She picked out the one face which she knew, and which it pained her to lose. By gestures and smiles, with a tear in the eye, she tried to make amends to Joséphine for the hasty parting, the half-spoken words. The maid on her side was in tears, and after the French fashion was proud of them. So the last minute came. The paddles were already turning, the ship was going slowly astern, when a man pushed his way through the crowd. He clutched the ladder as it was unhooked, and at some risk and much loss of dignity he was bundled on board. There was a lamp amidships, and, as he regained his balance, Mary, smiling in spite of herself, saw that he was an Englishman, a man about thirty, and plainly dressed. Then in her anxiety to see the last of Joséphine she crossed the deck as the ship went about, and she lost sight of him.
She continued to look back and to wave her handkerchief, until nothing remained but a light or two in a bank of shadow. That was the last she was to see of the land which had been her home for ten years; and chilled and lonely she turned about and did what, had she been an older traveller, she would have done before. She sought the after-cabin. Alas, a glance from the foot of the companion was enough! Every place was taken, every couch occupied, and the air, already close, repelled her. She climbed to the deck again, and was seeking some corner where she could sit, sheltered from the wind and rain, when the captain saw her and fell foul of her.
“Now, young lady,” he said, “no woman’s allowed on deck at night!”
“Oh, but,” she protested, “there’s no room downstairs!”
“Won’t do,” he answered roughly. “Lost a woman overboard once, and as much trouble about her as about all the men, drunk or sober, I’ve ever carried. All women below, all women below, is the order! Besides,” more amicably, as he saw by a ray of lantern-light that she was young and comely, “it’s wet, my dear, and going to be d—d wet, and as dark as Wapping!”
“But I’ve a cloak,” she petitioned, “if I sit quite still, and——”
A tall form loomed up at the captain’s elbow. “This is the lady I am looking for,” the new-comer said. “It will be all right, Captain Jones.”
The captain turned sharply. “Oh, my lord,” he said, “I didn’t know; but with petticoats and a dark night, blest if you know where you are! I’m sure I beg the young lady’s pardon. Quite right, my lord, quite right!” With a rough salute he went forward and the darkness swallowed him.
“Lord Audley?” Mary said. She spoke quietly, but to do so she had to steady her voice.
“Yes,” he replied. “I knew that you were crossing to-night, and as I had to go over this week I chose this evening. I’ve reserved a cabin for you.”