“No,” exclaimed a firm voice. “Make the slightest attempt to enter again, and I will alarm the ship.”
Dutch Pugh’s hands dropped to his side and a sigh like a groan burst from his lips as he staggered away on deck, and going to the side rested his aching head upon the rail.
“Am I mad?” he said to himself. “That was Bessy Studwick. Could it have been her I heard talking here on deck? No, that was impossible, for there was the struggle. Oh! Hester, Hester, my darling, forgive me if I am judging you wrongfully; I’d give my life to believe you true, and yet again to-night I am so ready to accuse you in my heart.
“It is no use, I will not lead this life of hell upon earth: she must—she shall explain her conduct. There was some reason more than I know for her coming on board here. Her conversations with that mulatto. That meeting to-night. Ha! is it possible? Yes! I have it at last: Studwick was right: Lauré’s influence still with us. Bah! I believe I am half-mad,” he said, with a contemptuous ejaculation. “I will see her in the morning, and this trouble shall be cleared away.”
As he spoke he went down to the cabin he shared with the doctor, feeling lighter of heart for the resolution he had made, and telling himself that half his trouble might have been saved had he spoken to his wife. “She might even have come out of the trial unscathed,” he said, with a strong feeling of elation, and worn out mentally and bodily he threw himself half dressed into his berth, after opening the little window, for the heat was stifling.
“A good resolution at last,” muttered Dutch as he laid his head upon his pillow, and as he dropped off to sleep listening to the lapping of the water against the schooner’s side, the sound seemed to form itself into a repetition of the words—“Too late, too late, too late,” until he fell into a heavy sleep.