CHAPTER II.
ELLINOR.
Sir Redmond Sleath had no pity for the suspense and agony of mind now endured by Mary; and as for Dewsnap and Ringbolt, they knew nothing about her.
During the days just mentioned the clanging of the ship's bell from time to time, and the din of fog horns from vessels passing with less than half-steam up, informed Ellinor that the fog still rested on the river; yet every morning she heard the rasping of the holystones as the deck was cleaned, and the mysterious cry of 'soak and send'—the order to pass the wet swabs along.
The terror she had undergone, the subsequent affronts, unblushing and terrible—for such she deemed Sleath's love-making—and the uncertain future, all throbbed in hot and wretched thought wildly through her heart, till at last, when the yacht was fairly under way, fainting-fits and the torment of sea-sickness made reflection, fear, and regret alike impossible, for a kind of delirium came upon her, and she grew oblivious of her surroundings; but we are anticipating.
'The girl may die on our hands, if this sort of thing goes on,' said Dewsnap, 'and that might prove deuced awkward for us all.'
'I have thought of that, sir,' said Ringbolt; 'but one may as well whistle psalms to the taff-rail——'
'As attempt to move me—you are right, Mr. Ringbolt,' interrupted Sleath; 'but there is no dying in the case.'
'Why not send her ashore——?' began Dewsnap.
'And relinquish her? Not if I know it.'
'I mean to the boarding-house of the old Frau Wyburg, near the Bleichen Canal—you know the place.'