I perceived that she had fainted; I therefore laid her down on the deck, and hastened to obtain some water. O’Brien ran up, and went to her.
“My poor, poor girl!” said he sorrowfully. “Oh! Peter, this is all your fault.”
“All my fault! How could she have come here?”
“By all the saints who pray for us—dearly as I prize them, I would give up my ship and my commission, that this could be undone.”
As O’Brien hung over her, the tears from his eyes fell upon her face, while I bathed it with the water I had brought from the dressing-room. I knew who it must be, although I had never seen her. It was the girl to whom O’Brien had professed love, to worm out the secret of the exchange of my uncle’s child; and as I beheld the scene, I could not help saying to myself, “Who now will assert that evil may be done that good may come?” The poor girl showed symptoms of recovering, and O’Brien waved his hand to me, saying, “Leave us, Peter, and see that no one comes in.”
I remained nearly an hour at the cabin-door, by the sentry, and prevented many from entering, when O’Brien opened the door, and requested me to order his gig to be manned, and then to come in. The poor girl had evidently been weeping bitterly, and O’Brien was much affected.
“All is arranged, Peter; you must go on shore with her, and not leave her till you see her safe off by the night coach. Do me that favour, Peter—you ought indeed,” continued he, in a low voice, “for you have been partly the occasion of this.”
I shook O’Brien’s hand, and made no answer—the boat was reported ready, and the girl followed me with a firm step. I pulled on shore, saw her safe in the coach, without asking her any question, and then returned on board.
“Come on board, sir,” said I, entering the cabin with my hat in my hand, and reporting myself according to the regulations of the service.
“Thank you,” replied O’Brien: “shut the door, Peter. Tell me, how did she behave?—what did she say?”