“Poor girl! No wonder she looks as if she had seen great troubles. I wonder she is alive. Well, I’ll not add to them! She treated me badly; but she has treated you worse. And afraid of me! Why, every one knows that my bark is worse than my bite--in fact, I have no bite. And you stuck to her when she had no friends! Oh what a treacherous old serpent was that Harper--harridan. Steady payment for nine years. And to treat my daughter so! And I actually gave that sour old maid a present for her _kindness_ to Maddie. They did not know you were married to her?” “No; scarcely any one know.” “And what’s to be done! How is it to be declared, this marriage. How is the world to be told that Madeline has been humbugging them for the last two years as Miss West?” “The wedding can easily be put in the paper as having taken place in London, with no date. It will only be a nine-days wonder. We can send it from the first place we touch at.” “Ah, you are a clever fellow, Wynne. Hallo! the lights are going out, and we shall be in darkness.” “But you are no longer in darkness respecting me.” “Well, I feel in a regular fog. And so you’re my son-in-law!” “Yes; there is no doubt about that.” “It’s odd that I always cottoned to you.” “You will not be harsh with Madeline, will you?” “Do you take me for a Choctaw Indian, sir? I’ll say nothing at present. Board ship is no place for scenes. She’s very shaky still, though better.” “Yes, I think she is a shade better now she is on deck all day.” “It was an awful pity about the little boy, Wynne, and----” Here the electric light suddenly went out, and Mr. West had to grope his way as best he could to his own cabin. He lay awake for hours, listening to the seas washing against the side of his berth, thinking--thinking of what he had been told that night, thinking of Madeline and Wynne in a new light, and thinking most of all of the little fair-haired grandchild that he had never seen. CHAPTER XLIII. HEARTS ARE TRUMPS. The night of the conversation in the smoking-room, when Mr. West scrambled below in the dark--not knowing, as he subsequently explained it, whether he stood on his head or his heels--was the occasion of a curious incident in Miss West’s cabin. Each day as she grew stronger and better, recovering energy and appetite, Mrs. Leach became worse, and the weather to correspond. She sustained existence on Brand’s essence and champagne, and counted the hours until they were in the Mediterranean--not that even the tideless sea can be reckoned on in October. Mrs. Leach felt miserably ill, peevish, and envious; and when Madeline came down to go to bed, she asked her to get her a bottle out of her dressing-bag--“something to make her sleep.” “Shall I hand the bag up to you?” “No, no, it’s open. A long, greenish bottle--in the pocket next the blotter.”