He could see that she avoided being alone with him the next day, but he
took it for a sign of relenting, perhaps helpless relenting, that she
was in her usual place on deck in the evening. He went to her, and, “I
see that you haven't forgiven me,” he said.
“Forgiven you?” she echoed.
“Yes,” he said, “for letting that lady ask me to drive with her.”
“I never said--” she began.
“Oh, no! But I knew it, all the same. It was not such a very wicked
thing, as those things go. But I liked your not liking it. Will you let
me say something to you?”
“Yes,” she answered, rather breathlessly.
“You must think it's rather an odd thing to say, as I ask leave. It is;
and I hardly know how to say it. I want to tell you that I've made bold
to depend a great deal upon your good opinion for my peace of mind, of
late, and that I can't well do without it now.”
She stole the quickest of her bird-like glances at him, but did not
speak; and though she seemed, to his anxious fancy, poising for flight,
she remained, and merely looked away, like the bird that will not or
cannot fly.
“You don't resent my making you my outer conscience, do you, and my
knowing that you're not quite pleased with me?”
She looked down and away with one of those turns of the head, so
precious when one who beholds them is young, and caught at the fringe of
her shawl. “I have no right,” she began.
“Oh, I give you the right!” he cried, with passionate urgence. “You have
the right. Judge me!” She only looked more grave, and he hurried on.
“It was no great harm of her to ask me; that's common enough; but it was
harm of me to go if I didn't quite respect her,--if I thought her silly,
and was willing to be amused with her. One hasn't any right to do that.
I saw this when I saw you.” She still hung her head, and looked away. “I
want you to tell me something,” he pursued. “Do you remember once--the
second time we talked together--that you said Dunham was in earnest, and
you wouldn't answer when I asked you about myself? Do you remember?”
“Yes,” said the girl.
“I didn't care, then. I care very much now. You don't think me--you
think I can be in earnest when I will, don't you? And that I can
regret--that I really wish--” He took the hand that played with the
shawl-fringe, but she softly drew it away.
“Ah, I see!” he said. “You can't believe in me. You don't believe that I
can be a good man--like Dunham!”
She answered in the same breathless murmur, “I think you are good.” Her
averted face drooped lower.
“I will tell you all about it, some day!” he cried, with joyful
vehemence. “Will you let me?”
“Yes,” she answered, with the swift expulsion of breath that sometimes
comes with tears. She rose quickly and turned away. He did not try to
keep her from leaving him. His heart beat tumultuously; his brain seemed
in a whirl. It all meant nothing, or it meant everything.
“What is the matter with Miss Blood?” asked Dunham, who joined him at
this moment. “I just spoke to her at the foot of the gangway stairs, and
she wouldn't answer me.”
“Oh, I don't know about Miss Blood--I don't know what's the matter,”
said Staniford. “Look here, Dunham; I want to talk with you--I want to
tell you something--I want you to advise me--I--There's only one thing
that can explain it, that can excuse it. There's only one thing that can
justify all that I've done and said, and that can not only justify it,
but can make it sacredly and eternally right,--right for her and right
for me. Yes, it's reason for all, and for a thousand times more. It
makes it fair for me to have let her see that I thought her beautiful
and charming, that I delighted to be with her, that I--Dunham,” cried
Staniford, “I'm in love!”
Dunham started at the burst in which these ravings ended. “Staniford,”
he faltered, with grave regret, “I _hope_ not!”
“You hope not? You--you--What do you mean? How else can I free myself
from the self-reproach of having trifled with her, of--”
Dunham shook his head compassionately. “You can't do it that way. Your
only safety is to fight it to the death,--to run from it.”
“But if I don't _choose_ to fight it?” shouted Staniford,--“if I don't
_choose_ to run from it? If I--”
“For Heaven's sake, hush! The whole ship will hear you, and you oughtn't
to breathe it in the desert. I saw how it was going! I dreaded it; I
knew it; and I longed to speak. I'm to blame for not speaking!”
“I should like to know what would have authorized you to speak?”
demanded Staniford, haughtily.
“Only my regard for you; only what urges me to speak now! You
_must_ fight it, Staniford, whether you choose or not. Think of
yourself,--think of her! Think--you have always been my ideal of honor
and truth and loyalty--think of her husband--”
“Her husband!” gasped Staniford. “Whose husband? What the deuce--_who_
the deuce--are you talking about, Dunham?”
“Mrs. Rivers.”
“Mrs. Rivers? That flimsy, feather-headed, empty-hearted--eyes-maker!
That frivolous, ridiculous--Pah! And did you think that I was talking of
_her_? Did you think I was in love with _her_?”
“Why,” stammered Dunham, “I supposed--I thought--At Messina, you know--”
“Oh!” Staniford walked the deck's length away. “Well, Dunham,” he said,
as he came back, “you've spoilt a pretty scene with your rot about
Mrs. Rivers. I was going to be romantic! But perhaps I'd better say in
ordinary newspaper English that I've just found out that I'm in love
with Miss Blood.”
“With _her_!” cried Dunham, springing at his hand.
“Oh, come now! Don't _you_ be romantic, after knocking _my_ chance.”
“Why, but Staniford!” said Dunham, wringing his hand with a lover's joy
in another's love and his relief that it was not Mrs. Rivers. “I never
should have dreamt of such a thing!”
“Why?” asked Staniford, shortly.
“Oh, the way you talked at first, you know, and--”
“I suppose even people who get married have something to take back about
each other,” said Staniford, rather sheepishly. “However,” he added,
with an impulse of frankness, “I don't know that I should have dreamt of
it myself, and I don't blame you. But it's a fact, nevertheless.”
“Why, of course. It's splendid! Certainly. It's magnificent!” There was
undoubtedly a qualification, a reservation, in Dunham's tone. He
might have thought it right to bring the inequalities of the affair to
Staniford's mind. With all his effusive kindliness of heart and manner,
he had a keen sense of social fitness, a nice feeling for convention.
But a man does not easily suggest to another that the girl with whom he
has just declared himself in love is his inferior. What Dunham finally
did say was: “It jumps with all your ideas--all your old talk about not
caring to marry a society girl--”
“Society might be very glad of such a girl!” said Staniford, stiffly.
“Yes, yes, certainly; but I mean--”
“Oh, I know what you mean. It's all right,” said Staniford. “But
it isn't a question of marrying yet. I can't be sure she understood
me,--I've been so long understanding myself. And yet, she must, she
must! She must believe it by this time, or else that I'm the most
infamous scoundrel alive. When I think how I have sought her out, and
followed her up, and asked her judgment, and hung upon her words, I feel
that I oughtn't to lose a moment in being explicit. I don't care for
myself; she can take me or leave me, as she likes; but if she doesn't
understand, she mustn't be left in suspense as to my meaning.” He seemed
to be speaking to Dunham, but he was really thinking aloud, and Dunham
waited for some sort of question before he spoke. “But it's a great
satisfaction to have had it out with myself. I haven't got to pretend
any more that I hang about her, and look at her, and go mooning round
after her, for this no-reason and that; I've got the best reason in the
world for playing the fool,--I'm in love!” He drew a long, deep
breath. “It simplifies matters immensely to have reached the point
of acknowledging that. Why, Dunham, those four days at Messina almost
killed me! They settled it. When that woman was in full fascination
it made me gasp. I choked for a breath of fresh air; for a taste of
spring-water; for--Lurella!” It was a long time since Staniford had used
this name, and the sound of it made him laugh. “It's droll--but I always
think of her as Lurella; I wish it _was_ her name! Why, it was like
heaven to see her face when I got back to the ship. After we met her
that day at Messina, Mrs. Rivers tried her best to get out of me who
it was, and where I met her. But I flatter myself that I was equal to
_that_ emergency.”
Dunham said nothing, at once. Then, “Staniford,” he faltered, “she got
it out of me.”
“Did you tell her who Lu--who Miss Blood was?”
“Yes.”
“And how I happened to be acquainted with her?”
“Yes.”
“And that we were going on to Trieste with her?”
“She had it out of me before I knew,” said Dunham. “I didn't realize
what she was after; and I didn't realize how peculiar the situation
might seem--”
“I see nothing peculiar in the situation,” interrupted Staniford,
haughtily. Then he laughed consciously. “Or, yes, I do; of course I do!
You must know _her_ to appreciate it, though.” He mused a while before
he added: “No wonder Mrs. Rivers was determined to come aboard! I wish
we had let her,--confound her! She'll think I was ashamed of it. There's
nothing to be ashamed of! By Heaven, I should like to hear any one--”
Staniford broke off, and laughed, and then bit his lip, smiling.
Suddenly he burst out again, frowning: “I won't view it in that light. I
refuse to consider it from that point of view. As far as I'm concerned,
it's as regular as anything else in life. It's the same to me as if she
were in her own house, and I had come there to tell her that she has my
future in her hand. She's such a lady by instinct that she's made it all
a triumph, and I thank God that I haven't done or said anything to mar
it. Even that beast of a Hicks didn't; it's no merit. I've made love to
her,--I own it; of course I have, because I was in love with her; and my
fault has been that I haven't made love to her openly, but have gone
on fancying that I was studying her character, or some rubbish of that
sort. But the fault is easily repaired.” He turned about, as if he were
going to look for Lydia at once, and ask her to be his wife. But he
halted abruptly, and sat down. “No; that won't do,” he said. “That won't
do at all.” He remained thinking, and Dunham, unwilling to interrupt his
reverie, moved a few paces off. “Dunham, don't go. I want your advice.
Perhaps I don't see it in the right light.”
“How is it you see it, my dear fellow?” asked Dunham.
“I don't know whether I've a right to be explicit with her, here. It
seems like taking an advantage. In a few days she will be with her
friends--”
“You must wait,” said Dunham, decisively. “You can't speak to her before
she is in their care; it wouldn't be the thing. You're quite right about
that.”
“No, it wouldn't be the thing,” groaned Staniford. “But how is it all to
go on till then?” he demanded desperately.
“Why, just as it has before,” answered Dunham, with easy confidence.
“But is that fair to her?”
“Why not? You mean to say to her at the right time all that a man can.
Till that time comes I haven't the least doubt she understands you.”
“Do you think so?” asked Staniford, simply. He had suddenly grown very
subject and meek to Dunham.
“Yes,” said the other, with the superiority of a betrothed lover; “women
are very quick about those things.”
“I suppose you're right,” sighed Staniford, with nothing of his wonted
arrogant pretension in regard to women's moods and minds, “I suppose
you're right. And you would go on just as before?”
“I would, indeed. How could you change without making her unhappy--if
she's interested in you?”
“That's true. I could imagine worse things than going on just as before.
I suppose,” he added, “that something more explicit has its charms;
but a mutual understanding is very pleasant,--if it _is_ a mutual
understanding.” He looked inquiringly at Dunham.
“Why, as to that, of course I don't know. You ought to be the best judge
of that. But I don't believe your impressions would deceive you.”
“Yours did, once,” suggested Staniford, in suspense.
“Yes; but I was not in love with her,” explained Dunham.
“Of course,” said Staniford, with a breath of relief. “And you
think--Well, I must wait!” he concluded, grimly. “But don't--don't
mention this matter, Dunham, unless I do. Don't keep an eye on me,
old fellow. Or, yes, you must! You can't help it. I want to tell
you, Dunham, what makes me think she may be a not wholly uninterested
spectator of my--sentiments.” He made full statement of words and looks
and tones. Dunham listened with the patience which one lover has with
another.