"My dear Miss Denison!" I begin; for she has always been severe upon our bluff old man, and it is not the spirit of contrariety alone which makes me invariably take his part. Coarse he may be, and not one whom the owners would have chosen to command the Lady Jermyn; a good seaman none the less, who brought us round the Horn in foul weather without losing stitch or stick. I think of the ruddy ruffian in his dripping oilskins, on deck day and night for our sakes, and once more I must needs take his part; but Miss Denison stops me before I can get out another word.
"I am not dear, and I'm not yours," she cries. "I'm only a school-girl - you have all but told me so before to-day! If I were a man - if I were you - I should tell Captain Harris what I thought of him!""Why? What has he done now?"
"Now? You know how rude he was to poor Mr. Ready this very afternoon!"It was true. He had been very rude indeed. But Ready also had been at fault. It may be that I was always inclined to take an opposite view, but I felt bound to point this out, and at any cost.
"You mean when Ready asked him if we were out of our course? Imust say I thought it was a silly question to put. It was the same the other evening about the cargo. If the skipper says we're in ballast why not believe him? Why repeat steerage gossip, about mysterious cargoes, at the cuddy table? Captains are always touchy about that sort of thing. I wasn't surprised at his letting out."My poor love stares at me in the starlight. Her great eyes flash their scorn. Then she gives a little smile - and then a little nod - more scornful than all the rest.
"You never are surprised, are you, Mr. Cole?" says she. "You were not surprised when the wretch used horrible language in front of me!
You were not surprised when it was a - dying man - whom he abused!"I try to soothe her. I agree heartily with her disgust at the epithets employed in her hearing, and towards an invalid, by the irate skipper. But I ask her to make allowances for a rough, uneducated man, rather clumsily touched upon his tender spot. Ishall conciliate her presently; the divine pout (so childish it was!)is fading from her lips; the starlight is on the tulle and lace and roses of her pretty evening dress, with its festooned skirts and obsolete flounces; and I am watching her, ay, and worshipping her, though I do not know it yet. And as we stand there comes another snatch from the forecastle: -"What will you do, love, when I am going.
With white sail flowing, The seas beyond?
What will you do, love - "
"They may make the most of that song," says Miss Denison grimly;"it's the last they'll have from me. Get up as many more concerts as you like. I won't sing at another unless it's in the fo'c'sle.
I'll sing to the men, but not to Captain Harris. He didn't put in an appearance tonight. He shall not have another chance of insulting me."Was it her vanity that was wounded after all? "You forget," said I, "that you would not answer when he addressed you at dinner.""I should think I wouldn't, after the way he spoke to Mr. Ready; and he too agitated to come to table, poor fellow!""Still, the captain felt the open slight."
"Then he shouldn't have used such language in front of me.""Your father felt it, too, Miss Denison."
I hear nothing plainer than her low but quick reply:
"Mr. Cole, my father has been dead many; many years; he died before I can remember. That man only married my poor mother. He sympathizes with Captain Harris - against me; no father would do that. Look at them together now! And you take his side, too; oh!
I have no patience with any of you - except poor Mr. Ready in his berth.""But you are not going."
"Indeed I am. I am tired of you all."
And she was gone with angry tears for which I blamed myself as Ifell to pacing the weather side of the poop - and so often afterwards! So often, and with such unavailing bittertness !
Senhor Santos and the captain were in conversation by the weather rail. I fancied poor old Harris eyed me with suspicion, and Iwished he had better cause. The Portuguese, however, saluted me with his customary courtesy, and I thought there was a grave twinkle in his steady eye.
"Are you in deesgrace also, friend Cole?" he inquired in his all but perfect English.
"More or less," said I ruefully.
He gave the shrug of his country - that delicate gesture which is done almost entirely with the back - a subtlety beyond the power of British shoulders.
"The senhora is both weelful and pivish," said he, mixing the two vowels which (with the aspirate) were his only trouble with our tongue. "It is great grif to me to see her growing so unlike her sainted mother!"He sighed, and I saw his delicate fingers forsake the cigarette they were rolling to make the sacred sign upon his breast. He was always smoking one cigarette and making another; as he lit the new one the glow fell upon a strange pin that he wore, a pin with a tiny crucifix inlaid in mosaic. So the religious cast of Senhor Santos was brought twice home to me in the same moment, though, to be sure, I had often been struck by it before. And it depressed me to think that so sweet a child as Eva Denison should have spoken harshly of so good a man as her step-father, simply because he had breadth enough to sympathize with a coarse old salt like Captain Harris.
I turned in, however, and I cannot say the matter kept me awake in the separate state-room which was one luxury of our empty saloon.
Alas? I was a heavy sleeper then.
