Jacques received this mandate with some confusion, and began to stammer something about the “poor boy not being disturbed.”
“Harkee, sir,” said Ethelston sternly; “I am captain on board this craft, and will be obeyed: as you go into that cabin three or four times a day to attend upon the invalid, methinks my presence cannot be so dangerous. I will take the risk upon myself: you hear my orders, sir, and they are not to be trifled with!”
Jacques disappeared, and Ethelston remained pacing the deck. In about half an hour the latter came up to him and said, “The young gentleman will receive the captain at sundown.”
“Very well,” replied Ethelston, and continued to pace the deck, revolving in his mind all the strange events of the last month,—his illness, the unfortunate passion of Nina, and her strange behaviour when he bid her farewell.
At the appointed time he went down, and again knocked at the side cabin door for admission: it was opened by the nurse, apparently a young woman of colour, who whispered to him in French, “Go in, sir, and speak gently to him, for he is very delicate.” So saying, she left the cabin, and closed the door behind her.
Ethelston approached the sofa, on which the grey evening light permitted him to see a slight figure, covered with a mantle; and addressing the invalid kindly, he said, “I fear, young sir, you must have suffered much during the gale.”
“No, I thank you,” was the reply, but so faintly uttered as to be scarcely audible.
“Can I do anything to make your stay on board more comfortable?”
“Yes,” was the whispered answer.