“Was it worth while?” he inquired, a trace of derision in his voice.
She was on the point of replying rather emphatically in the negative, when suddenly she recalled the look in Percival's eyes and the first words he spoke to her. She caught her breath. Her eyes sparkled, her lips parted in a rosy smile.
“Yes, Mr. Landover, it was worth while,” she said, and went on, leaving him to reflections that were as perplexing as they were unanticipated.
She experienced a short spell of triumph. After all, Percival was in love with her. She did not need Olga Obosky to tell her that. She could see, she could feel for herself. A certain glee possessed her,—indeed, as she afterwards succeeded in analysing the sensation, it bordered decidedly on malice. She had it in her power to make him miserable and unhappy. She would enjoy seeing him unhappy!
The meanness of the woman who longs to injure the man who loves her, whether loved or unloved, revealed itself for the moment in this fair-minded, generous girl. (It is a common trait, admitted by many fair-minded and generous women!) But even as she coddled and encouraged the little sprout of vengeance, the chill of common-sense rushed up and blighted it.
She had a sickening impression that Percival would fail to play the part according to her conception. In fact, he was quite capable of not playing it at all. He would pursue the even tenor of his way—(she actually made use of the time-honoured phrase in her reflections),—and she would get small satisfaction out of that.
Moreover, there was Olga Obosky to be reckoned with. She was conscious of a hot, swiftly passing sense of suffocation as the thought of Olga rushed unbidden into her brain,—for an instant only,—and then came the reaction: a queer chill that raced over her body from head to foot. What part would Olga Obosky play in the game?
The women congregated on the forward deck of the Doraine after supper that night. The evening repast was no longer dignified by the word dinner. The sky was inky black; not a star flickered in the vault above. There were low, far off mutterings of thunder. The rail lanterns,—few and far between,—threw their pallid beams down into the rippling basin in a sickly effort to penetrate the gloom.
Captain Trigger and Mr. Mott, smoking their pipes on the makeshift bridge, studied the throng of women in dour silence.
“I understand the farmers are praying for rain,” remarked Mr. Mott, sniffing the air with considerable satisfaction.