“Not he?” exclaimed Bessy. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been on deck to meet some one else?”
“Yes, yes, and I am afraid; oh, I am afraid,” whispered Hester, with a shudder, as she clung more closely to her friend.
“Hester Pugh,” said Bessy, gravely; and her voice sounded cold and strange. “You must explain. I cannot wonder at poor Dutch’s conduct if you act like this.”
“Bessy!” wailed Hester, clinging convulsively to her, “don’t speak like that. Don’t you turn from me too. I am innocent; I am innocent. Oh that I were dead—that I were dead!”
“Hush, hush, hush,” whispered Bessy, trying to soothe her, for she was alarmed at the violence of her companion’s grief. “Tell me all about it, Hester. Am I not worthy of your confidence?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” sobbed Hester, “but I dare not—I dare not tell you.”
“Dare not, Hester?”
“No, no, no,” she moaned. “Hush! listen! he is there. Bessy,” she whispered, clinging to her, “kill me if you will, but do not let him touch me again.”
As she whispered this appeal there came Dutch’s summons at the door, repeated again, with at last Bessy’s stern reply, and then silence.
“He is gone,” said Bessy at last, her own heart beating furiously with emotion.