The Moonless Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

magnanimity on Papa’s part. A yacht, at such a time, was better than charity for covering a multitude of sins. She put this question to him.
    “No, I am not a sailor at all,” he told her. “I would like to hire a boat and go out for a look at him, though, if I could get a crew together.”
    “Save your blunt. I’ll take you,” David told him. “As soon as the keel is dry. We have just had it painted. We have seven ships resting at the dock this minute, ready to thwart any escape plans Boney may have.”
    “Had a hundred when Napoleon had his flotilla readying at Boulogne,” Sir Henry added.
    “What, do you think he will try to escape?” Mr. Benson asked, startled.
    “Certainly he will,” Sir Henry told him, “It was at the back of his mind when he gave himself up. He little thought they would anchor him off Bolt Hall. If he were half as clever as everyone says he is, he would have known it. I daresay Plymouth was chosen with Bolt Hall in mind.” He then went on to give a detailed history of Bolt Hall, till his listener’s eyes were glazed. “But he won’t get away, I’ll take you down to the docks tomorrow and show you the ships, and the winch and chain.”
    “Winch and chain?” Mr. Benson inquired, in some confusion.
    “It is too difficult to explain. It must be seen. I’ll show it to you myself tomorrow. You will be interested to see it. Ingenious contraption. Bonaparte will have no hope of landing with my winch and chain to stop him,” Sir Henry finished up, with a sage nod.
    They went in to dinner, the talk being on the same subject as before the meal—Napoleon. When the ladies retired to the saloon, Marie said to her aunt, “I wonder why Papa asked Mr. Benson to stay with us. He hasn’t a ship.”
    “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Biddy told her bluntly. “He is family, a well-born, well-to-do gentleman, with a nice little property of his own in Devon. Oakhurst, it is called. I expect Henry asked him to give you a chance to attach him. He has mentioned Benson to me before as a possible parti for you. It’s high time you were married, Marie.”
    “Oh, is that why he is here?” she asked, smiling with pleasure. The matter of finding a husband for Marie was frequently discussed in the family. At twenty, she was not only ripe but becoming a little passé in the view of some. Her mother had been married at eighteen, and three-quarters of her own friends of the same age were married. There was not felt by the young lady herself to be any urgency in the matter. With a naval station at Plymouth, there was always such a gratifying surfeit of gentlemen at all the balls that one could not feel quite an ape-leader; still, younger sons making their way in the navy were not considered eligible for Miss Boltwood of Bolt Hall by either her father or her aunt. It was not a uniform they wanted, but a jacket by Weston, similar to that worn by Mr. Benson. Marie, always partial to a uniform, began to perceive that a black jacket, too, could lend distinction, when worn by a gentleman of the cut of their guest.
     
    When the men returned to the saloon after their port, she felt some little hopes that she had incited Mr. Benson to admiration. He took up a seat beside her and began some conversation regarding her life, the very spirit of it showing her he was sensitive, considerate. “A pity your father had to leave London at just the time you were to have been presented,” he mentioned. “I looked forward to meeting you.”
    Unfortunately, Biddy decided to reply for her. “Sir Henry should never have gone to London,” she said. “It ruined his health forever. His lungs, his heart—they have never been the same since.”
    Benson acknowledged this irrelevance with a nod, then looked to Marie. “I was sorry to leave, but of course my father’s health must come first,” she replied.
    “I had thought he was quite recovered, he looks well,” Mr. Benson made the dreadful error of saying next,