Part 41 (1/2)

It was a moment later as he crossed over to the client's chair that Myra caught sight of him from the schooner's deck. The child cowered back into the shadow of the deck-house, her eyes intent again on the listener leaning out from the quay-door. He could not even see what she had seen; and if Tom was in talk with anyone inside her own ears caught no sound of it. Nevertheless her uncle's att.i.tude left no room to doubt that he was playing the spy, and trying, at least, to listen.

”What name?” asked Hester, dipping her pen.

”What name? Eh, to be sure,”--Tom Trevarthen hesitated for a moment.

”Put down Harriet Sands.” She glanced up, and he nodded. ”Yes, that'll do--Harriet Sands, of Runcorn.”

”She must have some nearer address than that. Runcorn is a large town, is it not?”

He pondered, or seemed to ponder. ”Then we'll put down 'Sailors' Return Inn, Quay Street, Runcorn.' That'll find her, as likely as anywhere.”

Hester wrote the address and glanced up inquiringly; but his eyes were fastened on the desk where her hand rested, and on the virgin sheet of notepaper placed ready for use.

”A public-house? It wanted only that!” she told herself. Aloud she said, ”'My dearest Harriet'--Is that how you begin?”

He appeared to consider this slowly. ”I suppose so,” he answered at length, with a shade of disappointment in his voice.

”And next, I suppose, you say, 'This comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present.'”

”Don't 'ee--don't 'ee, co!” he implored her almost with a cry of pain; and then, scarcely giving her time to be ashamed of her levity, he broke out, ”They tell me you can guess a man's thoughts and write 'em down a'most before he speaks. Why won't you guess 'em for me? Write to her that when we parted she was unkind; but be she unkind for ever and ever, in my thoughts she will be the best woman in the world. Tell her that whatever she may do amiss, in my eyes she'll last on as the angel G.o.d A'mighty meant her to be, and all because I love her and can't help it. Say that to her, and say that there's degrees between us never to be crossed, and I know it, and have never a hope to win level with her; but this once I will speak and be silent all the rest o' my days. Tell her that there's bars between us, but the only real one is her own self; that for nothing would she be beyond my reach but for being the woman she is.”

Hester laid down the pen and looked up at him with eyes at once dim and s.h.i.+ning.

”I cannot write this,” she said, her lips stammering on the words.

”I am not worthy--I laughed at you.”

”Tell her,” he went on, ”that I'm a common seaman, earnin' two pound a month, with no book-learning and no hopes to rise; tell her that I've an old mother to keep--that for years to come there's no chance of my marryin'; and then tell her I'm glad of it, for it keeps me free to think only of her. Write all that down, Miss Marvin.”

”I cannot,” she protested.

Very gently but firmly he laid a brown strong hand over hers as it rested on the letter. In a second he withdrew it, but in that second she felt herself mastered, commanded. She took up the pen and wrote.

”I have used your own words and none of mine,” she said, when she had finished. ”Shall I read them over to you?”

”No.” He took the letter, folded it, and placed it in the envelope she handed him. ”Why didn't you put it into better words?” he asked.

”Because I could not. Trust a woman to know what a woman likes.

If I were this--this Harriet.”--Her voice faltered and came to a halt.

”Yes?” He waited for her to continue.

”Why, then, that letter would make me a proud woman.”

”Though it came from a common sailor?”

”She would not think first of that. She would be proud to be so loved.”

”Thank you,” said he slowly, and, drawing a s.h.i.+lling from his pocket, laid it on the desk. ”Good-night and good-bye, Miss Marvin.”