Her lip quivered. That quiver went to the captain's heart.
“Helped?” he faltered. “Helped? Why, you've done so much that I can't ever thank you. You've been the only real helper I've had in all this miserable business. You've stood by me all through.”
“But it was all wrong. He isn't the man at all. Didn't Mr. Peabody tell you?”
“Yes, yes, he told me. What difference does that make? Peabody be hanged! He ain't in this. It's you and me—don't you see? What made you do all this for me?”
She looked at the floor and not at him as she answered.
“Why, because I wanted to help you,” she said. “I've been alone in the world ever since mother died, years ago. I've had few real friends. Your friendship had come to mean a great deal to me. The splendid fight you were making for that little girl proved what a man you were. And you fought so bravely when almost everyone was against you, I couldn't help wanting to do something for you. How could I? And now it has come to nothing—my part of it. I'm so sorry.”
“It ain't, neither. It's come to everything. Phoebe, I didn't mean to say very much more than to beg your pardon when I headed for here. But I've got to—I've simply got to. This can't go on. I can't have you keep comin' to see me—and Bos'n. I can't keep meetin' you every day. I CAN'T.”
She looked up, as if to speak, but something, possibly the expression in his face, caused her to look quickly down again. She did not answer.
“I can't do it,” continued the captain desperately. “'Tain't for what folks might say. They wouldn't say much when I was around, I tell you. It ain't that. It's because I can't bear to have you just a friend. Either you must be more'n that, or—or I'll have to go somewheres else. I realized that when I was in Washin'ton and cruisin' to California and back. I've either got to take Bos'n and go away for good, or—or—”
She would not help him. She would not speak.