"I went through something of the sort last year on board the
Florida," he added. "People insist on regarding it as marvelous that
a man should strive to do his simple duty."
Suddenly it occurred to him that the topic was unpleasantly analogous
to the little French count's cowardly escapades. If one talks of duty,
and recognizes its prior claim, what of the man who, in his selfish
frenzy, is prepared to leave others to their fate, whether on a wrecked
ship or a barren island? So he turned to Elsie again.
"By the way, you have never seen those letters," he said. "I was
hunting for them when the alarm was raised last night. Shall I bring
them now?"
Elsie gave him a glance of subtle meaning. Her eyes telegraphed "What
matters it whether I see them to-day or in half a century? Do I not
trust you?" But she only murmured: "Not now, I am telling Mrs. Somerville and Isobel all the news."
He squeezed her shoulder. Any excuse would serve for those slight
pettings which mean so much during early days in wonderland.
"Then I shall resume my rounds. I expect to be received reproachfully
by Walker. He made great progress yesterday. Let me whisper a secret.
Then you may pass it on, in strictest confidence."
He placed his lips close to her ear.
"I am dreadfully in love with you this morning," he breathed.
"That is no secret," she retorted.
"It is. You and I together must daily find new paths in Eden. But my
less poetic tidings should be welcome, also. Walker says he hopes to
get steam up to-morrow."
"Well, tell us quickly," cried Isobel, with a show of intense interest,
when Courtenay had gone. She had decided on a line of conduct, and
meant to follow it carefully. The more sympathy she extended towards
her friend's love idyll, the less likelihood was there of disagreeable
developments in other respects. That trick of calculating gush was
Isobel's chief failing. She was so wrapped up in self that her own
interests governed every thought. Courtenay's reference to letters
sent a wave of alarm pulsing through each nerve. Though his manner
betokened that the affair was something which concerned Elsie alone,
she was on fire until she learnt that his "secret" alluded to the
restored vitality of the ship.
For once, her expressions of gratitude were heartfelt. Mrs. Somerville
even wept for joy. This poor woman after living twenty-five years in
the oasis of a mission-house, was a strange subject for storm-tossed
wandering and fights with cannibals. Seldom has fate conspired with
the fickle sea to sport with such helpless human flotsam, save,
perhaps, in that crowning caprice of the waves which once cast ashore a
live baby in a cradle.