“Ah, you swine! Can it be possible that you are a Frenchman? What sort of countship is it you boast of?”
“Sir, I am a passenger on this ship—”
Courtenay’s voice was raised a little.
“Mr. Boyle,” he said, “give orders that if this skunk shows his nose inside the saloon again he is to be kicked out. He can eat his meals in his stateroom, or in the forecabin with the other savages.”
Elsie heard every word. She fancied, too, that Isobel was listening, though she gave no sign. But the unknown cause of the captain’s anger was as naught compared with the statement that he was about to leave the ship. That stabbed her with a nameless fear. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;” she saw her idyl destroyed, her sweet dreaming roused into cruel reality. Her understanding heart told her that Courtenay meant to go without bidding her farewell. She had heard the lowering of the boat without heeding; he was already climbing down the ship’s side. Soon he would be far from her, perhaps never to return. For he was not one to paint imaginary ills, and had he not told de Poincilit what the outcome of the undertaking might be? Was it his wish that she should remain in seeming ignorance of his mission until it was too late for a parting word? Did he dread the ordeal of telling her his errand? Even he, so strong and resolute, who had so often smiled grim death out of countenance, feared the kiss which might wean him from the narrow way. And she must prove herself worthy of him. She must suffer in silence, trusting the All-powerful to bring him back to her arms.
And then she found Isobel looking at her with frightened eyes.
“Did you hear?” came the tense whisper.
“Yes.”
“And you are content to let him go?”
“Ah, God! Yes, content.”