they're by way of being trackless. Anyhow it would mean walking for
hours; and it is less exhausting for you to sit here. The _Petrel_
must turn up sooner or later."
Remembering her talk with Tinker in the morning, Dorothy believed that
it would be later--much later; but as she could hardly unfold her
reasons for the belief, she said nothing.
For a long time they were silent. Listening to the faint thunder of
the Bay behind them, the lapping of the water at their feet, and the
stirring of the pines, she filled slowly with a sense of their
aloofness from the world, and a perfect content in being out of it
alone with him. For his part, Sir Tancred was ill at ease; he foresaw
that unless the _Petrel_ came soon a lot of annoying gossip might
spring from their accident, and he was distressed on her account. On
the other hand, he, too, found himself enjoying being alone with her
out of the world.
At last she said softly, "I feel as though we were on a desolate,
far-away island."
"I wish to goodness we were!" he cried, with a fervour which thrilled
her.
"You'd find it very dull," she said, with a faint, uncertain laugh.
"Not with you," he said quietly.
She was silent; and he took another turn up and down before he said,
half to himself, "It would simplify things so, we should be equal."
"Equal?"
"Oh, not from the personal point of view!" he said quickly. "You'd
always be worth a hundred of me. But on a desolate island money
wouldn't count."
"Oh, money!" she said with a faint disdain. "What has money to do with
anything?"
He sighed, and continued his pacing.
"Money is always an obstacle," he said presently. "Either there is too
little of it, and that's an obstacle; or there is too much of it, and
that's an obstacle."
"I don't think papa would agree with you about too much money," said
Dorothy.
"I'm wondering what he will say if we don't turn up before morning,"
said Sir Tancred gloomily.
"I suppose he'll say that it was an unfortunate accident."
"Yes; but then, I ought to have protected you against unfortunate
accidents. I'm afraid there'll be a lot of gossip."
"Well, it wasn't your fault," said Dorothy carelessly.
Sir Tancred grew more and more unhappy. His watch told him that it was
nearly ten o'clock, and there was no sign of the _Petrel_. Moreover,
the sense of their aloofness from the world had taken a firmer hold on
him, and it drew him and Dorothy nearer and nearer together. The
feeling that the world, of which her money had grown the symbol, would
again come between them, grew more and more intolerable.
At last it grew too strong for him, and he stopped before her and said,
in a voice he could not keep firm, "About that wasted life of mine,
Dorothy. Do you think you could do anything with it?"
Dorothy gasped. "I might--I might try," she said in a whisper.
He stooped down, picked her up, and kissed her. Then, with a profound
sigh of relief and content, he sat down beside her, drew her to him,
and leaned back against the tree; she was crying softly.
They were far away from the world, and for them time stood still. They
did not see the approaching lights of the _Petrel_, or hear the throb
of her screw; only the roaring hail of Alphonse awoke them from their
dream.
When they came on board, the observant Tinker saw the flush which came
and went in Dorothy's cheeks, and the new light in his father's eyes;
he saw her genuine surprise at finding herself so hungry. He observed
that his father was quite careless about the cause of the _Petrel's_
long absence, and his angel face was wreathed with the contented smile
of the truly meritorious.
After supper his father went on deck to watch the steering of the
yacht; Elsie fell asleep; and Dorothy sat, lost in a dream.
"Is it all right?" said Tinker softly.
"I don't know what you mean. You're a horrid scheming little boy,"
said Dorothy with shameless ingratitude.
"Yes; but _is_ it all right?" said Tinker.
"I shan't let you scheme like that when--when I'm your mother," said
Dorothy with virtuous severity, and she blushed.
"So it _is_ all right," said Tinker, and he chuckled.
THE END