Part 35 (1/2)

”Friday,” said Staniford, rummaging his portfolio.

”Have you been in Venice?”

”Look here, Dunham! If you begin in that way, I can't talk to you.

It shows that you're still out of your head. How could I have been in Venice?”

”But Miss Blood; the Aroostook--”

”Miss Blood went to Venice with her uncle last Sat.u.r.day. The Aroostook is here in Trieste. The captain has just gone away. He's stood watch and watch with me, while you were off on business.”

”But didn't you go to Venice on Monday?”

”Well, hardly,” answered Staniford.

”No, you stayed with me,--I see,” said Dunham.

”Of course, I wrote to her at once,” said Staniford, huskily, ”and explained the matter as well as I could without making an ado about it.

But now you stop, Dunham. If you excite yourself, there'll be the deuce to pay again.”

”I'm not excited,” said Dunham, ”but I can't help thinking how disappointed--But of course you've heard from her?”

”Well, there's hardly time, yet,” said Staniford, evasively.

”Why, yes, there is. Perhaps your letter miscarried.”

”Don't!” cried Staniford, in a hollow under-voice, which he broke through to add, ”Go to sleep, now, Dunham, or keep quiet, somehow.”

Dunham was silent for a while, and Staniford continued his search, which he ended by taking the portfolio by one corner, and shaking its contents out on the table. ”I don't seem to find it; but I've put it away somewhere. I'll get it.” He went to another coat, that hung on the back of a chair, and fumbled in its pockets. ”h.e.l.lo! Here are those letters they brought me from the post-office Sat.u.r.day night,--Murray's, and Stanton's, and that bore Farrington's. I forgot all about them.” He ran the unopened letters over in his hand. ”Ah, here's my familiar scrawl--”

He stopped suddenly, and walked away to the window, where he stood with his back to Dunham.

”Staniford! What is it?”

”It's--it's my letter to _her_” said Staniford, without looking round.

”Your letter to Miss Blood--not gone?” Staniford, with his face still from him, silently nodded. ”Oh!” moaned Dunham, in self-forgetful compa.s.sion. ”How could it have happened?”

”I see perfectly well,” said the other, quietly, but he looked round at Dunham with a face that was haggard. ”I sent it out to be posted by the _portier_, and he got it mixed up with these letters for me, and brought it back.”

The young men were both silent, but the tears stood in Dunham's eyes.

”If it hadn't been for me, it wouldn't have happened,” he said.

”No,” gently retorted Staniford, ”if it hadn't been for _me_, it wouldn't have happened. I made you come from Messina with me, when you wanted to go on to Naples with those people; if I'd had any sense, I should have spoken fully to her before we parted; and it was I who sent you to see if she were on the steamer, when you fell and hurt yourself.

I know who's to blame, Dunham. What day did I tell you this was?”

”Friday.”

”A week! And I told her to expect me Monday afternoon. A week without a word or a sign of any kind! Well, I might as well take pa.s.sage in the Aroostook, and go back to Boston again.”

”Why, no!” cried Dunham, ”you must take the first train to Venice. Don't lose an instant. You can explain everything as soon as you see her.”