“I am dreadfully in love with you this morning,” he breathed.
“That is no secret,” she retorted.
“It is. You and I together must daily find new paths in Eden. But my less poetic tidings should be welcome, also. Walker says he hopes to get steam up to-morrow.”
“Well, tell us quickly,” cried Isobel, with a show of intense interest, when Courtenay had gone. She had decided on a line of conduct, and meant to follow it carefully. The more sympathy she extended towards her friend’s love idyll, the less likelihood was there of disagreeable developments in other respects. That trick of calculating gush was Isobel’s chief failing. She was so wrapped up in self that her own interests governed every thought. Courtenay’s reference to letters sent a wave of alarm pulsing through each nerve. Though his manner betokened that the affair was something which concerned Elsie alone, she was on fire until she learnt that his “secret” alluded to the restored vitality of the ship.
For once, her expressions of gratitude were heartfelt. Mrs. Somerville even wept for joy. This poor woman after living twenty-five years in the oasis of a mission-house, was a strange subject for storm-tossed wandering and fights with cannibals. Seldom has fate conspired with the fickle sea to sport with such helpless human flotsam, save, perhaps, in that crowning caprice of the waves which once cast ashore a live baby in a cradle.
But the baby’s emotions were crude, and probably in no wise connected with the tremors of ship-wreck, whereas Mrs. Somerville, during these full days, was constantly asking herself how it could be possible that she was living at all.
“It will be a real manifestation of Providence if we ever reach England again,” she cried, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure John and I have said so many a time during the past week. To think of the ship’s blowing up in the way she did, it makes me all of a tremble, it does.”
“Oh,” broke in Elsie, thinking that the information she possessed would help to calm the older woman, “we have made a good many discoveries since—since the boat went away without me, I mean. But do tell me, how did those horrid Chileans manage to cast off the tackle before Mr. Gray or some of the other men were able to stop them? Of course, it is matterless now, in a sense, but at that moment it looked like leaving those on the ship to certain death.”
Mrs. Somerville was stricken dumb. The American’s shooting of two men on White Horse Island had naturally called for a complete explanation on his part, and she did not know how to answer Elsie’s question. Before she could gather her wits, Isobel intervened.
“If you had been in that boat, dear,” she said sweetly, “you would realize the topsy-turvy condition of our brains. Even Mr. Gray himself, the coolest man on board, imagined we might sink any moment. So what can you expect of those excitable Chileans? Besides, the thing was done so quickly that we were swept away by the tide before any one fully understood what was happening. Anyhow, you had the best of it, as events transpired. What are the discoveries you spoke of?”