"Who else could have done so, on your own showing?"
"Sir!" said Willis, slowly. "I thought I had to do with a gentleman: but I have my doubts of it now. A poor girl risks her life to drag you out of that sea, which but for her would have hove your body up to lie along with that line there,"—and Willis pointed to the ghastly row—" and your soul gone to give in its last account—You only know what that would have been like—And the first thing you do in payment is to accuse her of robbing you—her, that the very angels in heaven, I believe, are glad to keep company with;" and the old man turned and paced the beach in fierce excitement.
"Captain Willis," said Tom, "I'll trouble you to listen patiently and civilly to me a minute."
Willis stopped, drew himself up, and touched his hat mechanically.
"Just because I am a gentleman, I have not accused her; but held my tongue, and spoken to you in confidence. Now, perhaps, you will understand why I have said nothing to the Lieutenant."
Willis looked up at him.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I see now, and I'm sorry if I was rude; but it took me aback, and does still. I tell you, sir," quoth he, warming again, "whatever's true,—that's false. You're wrong there, if you never are wrong again; and you'll say so yourself, before you've known her a week. No, sir! If you could make me believe that, I should never believe in goodness again on earth; but hold all men, and women too, and those above, for aught I know, that are greater than men and women, for liars together."
What was to be answered? Perhaps only what Tom did answer.
"My good sir, I will say no more. I would not have said that much if I had thought I should have pained you so. I suppose that the belt was washed into the sea. Why not?"
"Why not, indeed, sir? That's a much more Christian-like way of looking at it, than to blacken your own soul before God by suspecting that sweet innocent creature."