I inwardly groaned and changed the subject.
"And what are your intentions with regard to Miss Madison?" I asked.
"To win her love, if I can, and make her my wife," he said, determinedly. "You say she does not remember me—the fellow in jail? Well, don't tell her, doctor. I'll tell her myself when the time comes, but not now. It might hurt me."
I promised, but could not see the future clear of trouble, for Dunbar, for Lance, and for Miss Madison.
Dunbar went back to New York, to assume charge of Lance's yacht, and I spent the next few months in fruitless argument, denunciation, and threat; but I could not move Lance, and I think I drove him to harder drinking. Then there came the time when Ella Madison, the girl I loved as my own child, asked me to accompany her on a trip to sea in Lance's yacht.
"I must disappear for a time," she said, sadly, "and I want you with me. I know I will die if you are not with me, for he is inflexible."
"I'll go, my girl," I said, grimly, "and stand by you. But, God help the scoundrel if things come to the worst."
I thought of Dunbar as I said this, wondering what he would do, when he learned that his goddess was the victim of his savior.
But we packed up—my wife, the poor, weakened, and helpless girl, and myself. We went to New York, boarded the black, shiny schooner at Twenty-sixth Street, and put to sea, Dunbar delighted at the trip with the woman he adored, and Lance drunk and disagreeable. It was an unpleasant experience in his life, rendered necessary by his very slight adherence to the conventions.
The yacht was a fine schooner of about a hundred and twenty feet length, carrying, besides her skipper, a mate and twenty men, with a cook, steward, and cabin-boy. She was well found, in stores and the liquid refreshments dear to the soul of Lance, and well able to keep the sea until this unfortunate happening was over.