England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Love stories; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Painters -- Fiction
He was not coming, it appeared. He intended to wait on the island until
a boat could cross for him; and that would not be to-day, Stevan
answered, with a shrug. The people who lived there had a boat, of
course, but the young son-in-law had taken it to fetch something for the
sick wife.
Then Kitty stopped resolutely, and demanded that the boy should be sent
back to the house to tell the gentleman that they would not start until
he came.
"Kitty!" exclaimed her mother, in amazement.
But Kitty's eyes were shining with resolute determination. The _cure_,
who perhaps understood more than they thought, smiled resignedly, and
sheltered himself as best he could from the driving rain.
"We have been unjust, mother," said the girl, in a low voice.
Mrs Lascelles said nothing. Kitty was going her own way, and she was
unwilling to interfere. She was uneasy, but interested, and perhaps a
little amused; besides, it must be owned the sea looked so fierce that
she was not sorry to have another man in the boat. Presently she saw
Everitt coming towards them, quickening his pace when he perceived they
were waiting on the shore. Kitty did not draw back, as her mother
expected; she made a few steps to meet him, and said quietly--
"It would have been a great pity if you had stayed at that place all
night because you were afraid of overcrowding the boat. We hope you
will cross with us."
"Thank you," said Everitt, briefly. He wasted no more words, but
occupied himself in doing what he could to shelter them from rain: in a
few moments the driving foam would be dashing over the boat. The old
boatman looked up and down uneasily; Everitt said certain words to him,
and his face cleared. "We are going to wrap the heavy brown sail round
you," Everitt added to Mrs Lascelles; "it can't be used in any other
way."
"The old man will never be able to row us across," she said, anxiously.
"I am going to help him," he said; "and, if necessary, I have no doubt
the _cure_ could bear a hand. All these Bretons are born sailors.
Don't be alarmed. I hope a wetting will be your worst misfortune."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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