And her smile had all that I dreamed,
Then the world were not so bitter
But a smile could make it sweet.”
In the days that followed, Hertford became more completely absorbed in watching this young girl, and wondering and imagining about her, than he had ever been in anything in his life. He never saw her except at a distance, and even then he guarded his looks carefully. The two ladies seemed to have no acquaintances on board, and if they had had, it would have done him no good, for he knew no one to introduce him. Besides, he was not sure he wanted to be introduced. There was more room for the indulgence of dreams as things were now.
And he did indulge himself in dreams, without restriction. The more he saw of the beautiful young creature, the more adorable she seemed to him. He never met her suddenly, or even caught sight of her red cloak at a distance, that he did not feel a sudden stilling of his heartbeats, followed by thick throbbings that made his next few breaths difficult. Sometimes he would meet her taking exercise on the deck with her aunt, and sometimes she was on the arm of a French maid. Hertford noticed that when the latter was her companion she had generally a gayer and freer air, and he could see that there were the kindest feelings of sympathy and good-will between the two, in spite of their different spheres of life. The woman did not look as if she could have answered to the name of “Minion,” in this companionship! When, however, the young girl was with her aunt, Hertford often saw a look of constraint, and even sadness, on her face. This set him to conjecturing, and gave him a fear that she might be dependent upon this rich and exacting relative, and perhaps a victim to her tyrannies and caprices. The mere suggestion of it stirred in his heart depths of tenderness whose very existence was a surprise to him.
One afternoon, during the last days of the voyage, Hertford had been sitting a long time silently thinking. His thoughts were always on one subject now—the girl who, at this moment, sat in one of the long row of chairs, made fast against the rolling of the vessel. There were, perhaps, half a dozen people between them, but, although he had not looked toward her since he sat down, he had no consciousness of any human existence about him but hers. He felt, moreover, in his inmost soul, that she had a consciousness of him. He was sure that an electric current of sympathy communicated from his heart to hers. There was nothing whatever external to encourage him in his belief—not a look nor a sign, but it was a thing stronger than either. And whenever he did meet her eyes, which was rarely, what was it that gave him that inevitable little shock, if it were not a meeting of such currents? Of course, his might be the positive and hers the negative, but he absolutely believed she felt it, too.
As he sat there, watching the cold flutter of the dingy white canvas that covered the life-boat, made fast in front of him, and which was shaken into strong ripples by the winter wind, making a crackling little noise, he liked to think that they both saw and heard the same things, and he longed to ask her if the ridiculous little cannon, with its canvas cover, did not remind her of a child on all fours, under a table-cloth, playing bogy. Why couldn’t he have a little innocent talk with her? The restrictions imposed by society seemed to him most absurd.
He became aware that the people between him and the object of his thoughts were, one by one, going away. At last, a man and a woman sitting next to him got up and went below, and now, with a quickening of the heart, he realised that the being nearest him, across that row of empty chairs, was the girl whose image had now out-crowded every other from his heart. The maid was on the other side of her, but they were both quite silent. Presently he ventured to turn his head and look toward her. Only her pure profile was in view, but he felt that she saw with her averted eyes that he was looking at her. Her rounded cheek seemed to return his gaze, and he was almost certain that it reddened.
Of course, he might be mistaken in thinking that she had any consciousness of his existence. He had no real evidence of the fact, but the unreal was enough for him. He was always frank, in dealing with himself, though often the reverse of it, in interpreting himself to others. For instance, he had always carefully concealed the fact that he was, by nature, sentimental and romantic; but he knew it of himself absolutely. He was not at all surprised to find himself, now, in love with a woman to whom he had never spoken. It had always belonged to his old ideal of himself that he should love at first sight, if he ever loved at all, in the real sense. This girl—if her nature and character corresponded to her personality—was absolutely all that he ever dreamed of; and he had not a fear that, in knowing her, he should find himself disappointed. Indeed, what he felt was, that he absolutely knew her already. It gave him a slight twinge of regret to think she must be so many years younger than himself—it must be ten or twelve, for she could not be over twenty-two or twenty-three. But then she was a being with whom he might renew his youth—indeed, she had already called into fiery life all the most ardent impulses of his earliest manhood. He had made up his mind now that he would make it his first business, on landing, to get himself formally introduced to her. He had satisfied himself, by marks on their luggage, that their destination was New York, so he knew he was not in danger of losing sight of them. They were sure to belong to his own world, and he knew he could easily make their acquaintance. As he sat there, so near her that by a slight turn of the head he could see her, he felt impatient at the formalities and delays which must be gone through with, before he could go to her boldly and ask her to leave the irksome thraldom of her life with her rich, old aunt, and be his wife. That was exactly what he had to say to her, with as little circumlocution and delay as possible. His mind had never been more definitely made up about anything in his life. It was decidedly pleasing to him to think of her as poor, even though she had the surroundings of riches and luxury. Still, how different to be in the really independent position in which he could place her!
A little thing had happened one day during the voyage, that had touched and pleased him intensely. A poor man had died in the steerage, and a subscription paper was sent around to raise money for his family. When Hertford took it, he ran his eye rather eagerly down the column of names and figures and saw: “Mrs. Etheridge, $100.00,” and under it, “Miss Shelton, $1.00.” It went to his heart that she had had so little to give, but had not on that account refrained from giving what she could. “Shelton,” he kept saying over and over to himself, trying in vain to remember if he had ever known any one of the name. He knew the name of Etheridge as belonging to a rich and influential family in New York, but could recall no definite acquaintance even with them.