Ariadne was happy again; happy once more for a short time. The Mignonne lay at her old anchorage on the Saturday night following the events just detailed, and in her stateroom, or main cabin, Geoffrey sat at the head of his table, and she was opposite to him. The solitary lodgings were discarded for a time--if they were ever to be occupied again, which was not likely, since, when the frigate went to join Hawke's fleet, Ariadne would retire to Fanshawe Manor, there to wait and wait and watch for his return, and pray to God that that return might be allowed. The lodgings were therefore given up now, and for ever, and she was with her husband. Oh! how happy she would be, she said again and again, if only they had never more to part, or, parting, that he had not to go forth upon so perilous an enterprise as that of fighting the French.

But to-night, as they sat together, she would not allow even this sad prospect to distract her. To-night she was resolved to be gay and bright, and to make her husband's return to what she called "home" a happy and cheerful one.

"For," she said to him, "who knows but that, after all, you may not have to go to the fleet, that you may not have to fight the French----"

"Hush, Ariadne, hush," he said. "No more of this, I beseech you, if you are a true wife of mine. What! I a sailor, with war going on, and not take part in it. Great heavens! what kind of a sailor then should I be, and what likelihood of ever obtaining my flag? Nay, Ariadne, my sweet, never speak like that."

"Forgive me, oh! forgive me, Geoff. But I love you so, so fond and true. And it breaks my heart to part from you even for an hour. Yet, alas! I know that it must be, will be, until you are a great man. Oh! I wish you were an Admiral. Then you would have all you desire."

"Then," he replied, "I should be commanding fleets instead of single ships. Ariadne, you must be brave."

He was very gentle to her as he spoke; gentle always, not only because he loved her, but because he knew what a sad lot was that of a sailor's wife in those days. The whole world was one more plunged in war, although but two great Powers, England and France, were the principal combatants; and between those two it was war to the knife. One side or other had to triumph, and the triumph would be final for many years to come. We were determined to possess ourselves of Canada, the American fisheries, the sugar trade of Guadeloupe, and the whole of the African trade at last if it could be done, and, already, we were fast possessing ourselves of India; while, to draw off our attention from those far-off places, Conflans was meditating an invasion of England herself. The year, which was afterwards to be termed and known as the "Great '59," was indeed likely to prove a stormy one. And, amidst this storm, none would play a greater part than the Navy of England. Hawke, Dennis, Boscawen, Speke, and Keppel--the most illustrious names of the time--were all upon the seas; men were being sought for everywhere and obtained by every means possible, through crimps and impressment, by large bounty and offers of increased pay. Even now, Geoffrey Barry had returned with the Mignonne empty of all the men he had taken away with him five days before, and an Admiralty tender had brought him instructions to procure more and more. And what he was doing was being done by scores of naval captains in other parts of England.

He recognised, indeed, that the lot of the sailor's wife was a hard one in those days--a mournful, heart-breaking one. For loving women might be parted from their husbands for months and years, even supposing that the latter lived through the storm and stress of their careers; while even this was, after all, the brightest side of both the sailor's and the sailor's wife's existence. The reverse side was a violent death at any moment; or, which was perhaps almost as bad, captivity of considerable duration in a French prison, and with no knowledge of that captivity coming to those at home who were waiting for the loved one's return.

Even now, as Geoffrey sat in his own cabin facing the wife whom he worshipped so fondly and truly, he knew that ere long he would have to leave her side for months--to return, it might be, a successful conqueror; but, as was equally likely, a crippled, wounded man. Or, which also was equally probable, never to return at all.

"I have to find a hundred more men somewhere," he said to her, "to take away from here next week. And how to do it I do not know. I wonder if that man Granger, or Lewis, as he now calls himself, can be of any further assistance."

He had told Ariadne, before he went on the short cruise from which he had this morning returned, of his discovery of Granger, the man who, she would remember, had been Bufton's best man at the marriage into which he had been entrapped by Anne Pottle; and he had also told her of how this man had once been an officer in his own service, from which he had been court-martialled and removed for scandalous behaviour. And he had stated that the man had again asserted his innocence, as he had asserted it on the day of his trial, and that, at last, he was inclined to believe in his assertion.

"For," he said, "there was something in his manner, something in the ring of his voice, that had the appearance of truth. My God! if he was innocent he has been cruelly dealt with."

But, now, the very mention of Bufton's name caused Ariadne considerable agitation--agitation of so extreme a nature as to remove from her mind any feeling of interest or compassion which she might otherwise have felt in Granger's fate.

"Oh! Geoffrey," she exclaimed. "That man! That man! Your mention of him recalls to my mind what I meant to tell you. I saw him here, in this neighbourhood, but the other day. The day on which you sailed. What can he--that beau--that fop--be doing here?"

"You saw him here! In this locality!" her husband exclaimed in astonishment. Yet only in astonishment for the first moment, since he added instantly--

"Yet perhaps it is not so strange either. Those two, Lewis and he, were fast friends."

"Friends! How could they be friends, Geoffrey? Have you not said that this man, Lewis, or Granger, accused him of being the absolute scoundrel in that affair for which he was ruined and disgraced? And, also, Anne says that it was Granger who assisted her in the self-sacrificing vengeance which she exacted from him. How can they be friends?"

For a moment Geoffrey sat meditating deeply, then he replied--

"In truth, it does seem impossible they should be so. Unless--unless this man Granger also considers that he too was avenged by Anne's act--or--or--not being satisfied with that, still seeks for more."

"What further vengeance can he take on him?"

"Heaven alone knows. Yet one thing I can imagine, can guess from Granger's manner. He is a strong, resolute man, as is easy to see. If, as I do believe is the case............