It was early in December, and the weather was raw and cold. Hertford was well protected against it, however, and spent much of his time on deck. On the afternoon of the second day out, he had been comfortably settled for some time, absorbed in his book, when, amid the confused sounds of water and machinery and human speech, he heard some words spoken so near him that they compelled the recognition of his consciousness.
“It seems that’s her aunt, and not her mother,” the voice said: and glancing up, Hertford saw two women, who had placed themselves very near him and were evidently discussing some third party of travellers. “I heard the beautiful girl call her ‘Auntie,’ as I passed. I call the old one the ‘Rich Lady,’ until I can find out her name, because she’s so high and mighty and magnificent. They’ve got a foreign maid and man-servant with them, and more furs and rugs and foot-warmers and luxuries than any one on the ship. I want you to watch the Rich Lady when she speaks to those servants. I’ve heard her call them both by name, and they had foreign names unfamiliar to me; but I told someone yesterday evening that, as well as I could make out, she called the maid ‘Minion,’ and the man ‘Varlet’—perhaps her manner helped me a little to this understanding of her words.”
The speaker and her companion both laughed, and Hertford, amused, too, followed the direction of their eyes, and soon identified the two persons under discussion. It was certainly true that they were surrounded by a greater evidence of magnificence in their travelling paraphernalia than any one else he had seen. Their deck-chairs, cushions, rugs, and superb furs made them seem almost unnecessarily luxurious. The older of the two had her large and bony frame stretched out at length on her deck-chair, and her harsh profile, with its thin, aquiline nose and thick, whitish eyebrows was thrown out in high relief against the dark-red cloak worn by her companion, whose head was enveloped in its pointed hood. The girl’s face was turned seaward, so that Hertford could not get a glimpse of it. But just as he had seen, in spite of heavy coverings, that the older woman’s figure was angular and thin, so he could see, in the younger one’s, suggestions of youthful vigor and loveliness. He was conscious of being interested by the mere pose of her head and turn of her throat. Her red cloak was gathered in at the neck by an infinite number of fine, flat little plaits that broke into free and graceful folds about her shoulders, and covered her arms and hands. Hertford had given no more than a passing glance to the faces of the two women whose conversation he had overheard, and a glance was enough to satisfy him also as to the appearance of the girl’s companion; but for several moments he kept his eyes furtively upon the muffled figure and head of the girl herself. As he was looking, a more violent lurch than any that had preceded it tipped the vessel so far on its side that a great wave, which was advancing, broke over the deck and deluged everyone with the heavy salt water. In an instant it had receded, leaving the floor of the deck a running stream, and the water standing in little puddles on rugs and cloaks, and wherever it had found a hollow to fill. Most of the passengers laughed good-humoredly, and took it as a joke, while the deck-stewards were brushing them off and mopping up the water. Hertford sat up and shook himself with a smile, and as he did so, he heard his nearest neighbor say:
“Oh, do look at the Rich Lady!”
She had drawn herself upward in her chair, the picture of angry protest, and as the assiduous steward hurried to her assistance, she said, indignantly:
“Well! Are we likely to have much more of this?” Quite as if she had put up with as much from the ocean as she proposed to stand!
As the humor of the thing flashed upon Hertford, he glanced at the figure beyond, which had also taken an upright position, and he saw the very loveliest girl-face that he had ever set his eyes on. He not only saw it, but he exchanged with it a glance of sympathetic amusement, which, somehow, seemed to do the work of an acquaintanceship of weeks. If, as George Eliot so profoundly says, “A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections,” the reverse is equally true; and a sense of liking sprang into being in both of the individuals whose eyes met in that momentary smiling glance. In an instant they looked away from each other. And now the two foreign servants came hurrying up with towels and brushes. Hertford could not distinctly make out the hurried French sentences which the old lady addressed to them, but he soon comprehended the attitude which had suggested the names of “Minion” and “Varlet” to his bright little neighbor.
It soon appeared that it was the Rich Lady’s will to go below, and she got to her feet, shaking herself free from her furs, and motioning her niece to follow her. The girl rose obediently, and as the maid came to her assistance, Hertford noticed the gentle and amiable way in which she spoke to the servant, in strong contrast to the manner of the older woman. She, however, responded very submissively to her aunt’s wish, although he thought it possible that she would have preferred to stay. As she passed very near to Hertford she did not look toward him, and so he could venture to look at her. Her profile was exquisite, and her very manner of walking and holding her wraps was full of charm for him. When she was almost out of sight, he obeyed the strong impulse which prompted him to follow, and, leaving all his belongings, he did so, keeping them in sight until they had disappeared into one of the cabines-de-luxe, the number of which he easily ascertained. Then he went to the saloon, where he looked at the passenger-list. The names opposite the number of that state-room were: Mrs. Etheridge and Miss Sheldon; valet et femme-de-chambre.
He returned to his seat on deck, but his book had lost its interest. There was something in the glance of that girl’s eyes which was enthralling. It crowded everything else out of his mind. He sat there thinking for a long time; and he felt it a real satisfaction when, at last, from some deep recess of his memory he recalled a rhyme which represented to him exactly his present state of mind. He said it to himself, under his breath:
“But if Maud were all that she seemed,