“You trouble yourself about an imaginary care,” the latter said. “Bear in mind that you are on your way to a settlement where sins against the Government are often condoned, and you may rest assured that no one on board this vessel would be so cruel as to visit your unhappy condition upon your innocent heads.”
“But I would far rather be content with Julie’s company, and keep to our cabin.”
“It is impossible,” said Bayle. “It is like drawing attention to yourself. Be advised by me: lead the quiet regular cabin life, and all will be well.”
Mrs Hallam shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I am afraid. I am more troubled than I can say.”
She gazed up in Bayle’s eyes, and a questioning look passed between them. Each silently asked the other the same question: “Have you noticed that?”
But the time was not ripe for the question to be put in its entirety, and neither spoke.
The weather continued glorious from the time of the fresh grey dawn, when the tip of the sun gradually rose above the sea, on through the glowing heat of noon, when the pitch oozed from the seams, and outside the awnings the handrails could not be touched by the bare hand. Then on and on till the passengers assembled in groups to see sky and water dyed with the refulgent hues that dazzled while they filled with awe.
It was at these times that Mrs Hallam and Julia stole away from the other groups, to be followed at a distance by Bayle, who stood and watched them as they gazed at the setting sun. For it seemed to mother and daughter like a sign, a foretaste of the glory of the land to which they were going, and in the solemnity and silence of the mighty deep, evening by evening they stood and watched, their privacy respected by all on board, till lamps began to swing here and there beneath the awning, and generally Lieutenant Eaton came to ask Mrs Hallam to play or Julia to sing.
“Bayle,” Sir Gordon would say, with the repetition of an elderly and querulous man, “you always seem to me like a watch-dog on the look-out for intruders.”