The conversation of lovers, as related by poet and romancer, is apt to raise a serious doubt in the mind of the reader. For, it is the very nature and rule of such intercourse that it be not carried on in presence of a witness, and that nothing concerning it be divulged by the parties themselves. How, then, did the chronicler gain the information he is so incontinent to impart, if not by hearing and observation? He might, indeed, write of his own experience, disguisedly; but, he should be ashamed to do that, and we can place little faith in the records of a gentleman so unscrupulous. He may, of course, paint from imagination, but, obviously, in that case, we are as far from the truth as ever. So difficult is this problem that some have even averred that the passion of love, as depicted by the said poet and romancer, is nothing but an invention of the ingenious artist—an unsubstantial paradise created by them for their pleasure. The mark of the true lover, say the precisians, is a contented silence. For my own part, I would not be taken to possess an opinion on the subject. But I have to record what did actually fall under my own observation; and if it be a rare distinction to have listened to a pair of lovers conversing, that distinction is mine. I did not seek the occasion; I could not avoid it; it came to me.
When the conversation related in the last chapter was ended, Mr Murch left the cabin and went on deck. We could hear his great voice booming out a string of peremptory orders. Now, you must understand that the declining sun, shooting a brilliant beam through the porthole, divided the cabin into dusky halves, so that, from where I sat humbly in the background, Pomfrett’s face, seen through the shaft of misty radiance, appeared as though floating bodiless in the brown shadow. He was staring at Morgan Leroux with a most tragical expression. Of the lady I could see no more than a shadowy apparition. So they sat, silent, for a long minute. Then Morgan spoke.
“Well, are you happy now?” she said. It was a new voice; the masculine tone had given place to an accent of such a caressing endearment that I behooved to remind them of the presence of a third party. But neither took any heed.
Pomfrett made no reply, gazing upon the lady with a look of such despair you would think he was under sentence of hanging, instead of promotion to matrimony. Then Morgan arose and came to him, and it was a woman, and no wild hoyden playing the gallant, who kneeled down beside him.
“Well, are you happy now?” she said, again.
Still Pomfrett answered nothing, nor did he lift his hand to touch the pretty head that was bowed upon his knee, but the muscles of his cheek twitched a little, and his mouth set hard. Poor owners’ agent! he was sore beset.
“Why don’t you speak to me?” said Morgan, lifting a face all melted and broken, as the thin ice on still water breaks and melts in the winter sun.
“My dear, my dear,” said Pomfrett, “I don’t know what to say.” He stopped.
“Say nothing, then,” quoth Morgan, contentedly.
“Ah, but I must,” groaned Pomfrett. “I must keep faith with my owners, and I must keep faith with you, and how to do both?”