“A very sure way indeed,” laughed Markham. “Never mind; in another week I shall be away from this society which has already become so pleasant to me. Perhaps I shall knock up against you in some of the strange places of the earth, Harwood.”
“I heartily hope so,” said the other. “But I still cannot see why you should not come on with us to the Cape. The voyage will completely restore you, you can get your money changed there, and a steamer of this company's will take you away two days after you land.”
“I cannot remain aboard this steamer,” said Markham quickly. “I must leave at St. Helena.” Then he walked away with that shortness of ceremony which steamer voyagers get into a habit of showing to each other without giving offence.
“Poor beggar!” muttered Harwood. “Wrecked in sight of the haven—a pleasant haven—yes, if he is not an uncommonly good actor.” He turned round from where he was leaning over the ship's side smoking, and saw the man with whom he had been talking seated in his chair by the side of Daireen Gerald. He watched them for some time—for a long time—until his cigar was smoked to the very end. He looked over the side thoughtfully as he dropped the remnant and heard its little hiss in the water; then he repeated his words, “a wreck.” Once more he glanced astern, and then he added thoughtfully, “Yes, he is right; he had much better part at St. Helena—very much better.”
Mr. Markham seemed quite naturally to have found his place in Mrs. Crawford's set, exclusive though it was; for somehow aboard ship a man amalgamates only with that society for which he is suited; a man is seldom to be found out of place on account of certain considerations such as one meets on shore. Not even Mr. Glaston could raise any protest against Mr. Markham's right to take a place in the midst of the elect of the cabin. But the young lady in whose birthday book Mr. Markham had inscribed his name upon the first day of his appearance at the table, thought it very unkind of him to join the band who had failed to appreciate her toilet splendours.
During the day on which he gave Harwood his brief autobiographical outline, Mr. Oswin Markham was frequently by the side of Miss Gerald and Mrs. Crawford. But towards night the major felt that it would be unjust to allow him to be defrauded of the due amount of narratory entertainment so necessary for his comfort; and with these excellent intentions drew him away from the others of the set, and, sitting on the secluded bridge, brought forth from the abundant resources of his memory a few well-defined anecdotes of that lively Arradambad station. But all the while the major was narrating the stories he could see that Markham's soul was otherwhere, and he began to be disappointed in Mr. Markham.
“I mustn't bore you, Markham, my boy,” he said as he rose, after having whiled away about two hours of the night in this agreeable occupation. “No, I mustn't bore you, and you look, upon my soul, as if you had been suffering.”
“No, no, I assure you, I never enjoyed anything more than that story of—of—the Surgeon-General and the wife of—of—the Commissary.”
“The Adjutant-General, you mean,” interrupted the major.
“Of course, yes, the Adjutant; a deucedly good story!”