I am obliged to you for what you have done for me, and I hope that some day we may have another sail together.”
“If I am at home any time when you may happen to put in at Exmouth I shall be glad to take a cruise with you, Horace.”
As the lad and Marco went up the hill to the house, Horace, to his surprise, met his father coming down with Zaimes.
“Well, Horace, so you have brought your yacht home. Zaimes routed me out from my work to come and look at her, and she really looks a very pretty little vessel.”
“She is not little at all, father.”
“Perhaps not in comparison, Horace; but did you and Marco bring her back by yourselves?”
“No, father; William Martyn, the officer who has seen to her fitting up, and who recommended her, you know, said he would come with us. So, of course, he has been in command, and Marco and I have been the crew. He has been teaching me lots of things, just the same, he says, as if I had been a newly joined midshipman.”
“But where is he now, Horace?”
“He is on board. He is going home by the coach to-morrow. I said that I was sure you would be glad if he would come up to the house; but he said he should feel more comfortable on board. Were you coming down to look at her, father?”
“Yes, Horace, I was. It is quite a wonderful event my being outside the grounds, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, father. I am so glad you are coming down. I am sure you will like her, and then, perhaps, you will come sailing sometimes; I do think, father, that you would enjoy such a sail as we had to-day, it was splendid.”
“Well, we will see about it, Horace. Now I have once come out I may do so again; I am not sure that a good blow might not clear my brain sometimes.”
There was quite an excitement in the village when Mr. Beveridge was seen coming down. Occasionally during his wife’s lifetime he had come down with her to look into questions of repairs or erection of new cottages in lieu of old ones, but since that time he had never entered the village. Personally his tenants did not suffer from the cessation of his visits, for his steward had the strictest injunctions to deal in all respects liberally with them, to execute all necessary repairs, to accede to any reasonable request; while in case of illness or misfortune, such as the loss of a boat or nets, the rent was always remitted. That Mr. Beveridge was to a certain extent mad to shut himself up as he did the villagers firmly believed, but they admitted that no better landlord was to be found in all that part of the country.
Mrs. Beveridge had been greatly liked, and the people were pleased at Horace being down so much among them; but it was rather a sore subject that their landlord himself held so entirely aloof from them. Men touched their hats, the women curtsied as he came down the street, looking almost with pity at the man who, in their opinion, so terribly wasted his life and cut himself off from the enjoyments of his position.
Mr. Beveridge returned their salutes kindly. He was scarce conscious of the time that had passed since he was last in the village; the years had gone by altogether unmarked save by the growth of Horace, and by the completion of so many works.
“I suppose you know most of their names, Horace?”
“All of them, I think, father.”
“That is right, boy. A landlord ought to know all his tenants. I wish I could find time to go about among them a little more, but I think they have everything they want as far as I can do for them; still, I ought to come. In your mother’s time I did come sometimes. I must try to do it in future. Zaimes, you must see that I do this once a fortnight. I authorize you to bring me my hat and coat after lunch and say to me firmly, ‘This is your afternoon for going out.’”
“Very well, sir,” the Greek said. “I will tell you; and I hope you will not say, as you always do to me when I beg you to go out: ‘I must put it off for another day, Zaimes, I have some work that must be done.’”
“I will try not to, Zaimes, I will indeed. I think this is a duty. You remind me of that, will you?”
By this time they had reached the little port, where a number of the fishermen were still lounging discussing the Surf, which was lying the picture of neatness and good order among the fishing-boats, with every rope in its place, the sails in their snow-white covers, and presenting the strongest contrast to the craft around her.
“She is really a very pretty little yacht,” Mr. Beveridge said with more animation than Horace ever remembered to have heard him speak with. “She does great credit to your choice, Marco, and I should think she is a good sea-boat. Why, Zaimes, this almost seems to take one back to the old time. She is about the size of the felucca we used to cruise about in; it is a long time back, nearly eighteen years, and yet it seems but yesterday.”
“There is no reason why you should not sail again, master; even I long to have my foot on the planks. One never loses one’s love of the sea.”
“I am getting to be an old man now, Zaimes.”
“No one would say so but yourself, master; you are but forty-three. Sometimes, after being shut up for days, you look old – who would not when the sun never shines on them – but now you look young, much younger than you are.”
A stranger indeed would have had difficulty in guessing Mr. Beveridge’s age. His forehead was broad, his skin delicate and almost colourless, his light-brown hair was already of a silvery shade, his face clean shaven, his hands white and thin. His eyes were generally soft and dreamy, but at the present moment they were bright and alert. His figure was scarcely that of a student, for the frame was large, and there was at present none of the stoop habitual to those who spend their lives over books; and now that he was roused, he carried himself exceptionally upright, and a close observer might have taken him for a vigorous man who had but lately recovered from an attack of severe illness.
“We shall see, Zaimes, we shall see,” he said; “let us go on board. You had better hail her, Horace.”
“Surf ahoy!” Horace shouted, imitating as well as he could William Martyn’s usual hail. A minute later the mate’s head appeared above the companion. “My father is coming on board, Mr. Martyn. Will you please bring the dinghy ashore.” The mate hauled up the dinghy, got into it, and in a few strokes was alongside the quay.
Mr. Beveridge descended the steps first. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Martyn, and to thank you for the kindness you have shown my son in finding this craft for him and seeing to its being fitted out.”
“It has been an amusement, sir,” the mate said. “I was knocking about Exmouth with nothing to do, and it was pleasant to be at work on something.”
“Get in, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge said, “the dinghy won’t carry us all. You can bring it back again for the others.”
The party stayed for half an hour on board. Mr. Beveridge was warm in his approval of the arrangements.
“This is a snug cabin indeed,” he said. “I had no idea that such a small craft could have had such good accommodation. One could wish for nothing better except for a little more head-room, but after all that is of no great consequence, one does not want to walk about below. It is a place to eat and to sleep in, or, if it is wet, to read in. I really wonder I never thought of having a sailing-boat before. I shall certainly take a sail with you sometimes, Horace.”
“I am very glad of that, father, it would be very jolly having you
