The Captain's Bunk Part 6

'Deary!' A wrinkled brown finger was raised, and Goody looked over her horn spectacles in grieved surprise. ''Tain't for me to pint out to one so good and gentle as our Miss Theedory that one of the great G.o.d's commandments is to "Honour thy father and thy mother"! Ain't that so?'

'Yes; but--but,' sobbed Theo, who, tired out and ashamed of herself as well, suddenly broke down, as much to her own astonishment as to that of Goody, 'that means a father and a mother who take a real interest in their children, who----'

'It don't say so special, if so be as it means that!' rejoined Goody dryly. 'It don't mention any sort in pertikler. It just says "thy father an' thy mother"; and that's all you and I've got to do with it.

Let's look to our part, and perform it. But folks is always in such a hurry to settle other people's bis'ness that they lose sight of their own.'

'Oh, Goody, you're right! What a monster, what a bad girl you must think me!' Theo sat up straight. 'I am ashamed of myself. To think I should grumble at my own father, my good father, who was such a brave sailor, as everybody knows, and who never has been unkind to one of us children in all our lives!'

'That's it, deary! That's it. 'Tain't what your father isn't, but what he is, that you've got to look at, and to be grateful for.

Remember what I'm a-goin' to say, and don't 'ee take offence at an old body's words. We never, none of us, has but one father on earth, same's we've but one Father in heaven, who commands us so special to honour our earthly parents. And another thing, deary; them things as seem mountains in your young eyes seems but trifles to the captain's eyes. If the time comes as there's real need for him to interfere, and bring about order in his own home, he will be safe to do it, never ye fear. The captain he was one of them as England expec's every man to do his dooty, and he did it in battle, so I've heard tell. And he will do it by you and the b'ys, don't 'ee fear!'

'I'm sure he will,' said Theo humbly. She had come full of the spirit of putting everything and everybody to rights, and she told herself that her own pride and self-sufficiency had earned its well-merited fall. Theo Carnegy's heart was too gentle and single in thought to harbour arrogant pride. Her quick repentance for the ill-advised words she had suffered to spring off her lips gave ample proof that it was so, and that in her the Christian spirit reigned.

'Here's Ned a-comin'!' Granny lifted her head sharply to listen to a prolonged, familiar whistle, and the cat, uncurling herself, rose up into an arch. There was a rush past the little window, and then Ned bustled into the room, bringing with him a breath of strong sea air and also of the odours of the mackerel-boat.

'They've comed, granny! The mackerrow has comed into our bay, and we're goin' out agin---- Evenin', miss! I--I didn't see you before.'

Ned's cap was off, and he stood, colouring up, before the young lady sitting on the stool and looking at him out of her clear, earnest eyes.

'Ned,' said Theo, somewhat gravely, 'I want a quiet talk with you, one of these days soon.'

'Yes, miss.'

'Not to-morrow,' went on Theo. And Ned gave a gasp of relief, un.o.bserved by her. He was secretly thankful that Miss Theedory had not fixed on the morrow, seeing it was the day of the proposed bird-hunt in Brattlesby Woods. 'We are all going across to the Vicarage to tea to-morrow,' continued the young lady; and Ned's relief changed to dismay. 'By the way, Ned, we shall be so glad to see you at the schoolroom tea at six o'clock. To-morrow will be Mrs. Vesey's birthday; and there's to be a little treat at the schoolhouse, as well as our tea at the Vicarage. You'll come?'

Ned fidgeted and turned all colours. He was a straightforward, honest boy, and his nature would have enjoined him to speak out and frankly say that his word had been already pa.s.sed to go with Jerry Blunt to the woods on Wednesday, but his tongue was tied for Alick's sake. He could see that Theo was ignorant of her brother Alick's determination to carry out his rebellious mutiny. A fierce struggle raged in Ned's mind. 'His honour rooted in dishonour stood.' Should he be outspoken, or should he be faithful to his chum, Master Alick?

'Better be true,' said the clear voice of conscience.

'No. Better still stick to your friend through thick and thin,'

contradicted a louder voice. How well the last specious suggestion sounded! So did the whispers of the serpent in Eden in Eve's ears.

'You will come to the tea-party, then?' said Theo, rising from her stool to depart.

'Thank ye, Miss Theedory; yes, I'll come,' was the mumbled reply; and in an agony of shame Ned shambled out of the cottage, making believe to be busy over the tangled brown nets lying in front of the door.

He was a capable lad enough, was Ned, and the Fletchers looked upon him as a promising hand already in the boat. Loving the sea pa.s.sionately, he had been gay as a lark all day, watching keenly for the expected coming of the swarm of 'mackerrow.' But though the take had been abundantly successful, and the boat came home heavily laden; though the bay and the encircling cottages were bathed in the cheery red light of a gorgeous sunset, and supper-time was at hand, somehow the spring of happiness had died out of everything. Ned hated deceit with the vigorous hatred of an outspoken, truthful nature. He wriggled mentally, full of guilty discomfort, as he watched Theo's straight, slim figure rapidly stepping round to the Bunk, and told himself ashamedly that he had wilfully deceived the 'young miss' who was always so kind, so civil-spoken, to himself.

'Ned! Ned, my lad!' called out Goody's cracked voice from within.

'Whatever's ado that 'ee don't come to supper? The taters is coolin'.'

'All right, granny! I be turnin' over the nets, that's all.'

Goody's ears--her sharpest sense was hearing--detected the heaviness in Ned's voice.

'What's come to 'ee, Ned, so suddent?' she asked anxiously, as she heaped a plate with potatoes, and poured out a mug of b.u.t.ter-milk.

Perhaps it was the smoking supper that proved too much for the hungry fisher-boy, or perhaps Ned's conscience still troubled him, but the boy was unusually silent. Goody, try as she might, could get nothing out of him.

'I'm off again, granny, soon's ever the moon's up,' Ned at length broke silence to say, when his supper was finished.

'Are ye, lad? Well, good luck to 'ee! The wind's fair and the water calm.' Goody stepped to the open door, and peered out at the darkening bay. 'Ay! There's Fletcher's folk makin' ready in the boat, Ned.'

She returned to the house-place, and reaching down the thick woollen m.u.f.fler, stained with salt water, but a valued heirloom for its warmth, she handed it to the boy. 'See you don't forgit to put it round your throat,' she enjoined. 'Neither don't 'ee forgit the bit o' a prayer, my boy, that I taught ye to say out on the deep by night. Folks is apt to think as prayers belongs to a night spent in a comfortable bed ash.o.r.e. But G.o.d listens as ready to bits of prayers that goes up to Him in the black silence o' night, out on the waters, same's He listens to them as is put up in church o' Sundays, with parson for mouthpiece.

Will 'ee remember, Ned?'

'I'll remember, granny; I do always!' quietly replied Ned, throwing the m.u.f.fler across his shoulders. To do the boy justice, he always did remember the 'bit o' a prayer' Goody had taught his father before him.

The Fletchers, three generations of whom manned the fis.h.i.+ng-trawler, were decent folk, with a keen eye to the main-chance, or what some people consider to be such--namely, making as much money as possible.

The sky had clouded over somewhat, and it was darkish as the 'Aurora'--known locally as the 'Roarer'--the chief of the Northbourne fis.h.i.+ng-boats, put out for the night's work. Ned, glancing at the Bunk, could see the twinkling lights from its several windows reflected in the calm waters below. He wondered what Muster Alick was up to at that time of evening. 'He ain't learnin' of his lessons, that's sure,'

thought Ned, with an uneasy recollection of the story of the rebellious outbreak in the schoolroom; for Alick had poured his indignant version of the same into the ears of his humble comrade. 'Happen he've got hold of a fresh travel-book.' Then Ned's thoughts easily slipped off to the subject of other 'travel-books' devoured by Alick and retailed to himself. He pictured vividly, as the 'Roarer' swished through the dark waters, a far different scene to that of the quiet Northbourne bay. A scene made up of dangers by land and dangers by sea; of wide, lonely floes of ice, their white gleam darkening into the gloom of the mysterious distance as yet untrodden by human feet. Ned's pulses never failed to beat like hammers when such thought-pictures dangled themselves before his mind's vision. He forgot in the entrancing dream the outbreak at the Bunk; forgot the holiday to be stolen on the morrow in Brattlesby Woods, and the deception practised on Miss Theedory; forgot, for the first time, the 'bit o' a prayer' taught him by faithful old Goody to say when his nights were pa.s.sed on the deep.

CHAPTER X

UNDER ARREST

Tuesday morning had come and gone. Philip Price, the tutor, sat in the dining-room of the Bunk with but one pupil facing him at the table.

Geoff, faithful to his promise, had apologised in a manly, straightforward fas.h.i.+on for his unruly behaviour on the day of the 'Great Rebellion,' as the Carnegys had secretly christened their outbreak. No sooner had the boy so done than he was freely forgiven.

But Alick flatly refused to sue for pardon, when confronted with his offended tutor, spite of Theo's tearful entreaties. Stubbornly the wrong-headed, wrong-hearted boy held out.

'Very good!' dryly said Mr. Price, after waiting in vain. 'Then, until you see fit to do so, I must dispense with your attendance here, Alick, otherwise our positions as master and pupil would be reversed.

Good-morning to you!' Philip had risen, and was holding the door open.

A great struggle had been going on in the young man's mind. It would be easier, he knew, far easier, for him to gloss over Alick's obstinate refusal to repent, and just to let things go on in the old way. The temptation to do so was great, particularly to one whose days were shadowed by much physical suffering, which made it the harder for him to rise up and energetically quell such a rebellious rising as he had had lately to cope with. But Philip owned a lion's heart as well as clear, well-defined notions of right and wrong. Also he had learned not to lean on his own strength. There was, he knew by experience, a higher help always ready for those who seek it, and Philip had long made it a habit to do that in all things, small or great. He was, therefore, enabled to deal with the young rebel in a dignified and temperate yet firm manner.

Muttering savagely Alick withdrew with slouching gait. He knew well that he was no match in regard to words with his tutor, who had preserved _his_ temper admirably. Master Alick consequently felt it to be the best policy to hold his tongue.

'Has you got a holiday, Alick? Or has you got the toothache?' asked Queenie innocently, surprised when Alick sauntered into her playroom, an hour after, feeling rather like a fish out of water without his inseparable companion Geoff, and without his usual employment. Ned Dempster was also out of the way, he being absent with the fis.h.i.+ng-boats; for the bay was alive with the shoals of mackerel, over which intense excitement simmered throughout Northbourne.

'Yes, I _has_ got a holiday, miss!' was Alick's grim rejoinder. 'A pretty long one too, I expect.' Then he added in a curt, sharp tone, as though to stop further questions, 'Now, look here, Queenie! Have you got any of your family that wants mending, eh? Any sick and wounded? Any broken legs or heads lying about? Because if you have, I can undertake to put them right this morning. I've got nothing else on hand.'

'Oh, can you, will you?' delightedly said Queenie. Then, suddenly recollecting herself, she quickly added, 'But, Alick--oh, I couldn't get out all my sick dollies this minute, 'cos, you see, it is nearly 'leven o'clock, and Theo will be waiting for me in the tea-house, to begin my lessons.'

'Lessons! Never you mind rubbishy old lesson-books, Queenie! I don't mean to, never again!'

'Has you learnt up everything then, Alick?' asked the child, gazing respectfully at her brother, with all the wondering admiration one often sees in little girls for big brothers.

'What has that got to do with it?' roughly answered the boy. He was in that volcanic condition of mind that every word spoken was as a match, and set up a blaze of ill-temper. 'Give me over that one-legged doll, and I'll "fix" her up, as the Yankees say. Hand her ladys.h.i.+p over.'

Alick Carnegy had one tender spot in his heart. Most of us have. And that in Alick was occupied by Queenie. He was pa.s.sionately fond of the innocent-faced, round-eyed little sister, and he was always ready to mend her sick and damaged properties.

'That's poor Miss m.u.f.fet. She felled out of my arms on the beach, and Splutters and Shutters worried her, Alick, before I could pull her away. Ah, it was dreadful!' chattered Queenie.

'You shouldn't pull things away from dogs. Never, never do such a thing. Do you understand, Queenie? They might snap, you know, and then where would you be?'

Down on the floor Alick sat himself, and fell to work to repair as best he could the interesting cripple. But Queenie, eager enough though she was to watch the surgical operation, had a conscience hidden away in her small person, as her restlessness showed.

'I mustn't stay, Alick. I mus' go! Theo will be waiting, for the hall clock has struck. I counted 'leven strokes just now!'

Away to her lessons bustled the little maid, and Alick, unhappy, sullen and forlorn, was left to himself in the play-room. The boy was distinctly most miserable. Indeed, he could not be otherwise; it is unnatural for the young to be in a state of rebellion against those set in authority over them. They suffer hotly for it, with the measureless capacity for suffering belonging to the young.