over his dark face. “I had no dinner yesterday,” he said, gruffly, “and the racket on the wharf was deafening.”
“Did you have a prosperous voyage from England?” asked Mrs. Danvers, amiably.
“Yes.”
“And an agreeable company of passengers?”
“Fair—I didn’t see much of them.”
“Were there any nice, nice girls on board?” lisped Nina, in her infantine fashion.
“Plenty,” he said unexpectedly, fixing her with an indulgent stare.
She did not address him again during the meal, although she listened attentively to every one of the curt sentences with which he favoured her parents. He was always grave, almost severe with them. Why was he not with them, with the rest of the world, as he was with her? Why at her slightest word did he lose his air of command, soften his tone, and adjust himself to any mood she happened to be in? Was it only because he loved her, or was there some other reason? It was certainly very puzzling, and the man across the table, who was intently following her meditations, smiled to himself, as he heard the perturbed little sigh with which she always concluded them.
Mr. Danvers scarcely spoke, and the others rarely addressed him; for they plainly felt that the atmosphere about him was somewhat electrical.
“Poor old fatty,” soliloquised Captain Fordyce, “he’s blue to think of losing his little playmate. I’m sorry for him,” and he gazed approvingly at the stout man. “Madam there loves Nina because she is a dressed-up doll, representing duty and dollars;” and he favoured his hostess with a sardonic glance. “Schoolma’am and wife, but never a mother. Time my little wench was out of this.”
Mr. Danvers finished his breakfast, then rose in sulky silence. While Nina ran to get his hat and cane, he addressed Captain Fordyce:
“So you want to steal our child?”
“I do.”
The fat man choked back some emotion. “Is she willing to go?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Danvers brought his plump fist down on the table with noiseless emphasis, and threw a defiant glance at his wife. “Well, mark this, she’s always got a home here if anything befalls you. And don’t ever force the truth on her. I wouldn’t for a thousand dollars have her know she isn’t our child.”
“And I wouldn’t for a thousand more,” said Captain Fordyce, coolly.
“Would not this be a good time to inform her of the true state of affairs?” interposed Mrs. Danvers. “Is not truth always better than error?”
Captain Fordyce frowned at her, Mr. Danvers ejaculated, “Hold your tongue, Melinda;” but nothing further could be said, for at that instant Nina came gliding back.
“Here is your hat, daddy dear,” then, tucking her hand under his arm, she left the room with him.
Mrs. Danvers followed the two with a peculiar glance, and Captain Fordyce, seeing it, smiled.
“Are her traps in order for travelling?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, laconically.
“I will take her away to-morrow.”
She looked slightly ashamed, and fell into a silence that lasted until Nina returned, when she wandered away into the kitchen.
The girl had been standing a long time at the gate watching the sorrowful lines of the substantial figure plodding across the meadows. Her face was flushed and disturbed; and, scarcely knowing what she did, she seated herself at the table and made a blind onslaught on a loaf of bread.
“Here, give me that knife, you will cut yourself,” said Captain Fordyce. He laid a thin slice on her plate, then, in a state of utter beatification, for he had had his own way in every particular during a short conversation they had had on the bridge, he sat watching her eat it.
“Three days from now you will be having your breakfast on the Merrimac,” he said, softly.
Nina made a wry face and tried to bury her face in her coffee-cup. He laughed, and, having finished his breakfast, got up and strolled about the room, looking at the pictures hung on the walls.
A quarter of an hour later Nina was alone in the hall with him. He had exchanged a calm good-bye with Mrs. Danvers, after having promised to return to dinner. His leave-taking with his fiancée promised to be more lengthy.
“Oh, do make haste,” she said, inhospitably handing him his hat. “I have my canaries to do, and the dog and cat to feed, and ever so many things beside.”
“Tell me again that you are sorry for being naughty,” he said, gently, “for throwing your cap in the water, and hiding in the rushes.”
“I’m sorry I was sorry,” she said, stoutly; but at the same time, lest she should hurt his feelings, she gave his fingers a gentle, a very gentle pressure.
“You angel,” he said, not rapturously nor passionately, but rather as if he were stating a very commonplace and threadbare fact.
She dropped his fingers as suddenly as if they had turned to red-hot metal in her grasp, and turned her head very far away from him.
“And you will find time among your multitudinous occupations to help your mamma pack,” he went on.
“I don’t think I will go,” she said, feebly. “I think I am going to change my mind again.”
“All right,” he said, taking out his watch. “I will give you a minute. Shall I go or stay? You must make up your mind decidedly before to-morrow. There must be no fooling with sacred things.”
She roguishly bent her face over the watch.
“Time’s up,” he said; “good-bye.”
With a wilful shrug of her shoulders she took the watch in her hand. “Let me put it back.”
He stood patiently while she restored it to its place, and insinuated her thumb and finger in another pocket. “What’s this?” she observed, drawing out a slip of newspaper.
“Give it to me,” he said, trying to take it from her.
But she was too quick for him, and darting to the staircase read aloud the headings of the slip she held in her hand. “Boston Dustman Refused Seventeen Times by His Lady-love, Who Was a Rag-picker. Upon the Occasion of His Eighteenth Refusal Slapped Her in the Face, Whereupon She Promptly Accepted Him.”
“Horrid man! I would have slapped back!” exclaimed Nina, indignantly.
Captain Fordyce was grinning broadly. “Here—give me that,” and he restored it to his pocket. “It brought me luck.”
“Luck with me?” she cried.
“Yes, birdie.”
She was about to dart away, but he held her gently
