“Bessie,” said Mrs. Warner, “come and help me to put the two little ones to bed. Mr.—I beg his pardon—Captain Mopoke says he doesn’t mind.”
“None of your larks now, missis,” said the Mopoke; “you jest mind what yer about, or I ‘ll let daylight into yer gallant defender there.”
“That’s the way,” whispered Hollis tenderly; “go now—go, dear.”
She lifted his hand to her breast in the obscurity, and stooping, laid her face against it.
“My darling,” he said passionately, “God bless you, my darling; it will be all right, I know. And remember, dear—you won’t be angry—remember, I have loved you so. I think I have always loved you, Bessie.”
The men round the table were in high good humour, joking with each other and the two Irish servants, who were beginning to think that being “stuck up” was not so terrible after all, while the cook took her apron from her face and joined in the chaff. Hollis was thankful for it. It enabled him to say what he had to say unobserved, for even his guard, feeling sure of him, gave more heed to his comrades’ sayings and doings. His broken wrist made him feel sick and faint, and it was only by a strong effort of will he kept his senses at all. If only he could see Bessie safe out of it!
“Go, dear,” he whispered again, “go to Mrs. Warner.”
“Tom,” she whispered, her face still against his hand, “I love you, Tom. I did not know it this afternoon, but I do now. I love you, I love you.”
“Bessie!” Mrs. Warner’s voice sounded imperative. “Are you never coming?”
“God bless you, my darling!”