CHAPTER XI

It is the afternoon of the following day. A brilliant clear afternoon without a cloud in the sky, and warm sunshine flooding the calm blue sea and making the distant cliffs and islands of the naval base appear as though they were made of delicately tinted enamels. Such days are not infrequent in autumn even in the far north of Scotland; they make a sort of fairy midsummer at a time when the icy fingers of winter are already fast closing their grip upon the land.

In the sunshine it is quite hot; but directly one steps into the shade one feels the chilly nip in the air, tingling and bracing.

That is why the matronly lady who has just dragged a couple of deck-chairs across the grass from a building near by is careful to place them well out in the sunlight, giving a careful glance to make sure that no neighbouring shadow in its swift advance shall presently cover the spot she has chosen.

Mrs. Shaw prides herself on being thoughtful about little details of this sort. And, indeed, her pride is thoroughly justified, for she is an extremely capable lady as all her friends are willing to admit, even though they may sometimes add that she is a trifle fussy.

However, her fussiness is always of a kindly type, like that of a motherly hen in charge of a big brood of chicks. And the chicks which are dearer to her heart than any others are those big ones whose plumage is the dark blue of the British sailor.

"What ever will you do now, without all your beloved sailor-boys to look after?" said her friends when the first outbreak of war suddenly spirited away the fleet and emptied the streets of our seaport towns of all those fine lads whose neat blue rig had up till then made an ever welcome relief to the sombre suits of the civilians.

"What will I do?" replied the energetic lady, "why, go after 'em, to be sure!"

"Oh, but _how_? Do you think the Admiralty will let you?"

"Hm! If I want to go and be with my boys and the Admiralty stand in my light, well, so much the worse for the Admiralty, that's all I've got to say about the matter. But they won't stand in my way--you can always bluff these official people, if you know the right way to set to work about it!"

"And what is the right way, Mrs. Shaw?"

"Meet officialdom with officialdom. If I were to request permission to go in a private capacity to run a home for sailors at one of their precious secret bases, I should only get a polite snub and a very definite refusal. But if I can persuade one of the big societies to let me join up with them--well, I'll stand the racket and the society can take the credit so long as it lends its name and patronage. That'll do the trick, I'll be bound!"

The event proved that Mrs. Shaw's psychology was not at fault. Very few ladies can boast of being present with the fleet in the early days of the war and of sharing the secrets of the fleet's hiding-places; but Mrs. Shaw and her helpers were amongst those few.

Her hut, the constant rendezvous of hundreds of bluejackets, bore the name of a deservedly well-known society painted in big letters across its tin roof; but to the men who frequented it and found in it a real home it was known by no other name than that of "Mother Shaw's."

"Mother Shaw's" has been an established institution on the island for a long time now; but Mother Shaw herself has never yet had to undertake a job so much out of her ordinary line as that which is occupying her this sunny autumn afternoon.

Having arranged the two deck-chairs with most precise care, she goes back to the hut and emerges again with her arms laden with rugs and cushions. These also seem to need the skill of a master-mind to get them into just the exact position, for Mrs. Shaw arranges and re-arranges them with many a pat and a pull before they are settled entirely to her satisfaction.

Once more she makes the short journey to the hut. This time she stays longer inside; and when she reappears she comes out arm in arm with a tall dark girl who seems glad of her support.

It is Norah Sheridan. She is very pale. The strain of all she has been through has left its mark upon her. Yet she holds herself gallantly, and though the drawn lips indicate the shame and anxiety still gnawing at her heart she does her best to smile her gratitude for Mrs. Shaw's kindly mothering, and speaks bravely and cheerfully--when she can get a word in edgeways, which to tell the truth is not very often.

She is dressed in a plain tweed costume which fits her graceful figure to a marvel--better, indeed, than the girl for whom it was originally made, one of Mrs. Shaw's young helpers who has come to the aid of Norah's distinctly sketchy wardrobe.

The older woman settles her young charge into a deck chair, covering her knees with a thick rug and arranging cushions behind her shoulders and head. Then she stands off and with a kindly scrutiny reviews her work.

Apparently it satisfies even her exacting nature.

"There now, my dear," the good lady announces, giving the cushions just one more pat, "I think you'll be snug enough like that! Don't I make a good nurse? I ought to, considering the number of times I've had to nurse my own daughter, a delicate girl of just about the same age as you, my dear, but not nearly as good-looking, she takes after me, the plain but useful type. It takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it? We can't all be good-looking! Now, my husband was a very handsome man, and my boys are exactly like him; I only had the one girl, and she must needs go and turn after me! Often the way, haven't you noticed it? It does seem a shame--what do boys want with good looks? They can get on perfectly well without 'em, whereas the girls, poor things--but there, I managed to get married in spite of my face, so perhaps it doesn't really matter so much, after all! As for you, I don't think girls of your type ought to be allowed at large at all--you're a positive danger to society!"

Norah starts, and her hands grip the sides of her chair. Her pale face goes a shade paler still. Mrs. Shaw's well-intentioned flattering words have come home to her in a sense that was far from the speaker's thoughts!

"Why, what's the matter with you, child?" the observant lady remarks, "Cushions not very comfortable? There, that'll be better. Another one just here under your back? No? Don't mind saying so if you would really like one, I can easily get it for you. Dear me, I can see I shall have to take my broom to keep off all the young naval officers from this place, or else you'll be wrecking the peace of mind of the whole lot of 'em!"

"Do the officers come ashore here then, Mrs. Shaw? I was hoping that we might just remain here quietly and see nobody until we can get away and go home."

"You need not see anyone if you really don't wish to do so, my dear. I can always say you are not well enough--and it won't be much of a fib either, because you certainly do look a poor wisht creature, and I don't wonder at it after what you have been through. But as soon as it begins to get known that you are here I know I shall have my work cut out! I have three girls helping me here, and you would be astonished at the number of naval officers who drop in to tea at the hut now; they never used to come before those girls arrived on the scene! Of course, they all say that it is me they come to see, the monkeys!"

"I hope I shan't see anyone. I don't want to," repeats Norah in a plaintive little voice.

"No? Well, you shan't then, dear. Of course not. I'm not surprised at your wanting to be as quiet as you can, after such a dreadful experience. Fancy your being picked up by the _Marathon_! I have a nephew on board that ship--a dear boy he is, too!"

"Have you, Mrs. Shaw? Which is he? I wonder if he was one of those I saw?"--Norah somehow has a presentiment of what the answer is going to be. It was too much to hope for that she might flee away and hide in obscurity. Fate was bound to weave its cruel net of complications around her feet; but oh, the irony of it, that this kind motherly soul should be the one to commence the dreaded weaving!

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