feeling that they were neglecting either a duty or a privilege. On the fourth evening after Mrs. Stalybridge’s arrival, making their way up to the cliffs, they strolled thence eastwards, looking down, as they skirted the top of Caerfai Bay, upon a long smooth green swell breaking on the sand between cliffs of pinkish purple. The grassy bank upon their left was thickly embroidered with flowers; rough gorse-sprinkled land stretched upon the other side of it, but after a while, when they had passed a little green promontory where the wraiths of a myriad sea-pinks still shivered in the breeze, they were aware of the scent of hay. They had come to a field wherein, not far from the bank, two men were piling hay into a wain, while further back other figures were busy raking it into swathes ready for the fork.

      “Griffiths of Tan-y-bach has quite a good crop this year,” said Jane, stopping and looking over the bank with an appraising eye. “Considering, that is, that this land along the cliff cannot be very productive.”

      “Last time I walked this way,” observed her sister, “there was a quantity of that pretty tall blue flower—viper’s bugloss, is it not?—growing just there among the grass. I wish I had plucked some of it before it was all mown down. The only other place where I have seen any growing this summer——”

      She broke off abruptly. From idly looking for traces of the withered bugloss in the heaps of hay her eyes had wandered to the laden cart and to the two men in attendance on it; and now, with the unfinished sentence withered also, she was staring at the haymaker who was tossing up the heap with a pitchfork to the man on top of the pile. It was her acquaintance the deserter.

      He was cleanly shaved now, and had not quite so piratical, so gipsy an air, though he still wore the same clothes, save that he had discarded the flannel waistcoat. And indeed, though it was not a hot day, the sweat, even at that distance, could be seen glistening on his forehead, and his mouth was tightly set as though the pitching up of the hay were a considerable effort. He did not once look at the two ladies on the further side of the bank, though their heads and shoulders at least must have been fully visible; it seemed as though his task were absorbing all his energies, for when the lad at the horse’s head led the animal to the next heap, he did not immediately follow the cart, and, when he did, used his fork after the manner of a staff.

      “How lame that man of Griffiths’ is!” observed Jane.

      Nest made no reply, but she was unconsciously twisting the ends of her muslin handkerchief about her fingers. The man on the cart shouted something impatient in Welsh, and he with the hayfork quickened his hobbling pace.

      “It can’t be because of that!” said Nest below her breath. But in her heart she knew that it must be.

      “What were you saying a moment ago about viper’s bugloss?” asked Jane. Receiving no answer she said, “And what are you dreaming about now, Nest? You’ll find no flowers here now; the grass is all cut.” She went on a pace or two, then stopped again. “Why, ’tis Griffiths himself on the cart. Good evening, Mr. Griffiths; I hope you are pleased with your hay!”

      The small, black-haired man perched upon the cart looked round. “Why, I declare to goodness ’tis Miss Jane!” he exclaimed in his high-pitched Welsh voice. “Indeed you are welcome, ma’am! Will you please to wait until I do get down?”

      So Jane waited while the farmer slipped down from his eminence. Nest had made a movement to go on, but saw that she would be obliged to wait also, though she would have given anything not to do so. She felt that she could not endure to meet the eyes of the man whom Bran had injured, and to whom her own timid foolishness had nearly proved disastrous the other evening; and she was sure that this interview with his employer must end by attracting his attention. Yet she could not turn her back and affect to be gazing out to sea, because that would naturally offend Mr. Griffiths.

      In great discomfort she heard her sister asking after the farmer’s family and receiving news of them; in greater still she heard her then remark—no doubt merely from lack of a better topic—upon the lameness of one of the haymakers. Had he met with an accident?

      “Yes, Miss Jane, by what he says,” replied Griffiths. “Leastways ’tis a dog-bite, and a nasty one, too. It don’t get no better, and it do make him very lame, and I think I shall have to get rid of him whatever now that the hay is carried. He is a stranger and I took him without any to speak for him; a poor hand with a scythe he is, and indeed to goodness a cripple is very little use on a farm.”

      It was just at this moment that the subject of these disparaging remarks came limping towards the hedge to pick up his waistcoat, which was lying near it, the cart, now sufficiently loaded, having started to jolt back to the farm. This time his eyes quite naturally lit upon the two ladies in converse with his employer, and he paused for just the half of a second, the colour in his tanned checks deepening. Then without further sign he picked up the waistcoat, stooping rather awkwardly for it, and hobbled after the cart.

      At the conjuncture of Bran’s victim seeing her and of his master’s words Nest would willingly have sunk out of sight behind the bank. Her impulse was to exclaim, “Oh, Mr. Griffiths, must you turn him off? It was my dog which bit him.” Had she been alone she might have obeyed it; but in Jane’s presence prudence restrained her.

      . . . Or cowardice, she thought ashamedly a moment or two later, as, after a few more words with the farmer, they took their leave, and turning homewards retraced their steps along the cliffs, facing the first rosepink of the sunset. But for Nest the beauty had gone out of the evening.

      (6)

      By next morning, however, Nest (though not inwardly free from tremors) had so far got the better of her cowardice that she was standing, about half-past ten, in the porch of Tan-y-bach farmhouse resolved to do what she should have done yesterday evening. Two black-and-white collies, one old and the other young, half friendly and half suspicious, were vociferating just outside the porch, and at least three other guardians of various sizes had appeared in the yard behind. This canine garrison would have reminded her, had she needed reminding, that it was Bran’s week-old misdeed which had driven her to this step. All yesterday evening she had been haunted by the limping figure in the hayfield, and by her own share, unwilling though it was, in Mark Thompson’s present plight. And if her belief in his truthfulness had been shaken by his unexplained presence in the Bishop’s Palace that night, it was nevertheless quite clear that he had genuinely sought work on a farm, since he had obtained it—only to lose it again—because of Bran.

      Wrought upon by these thoughts, and finding her sister deeply occupied this morning with her offspring, Nest had seized the opportunity of slipping away, and in about twenty minutes had found herself at Mr. Griffiths’ farm on the cliffs. There was no sign of the ex-privateersman, nor indeed of any farm hands, so she began to fear that she might not find the owner at home either.

      The noise of the dogs soon brought Mrs. Griffiths herself to the door—a stout, handsome woman, pulling down her sleeves over her arms as she came. Great surprise and pleasure were hers on perceiving her visitor, whom she besought to come in and drink a cup of buttermilk.

      “No buttermilk,