“You have been infinitely good to me, Flora,” answered Leslie, with deep feeling—“infinitely good, and infinitely patient; while I have been impatient and exacting. In my impatience—I can see it now—I have worked you cruelly hard—”
The girl put her hand over his mouth. “You shall not say another word until you talk sensibly,” she declared. “The idea of saying that you ‘worked me hard’! Why, what I did was child’s play; a girl of fifteen could have done it without being distressed. Please do not let me hear you say such things again!” she insisted, imperiously; immediately adding, “Now, you will promise to take a day’s rest to-morrow, will you not, Dick?”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” assented Leslie. “We will both take a day’s holiday, and go fishing along the inner edge of the reef, shall we?”
“By all means,” agreed Flora. “I have often thought that I should like a little fish, as a change of diet; I am getting most horribly tired of salt beef and pork and tinned meats. But you have been so feverishly busy that I did not like to ask you.”
“Then,” said Leslie, with severity, “please do not do it again. How many times must I tell you that you have only to express a wish, to have it gratified, if I can do it, before you will believe me?”
“I do believe you, Dick; indeed I do,” she answered softly. “I know that there is nothing I could ask you that you would not willingly and gladly do for me if you could. You are the kindest, most generous, most chivalrous gentleman that I ever met—”
“Stop, please!” exclaimed Leslie, with a sudden fierceness of energy that frightened the girl; “you must not say such things as that, or I shall some day forget myself and— But you have not yet heard my story; I must tell it you some day, Flora; yes, the time is drawing near when it will be imperatively necessary for me to tell you my story. Then we shall see what your opinion of me will be.”
“So you really have a history?” remarked the girl. “The people on board the Golden Fleece suspected as much, and freely said so; and as I have watched you from time to time, and have observed your sudden fits of melancholy, I have often thought that they must have been right in their surmise. Yes; you shall tell me your story, Dick; I shall be profoundly interested in it, I am certain; and if it is a sad one—as I more than half suspect—you shall have my whole-hearted sympathy. But, whatever you may have to tell me, it will never alter my opinion of you; you may have met with misfortune, or suffered grievous wrong, but nothing will ever persuade me that such a man as you have shown yourself to be can ever have done anything of which you or your friends need be ashamed. Tell it me now, Dick, if you will.”
“No,” answered Leslie, resolutely, though he longed for her promised sympathy more intensely than he had ever longed for anything else in his life; “no; I will not tell you now; the time is not yet ripe. But it will be ere long; and then I will tell you.”
“So be it,” agreed Flora. “Until then I can wait. And now let us go to dinner, for I see by the appearance of the cooking-stove that it is ready, and I am sure you must need it.”