“Better go away,” said Chris to himself.

But he stayed, and in contempt of the avoidance of those he met, he was constantly going to and fro during the next twenty-four hours.

Now he was down on the beach, close to the sea; now wandering high up on the moorland, and seeing, from each point of view, trifles which showed that the mistress of the Fort was coming home.

He called himself “idiot,” and asked mentally where his pride had gone, and determined to shut himself up with his books, but the determination was too weak, and he could not rest.  It was something, if only to see the home that would soon again contain the woman who held him fast.

“She will meet me again,” he said, with his hopes rising once more toward the evening of the next day.  “I’ll go up boldly like a man.  My darling!  And all this misery will be at an end.  Nine weary months has she been away, and it has seemed like years.  Why didn’t I write?  Why didn’t I crush down all this foolish pride and obstinacy?  I ought to have gone to her, instead of letting myself be maddened by that miserable scoundrel, believing she could listen to him, even if it was her father’s wish.”

He had strolled down the pier and lit a cigar, to stand gazing out to the west, where the sun was setting behind a golden bank of cloud which began to darken with purple as the plainly-marked rays spread out towards the zenith, while the calm sea gently heaved, and began to glow with ruby, topaz and emerald hues.

Far out beyond the shelter of the headland and the long low isle which acted like a breakwater to the bay, the sea was ruffled by the gentle evening breeze; and as Chris loitered, with his breast once more growing calm, he could see lugger after lugger, that had been tugged out with the large oars, hoisting sail to catch the soft gale and then glide slowly away, the tawny sails catching the reflected light, till all around was beautiful as some golden dream.

Chris turned and looked back at the Fort, to see that its windows were aglow, and the cliffs that rose behind and on either side were more lovely than ever.

“What a welcome home for her!” he said softly.  “My darling!  Oh, if she could see her old home now! if she would only come, and I could be the first to welcome her and take her by the hand.”

“Yes,” he said, as he turned and gazed out to sea and shore, heedless of the fact that a group of sailors were slowly coming down the pier.  “I will be there to meet her and take her by the hand.  She could not have believed it; and, now that the time of sorrow is at an end, she will ­ she shall listen to me.  Heaven give me strength to master this bitter, cruel pride and foolish jealousy.  I will hope.”

“Bet yer a gallon it is,” cried a voice behind him.

“Yah!  Yer don’t know what yer talking about.  Such gashly stuff!”

“Oh, you’re precious clever, you are.  Think that there schooner lay here all those many months and I shouldn’t know her again?  Here, let’s go up to the point, and get the coastie to lend us his glass.”

“I don’t want no glass,” said another voice.  “My eyes are good enough for that.  Jemmy Gadly’s right enough.  I could swear to her.”

The speaker made a binocular of his two hands, and gazed out to sea, at where the white sails of a yacht came well into view from beyond the island.

Chris heard every word, but he did not turn.  He stood gazing at the yacht, which with every stitch of canvas set, was running fast for the harbour, beautiful in the evening light ­a picture in that gleaming sea.

“Ay,” said the man at last, as he dropped his hands and turned to Chris, who was gazing out to sea with a strange singing in his ears, and a sensation at his temples as if the blood was throbbing hard.  “Ay, that’s Mr Glyddyr’s yacht, sure enough, and he’s come back o’ course to meet young Miss.  Oh, it be you?”

This last as Chris turned round upon him with a ghastly face glaring at him wildly.

“Lor’!  Look at that,” cried the man addressed as Gadly, and with an ugly grin overspreading his face as the love of baiting came uppermost.  “Come away, Joe; he means mischief.  Look out or there’ll be another murder done.”

Thud!

It was as quick as lightning.  Chris Lisle’s left fist flashed out, caught the man full in the cheek, and he staggered back, tried to save himself, and then tripped over a rope and fell heavily upon the stones, while his assailant glared round seeking another victim as a low angry murmur rose.

“You coward!” he growled between his teeth.

“Ay, and sarve him gashly well right,” said the sturdy fisherman, who had had his hands up to his eyes, and had addressed Chris.  “He is a coward to say that there.  Howd off, my lads, and let him bide.  There’s been quite enough o’ this gashly jaw.  I don’t believe you did kill the old man, Mr Chris, sir, and there’s my hand on it.”

He thrust out his great brown hairy, horny paw, and it was like help held forth to a drowning man.  Chris grasped the hand with both of his, and stood gazing full in the rough fellow’s eyes, his face working, his breast heaving, and a great struggle going on as he tried to speak, while the little group around looked on at the strange scene.

It was the first kindly word man seemed to have spoken to him all those weary months, and Chris, completely overcome, strove hard to utter his thanks, but for a time nothing would come.  At last it was in a low, hoarse murmur that he said ­

“God bless you for that, my man!” and hurried back to his room.

“And you call yourselves mates,” growled the fisherman, who had prudently kept in a reclining position, and who now slowly rose; “and you call yourselves mates.  Why, you ought to ha’ chucked him off the wall.”

“And I felt so happy!” groaned Chris; “and I felt so happy!”

“How did he know she was coming back?” he cried suddenly, as he sprang up and caught a telescope from where it lay upon a row of books, adjusted it, and stood looking out of the open window.

“Yes, its his boat; and there he stands using a glass watching her home.”

He shrank away, with his eyes looking dull and sunken as he laid the glass upon the shelf.

“How did he know ­how did he know?”

He sank down in a chair, and buried his face in his hands, as a flood of surmises rushed through his brain, every one full of agony, and all pointing to the idea that Claude must have been in communication with Glyddyr, or he never could have timed his return after all these months like that.

Half-an-hour had passed, and then he started from his chair, for there was a loud report.

He sank back in his seat again, with a mocking laugh.

“Beer!” he said bitterly.  “Beer!  What a world this is!”

And in imagination he saw the white smoke curling up from the mouth of the little cannon which stood by the flagstaff in front of the Harbour Inn, knowing, as he did, that the piece had been loaded in honour of Glyddyr’s return, and fired with the taproom poker, made red for the purpose.

Then there arose a boisterous burst of cheering, taken up again and again, as Glyddyr’s gig was rowed up to the steps, and he stepped out upon the pier.

“Yes, cheer away, you idiots,” cried Chris, rising from his seat in his jealous agony; “cheer and shout, and go down on the stones and grovel before him.”

Bang!

“That’s right!  Again.  Again.  Down with you, and let him walk in triumph over your necks.  The new man ­the new master of the Fort.”

“They know it,” he groaned, as he dashed to the window, and then backed away, after seeing that he was right, and that Glyddyr was coming along the pier, scattering coins among the little crowd that had gathered round, while the sound of hurrying feet could be heard as men and boys, attracted by the gunfire, were running down to the harbour.

“Yes, they know it.  The new lord of the Fort, and I stand here instead of joining them, and cheering too for the new king of the castle.  My God, what a world it is!”

He stopped short, pale and ghastly, as the cheering came nearer, and just then, looking proud and elate, Parry Glyddyr passed the window on his way to the hotel.

“And leave him to triumph over my death!” muttered Chris, in a low fierce voice.  “No,” he added, after a pause; “I’ve been too great a cur as it is.  Not yet:  it has not come quite to the worst.”

Chris was right.  There had been communication between Claude and Glyddyr, and quiet pertinacity, mingled with the greatest show of gentle respect and consideration, had not been without result.

It was only a short run across to Ettreville, and one morning, during a walk with Mary, Glyddyr came up to salute Claude with grave, respectful courtesy.

They had just put in for a few hours, he said, and they sailed again that afternoon.  He was so glad to see Miss Gartram again, and he was sure she was better for the change.

Only a few minutes’ conversation, and he was gone.

A fortnight later he was there again, and the stay was a little longer; but there was always the same shrinking show of respect for her, and even Mary could say nothing.

And so time wore on, till the coming of the yacht and a stay for at least a few days was no uncommon thing.

“No, I wouldn’t say a word,” said Gellow, in conference with his man.  “Keep quiet, dear boy, till she gets back, even if it’s months yet, and then strike home.”

“But I’m getting sick of it.”

“Never mind, dear boy.  It’s a very big stake, and I can’t understand, seeing what a darling she is, how you shy at her so.  No other reason, have you?”

“No, no,” said Glyddyr hurriedly.

“But it looks as if you had, even when you say no.  But there, it’s all right.  Give her plenty of time.  You have hooked her.  If you are hasty now, she’ll break away, and never take the fly again.  Wait till she goes back into her own quiet little groove.  Then be quite ready; job the landing-net under her with a sure and steady hand, and though she’ll kick and struggle a bit, and try to leap back into deep water, the pretty little goldfish will be yours.  And well earned, too.”

So Glyddyr waited his time, knew exactly when Claude would return home, and was ready to incite the fishermen and the workers at the quarry to get up a reception in her honour.

This was done, and as Chris Lisle stayed at home, gnawing his lips with agony, he knew that flags and banners were being strung across from house to house, that yachts’ guns were to be fired, and that the band from Toxeter was to be there.

It was short time for preparation, but enthusiasm was at high pressure, and the first dawning Chris had of the hour at which Claude would return was given by the band.

For a moment he hesitated.  Jealousy said stay, but the old boyish love carried all before it, and, reckless of the lowering looks which greeted him, he hurried along the beach, and made for the Fort, so as to be one of the first to welcome its mistress back.

The bells in the little church began to ring musically, for Glyddyr had well done his work, and then the guns were fired, and as this was supplemented by the distant music, a fierce pang shot through Chris Lisle’s heart.

“Why did I not think to do all this?”

He went on, and joined the little crowd by the gateway of the Fort, where the school children were in front, ready with handkerchiefs and coloured ribbons, for there were no flowers to be had.

As he approached to take his stand by the gate, the children began to cheer, and he bit his lip angrily as he heard them rebuked and hushed into silence.

But he forgot all this directly, for fresh firing and the nearing of the band told that Claude must be close at hand ­she for whom his heart yearned ­she whom his eyes longed to see, and they grew dim in the excitement, as, forgetful of all past trouble, he strained them to catch her first glance.

Would she smile at him?  Would she stop and stretch out her hands, and in spite of all those gathered around her, should he clasp her in his arms?

All excited thoughts, as there was the crashing sound of wheels, the loud cheering caught up now by the children as the carriage which had been to meet her rolled slowly up toward the gateway.

At last.  Bending forward with her pale face flushed, her eyes humid, and her black gloved hand waving her white kerchief in answer to the bursts of cheers.

Chris strained forward, and was about to press up to the carriage-door as it came slowly into the gateway to avoid crushing those who flocked round.

“Three cheers for the Queen of the Castle!” cried a loud voice; and then to Chris Lisle it was as if heaven and earth had come together.

For the voice was the voice of Glyddyr, who had risen from his seat beside Claude, unseen till then; and as the answering chorus rang out, sick almost unto death, his brain swimming and a dull throbbing at his breast, Chris shrank away without encountering Claude Gartram’s eyes, veiled almost to blindness by her tears.