Part 19 (1/2)

”If you're tired, we'll sit down,” he said.

”What time is it?” she persisted.

”Must I look?” he pleaded. They went to a lantern, and he took out his watch and sprang the case open. ”Look!” he said. ”I sacrifice myself on the altar of truth.” They bent their heads low together over the watch; it was not easy to make out the time. ”It's nine o'clock,” said Staniford.

”It can't be; it was half past when I came up,” answered Lydia.

”One hand's at twelve and the other at nine,” he said, conclusively.

”Oh, then it's a quarter to twelve.” She caught away her hand from his arm, and fled to the gangway. ”I didn't dream it was so late.”

The pleasure which her confession brought to his face faded at sight of Hicks, who was turning the last pages of a novel by the cabin lamp, as he followed Lydia in. It was the book that Staniford had given her.

”Hullo!” said Hicks, with companionable ease, looking up at her. ”Been having quite a tramp.”

She did not seem troubled by the familiarity of an address that incensed Staniford almost to the point of taking Hicks from his seat, and tossing him to the other end of the cabin. ”Oh, you've finished my book,” she said. ”You must tell me how you like it, to-morrow.”

”I doubt it,” said Hicks. ”I'm going to be seasick to-morrow. The captain's been shaking his head over the barometer and powwowing with the first officer. Something's up, and I guess it's a gale. Good-by; I shan't see you again for a week or so.”

He nodded jocosely to Lydia, and dropped his eyes again to his book, ignoring Staniford's presence. The latter stood a moment breathing quick; then he controlled himself and went into his room. His coming roused Dunham, who looked up from his pillow. ”What time is it?” he asked, stupidly.

”Twelve,” said Staniford.

”Had a pleasant walk?”

”If you still think,” said Staniford, savagely, ”that she's painfully interested in you, you can make your mind easy. She doesn't care for either of us.”

”_Either_ of us?” echoed Dunham. He roused himself.

”Oh, go to sleep; _go_ to sleep!” cried Staniford.

XV.

The foreboded storm did not come so soon as had been feared, but the beautiful weather which had lasted so long was lost in a thickened sky and a sullen sea. The weather had changed with Staniford, too. The morning after the events last celebrated, he did not respond to the glance which Lydia gave him when they met, and he hardened his heart to her surprise, and shunned being alone with her. He would not admit to himself any reason for his att.i.tude, and he could not have explained to her the mystery that at first visibly grieved her, and then seemed merely to benumb her. But the moment came when he ceased to take a certain cruel pleasure in it, and he approached her one morning on deck, where she stood holding fast to the railing where she usually sat, and said, as if there had been no interval of estrangement between them, but still coldly, ”We have had our last walk for the present, Miss Blood. I hope you will grieve a little for my loss.”

She turned on him a look that cut him to the heart, with what he fancied its reproach and its wonder. She did not reply at once, and then she did not reply to his hinted question.

”Mr. Staniford,” she began. It was the second time he had heard her p.r.o.nounce his name; he distinctly remembered the first.

”Well?” he said.

”I want to speak to you about lending that book to Mr. Hicks. I ought to have asked you first.”

”Oh, no,” said Staniford. ”It was yours.”

”You gave it to me,” she returned.

”Well, then, it was yours,--to keep, to lend, to throw away.”

”And you didn't mind my lending it to him?” she pursued. ”I--”

She stopped, and Staniford hesitated, too. Then he said, ”I didn't dislike your lending it; I disliked his having it. I will acknowledge that.”