Just then, Harry Blew, separating from the sailors, is seen coming aft. It is in obedience to a message which the black cook has brought up out of the cabin—an order from Captain Lantanas for his first officer to meet him on the quarterdeck, and assist in “taking the sun.”
But the captain has not yet come up; and, on reaching the quarter, the ex-man-o’-war’s man, for the first time since he shipped on the Chilian craft, finds himself alone in the presence of the ladies.
They salute him with an empressement, which, to their surprise, is but coldly returned! Only a slight bow; after which he appears to busy himself with the log-slate lying on the capstan-head.
One closely scrutinising him, however, would see that this is pretence; for his eyes are not on the slate, but furtively turned towards the ship’s waist, watching the men, from whom he has just separated, and who seem to have their eyes upon him.
The young ladies thus repulsed—and almost rudely, as they take it—make no farther attempt to bring on a conversation; but, forsaking their chairs, hasten down the companion-stairs, and on to their own state-room—there to talk over a disappointment that has given chagrin to both, but which neither can satisfactorily explain.
The more they reflect on the conduct of the English sailor, the stranger it seems to them; and the greater is their vexation. For now they feel almost sure that something must have happened; that same thing—whatever it be—which dictated those cruel parting compliments. They seem doubly so now; for now they have evidence that such must have been the sentiment—almost proof of it in the behaviour of Harry Blew.
They are hurt by it—stung to the quick—and never again during that voyage do they attempt entering into conversation with the first officer of the Condor, nor with any one belonging to her—save her kindly captain, and the cook, equally kind to them, though in a different way.
Indeed, they no longer care to go on deck; only on rare occasions showing themselves there, as if they disliked looking upon him who has so rudely reminded them of the treason of their lovers.
Can it be treason? And if so, why? They ask these questions with eyes bent upon their fingers—on rings encircling them—placed there by those they are suspecting of disloyalty! The insignia should be proof of the contrary. But it is not, for love is above all things suspicious—however doting, ever doubting. Even on this evidence of its truth they no longer lean, and scarce console themselves with the hope, which that has hitherto been sustaining them. Now farther off than ever seems the realisation of that sweet expectancy hoped for and held out at last parting, promised in the phrase: “Hasta Cadiz!”