Christie Bayle drew a long breath as he walked slowly on. His old, patient, long-suffering smile came upon his face, and now his lip ceased quivering, and he said softly:
“If it is for her happiness. Why not?”
“And after all I have said,” he heard from a quick voice beyond the awning. “It’s too bad, Jack. He is proposing to her now. What shall we do?”
“Nothing. Let him find all out for himself, and then cool down.”
“And half break the poor girl’s heart? I don’t want that.”
Bayle hurried away, feeling as if he could bear no more. The cabin seemed the best retreat, where he could take counsel with himself, and try and arrange some plan in which he could dispassionately leave out self, and act as he had vowed that he would—as a true friend to Millicent Hallam and her child.
But he was not to reach his cabin without another mental sting, for as he descended he came upon Thisbe, looking red-eyed as if she had been crying, and he stopped to speak to her.
“Matter, sir?” she answered; “and you ask me? Go back on deck, and see for yourself, and say whether the old trouble is to come all over again.”
He felt as if he must speak angrily to the woman if he paused; and hurrying by her he shut himself in his cabin and stayed there for hours with the bustle of preparations for landing going on all around, the home of many months being looked upon now as a prison which every passenger was longing to quit, to gain the freedom of the shore.