"My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. "Why
should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . "
She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The
world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of
what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I
don't know why she should have put her trust in anybody's promises.
But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she
could depend on my absolute silence.
"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony," I added with
conviction--as a further guarantee.
She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in
it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still
looking at each other she declared:
"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am
here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!"
"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze
became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it
was not of death that you were afraid."
She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on:
"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to
blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder
now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which
. . . "
She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with
feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment
the very picture of remorse and shame.
"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And surely
you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter, I
understand."
She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was
a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white
hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers,
talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . !
She remained silent for a while.
"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked.
She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her
face.
"I don't know," she murmured.
I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All
this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And
she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her
belief in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn.
It was almost in order to comfort my own depression that I remarked
cheerfully: "Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see
you."