CHAPTER XII.

AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW.

She hurried through her second toilet in order that she might go and see Miss Marsden before the breakfast-bell rang. On her way to her a few minutes later, she met Mr. Delessert, who was coming from his room. His attire was, as usual, irreproachably elegant. There was not a wrinkle in the dark blue clothes that fitted so admirably his straight, well-proportioned figure. The knot in his necktie was perfection itself; and his carefully brushed hair and smooth moustache threw her recent attempts at hair-brushing quite into the shade.

In the midst of her newly conceived horror of the man, she wondered whether he would dare to speak to her. Not he; with a complete control over his features, he absolutely looked through her blushing, indignant face to the wall behind. Judging by his expressionless countenance there was not a living creature near him.

“The coward,” she angrily reflected. “His spirit is as base as his face is fair.” Then she turned her back on his retreating form, and pursued her way to Miss Marsden’s room.

The latter young lady did not wish to go to the breakfast-table, and Nina refused to leave her. “I don’t like the panther,” she said, evasively. “His spots are beginning to show. His smooth skin is quite changed. I shall not go to the table again unless you are there to take the seat between us.”

Miss Marsden was curious; but she could obtain no further details from her with regard to the spots, beyond the bald information that they were plainly visible,--even though she sent Marie from the room under pretence of getting coffee and toast for their breakfast.

For half the morning they amused themselves in their usual way. Miss Marsden conversed in her semi-sarcastic fashion, usually on the frailties of mankind, and Nina intently listened. So absorbed with each other were they, that the first lunch-bell rang before the young lady had left her berth.

Nina attempted to assist Marie, but the operation of dressing after so many days in bed was a tedious one; and the attempt, owing to Nina’s high spirits, degenerated into a frolic.

“Marie, go get us a tray,” said Miss Marsden, at last, pressing a hand against her shaking side. “Child, I have laughed till I am weak. You are better than a chest full of medicine. After lunch, we will try to effect a combination of all these garments.”

Nina gazed at her in admiration when she was fully dressed. “You are like the tall green poplars on the meadows at home,” she said, impulsively. “I wish I were like you.”

“Nonsense, child; men like a rosebud like you far better than a poplar like me.”

Nina shook her head unbelievingly, and trotted after her to the deck. Marie established them both comfortably in steamer chairs, in the midst of shawls and rugs, then she betook herself to the society of Lady Forrest’s maid.

The day was now perfect. The sea had calmed down, save for a long languid swell, and the sky was still dazzlingly bright. Nina surveyed the unusual number of men, women, and children struggling on deck, and asked Miss Marsden whether she would like to speak to some of them.

“No,” said the young lady, lazily, “I don’t care for people whose antecedents are unknown to me; I think it is better to keep them all at a distance. Women cannot be too careful of the associates they choose when travelling alone. Who is that tall ugly man with the eye-glass staring at us?”

“Captain Eversleigh.”

“Impertinence,” and Miss Marsden lowered her parasol.

“Why, he is the nice British dog with the honest bark,” said Nina. “Captain Fordyce introduced him to me, so he is all right.”

“Good dogs sometimes have to suffer for the sins of bad ones,” said Miss Marsden, composedly. “Nevertheless, I have confidence in your husband in every way. He is said to be the best captain on this line, and he has certainly brought us admirably through this gale.”

“What do you call a good dog?” inquired Nina, with a gentle questioning air.

“A good dog is one that is clever, watchful, and that does exactly what I tell him.”

“Just what I call a good dog,” said Nina, triumphantly; “not a snapping cross creature, always heading you off, and driving you where you don’t want to go.”

“Take into account what you are, though,” said Miss Marsden, sharply. “Suppose you are a bad, wandering lammie with a proclivity for rushing into briers and thorns?”

“Wouldn’t I feel them?” asked Nina, warmly. “Wouldn’t they scratch me and make me back out?”

“But you might lose some wool.”

“Well, that wouldn’t matter to the dog.”

“It would mean loss of prestige to him.”

“Dogs ought to mind their own business,” said Nina, with such a determined set of her rosy chin that Miss Marsden bit her lip to keep from open laughter.

“If I were a lamb,” she said, presently, and with her usual calm and superior air, “a mischievously disposed lamb, and had a good dog that was interested in me, and tried to keep me away from the companionship of briers, I should endeavour to reciprocate. I should propitiate the dog lest he should get discouraged. Even good dogs will bite.”

Nina had apparently lost interest in the argument, and had gone to sleep. Her white lids were drooping wearily over her eyes. Her head was on her shoulder, and casting a sharp glance at her, Miss Marsden followed her example. When she was really asleep, soundly and unmistakably so, with her black head safely hidden from the scrutiny of passers-by under the shade of her red parasol, Nina glided from her chair and went stealthily away.

There was something on her mind that she must get rid of. Disagreeable as the duty was, she would not feel justified in escaping its performance. Up the bridge ladder and into the chart-room she hastened. There she hesitated an instant. Her eyes, dazzled by the glare of the sun, could perceive not one thing in the interior of the little cool, dark room.

Presently she made out the table and a chair before it. She stumbled into the latter, and, blindly reaching out her hand, seized a pen and piece of paper, and began to write, “Dear Captain Fordyce.”

No, that would not do. It was too stiff, and, scratching out the “Captain Fordyce,” she put “My dear Esteban.” Now--how should she begin? “Though circumstances were apparently very much against me--”

That was too stilted. She drew her pen through the carefully written words, and began again: “Will you allow me to explain to you a circumstance--”

Always that word “circumstance.” It turned up like a bad penny. “I don’t believe it was a circumstance at all,” she said, aloud, and with a vexed exclamation she dashed a heavy black line down the page, and, seizing a fresh piece of paper, wrote:

“DEAR ’STEBAN:--I wasn’t flirting with that young man. I detested him from the beginning. “NINA.”

Then folding and addressing it, she uttered a profound and relieved sigh, and prepared to leave the room.

“You might as well deliver it,” said a quiet voice behind her.

With a faint shriek she wheeled around. There, extended full length on the lounge, was the very man to whom she had been writing. He had been lying there watching her. “I am tired,” he said, slowly. “I was trying to get forty winks by way of refreshment.”

“When I came and disturbed you. Please forgive me,” and, cautiously and penitently, she began to edge her way toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, calmly. “I wish you to hand me that bit of paper from the table.”

“I would rather have you read it after I have gone,” she said, her cheeks a furious red.

“And I would rather read it now,” he returned, gently. “Bring it here, Nina.”

Reluctantly, and dragging her feet after her as slowly as if there were balls and chains attached, she went back, seized the paper by a corner, and extended it to him as if it were a noxious reptile.

He took it and her hand at the same time, obliging her to stand by him while he read it. He pored over it for some minutes; then, raising his eyes to her face, he said, “So you imagine I am vexed with you?”

Nina thought of Miss Marsden’s words, “Even good dogs will bite,” and answered meekly in the affirmative.

“Don’t you suppose I have been watching you during the last two days?”

“Have you?” she said, quickly.

He smiled. “I know every breath you draw. There is nothing of the coquette about you. You like to admire men at a distance. Near at hand they frighten you. A caress from any man but myself would send you into hysterics.”

This smacked so strongly of self-conceit that Nina was goaded into a retort. “No, it doesn’t,” she cried, hastily.

“It doesn’t,” he repeated, haughtily; “it wouldn’t, I suppose you mean.”

“I mean what I say,” she replied, stubbornly.

His face, already alarmingly pale, took on a yet more sickly hue. He put a hand to his head, and raised himself on his elbow. “Nina, has that fellow dared--”

His voice choked, he was really in a passion now.

“Yes, he has dared,” she said, slowly. There was a short pause; then, overcome by sudden fright at the expression overspreading his face, she rattled on, “But he only squeezed my hand, and I ran to my room and washed it. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

He did not speak, and she began to wonder whether excitement was a good thing for him. “How is your head now?” she asked, with concealed interest.

When he did not answer her she proceeded, “Your cheek is less swollen, now. You look quite yourself. Those bandages were not so very unbecoming; they were clean and--”

“Which hand was it?” he asked, abruptly.

She extended one trembling and seemingly agitated set of fingers. He laughed shortly and unamiably, made a slight motion toward them, then drew back.

“What did you have in mind when you said this affair was not what you meant?”

There was an ominous glitter in his eye foreshadowing approaching civilities; and Nina, with treacherous meekness, resolved to satisfy his curiosity. But she would take her own time about it, and she asked first, “Did you tell that--that creature not to speak to me?”

“Yes,” he said, shortly.

“I met him and he passed me by. I thought you had been advising him. What would you do if you built a nice, nice house, and put me in it, and sailed away over the sea, and came home one day and found a beautiful young man with blue eyes and curly hair, and not a sign of a bald spot, with--with--”

She stopped in pretended bashfulness.

“With his arm around you,” he said, coolly, “making love to you.”

“Y-yes.”

“I should say: ‘Go on, sir,--may you get more satisfaction out of that amusement than I have ever done.’”

She gave him a curious child-like glance of gratification between her half-shut eyelids. “Suppose you came home when it was a black, black night, and you found me half-way out the window with the beautiful young man holding my hand, and his tall black steed standing by ready to carry us away off from you to the end of the world?”

“I should say, ‘Good luck to you!’ I might even give you a hand up to the tall steed’s back.”

“Did you ever get with naughty men that made you drink, and drink, and drink, till you were quite drunk, ’Steban?” she asked, earnestly.

“Often,” he replied, ironically. “Who was the other man who tried to flirt with you?”

“It was a good while ago,” she said, with hanging head. “He didn’t flirt. It was only his arm.”

“Dislocated, I suppose. Well--upon what occasion?”

“Two years ago this month,” she said, gently. “I remember because the roses were in bloom, and they blushed quite, quite red as they looked in the window.”

“Modest roses! Well, to continue.”

“I will tell you some other time,” she said, precipitately.

“No, tell me now.”

“Will you let go my hand if I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

“The beautiful young man was a dentist,” she said, mischievously, “and I never saw him before, and I’ve never seen him since, and he just had to put his arm around me, ’cause how could he get at my back tooth if he didn’t? There,--are you satisfied now, monster?” and pulling her hand from him she ran to the other end of the room.

She was bubbling over with waggishness and mirthfulness; and if he stirred a finger she would run away from him. “I knew that all the time,” he said, calmly. “You can’t come over me with your tricks. Wait a minute, though. I want to give you something to read.”

She prudently retreated to the steps when he approached the bookcase. “I’m not very fond of reading on this old _Merrimac_, Captain Fordyce. The screw jars my brain.”

“Just as well,--you have read too much trash already,” he retorted; “but I want you to go through this, every word of it. Will you promise me?”

“I suppose so. Put the book on that upper step.”

“It is a French novel,” he went on; “but it is a good one. Pierre Loti’s ‘_Pêcheur d’Islande_.’”

“Is it in French?”

“Yes.”

She made a wry face at him.

“You have been taught that language, which is more than I have,” he said; “I read it in English. Come, run over a few pages of the French to me.”

She shook her head and he slapped the book down on the table. “I don’t think much of your gratitude. Here am I half ill, or ‘sick,’ as you say in Rubicon Meadows, and you won’t do as much for me as you do for strangers.”

“What do I do for strangers?” she asked, falteringly, and stretching her neck around the door-post.

“You drove Miss Marsden’s headache away the other day. She told me.”

“Does your head ache? Could I do it any good?” she asked, wistfully, reëntering the room.

“No, no, birdie,” he replied, touched by her suddenly altered expression. “I have no headache; run away. I have made a vow that for the rest of the trip I shall see as little of you as possible. You need not look startled. You are not to blame, except for being the most prodigious temptation that ever flesh and blood was subjected to. I can’t endure you at all. I must keep away. I see now that I did wrong to bring you on this trip. It”--with a frown and a slight blush--“has led to disagreeable complications. I find that fellow Delessert has started some smoking-room gossip to the effect that I am persecuting you with unwelcome attentions. What? You are not crying? Upon my word, you laugh and cry as easily as you breathe.”

She was not crying, although she was cowering over the table with her head on her arms. At his question she straightened herself and showed him a pitiful, quivering face. “I wish I could comfort you, ’Steban. I wish I could stay with you, but--but I can’t.”

She was crying now--in regular torrents--and he muttered to himself, and stared helplessly at her. “P-please don’t touch me,” she gasped; “I will get over it in a minute. I am very sorry to disturb you, I--I--”

She wanted him to stroke her brown head, to show that he forgave her; but he restrained himself and presently she sprang from her seat and took the book from him. He stood holding back the curtains for her, as politely and formally as if she were a duchess, and she tottered from the room as unsteadily as the characterless Adonis had entered his the evening before. After she had passed her changed and impassive husband she flashed him a grieving glance, in which resentment, approval, and bewilderment were so strangely mixed that he involuntarily muttered a compassionate, “Poor little thing!” as he went back to his sofa.

Being anxious to avoid questions, Nina ran to her room, hastily washed her face, and returned to Miss Marsden, whom she found wide-awake and watchful.

“Well,” she said, as Nina slipped back into the seat beside her, “did the dog receive the lamb’s overtures kindly?”

“A good dog is always reasonable,” said Nina, soberly.

“Miss Marsden,” she said, after a time, “you think I’ve been quarrelling with my husband, don’t you?”

“Not quarrelling,--having a little tiff,” said the young lady.

“Do you think husbands usually stand by their wives?”

“You know they don’t, Miss Innocence. The book of life has been open before you, and you have read it, young as you are. Likewise endless novels, I fancy, like all girls.”

“But if a woman is a man’s wife, that makes him feel--well, I don’t know how,” said Nina, with a puzzled air.

“A man will stand by his wife because he is a born egotist. She belongs to him--is a part of him. He puts up with her faults because she has the honour of bearing his name.”

“My husband loves me because I am myself,” whispered the girl against the book that she put up to her cheek, “not because I am his wife. He is a very good man.”