"If that is the case," she said, very softly and sweetly, "if you are anxious to repair any wrong that you have done to him, help us to find him now. You have nothing to keep you in England! My brother will say what I say—Come with us."
CHAPTER XLVII.
FOUND.
"As far as I can calculate," said Percival, "this is the end of March. Confound it! I wish I had some tobacco."
"Don't begin to wish," remarked Brian, lazily, "or you will never end."
"I haven't your philosophy. I am wishing all day long—and for nothing so much as the sight of a sail on yonder horizon."
In justice to Percival, it must be observed that he never spoke in this way except when alone with Brian, and very seldom even then. There had been a marked change in their relations to each other since the night when Heron had made what he called "his confession." They had never again mentioned the subject then discussed, but there had been a steady growth of friendship and confidence between them. If it was ever interrupted, it was only when Percival had now and then a moody fit, during which he would keep a sort of sullen silence. Brian respected these moods, and thought that he understood them. But he found in the end that he had been as much mistaken about their origin as Percival had once been mistaken in attributing motives of a mercenary kind to him. And when the cloud passed, Percival would be friendlier and more genial than ever.
"Of course," said Heron, presently, "if a vessel saw our signal—and hove to, we should have to send out one of our ingeniously constructed small boats and state our case. Jackson and I would be the best men for the purpose, I suppose. Then they would send for the rest of you. A good opportunity for leaving you behind, Brian, eh?"
"A hermit's life would not suit me badly," said Brian, who was lying on his back on a patch of sand in the shade, with a hat of cocoa-nut fibre tilted over his eyes. "I think I could easily let you go back without me."