He sat next to her—their steamer chairs placed closely side by side—in silence for a long time, smoking, and apparently buried in thought; then, as he suddenly noticed Wynne’s signet-ring on her wedding finger, he leant forward, took her fragile hand in his—it trembled, for he held it long and contemplated it intently—and at last released it with surprising gentleness.
“Madeline,” he said, “I know you’ve had enough trouble. I’m not going to say one word; but I’m greatly cut up about what happened—last summer;” and Madeline drew her veil over her face to hide her streaming tears.
After they had crossed the notorious Gulf of Lyons, Mrs. Leach appeared, with languid airs, expecting attention, solicitude, and sympathy. Alas! for expectations. What a change was here! Mr. West was entirely engrossed with Madeline, and was positively curt and gruff (he had heard the history of the letter in the bag); and when at last she found an opportunity of talking to him privately, and began with little preamble about “dear Maddie—such a marvellous sailor—so much better—getting away from some dreadful hold on her—and influence—seems to have transformed her into a new creature!” Mr. West looked at the speaker keenly. The sea-breeze is searching, and the southern sun pitiless. Ten days’ sickness had transformed Mrs. Leach into an old creature! She was fifty-five or more, with her sunken cheeks, and all those hard lines about her mouth and eyes. What did they signify?
“Do I see Mr. Wynne on board?” she asked, with a tragic air—“over by the boats? How strange, how audacious!”
“Do you think so? He is Madeline’s husband, and a great friend of mine.”
Mrs. Leach gasped! The wind had been taken out of her sails.
“Then you know all about it?”
“Yes, I know all about it,” said Mr. West collectedly.
“You have not known it for long—not when we sailed?”