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[Illustration]
1901
The middle of August is come at last; and with it the solemn day onwhich Frederick Viscount Scoutbush may be expected to revisit the homeof his ancestors. Elsley has gradually made up his mind to theinevitable, with a stately sulkiness: and comforts himself, as the timedraws near, with the thought that, after all, his brother-in-law is nota very formidable personage.
But to the population of Aberalva in general, the coming event is one ofawful jubilation. The shipping is all decked with flags; all the Sundayclothes have been looked out, and many a yard of new ribbon and pound ofbad powder bought; there have been arrangements for a procession, whichcould not be got up; for a speech which nobody would undertake topronounce; and, lastly, for a dinner, about which last there was nohanging back. Yea, also, they have hired from Carcarrow Church-town,sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music; for Frank has putdown the old choir band at Aberalva,—another of his mistakes,—andthere is but one fiddle and a clarionet now left in all the town. So thesaid town waits all the day on tiptoe, ready to worship, till out of thesoft brown haze the stately Waterwitch comes sliding in, like a whiteghost, to fold her wings in Aberalva bay.
And at that sight the town is all astir. Fishermen shake themselves upout of their mid-day snooze, to admire the beauty, as she slips on andon through water smooth as glass, her hull hidden by the vast curve ofthe balloon-jib, and her broad wings boomed out alow and aloft, till itseems marvellous how that vast screen does not topple headlong, insteadof floating (as it seems) self-supporting above its image in the mirror.Women hurry to put on their best bonnets; the sexton toddles up with thechurch key in his hand, and the ringers at his heels; the CoastguardLieutenant bustles down to the Manby's mortar, which he has hauled outin readiness on the pebbles. Old Willis hoists a flag before his house,and half-a-dozen merchant skippers do the same. Bang goes the harmlessmortar, burning the British nation's powder without leave or licence;and all the rocks and woods catch up the echo, and kick it from cliff tocliff, playing at football with it till its breath is beaten out; arolling fire of old muskets and bird-pieces crackles along the shore,and in five minutes a poor lad has blown a ramrod through his hand.Never mind, lords do not visit Penalva every day. Out burst the bellsabove with merry peal; Lord Scoutbush and the Waterwitch are duly "rungin" to the home of his lordship's ancestors; and he is received, as hescrambles up the pier steps from his boat, by the curate, thechurchwardens, the Lieutenant, and old Tardrew, backed by half-a-dozenancient sons of Anak