“That, then, I suppose is Mr. Wallingford himself—you are welcome back on the river; I remember the time well, when your respected father would make that boat do anything but talk. Nothing but the new paint, which is different from the last, prevented me from knowing the sloop. Had I taken a look at her bows, this couldn't have happened.”
{Footnote *: A story is told of a Scotchman of the name of Farquharson,—who settled among the High Dutch on the Mohawk, sometime previously to the Revolution; where, unable to pronounce his name, the worthy formers called him Feuerstein (pronounced Firestyne). The son lived and died under this appellation; but the grandson, removing to a part of the country where English alone was spoken, chose to anglisise his name; and, by giving it a free translation, became Mr. Flint!]
This speech evidently gave me and my vessel an estimation with the passengers of the Gull that neither had enjoyed the moment before. There was some private conversation on the quarter-deck of the other vessel, and, then, a highly respectable and gentleman-like looking old man, came to the rail, bowed, and commenced a discourse.
“I have the pleasure of seeing Captain Wallingford, I believe,” he remarked, “with whom my friends, the Mertons, came passengers from China. They have often expressed their sense of your civilities,” he continued, as I bowed in acquiescence, “and declare they should ever wish to sail with you, were they again compelled to go to sea.”
Now, this was viewing my relation to the Mertons in any point of view but that in which I wished it to be viewed, or indeed was just. Still it was natural; and the gentleman who spoke, a man of standing and character, no doubt fancied he was, saying that which must prove particularly acceptable to me; another proof how dangerous it is to attempt to decide on other men's feelings or affairs. I could not decline the discourse; and, while the Wallingford went slowly past the Gull, I was compelled to endure the torment of hearing the Mertons mentioned, again and again, in the hearing of Lucy and Grace; on the nerves of the latter of whom I knew it must be a severe trial. At length we got rid of this troublesome neighbour, though not until Lucy and her father were recognised and spoken to by several of the ladies in the other party. While my late guardian and his daughter were thus engaged, I stole a glance at my sister. She was pale as death, and seemed anxious to go below, whither I led her, most happily, I have every reason to think, as things turned out.
When the Wallingford had left the Gull some little distance astern, I returned to the deck, and Lucy went to take my place by the side of Grace's berth. She reappeared, however; in a very few minutes, saying that my sister felt an inclination to rest herself, and might fall asleep. Feeble, almost, as an infant, these frequent slumbers had become necessary, in a measure, to the patient's powers. Chloe coming up soon after with a report that her young mistress seemed to be in a doze, we all remained on deck, in order not to disturb her. In this manner, half an hour passed, and we had drawn quite near to another sloop that was going in the same direction with ourselves. At this moment, Mr. Hardinge was deeply immersed in his sermon, and I perceived that Lucy looked at him, from time to time, as if she expected to catch his eye. I fancied something distressed her, and yet it was not easy to imagine exactly what it could be.
“Do you not intend to go nearer the other sloop?” Lucy at length inquired, alluding to the vessel that was almost in a line with us; but to which I had ordered Neb to give a respectable berth.
“I thought the gossip of the last quite sufficient; but, if you like these interviews, certainly.”
Lucy seemed embarrassed; she coloured to her temples, paused a moment, and then added, affecting to laugh—and it was so seldom Lucy affected anything, but this time she did affect to laugh—as she said—
“I do wish to go near that sloop; though it is not exactly for the reason you suppose.”