No one said anything more of the musicales, and the afternoon and evening wore away without general talk. Each seemed willing to keep apart from the rest. Dunham suffered Lydia to come on deck alone after tea, and Staniford found her there, in her usual place, when he went up some time later. He approached her at once, and said, smiling down into her face, to which the moonlight gave a pale mystery, “Miss Blood, did you think I was very wicked to-day at dinner?”
Lydia looked away, and waited a moment before she spoke. “I don't know,” she said. Then, impulsively, “Did you?” she asked.
“No, honestly, I don't think I was,” answered Staniford. “But I seemed to leave that impression on the company. I felt a little nasty, that was all; and I tried to hurt Mr. Dunham's feelings. But I shall make it right with him before I sleep; he knows that. He's used to having me repent at leisure. Do you ever walk Sunday night?”
“Yes, sometimes,” said Lydia interrogatively.
“I'm glad of that. Then I shall not offend against your scruples if I ask you to join me in a little ramble, and you will refuse from purely personal considerations. Will you walk with me?”
“Yes.” Lydia rose.
“And will you take my arm?” asked Staniford, a little surprised at her readiness.
“Thank you.”
She put her hand upon his arm, confidently enough, and they began to walk up and down the stretch of open deck together.
“Well,” said Staniford, “did Mr. Dunham convince you all?”
“I think he talks beautifully about it,” replied Lydia, with quaint stiffness.
“I am glad you see what a very good fellow he is. I have a real affection for Dunham.”
“Oh, yes, he's good. At first it surprised me. I mean—”
“No, no,” Staniford quickly interrupted, “why did it surprise you to find Dunham good?”
“I don't know. You don't expect a person to be serious who is so—so—”
“Handsome?”
“No,—so—I don't know just how to say it: fashionable.”
Staniford laughed. “Why, Miss Blood, you're fashionably dressed yourself, not to go any farther, and you're serious.”
“It's different with a man,” the girl explained.
“Well, then, how about me?” asked Staniford. “Am I too well dressed to be expected to be serious?”
“Mr. Dunham always seems in earnest,” Lydia answered, evasively.
“And you think one can't be in earnest without being serious?” Lydia suffered one of those silences to ensue in which Staniford had already found himself helpless. He knew that he should be forced to break it: and he said, with a little spiteful mocking, “I suppose the young men of South Bradfield are both serious and earnest.”
“How?” asked Lydia.
“The young men of South Bradfield.”
“I told you that there were none. They all go away.”
“Well, then, the young men of Springfield, of Keene, of Greenfield.”
“I can't tell. I am not acquainted there.”
Staniford had begun to have a disagreeable suspicion that her ready consent to walk up and down with a young man in the moonlight might have come from a habit of the kind. But it appeared that her fearlessness was like that of wild birds in those desert islands where man has never come. The discovery gave him pleasure out of proportion to its importance, and he paced back and forth in a silence that no longer chafed. Lydia walked very well, and kept his step with rhythmic unison, as if they were walking to music together. “That's the time in her pulses,” he thought, and then he said, “Then you don't have a great deal of social excitement, I suppose,—dancing, and that kind of thing? Though perhaps you don't approve of dancing?”
“Oh, yes, I like it. Sometimes the summer boarders get up little dances at the hotel.”
“Oh, the summer boarders!” Staniford had overlooked them. “The young men get them up, and invite the ladies?” he pursued.
“There are no young men, generally, among the summer boarders. The ladies dance together. Most of the gentlemen are old, or else invalids.”
“Oh!” said Staniford.
“At the Mill Village, where I've taught two winters, they have dances sometimes,—the mill hands do.”
“And do you go?”
“No. They are nearly all French Canadians and Irish people.”
“Then you like dancing because there are no gentlemen to dance with?”
“There are gentlemen at the picnics.”
“The picnics?”
“The teachers' picnics. They have them every summer, in a grove by the pond.”
There was, then, a high-browed, dyspeptic high-school principal, and the desert-island theory was probably all wrong. It vexed Staniford, when he had so nearly got the compass of her social life, to find this unexplored corner in it.
“And I suppose you are leaving very agreeable friends among the teachers?”
“Some of them are pleasant. But I don't know them very well. I've only been to one of the picnics.”
Staniford drew a long, silent breath. After all, he knew everything. He mechanically dropped a little the arm on which her hand rested, that it might slip farther within. Her timid remoteness had its charm, and he fell to thinking, with amusement, how she who was so subordinate to him was, in the dimly known sphere in which he had been groping to find her, probably a person of authority and consequence. It satisfied a certain domineering quality in him to have reduced her to this humble attitude, while it increased the protecting tenderness he was beginning to have for her. His mind went off further upon this matter of one's different attitudes toward different persons; he thought of men, and women too, before whom he should instantly feel like a boy, if he could be confronted with them, even in his present lordliness of mood. In a fashion of his when he convicted himself of anything, he laughed aloud. Lydia shrank a little from him, in question. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was laughing at something I happened to think of. Do you ever find yourself struggling very hard to be what you think people think you are?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Lydia. “But I thought no one else did.”
“Everybody does the thing that we think no one else does,” said Staniford, sententiously.
“I don't know whether I quite like it,” said Lydia. “It seems like hypocrisy. It used to worry me. Sometimes I wondered if I had any real self. I seemed to be just what people made me, and a different person to each.”
“I'm glad to hear it, Miss Blood. We are companions in hypocrisy. As we are such nonentities we shall not affect each other at all.” Lydia laughed. “Don't you think so? What are you laughing at? I told you what I was laughing at!”
“But I didn't ask you.”
“You wished to know.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then you ought to tell me what I wish to know.”
“It's nothing,” said Lydia. “I thought you were mistaken in what you said.”
“Oh! Then you believe that there's enough of you to affect me?”
“No.”
“The other way, then?”
She did not answer.
“I'm delighted!” exclaimed Staniford. “I hope I don't exert an uncomfortable influence. I should be very unhappy to think so.” Lydia stooped side-wise, away from him, to get a fresh hold of her skirt, which she was carrying in her right hand, and she hung a little more heavily upon his arm. “I hope I make you think better of yourself,—very self-satisfied, very conceited even.”
“No,” said Lydia.
“You pique my curiosity beyond endurance. Tell me how I make you feel.”
She looked quickly round at him, as if to see whether he was in earnest. “Why, it's nothing,” she said. “You made me feel as if you were laughing at everybody.”
It flatters a man to be accused of sarcasm by the other sex, and Staniford was not superior to the soft pleasure of the reproach. “Do you think I make other people feel so, too?”
“Mr. Dunham said—”
“Oh! Mr. Dunham has been talking me over with you, has he? What did he tell you of me? There is nobody like a true friend for dealing an underhand blow at one's reputation. Wait till you hear my account of Dunham! What did he say?”
“He said that was only your way of laughing at yourself.”
“The traitor! What did you say?”
“I don't know that I said anything.”
“You were reserving your opinion for my own hearing?”
“No.”
“Why don't you tell me what you thought? It might be of great use to me. I'm in earnest, now; I'm serious. Will you tell me?”
“Yes, some time,” said Lydia, who was both amused and mystified at this persistence.
“When? To-morrow?”
“Oh, that's too soon. When I get to Venice!”
“Ah! That's a subterfuge. You know we shall part in Trieste.”
“I thought,” said Lydia, “you were coming to Venice, too.”
“Oh, yes, but I shouldn't be able to see you there.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why, because—” He was near telling the young girl who hung upon his arm, and walked up and down with him in the moonlight, that in the wicked Old World towards which they were sailing young people could not meet save in the sight and hearing of their elders, and that a confidential analysis of character would be impossible between them there. The wonder of her being where she was, as she was, returned upon him with a freshness that it had been losing in the custom of the week past. “Because you will be so much taken up with your friends,” he said, lamely. He added quickly, “There's one thing I should like to know, Miss Blood: did you hear what Mr. Dunham and I were saying, last night, when we stood in the gangway and kept you from coming up?”
Lydia waited a moment. Then she said, “Yes. I couldn't help hearing it.”
“That's all right. I don't care for your hearing what I said. But—I hope it wasn't true?”
“I couldn't understand what you meant by it,” she answered, evasively, but rather faintly.
“Thanks,” said Staniford. “I didn't mean anything. It was merely the guilty consciousness of a generally disagreeable person.” They walked up and down many turns without saying anything. She could not have made any direct protest, and it pleased him that she could not frame any flourishing generalities. “Yes,” Staniford resumed, “I will try to see you as I pass through Venice. And I will come to hear you sing when you come out at Milan.”
“Come out? At Milan?”
“Why, yes! You are going to study at the conservatory in Milan?”
“How did you know that?” demanded Lydia.
“From hearing you to-day. May I tell you how much I liked your singing?”
“My aunt thought I ought to cultivate my voice. But I would never go upon the stage. I would rather sing in a church. I should like that better than teaching.”
“I think you're quite right,” said Staniford, gravely. “It's certainly much better to sing in a church than to sing in a theatre. Though I believe the theatre pays best.”
“Oh, I don't care for that. All I should want would be to make a living.”
The reference to her poverty touched him. It was a confidence, coming from one so reticent, that was of value. He waited a moment and said, “It's surprising how well we keep our footing here, isn't it? There's hardly any swell, but the ship pitches. I think we walk better together than alone.”
“Yes,” answered Lydia, “I think we do.”
“You mustn't let me tire you. I'm indefatigable.”
“Oh, I'm not tired. I like it,—walking.”
“Do you walk much at home?”
“Not much. It's a pretty good walk to the school-house.”
“Oh! Then you like walking at sea better than you do on shore?”
“It isn't the custom, much. If there were any one else, I should have liked it there. But it's rather dull, going by yourself.”
“Yes, I understand how that is,” said Staniford, dropping his teasing tone. “It's stupid. And I suppose it's pretty lonesome at South Bradfield every way.”
“It is,—winters,” admitted Lydia. “In the summer you see people, at any rate, but in winter there are days and days when hardly any one passes. The snow is banked up everywhere.”
He felt her give an involuntary shiver; and he began to talk to her about the climate to which she was going. It was all stranger to her than he could have realized, and less intelligible. She remembered California very dimly, and she had no experience by which she could compare and adjust his facts. He made her walk up and down more and more swiftly, as he lost himself in the comfort of his own talking and of her listening, and he failed to note the little falterings with which she expressed her weariness.
All at once he halted, and said, “Why, you're out of breath! I beg your pardon. You should have stopped me. Let us sit down.” He wished to walk across the deck to where the seats were, but she just perceptibly withstood his motion, and he forbore.
“I think I won't sit down,” she said. “I will go down-stairs.” She began withdrawing her hand from his arm. He put his right hand upon hers, and when it came out of his arm it remained in his hand.
“I'm afraid you won't walk with me again,” said Staniford. “I've tired you shamefully.”
“Oh, not at all!”
“And you will?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks. You're very amiable.” He still held her hand. He pressed it. The pressure was not returned, but her hand seemed to quiver and throb in his like a bird held there. For the time neither of them spoke, and it seemed a long time. Staniford found himself carrying her hand towards his lips; and she was helplessly, trustingly, letting him.
He dropped her hand, and said, abruptly, “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” she answered, and ceased from his side like a ghost.
Staniford sat in the moonlight, and tried to think what the steps were that had brought him to this point; but there were no steps of which he was sensible. He remembered thinking the night before that the conditions were those of flirtation; to-night this had not occurred to him. The talk had been of the dullest commonplaces; yet he had pressed her hand and kept it in his, and had been about to kiss it. He bitterly considered the disparity between his present attitude and the stand he had taken when he declared to Dunham that it rested with them to guard her peculiar isolation from anything that she could remember with pain or humiliation when she grew wiser in the world. He recalled his rage with Hicks, and the insulting condemnation of his bearing towards him ever since; and could Hicks have done worse? He had done better: he had kept away from her; he had let her alone.
That night Staniford slept badly, and woke with a restless longing to see the girl, and to read in her face whatever her thought of him had been. But Lydia did not come out to breakfast. Thomas reported that she had a headache, and that he had already carried her the tea and toast she wanted. “Well, it seems kind of lonesome without her,” said the captain. “It don't seem as if we could get along.”
It seemed desolate to Staniford, who let the talk flag and fail round him without an effort to rescue it. All the morning he lurked about, keeping out of Dunham's way, and fighting hard through a dozen pages of a book, to which he struggled to nail his wandering mind. A headache was a little matter, but it might be even less than a headache. He belated himself purposely at dinner, and entered the cabin just as Lydia issued from her stateroom door.
She was pale and looked heavy-eyed. As she lifted her glance to him, she blushed; and he felt the answering red stain his face. When she sat down, the captain patted her on the shoulder with his burly right hand, and said he could not navigate the ship if she got sick. He pressed her to eat of this and that; and when she would not, he said, well, there was no use trying to force an appetite, and that she would be better all the sooner for dieting. Hicks went to his state-room, and came out with a box of guava jelly, from his private stores, and won a triumph enviable in all eyes when Lydia consented to like it with the chicken. Dunham plundered his own and Staniford's common stock of dainties for her dessert; the first officer agreed and applauded right and left; Staniford alone sat taciturn and inoperative, watching her face furtively. Once her eyes wandered to the side of the table where he and Dunham sat; then she colored and dropped her glance.
He took his book again after dinner, and with his finger between the leaves, at the last-read, unintelligible page, he went out to the bow, and crouched down there to renew the conflict of the morning. It was not long before Dunham followed. He stooped over to lay a hand on either of Staniford's shoulders.
“What makes you avoid me, old man?” he demanded, looking into Staniford's face with his frank, kind eyes.
“And I avoid you?” asked Staniford.
“Yes; why?”
“Because I feel rather shabby, I suppose. I knew I felt shabby, but I didn't know I was avoiding you.”
“Well, no matter. If you feel shabby, it's all right; but I hate to have you feel shabby.” He got his left hand down into Staniford's right, and a tacit reconciliation was transacted between them. Dunham looked about for a seat, and found a stool, which he planted in front of Staniford. “Wasn't it pleasant to have our little lady back at table, again?”
“Very,” said Staniford.
“I couldn't help thinking how droll it was that a person whom we all considered a sort of incumbrance and superfluity at first should really turn out an object of prime importance to us all. Isn't it amusing?”
“Very droll.”
“Why, we were quite lost without her, at breakfast. I couldn't have imagined her taking such a hold upon us all, in so short a time. But she's a pretty creature, and as good as she's pretty.”
“I remember agreeing with you on those points before.” Staniford feigned to suppress fatigue.
Dunham observed him. “I know you don't take so much interest in her as—as the rest of us do, and I wish you did. You don't know what a lovely nature she is.”
“No?”
“No; and I'm sure you'd like her.”
“Is it important that I should like her? Don't let your enthusiasm for the sex carry you beyond bounds, Dunham.”
“No, no. Not important, but very pleasant. And I think acquaintance with such a girl would give you some new ideas of women.”
“Oh, my old ones are good enough. Look here, Dunham,” said Staniford, sharply, “what are you after?”
“What makes you think I'm after anything?”
“Because you're not a humbug, and because I am. My depraved spirit instantly recognized the dawning duplicity of yours. But you'd better be honest. You can't make the other thing work. What do you want?”
“I want your advice. I want your help, Staniford.”
“I thought so! Coming and forgiving me in that—apostolic manner.”
“Don't!”
“Well. What do you want my help for? What have you been doing?” Staniford paused, and suddenly added: “Have you been making love to Lurella?” He said this in his ironical manner, but his smile was rather ghastly.
“For shame, Staniford!” cried Dunham. But he reddened violently.
“Then it isn't with Miss Hibbard that you want my help. I'm glad of that. It would have been awkward. I'm a little afraid of Miss Hibbard. It isn't every one has your courage, my dear fellow.”
“I haven't been making love to her,” said Dunham, “but—I—”
“But you what?” demanded Staniford sharply again. There had been less tension of voice in his joking about Miss Hibbard.
“Staniford,” said his friend, “I don't know whether you noticed her, at dinner, when she looked across to our own side?”
“What did she do?”
“Did you notice that she—well, that she blushed a little?”
Staniford waited a while before he answered, after a gulp, “Yes, I noticed that.”
“Well, I don't know how to put it exactly, but I'm afraid that I have unwittingly wronged this young girl.”
“Wronged her? What the devildoyou mean, Dunham?” cried Staniford, with bitter impatience.
“I'm afraid—I'm afraid—Why, it's simply this: that in trying to amuse her, and make the time pass agreeably, and relieve her mind, and all that, don't you know, I've given her the impression that I'm—well—interested in her, and that she may have allowed herself—insensibly, you know—to look upon me in that light, and that she may have begun to think—that she may have become—”
“Interested in you?” interrupted Staniford rudely.
“Well—ah—well, that is—ah—well—yes!” cried Dunham, bracing himself to sustain a shout of ridicule. But Staniford did not laugh, and Dunham had courage to go on. “Of course, it sounds rather conceited to say so, but the circumstances are so peculiar that I think we ought to recognize even any possibilities of that sort.”
“Oh, yes,” said Staniford, gravely. “Most women, I believe, are so innocent as to think a man in love when he behaves like a lover. And this one,” he added ruefully, “seems more than commonly ignorant of our ways,—of our infernal shilly-shallying, purposeless no-mindedness. She couldn't imagine a man—a gentleman—devoting himself to her by the hour, and trying by every art to show his interest and pleasure in her society, without imagining that he wished her to like him,—love him; there's no half-way about it. She couldn't suppose him the shallow, dawdling, soulless, senseless ape he really was.” Staniford was quite in a heat by this time, and Dunham listened in open astonishment.
“You are hard upon me,” he said. “Of course, I have been to blame; I know that, I acknowledge it. But my motive, as you know well enough, was never to amuse myself with her, but to contribute in any way I could to her enjoyment and happiness. I—”
“You!” cried Staniford. “What are you talking about?”
“What areyoutalking about?” demanded Dunham, in his turn.
Staniford recollected himself. “I was speaking of abstract flirtation. I was firing into the air.”
“In my case, I don't choose to call it flirtation,” returned Dunham. “My purpose, I am bound to say, was thoroughly unselfish and kindly.”
“My dear fellow,” said Staniford, with a bitter smile, “there can be no unselfishness and no kindliness between us and young girls, unless we mean business,—love-making. You may be sure that they feel it so, if they don't understand it so.”
“I don't agree with you. I don't believe it. My own experience is that the sweetest and most generous friendships may exist between us, without a thought of anything else. And as to making love, I must beg you to remember that my love has been made once for all. I never dreamt of showing Miss Blood anything but polite attention.”
“Then what are you troubled about?”
“I am troubled—” Dunham stopped helplessly, and Staniford laughed in a challenging, disagreeable way, so that the former perforce resumed:
“I'm troubled about—about her possible misinterpretation.”
“Oh! Then in this case of sweet and generous friendship the party of the second part may have construed the sentiment quite differently! Well, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to take the contract off your hands?”
“You put it grossly,” said Dunham.
“Andyouput it offensively!” cried the other. “My regard for the young lady is as reverent as yours. You have no right to miscolor my words.”
“Staniford, you are too bad,” said Dunham, hurt even more than angered. “If I've come to you in the wrong moment—if you are vexed at anything, I'll go away, and beg your pardon for boring you.”
Staniford was touched; he looked cordially into his friend's face. “Iwasvexed at something, but you never can come to me at the wrong moment, old fellow. I begyourpardon.Isee your difficulty plainly enough, and I think you're quite right in proposing to hold up,—for that's what you mean, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Dunham, “it is. And I don't know how she will like it. She will be puzzled and grieved by it. I hadn't thought seriously about the matter till this morning, when she didn't come to breakfast. You know I've been in the habit of asking her to walk with me every night after tea; but Saturday evening you were with her, and last night I felt sore about the affairs of the day, and rather dull, and I didn't ask her. I think she noticed it. I think she was hurt.”
“You think so?” said Staniford, peculiarly.
“I might not have thought so,” continued Dunham, “merely because she did not come to breakfast; but her blushing when she looked across at dinner really made me uneasy.”
“Very possibly you're right.” Staniford mused a while before he spoke again. “Well, what do you wish me to do?”
“I must hold up, as you say, and of course she will feel the difference. I wish—I wish at least you wouldn't avoid her, Staniford. That's all. Any little attention from you—I know it bores you—would not only break the loneliness, but it would explain that—that my—attentions didn't—ah—hadn't meant anything.”
“Oh!”
“Yes; that it's common to offer them. And she's a girl of so much force of character that when she sees the affair in its true light—I suppose I'm to blame! Yes, I ought to have told her at the beginning that I was engaged. But you can't force a fact of that sort upon a new acquaintance: it looks silly.” Dunham hung his head in self-reproach.
“Well?” asked Staniford.
“Well, that's all! No, itisn'tall, either. There's something else troubles me. Our poor little friend is a blackguard, I suppose?”
“Hicks?”
“Yes.”
“You have invited him to be the leader of your orchestra, haven't you?”
“Oh, don't, Staniford!” cried Dunham in his helplessness. “I should hate to see her dependent in any degree upon that little cad for society.” Cad was the last English word which Dunham had got himself used to. “That was why I hoped that you wouldn't altogether neglect her. She's here, and she's no choice but to remain. We can't leave her to herself without the danger of leaving her to Hicks. You see?”
“Well,” said Staniford gloomily, “I'm not sure that you couldn't leave her to a worse cad than Hicks.” Dunham looked up in question. “To me, for example.”
“Oh, hallo!” cried Dunham.
“I don't see how I'm to be of any use,” continued the other. “I'm not a squire of dames; I should merely make a mess of it.”
“You're mistaken, Staniford,—I'm sure you are,—in supposing that she dislikes you,” urged his friend.
“Oh, very likely.”
“I know that she's simply afraid of you.”
“Don't flatter, Dunham. Why should I care whether she fears me or affects me? No, my dear fellow. This is irretrievably your own affair. I should be glad to help you out if I knew how. But I don't. In the mean time your duty is plain, whatever happens. You can't overdo the sweet and the generous in this wicked world without paying the penalty.”
Staniford smiled at the distress in which Dunham went his way. He understood very well that it was not vanity, but the liveliness of a sensitive conscience, that had made Dunham search his conduct for the offense against the young girl's peace of heart which he believed he had committed, and it was the more amusing because he was so guiltless of harm. Staniford knew who was to blame for the headache and the blush. He knew that Dunham had never gone so far; that his chivalrous pleasure in her society might continue for years free from flirtation. But in spite of this conviction a little poignant doubt made itself felt, and suddenly became his whole consciousness. “Confound him!” he mused. “I wonder if she really could care anything for him!” He shut his book, and rose to his feet with such a burning in his heart that he could not have believed himself capable of the greater rage he felt at what he just then saw. It was Lydia and Hicks seated together in the place where he had sat with her. She leaned with one arm upon the rail, in an attitude that brought all her slim young grace into evidence. She seemed on very good terms with him, and he was talking and making her laugh as Staniford had never heard her laugh before—so freely, so heartily.
The atoms that had been tending in Staniford's being toward a certain form suddenly arrested and shaped themselves anew at the vibration imparted by this laughter. He no longer felt himself Hicks's possible inferior, but vastly better in every way, and out of the turmoil of his feelings in regard to Lydia was evolved the distinct sense of having been trifled with. Somehow, an advantage had been taken of his sympathies and purposes, and his forbearance had been treated with contempt.
The conviction was neither increased nor diminished by the events of the evening, when Lydia brought out some music from her state-room, and Hicks appeared, flute in hand, from his, and they began practicing one of the pieces together. It was a pretty enough sight. Hicks had been gradually growing a better-looking fellow; he had an undeniable picturesqueness, as he bowed his head over the music towards hers; and she, as she held the sheet with one hand for him to see, while she noiselessly accompanied herself on the table with the fingers of the other, and tentatively sang now this passage and now that, was divine. The picture seemed pleasing to neither Staniford nor Dunham; they went on deck together, and sat down to their cigarettes in their wonted place. They did not talk of Lydia, or of any of the things that had formed the basis of their conversation hitherto, but Staniford returned to his Colorado scheme, and explained at length the nature of his purposes and expectations. He had discussed these matters before, but he had never gone into them so fully, nor with such cheerful earnestness. He said he should never marry,—he had made up his mind to that; but he hoped to make money enough to take care of his sister's boy Jim handsomely, as the little chap had been named for him. He had been thinking the matter over, and he believed that he should get back by rail and steamer as soon as he could after they reached Trieste. He was not sorry he had come; but he could not afford to throw away too much time on Italy, just then.
Dunham, on his part, talked a great deal of Miss Hibbard, and of some curious psychological characteristics of her dyspepsia. He asked Staniford whether he had ever shown him the photograph of Miss Hibbard taken by Sarony when she was on to New York the last time: it was a three-quarters view, and Dunham thought it the best she had had done. He spoke of her generous qualities, and of the interest she had always had in the Diet Kitchen, to which, as an invalid, her attention had been particularly directed: and he said that in her last letter she had mentioned a project for establishing diet kitchens in Europe, on the Boston plan. When their talk grew more impersonal and took a wider range, they gathered suggestion from the situation, and remarked upon the immense solitude of the sea. They agreed that there was something weird in the long continuance of fine weather, and that the moon had a strange look. They spoke of the uncertainty of life. Dunham regretted, as he had often regretted before, that his friend had no fixed religious belief; and Staniford gently accepted his solicitude, and said that he had at least a conviction if not a creed. He then begged Dunham's pardon in set terms for trying to wound his feelings the day before; and in the silent hand-clasp that followed they renewed all the cordiality of their friendship. From time to time, as they talked, the music from below came up fitfully, and once they had to pause as Lydia sang through the song that she and Hicks were practicing.
As the days passed their common interest in the art brought Hicks and the young girl almost constantly together, and the sound of their concerting often filled the ship. The musicales, less formal than Dunham had intended, and perhaps for that reason a source of rapidly diminishing interest with him, superseded both ring-toss and shuffle-board, and seemed even more acceptable to the ship's company as an entertainment. One evening, when the performers had been giving a piece of rather more than usual excellence and difficulty, one of the sailors, deputed by his mates, came aft, with many clumsy shows of deference, and asked them to give Marching through Georgia. Hicks found this out of his repertory, but Lydia sang it. Then the group at the forecastle shouted with one voice for Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys are Marching, and so beguiled her through the whole list of war-songs. She ended with one unknown to her listeners, but better than all the rest in its pathetic words and music, and when she had sung The Flag's come back to Tennessee, the spokesman of the sailors came aft again, to thank her for his mates, and to say they would not spoil that last song by asking for anything else. It was a charming little triumph for her, as she sat surrounded by her usual court: the captain was there to countenance the freedom the sailors had taken, and Dunham and Staniford stood near, but Hicks, at her right hand, held the place of honor.
The next night Staniford found her alone in the waist of the ship, and drew up a stool beside the rail where she sat.
“We all enjoyed your singing so much, last night, Miss Blood. I think Mr. Hicks plays charmingly, but I believe I prefer to hear your voice alone.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia, looking down, demurely.
“It must be a great satisfaction to feel that you can give so much pleasure.”
“I don't know,” she said, passing the palm of one hand over the back of the other.
“When you are aprima donnayou mustn't forget your old friends of the Aroostook. We shall all take vast pride in you.”
It was not a question, and Lydia answered nothing. Staniford, who had rather obliged himself to this advance, with some dim purpose of showing that nothing had occurred to alienate them since the evening, of their promenade, without having proved to himself that it was necessary to do this, felt that he was growing angry. It irritated him to have her sit as unmoved after his words as if he had not spoken.
“Miss Blood,” he said, “I envy you your gift of snubbing people.”
Lydia looked at him. “Snubbing people?” she echoed.
“Yes; your power of remaining silent when you wish to put down some one who has been wittingly or unwittingly impertinent.”
“I don't know what you mean,” she said, in a sort of breathless way.
“And you didn't intend to mark your displeasure at my planning your future?”
“No! We had talked of that. I—”
“And you were not vexed with me for anything? I have been afraid that I—that you—” Staniford found that he was himself getting short of breath. He had begun with the intention of mystifying her, but matters had suddenly taken another course, and he was really anxious to know whether any disagreeable associations with that night lingered in her mind. With this longing came a natural inability to find the right word. “I was afraid—” he repeated, and then he stopped again. Clearly, he could not tell her that he was afraid he had gone too far; but this was what he meant. “You don't walk with me, any more, Miss Blood,” he concluded, with an air of burlesque reproach.
“You haven't asked me—since,” she said.
He felt a singular value and significance in this word, since. It showed that her thoughts had been running parallel with his own; it permitted, if it did not signify, that he should resume the mood of that time, where their parting had interrupted it. He enjoyed the fact to the utmost, but he was not sure that he wished to do what he was permitted. “Then I didn't tire you?” he merely asked. He was not sure, now he came to think of it, that he liked her willingness to recur to that time. He liked it, but not quite in the way he would have liked to like it.
“No,” she said.
“The fact is,” he went on aimlessly, “that I thought I had rather abused your kindness. Besides,” he added, veering off, “I was afraid I should be an interruption to the musical exercises.”
“Oh, no,” said Lydia. “Mr. Dunham hasn't arranged anything yet.” Staniford thought this uncandid. It was fighting shy of Hicks, who was the person in his own mind; and it reawakened a suspicion which was lurking there. “Mr. Dunham seems to have lost his interest.”
This struck Staniford as an expression of pique; it reawakened quite another suspicion. It was evident that she was hurt at the cessation of Dunham's attentions. He was greatly minded to say that Dunham was a fool, but he ended by saying, with sarcasm, “I suppose he saw that he was superseded.”
“Mr. Hicks plays well,” said Lydia, judicially, “but he doesn't really know so much of music as Mr. Dunham.”
“No?” responded Staniford, with irony. “I will tell Dunham. No doubt he's been suffering the pangs of professional jealousy. That must be the reason why he keeps away.”
“Keeps away?” asked Lydia.
“NowI've made an ass of myself!” thought Staniford. “You said that he seemed to have lost his interest,” he answered her.
“Oh! Yes!” assented Lydia. And then she remained rather distraught, pulling at the ruffling of her dress.
“Dunham is a very accomplished man,” said Staniford, finding the usual satisfaction in pressing his breast against the thorn. “He's a great favorite in society. He's up to no end of things.” Staniford uttered these praises in a curiously bitter tone. “He's a capital talker. Don't you think he talks well?”
“I don't know; I suppose I haven't seen enough people to be a good judge.”
“Well, you've seen enough people to know that he's very good looking?”
“Yes?”
“You don't mean to say you don't think him good looking?”
“No,—oh, no, I mean—that is—I don't know anything about his looks. But he resembles a lady who used to come from Boston, summers. I thought he must be her brother.”
“Oh, then you think he looks effeminate!” cried Staniford, with inner joy. “I assure you,” he added with solemnity, “Dunham is one of the manliest fellows in the world!”
“Yes?” said Lydia.
Staniford rose. He was smiling gayly as he looked over the broad stretch of empty deck, and down into Lydia's eyes. “Wouldn't you like to take a turn, now?”
“Yes,” she said promptly, rising and arranging her wrap across her shoulders, so as to leave her hands free. She laid one hand in his arm and gathered her skirt with the other, and they swept round together for the start and confronted Hicks.
“Oh!” cried Lydia, with what seemed dismay, “I promised Mr. Hicks to practice a song with him.” She did not try to release her hand from Staniford's arm, but was letting it linger there irresolutely.
Staniford dropped his arm, and let her hand fall. He bowed with icy stiffness, and said, with a courtesy so fierce that Mr. Hicks, on whom he glared as he spoke, quailed before it, “I yield to your prior engagement.”