CHAPTER VI.

LET US MAKE A NEW BEGINNING.

Suddenly a seeming trumpet voice broke in upon her slumbers. She started, and half rose from her chair.

“Eh! what?” she cried, crossly, “no, I am not asleep; why do you roar at me in that fashion?”

“I spoke in an ordinary tone of voice,” said Captain Fordyce, quietly.

“Did you?” she said, confusedly, “I must have been dreaming.”

“Yes, you were asleep. You sat thinking for a long time, then your eyes closed, and you dropped off.”

She glanced sharply at him. He was about to enter upon his favourite topic of conversation, namely, herself, and, anxious to get him off such dangerous ground, she pointed beyond him, and said, hurriedly, “I love the sea when it looks like that.”

The curtains were looped back, and the doorway framed for them a charming picture,--a stretch of the deepest, darkest, bluest sea imaginable, and over it a moon new and radiant, set in a sky studded with brightly twinkling stars. As Captain Fordyce turned and looked over his shoulder, a small cloud dragged its white fleece across the silver crescent.

“See what it is to have an evil eye,” he said, half aloud; “at one glance from me the scene changes.”

Nina knew little of the dark side of his nature, and, touched by the suppressed bitterness of his tone, she felt it incumbent on her to say something to comfort him.

“You have not an evil eye, ’Steban. You have a good eye, and people like you,--your sailors, too.”

He suddenly turned his gaze from the starry sky to her. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, some one,” she replied, evasively.

“That old gossip of a stewardess?”

Nina would not tell him, and he bent his head to conceal the quick, gratified flush that overspread his face.

“What time is it?” asked the girl, rising. “I must go to bed.”

“Not late,” he answered, idly, snapping the shabby silver case of his watch.

“Tell me exactly.”

“Half-past eight.”

“Oh, it must be later; I believe it is later,” and she came and looked over his shoulder. “Story-teller! it is half-past nine. Please hand me my cloak.”

He watched with the utmost interest her transformation from a damsel clad in a sober travelling suit to the gayest, most vivid of Red Riding Hoods. Then he said, with sober admiration: “You would not have that lily and rose complexion, Nina, if it were not for your early hours.”

Annoyed by the broadness of his compliment and the mention of her Christian name, that she suddenly considered a breach of compact, she flashed him an indignant, remonstrating glance, while tying the ribbons of her cape.

“May I assist you?” he asked, coming toward her.

Her mouth opened to refuse his offer, but he closed it by stooping down and lightly imprinting a kiss on her lips. Her first sentiment was one of unmitigated wonder. Then stepping back against the wall, she stared at him in anger complete and undisguised.

“I could not help it, Red Riding Hood,” he said, with a deprecatory gesture. “It is that Rubicon Meadows cloak. I am sure you won’t blame me when you look in the glass and see how fascinating you are.”

His light tone aggravated the extent of his transgression; and with cheeks on fire and in a suffocated voice she stammered: “How dare you do so? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

He had not heard her. His two hands were gently laid on her shoulders, and in a voice of ineffable tenderness he was repeating under his breath, “My little wife, my little wife.”

Nina was frightened, confused, and tried to push his hands away, but he quietly restrained her. “Darling,--since those solemn words were spoken over us yesterday,--is there a difference?”

“Yes--no,” she stammered, wildly. Then as he still caressed her, and regarded her with the new, strange expression that fascinated and yet repelled her, she exclaimed, wildly: “’Steban, don’t, oh, don’t, don’t. _Don’t_ be serious. Please let me go. I do not love you, really. Not enough to live with you all the time. Don’t say such things to me. I am in earnest. I am.”

He stared sadly at the hand she had caught and was holding in both her own, then he drew it from her and turned to the doorway.

“I don’t blame you,” she whispered against his shoulder; “but you must not speak in that way to me. You make me frantic. I suppose it was the cloak.”

“Yes, it was the cloak,” he said, quietly. “I beg your pardon, Nina. It was certainly the cloak.”

“I will take it off,” she said, hurriedly, and she threw it across her arm.

“Little goose,” and he wrapped it over her shoulders, tied it under her chin, then in his old brotherly manner drew the hood over her head and tucked in the curls that had always held out a fluttering temptation to him when his little sweetheart donned the cloak to stroll with him to the gate of the Rubicon Meadows house.

“Now,” he said, drawing aside the curtains, “let me escort you to your room.”

Nina did not know why a mist of tears suddenly floated before her eyes. Stumbling blindly out, she made a false step, and would have fallen, save for the protecting arm thrown around her. By the time they reached the deck she was speechless, and, drawing her arm through his own, Captain Fordyce walked toward the companion. There he paused in order that she might step over the high, brass-covered threshold of the door.

The careless debonair face of her handsome neighbour at dinner appeared. Seeing her, he took his cigar from his mouth, and lifted his cap as he passed. Captain Fordyce wrinkled his forehead slightly, and said in her ear, “Come for a walk. It will make you sleep better.”

Nina made a faint, convulsive effort to withdraw her arm from his. Without avail, however, for he did not perceive it, and drew her out on the deck again with a muttered, “It has got as dark as a pocket. I don’t like the way those clouds are gathering.”

There was no response to his remark, and for several minutes they paced in silence up and down the quarter-deck. “You are not talking,” he said, at last; “are you tired or in the doldrums?”

Their promenade had ceased, and they were standing by the stern rail looking down at the phosphorescent waves below. His seriousness was all gone, and in a jocular tone he ejaculated, “Doldrums it is!”

Nina was staring down at the churning, foaming mass around the angry screw. She, too, was trying to lash herself into a rage, but her effort was not as successful as that of the bit of machinery below; and it was in a weak and unstable voice that she murmured, “You have broken your promise.”

“What promise, darling?” It was very dark in the corner where they were standing, and he drew her closer and whispered the words in her ear.

“That--that you would be a stranger to me,” she whispered back.

He laughed immoderately. “You queer child!”

“You did,” she said, faintly; “yesterday on the bridge you said if I would come you would be careful. Nobody would suspect our relation to each other.”

“Nobody will know from me. I am propriety, reticence itself, when there is any one about. Only when we are alone will I give you a chance to snub me.”

“But you promised for all the time.”

“Pardon me, darling, I did not. In all the long list of things you made me swear not to do in the presence of strangers, there was not a word said about my behaviour when we were alone.”

Nina was staggered. “Didn’t I?” she gasped. “That is why you are so bad. What a simpleton I am! Let me go to bed.”

“All right, you dear, little, bad-tempered thing. My only wish is to please you,” and he released her arm and drew his cigar-case from his pocket.

A near lamp threw a lurid glare over his swarthy features, but her figure was completely in the shadow. To his surprise, she did not disappear with an abusive sentence. She still lingered, and, drawing nearer him, she stood for a minute in deepest thought. Then she took him gingerly by the coat sleeve, and whispered, in faintly audible tones, “’Steban!”

“Yes, darling,” he muttered, holding his breath as he bent down to the animated face now glowing with some sudden and exquisite emotion.

“I want to tell you what is in my mind.”

“Just what I would like to hear,” he uttered, in the same cautious way.

“You know I haven’t been brought up like other girls.”

“Just like thousands of other sweet country girls, darling.”

“You know what I mean,” she murmured, not pettishly, but with angelic forbearance. “I mean about you. Most girls aren’t tied to a man as I have been.”

“You could have broken your bonds at any time.”

“So you have told me,” she said, with the faintest flash of indignation; “but how could I? Had I no gratitude?--and I don’t like the boys at home. They are not as clever as you.”

He suppressed a delighted chuckle.

“And I expect some day that I shall get to be very fond of you--very fond, ’Steban.”

“Heaven hasten the day,” he muttered.

“But, ’Steban, if I take my own way about it the day will come quicker.”

“Then take it by all means, darling.”

“Now, I’ll tell you just what I think,” she went on, resting one hand on his breast, and staring more earnestly into his face: “I’m a free-born American, and you are one half English and the other half Spanish.”

“Bless her,” he reflected with inward perturbation, “if she only knew!”

“And I have independent ways, and your European style of treating women doesn’t suit me.”

“What style is it, darling, if I may ask?”

“A kind of lordly style. You seem to think, ‘This woman is mine. I can do what I like with her.’”

“A vile style, sweetheart,--a much-to-be-condemned style, quite unknown in America.”

“Now, as I say, if you will do as I tell you, you may make me think a great deal of you in a very short time. I want to put you back in your proper position. You see I have known you too long, and you have known me too well. You must try to be meek and humble like a gentleman just getting acquainted with me; and you must always try to please me and not order me about. Don’t say, ‘Come for a walk.’ Say, ‘Won’t you be kind enough to take a little stroll with me?’”

“Very well, darling. Won’t you be kind enough to take a little stroll with me?”

“Not this evening, Captain Fordyce,” she responded, graciously. “Perhaps to-morrow morning. Now another thing. Don’t take too much notice of me. Let me hear your praises from other people. Sometimes you brag a little about the way you run a ship.”

“I never do,” he said, hastily.

“Yes, ’Steban,” she said, very gently, but with decision. “Once or twice when the company gave you a bonus.”

He was silent, and she went on. “We will be extremely formal with each other, and, if you can bring yourself to it, I wish you would call me Miss Danvers when we are alone. I will call you Captain Fordyce, and pretend that I only got acquainted with you yesterday. I hope no one on the steamer knows that we are married. What are you shivering for?”

“A fly bit me,” he said, mendaciously.

“Then,” she continued, “insensibly and by degrees I shall become attached to you. By the time we reach England, I shall be a little bit in love with you. I hope you will send me away off to some place like London, where I can write long letters to you. You will reply to them; then, after a time, I shall be frantically in love with you just like Juliet with Romeo, and I shall not be able to live without you.”

“Glory to Shakespeare, darling!” he said, rapturously, and he embraced her.

“But we must begin at once,” she said, gravely, unwinding his arm from her waist. “We have lost too much time already. I wish you good night, Captain Fordyce.”

“I wish you good night, Miss Danvers,” and he took her in his arms.

She struggled away from him. “You deceitful creature!”

“But we were not to begin fooling till to-morrow. I distinctly understood that.”

“I am beginning to-night,” she said, gravely; and, sweeping him a curtsey, she endeavoured to walk in a stilted fashion down the deck, but was obliged to break into an undignified run because he was pursuing her.

Upon arriving in her room, she found the “fair, fat, and forty” stewardess there with an armful of clean towels.

“You’ve come to bed, miss--that is, mem. I beg pardon, I’m sure. I didn’t know this afternoon as how you was the capting’s bride. I was took all aback. I don’t know when anything has upset me so.”

In disturbed surprise Nina fastened an earnest look on a spot on the door just over the woman’s head.

“Nobody thought as how he’d marry; but he’s just the one to up and do it and say nothin’. It not bein’ nobody’s business, and nobody could tell by his actions. He’s not one to care much about women. But as I said--I beg pardon, and it’ll not occur again.”

Nina was still unresponsive, and the woman, anxious to please her, rambled on. “I guess the whole ship’s as glad as I am. The boys would like to do somethin’.”

“I forbid it,” said Nina, hurriedly.

“All right, mem. We all see you’re somethin’ young and shy. I’m sure I wish you fortune, mem. You’ve drawed a prize in the lottery.”

“Does--does everybody know?” stammered Nina.

“Yes, mem,” said the woman, cheerfully. “That is, all the ship’s company. The passengers wouldn’t occupy themselves so much with it, but they’ll soon find out. You’ll get lots of attention, mem, bein’ the capting’s bride.”

“I don’t want it,” she said, quickly. “I--I think I am going to be seasick.”

“I hope not, mem. Shall I help you undress?”

“No, thank you.”

“And you don’t like the capting’s rooms on deck,” said the woman, rolling her eyes around the tiny apartment. She was bursting with curiosity, but Nina did not see it. “Was you afraid?” she went on when no reply was vouchsafed her.

“Yes,” said Nina, miserably.

“It’s safer here in storms. Let me unfasten that collar.”

“I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t feel well. I’ve got a dreadful pain.”

“A pain, mem,--where is it?”

“In my side. Please go away.”

The stewardess’s good-humour, preserved through a long course of waiting on querulous and seasick women, was not to be upset. “Shall I call the capting, mem?”

“No,” said Nina, decidedly, and she opened the door for her. “I’ve had too much excitement to-day. I must be alone.”

“Married him for his money,” soliloquised the woman as she sidled along the passage. “Country girl--parents made her. Don’t like him--Oh, sir! beg pardon!”

She had almost collided with Mr. Delessert. He favoured her with a glimpse of his beautiful white teeth, then he said, as she was about to pass him, “Stewardess, can you tell me the name of that pretty girl who sat next the captain at dinner?”

“She’s his wife, sir.”

“His wife!” he echoed, in faint skepticism.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he tell you so?”

“No, sir; he don’t have no conversation with us. Her name ain’t on the list. Jim--he’s the head cook’s boy--he was up to the office just afore we started, mailin’ a package for me. One of the clerks says to him, ‘So Capting Sunshine’s got married.’ That’s the name they give him ’cause he’s so glum. Jim, he gasped, but the clerk showed him the sailin’ list. Last name was Mrs. Fordyce, room ninety-three. You see, sir, the company’s particular. The captings ain’t allowed to carry wives only once in so often.”

Mr. Delessert was listening politely, but with no great show of interest. However, when she finished, he drawled, in a languid way, “Do you know what Mrs. Fordyce’s name was before she was married?”

“No, sir, but I could find out.”

“Do so, I beg,” and he slipped something into her hand, and passed on.

The woman, flattered at being addressed by so handsome a young man, approvingly pressed the piece of money in her hand. “He’s as pretty as a picture. I guess the capting’s bride must remind him of some one he knows.”