“Now then, Harding,” bawled the old trader, “don't forget to be up to time, eight o'clock.”
“Come aboard, and make out your order for your trade, you noisy old Areoi devil,” said Harding. “You'll 'make it out ashore,' eh? No fear, I won't trust you, you careless, forgetful old dog. So just lay up alongside, and I'll take you ashore in half an hour.”
“By Jupiter, I mustn't forget the order,” and Baldwin, finding he could not inveigle the captain ashore just then, ran the boat alongside the schooner and stepped over her rail—“Go on, Brice, my lad. I'll soon be with you. Give him some whisky or beer, or something, Loisé, as soon as you get to the house. He looks as melancholy as a ghost.”
As the boat's crew pushed off from the schooner, Brice came aft to steer, and placing his hand on the tiller it touched Loisé's. She moved aside to make room for him, and he heard his name whispered, and in the darkness he saw her lips part in a happy smile.
Then, still silent, they were pulled ashore.
From his end of the house he heard a soft footfall enter the big room, and then stop. She was standing by the table when, soon after, he came out of his room. At the sound of his footstep she turned the flame of the shaded lamp to its full height, and then raised her face and looked at him. There was a strange, radiant expectancy in her eyes that set his heart to beat wildly. Then he remembered her husband—his friend.
“I suppose Tom won't be long,” he began, nervously, when she came over to him and placed her hand on his sleeve. The slumbrous eyes were all aglow now, and her bosom rose and fell in short, quick strokes beneath her white muslin gown.
“Why did you go away?” she said, her voice scarce raised above a whisper, yet quivering and tremulous with emotion.
He tried to look away from her, trembling himself, and not knowing what to say.