The girl went into another room, and returned presently with such fare as Mr. Milsom's establishment could afford. The sailor's eyes followed her wherever she went, full of compassion and love. He was sure this brutal wretch, Milsom, used her badly, and he rejoiced to think that he had disregarded all Joyce Harker's warnings, and penetrated into the scoundrel's home. He rejoiced, for he meant to rescue this lovely, helpless creature. He knew nothing of her, except that she was beautiful, friendless, lonely, and ill-used; and he determined to take her away and marry her.
He did not perplex himself with any consideration as to whether she would return his love, or be grateful for his devotion. He thought only of her unhappy position, and that he was predestined to save her.
The supper was laid upon the rickety deal table, and the three men sat down. Valentine would have waited till his host's daughter had seated herself; but she had laid no plate or knife for herself, and it was evident that she was not expected to share the social repast.
"You can go to bed now," said Milsom. "We're in for a jolly night of it, and you'll only be in the way. Where's the old man?"
"Gone to bed."
"So much the better: and the sooner you follow him will be so much the better again. Good night."
The girl did not answer him. She looked at him for a few moments with an earnest, inquiring gaze, which seemed to compel him to return her look, as if he had been fascinated by the profound earnestness of those large dark eyes; and then she went slowly and silently from the room.
"Sulky!" muttered Mr. Milsom. "There never was such a girl to sulk."
He took up a candle, and followed his daughter from the room.
A rickety old staircase led to the upper floor, where there were three or four bed-chambers. The house had been originally something more than a cottage, and the rooms and passages were tolerably large.