“If you mean Am I ill at sea? I am glad to say that I am not!” she replied. “I love the sea; but I hate voyaging upon it.”
“That sounds somewhat paradoxical, does it not?” I ventured to insinuate.
“Possibly it does,” she admitted. “What I mean is that, while I never enjoy such perfect health anywhere as I do when at sea, and while I passionately admire the ever-changing beauty and poetry of the ocean and sky in their varying moods, I find it distinctly irksome and unpleasant to be pent up for months within the narrow confines of a ship, with no possibility of escape from my surroundings however unpleasant they may be. There is no privacy, and no change on board a ship; one is compelled to meet the same people day after day, and to be brought into more or less intimate contact with them, whether one wishes it or not.”
“That is undoubtedly true,” I acknowledged, “so far, at least, as meeting the same people day after day is concerned. But surely one need not necessarily be brought into intimate contact with them, unless so minded; it is not difficult to make the average person understand that anything approaching to intimacy is unwelcome.”
“Is it not?” she retorted drily. “Then I am afraid that my experience has been more unfortunate than yours. I have more than once been obliged to be actually rude to people before. I could succeed in convincing them that I would prefer not to be on intimate terms with them.”
And therewith Miss Onslow ever so slightly turned herself away from me, and addressed herself to the contents of her plate with a manner that seemed indicative of a desire to terminate the conversation.
I thought that I already began to understand this very charming and interesting young lady. I had not the remotest idea who or what she was, beyond the bare fact that her name was Onslow, but her style and her manners—despite her singular hauteur—stamped her unmistakably as one accustomed to move in a high plane of society; that she was inordinately proud and intensely exclusive was clear, but I had an idea that this fault—if such it could be considered—was due rather to training than to any innate imperfection of character; and I could conceive that—the barrier of her exclusiveness once passed—she might prove to be winsome and fascinating beyond the power of words to express. But I had a suspicion that the man who should be bold enough to attempt the passage of that barrier would have to face many a rebuff, as well as the very strong probability of ultimate ignominious, irretrievable defeat; and as I was then—and still am, for that matter—a rather sensitive individual, I quickly determined that I at least would not dare such a fate. Moreover, I seemed to find in the drift of what she had said—and more particularly in her manner of saying it—a hint that possibly I might be one of those with whom she would prefer not to be on terms of intimacy.
“Well,” thought I, “if that is her wish, it shall certainly be gratified; she is a surpassingly beautiful creature, but I can admire and enjoy the contemplation of her beauty, as I would that of some rare and exquisite picture, without obtruding myself offensively upon her attention; and although she has all the appearance of being clever, refined, and possessed of a brilliant intellect, those qualities will have no irresistible attraction for me if she intends to hide them behind a cold, haughty, repellant manner.” And therewith I dismissed her from my mind, and addressed myself to the skipper, “This new ship of yours is a magnificent craft, Captain,” said I. “I fell incontinently in love with her as the waterman was pulling me off alongside. She is far and away the most handsome ship I have ever set eyes on.”
“Ay,” answered Dacre heartily, his whole face kindling with enthusiasm, “she is a beauty, and no mistake. You have some fine, handsome frigates in the service, Mr Conyers, but I doubt whether the best of them will compare with the City of Cawnpore for beauty, speed, or seagoing qualities. My word, sir, but it would have done you good to have seen her before she was put into the water. Shapely? shapely is not the word for it, she is absolutely beautiful! She is to other craft what,”—here his eye rested upon Miss Onslow’s unconscious face for an instant—“a perfectly lovely woman is to a fat old dowdy. There is only one fault I have to find with her, and that is only a fault in my eyes; there are many who regard it as a positive and important merit.”
“And pray what may that be?” I inquired. And, as I asked the question, several of the passengers who had overheard the skipper’s remark craned forward over the table in eager anticipation of his reply.