Transatlantic voyages -- Fiction; Venice (Italy) -- Fiction; Voyages and travels -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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