“THERE, look, there now, will that be the Coldlight—Anny, I mean?”

Anny paused in her walk and stared out across the bay. Hal followed the direction of her hand and then shook his head.

“Nay,” he said, “’tis too small.”

Anny sighed and moved on, but the boy still stared out at the white-sailed boat on the horizon.

“Last time I saw a craft like that,” he began reflectively, “was when the Preventative folk chased Fen de Witt halfway up the Pyfleet and then got stuck.”

Anny stopped quickly.

“Lord! It won’t be them, will it?” she said, a note of fear creeping into her voice.

Hal shrugged his shoulders.

“Like as not,” he said carelessly.

The girl stared, fascinated, at the white speck in the distance.

“And the captain coming back this very day!” she said.

Hal reddened at her words, and wheeled round fiercely, but she was not looking at him and he turned away again.

“Hal, what if the Preventative folk got any one?” she asked.

“They’d die, that’s all,” he replied laconically.

The girl looked round at the early summer landscape and shuddered.

“Look again, are you sure about the boat?” she commanded anxiously.

Hal threw a casual glance over his shoulder.

“Sure? Sure of what?” he asked gruffly.

“That it’s the Preventative folk!” Anny shook his sleeve as she spoke.

Hal wrenched his arm out of her grasp, and replied irritably:

“No, of course I’m not sure; don’t be stupid, girl; I only said ’twas like one.”

Anny looked at him in surprise.

“What’s the matter?” she laughed; they had come to a part where the wall melts into the high-lying fields and the path is very wide, and Hal stepped back a pace or two and turned a red and angry face toward the girl.

“Look here, Anny,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “I’m tired of this hankering and whining after that dirty little Spaniard. You know we’re going to be married as soon as I can get some money; then I’ll be able to give you things—better things than him—aren’t you going to wait for me? See here, I won’t have this carrying on with the foreigner.”

Anny’s blood was up and she turned to her lover as fierce as a tiger-cat.

“Indeed, and will you not, Master Hal Grame?” she said bitingly. “I’ll have you know that you have no authority over me you—you tapster!”

Hal blinked; he had never seen Anny like this before and he stood staring at her in amazement, his mouth half open.

“I have not hankered after the Spaniard, as you call it.”

Anny’s eyes were bright with tears at his injustice, but she spoke firmly, and with great intensity.

“And as for you being tired, master Lord of the Island, so is Anny Farran, your servant—very, very tired of this fooling. Lord! you child—is it me that hankers,” the word seemed to have stuck in her mind, for she repeated it, “hankers for the Captain? Is it me? Oh, Hal Grame—I—I hate you.”

Hal stepped back another pace or two and looked round him vaguely. This was a new departure of Anny’s. He had never seen her so indignant, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel.

“I hope that is the Preventative folk then,” he remarked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “then they’ll catch the little dog.”

Anny reddened.

“Hal Grame, you’re a jealous coward,” she said clearly, and then her tears began to fall and she sat down on the grass, looking out over the cloud-shadowed water.

Hal did not speak but stood idly kicking the dust with his foot.

“You’re not saying that you don’t love me?” he said confidently.

Anny bit her lip.

“I’ve told you I hate you,” she said clearly; she was still very angry for the boy’s mistrust had hurt her.

He turned round slowly.

“Don’t be silly, Anny,” he said not unkindly.

Anny furtively wiped her eyes; his confident attitude annoyed her, and she spoke clearly.

“Go away, Hal Grame; I won’t ever marry you.”

Hal gasped.

“Anny, you’re bewitched,” he exclaimed. He couldn’t have chosen a more unfortunate remark, for Anny was more irritated than ever.

“Nay, not now, but I was, ever to think at all on the likes of you,” she snapped. “Oh, go away.”

Hal wavered; his little sweetheart sat on the grass, her face turned away from him, but he felt that she was crying, so came a little nearer.

“Give me a kiss,” he said, laughing. “You’re a smart little wench,” and kneeling down behind her he bent to kiss her cheek.

Before he realized what had happened he felt a smart blow across the mouth, and Anny sprang to her feet and walked off quickly.

Hal sat back on his heels and passed his hand across his lips.

“You little vixen,” he gasped.

Anny laughed, a bitter, angry little laugh, and went on.

Hal looked after her anxiously for a moment or two, and then as she did not turn back he scrambled to his feet and followed her.

“Anny, you’re not angry,” he said, as soon as he was near enough to speak softly. The words came shamefacedly from his mouth and he slurred them one into another.

Anny gulped; she was very angry, and Hal’s attitude annoyed her.

“Indeed I am,” she said, “and turning a slobbering calf won’t make me any better. Oh! go home, Hal Grame.”

Hal was amazed.

“Anny!” he ejaculated.

Anny repressed a howl of disappointment and contented herself with saying wearily:

“Oh, go home—go home!”

The boy looked at her for a moment or two.

“Anny,” he said at last, “are you trying to leave me for the Spaniard?”

This was more than she could stand, and turning to him she broke out into a stream of angry, incoherent abuse and denial.

“Why are you for ever plaguing me about the Spaniard? Why does everyone talk of him? I’m sick of hearing his name—if you’re jealous of him go to him, not to me.”

Hal shrugged his shoulders and said with irritating calmness:

“Then there is that for me to go to him about, eh?”

Anny raised her little clenched fists above her head and cried aloud:

“You make me mad, Hal Grame. Of course there isn’t,” and then, as she saw that he didn’t believe her, she went on, “Of course not, of course! Oh, Hal! if you were a man you’d do other things than worry a poor lass dead with your foolishness.”

Hal flushed.

“Ah, that’s like a wench!” he said. “What if I haven’t a golden jacobus to my name! I shouldn’t think you’d throw that at me if you loved me.”

Anny did not speak and he went on, “If I were a man—yes, that’s it, if I were a dirty, sneaking, knife-throwing Spaniard, with a fleet of rat-ridden cockle-boats and a crew of mangy dogs behind me, you’d be content—then I could do other things—bring you gauds and laced petticoats. Faugh! I’m glad I’ve seen you thus; I wouldn’t wed a cormorant and a shrew.”

His anger had carried him away with it, for like most Norsemen he had a strain of bitterness under his usually sunny, peaceful disposition.

Anny winced at his words.

“It’s not that—you know it’s not that, Hal,” she said piteously. “But why worry me? If you’re jealous of him, fight him.”

Hal looked at her in astonishment; he was no coward, but neither was he a hot-head, and he knew something of Dick’s reputation as a swordsman and a knife-fighter.

Anny shrugged her shoulders.

“Fight him,” she repeated mechanically.

A sneer played round the boy’s mouth when he next spoke, and his eyes had grown cold.

“Marry, Anny Farran, I did not think you capable of it,” he said. “You would have me die on the Spaniard’s knife and so rid of for ever.”

Anny began to cry hopelessly. She felt there was no use in saying anything to him while he was in this mood, but she was very fond of him and he hurt her much more than he knew.

Hal turned on his heel, and, as he strode off, began to realize how much he loved the wayward beauty. A great wave of self-pity swept over him. He was very young, barely nineteen, and once or twice he bit his lip convulsively, as he imagined the future loneliness, the constraint at the Ship, old Gilbot’s sallies, and then, as he stayed to look out over the glancing, shimmering water, he noticed that the little white-sailed ship was still hovering about the mouth of the Mersea River, and he laughed wildly.

“May you sink the Spanish weasel,” he exclaimed aloud, and then went on, and every step he took he became more miserable and angry with himself and the girl.

“Oh! I’ll go and see Joe,” he thought, as he turned into the lane. “It’s a fine thing to have a mate, so it is, when your lass leaves you for a yellow heathen.” And he turned down toward Pullen’s cottage.

Anny sat on the bank where he had left her. She was very sorry for herself, too, and she looked round her through tearful eyes.

No one was in sight. Behind her the bright sun lit up the countryside with beautiful green and yellow light, while in front, the sea, clear and smooth as glass, sparkled and glittered peacefully. She got up slowly, and started back for the Ship, and for the first time a sense of insecurity came upon her, and she realized rather fearfully that she was very much alone. Hitherto, she had always relied on Hal to take care of her, but now he was angry, very angry, she could see that; perhaps he would never forgive her. She shivered involuntarily. Old Ben was her only relative, and the thought of him and Pet Salt frightened her. Sue and Gilbot were very kind, but would they trouble themselves to protect a little serving-wench from a wealthy customer?

All these questions ran through her head, and the image of the dark, wanton-eyed, debonair little captain rose up in her mind like a spectre. She knew now that she did not like him, and she began to be afraid. She remembered the times he had tried to kiss her; and how each time at the thought of Hal she had repulsed him successfully. Now Hal would be indifferent. A sob stuck in her throat, and she swallowed painfully.

Then an idea struck her. There was always Nan Swayle—poor, disappointed Mother Swayle had always a soft spot in her hard-crusted heart for little Anny Farran, her old lover’s grandchild. She would go to Nan—but then the picture of the lonely old woman living with her cats in a tumble-down shed on one of the many small dyke-surrounded islands in the marshes presented itself to her, and she began to cry afresh as she walked wearily up to the Ship.

Meanwhile, out in the river’s mouth, alone between sea and sky, the little white-sailed craft patrolled steadily to and fro, as Master Thomas Playle, a telescope to his eye, swept the horizon anxiously and impatiently.