The shopkeeper’s talk had stirred him profoundly. Betty? Good Lord! For the first time he saw how others might look upon their enforced cruise together. She was almost a child, true; but was she near enough to childhood to be beyond the breath of scandal? This was a devilish mess!
He could not bear to think of himself in such a light. Far less could he patiently endure that through any fault of his—yet his fault was only his presence—her name should be blackened. What could he do? His feet lagged as he pondered, his head hanging.
He knew that Aunty Landis must have borne the news of their disaster to Sandywood. What would thoughtless Polly Cresap say when she learned that he and the farmer’s pretty daughter were not drowned after all? And impertinent Harry Cleborne? How would Madge Yarnell judge him? With brooding scorn, perhaps. As for Charlie Danton—Fessenden could picture all-too-clearly his bitter smile, the scar-line twitching the corner of his mouth. By God! he would suffer no sneer from Danton.
He wondered if any of the villagers had conveyed to Betty, even by a look, the suspicions that accursed shopkeeper had thrust upon him! He would find her at once. His presence might act as some sort of shield for her.
Conscious that some one blocked his way, he glanced up sharply. Charlie Danton stood before him—Danton, not sneering, not even smiling, but watching him very gravely.
XI
So near had Danton been to Fessenden’s thoughts that he was able instantly to connect the Baltimorean’s presence with the shopkeeper’s talk of the people from the steam yacht. He was the first to speak.
“Where’s Betty?”
“She’s with my wife—on the West Wind.”
“Your wife?”