“Not quite all of it,” he replied, “but a great deal. It makes me feel—well, like a blackguard, when I think that you’ve been here in this dull house all this time—five years, isn’t it?—while I’ve been running about and having a good time. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
She looked round at him again with a smile. “That’s nice of you,” she said. “But, you know, we can’t all have the good things in this world—can we? Still, I must confess it’s been rather dull; one sees the same houses and the same faces, and one does the same things day after day, summer and winter, for years. I’m only glad to take things as they come, and not to think. But I think sometimes—of course, I don’t know—I’d rather be desperately unhappy with some real sorrow than just exist like this. If one had a real sorrow one could fight it and live it down and do all sorts of things; but here”—she made a little despairing gesture with her hand—“there’s simply nothing to fight, nothing to do.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Comethup. “You know,” he added lamely, “I’ve been wanting to come and see you, wanting to know something about you, for a long time; only we’ve never been anywhere near England. But now I shall be able to see a great deal of you, I hope; I shall be coming down often to—to see the captain.”
Her eyes flashed at him for a moment and then were turned away. “Yes, to see the captain,” she responded.
Some one appeared on the little balcony, and a voice summoned the girl. ’Linda drew Comethup toward the house; at the foot of the steps leading to the balcony she turned toward him. “I should be grateful if you would come in, just for a little while. There’s only Mrs. Dawson there, and she’s sure to remember you.” She spoke almost in a tone of humility; her eyes entreated him.
He followed her up the steps and into the room. The woman of whom she had spoken was standing a little way from the window, and looked at him keenly for a moment as he passed in. ’Linda stopped and laughingly called Comethup to her remembrance, and the woman gave him her hand—a little distrustfully, he thought. The room was very meanly furnished, and a lamp stood on a table, with a work-basket—with half its contents tumbled out—beside the lamp. Mrs. Dawson sat down and took up some work and began to ply her needle industriously. ’Linda drew a chair to the open window and signed to Comethup to sit near her.
They talked in low tones of many things, she questioning him eagerly about his travels and the places he had seen, nodding with quick sympathy when he described some scene which had caught his fancy, and interposing a little sigh sometimes as she glanced about the room or across to the silent figure sewing. “Here has been my world,” she said softly, “this and the garden; yet I have dreamed some dreams here too.”
They were silent for some time, and Comethup, glancing up, suddenly met the keen glance of Mrs. Dawson. She dropped her eyes in a moment, but he had an uneasy feeling afterward that she constantly watched him. She went from the room a few moments before he took his departure.
“When shall I see you again?” he asked as he held the girl’s hand.