“He would never have heard of the Golden Cloud if it hadn’t been for me,” she said, trembling. “His death is at my door.”
Fraser tried to comfort her and straining metaphor to the utmost, said that if the finger of Providence had not made her oversleep herself she would undoubtedly have shared the same fate.
The girl shook her head.
“He shipped before the mast for the sake of being on the same ship as I was,” she said, with quivering lip; “it is not every man who would have done that, and I—I—”
“Overslept yourself,” said Fraser, consolingly.
Miss Tyrell made an impatient gesture, but listened hopefully as her visitor suggested that it was quite possible Flower had got away in another boat.
“I’ll watch the paper every day,” she said, brightening; “you miss some at sea.”
But nothing came of the watching. The Golden Cloud had had its obituary in the paper in large type, and that was all—a notice to certain women and children scattered about Europe to go into mourning and to the owners to get another ship.
By the end of the couple of months Fraser had given up all hope. He was very sorry for his unfortunate friend, but his sorrow was at times almost tempered by envy as he pondered over the unexpected change which had come over his relations with Poppy Tyrell. The old friendly footing had disappeared, and her manner had become distant as though, now that the only link which connected them was broken, there was no need for further intercourse. The stiffness which ensued made his visits more and more difficult. At last he missed calling one night when he was in London, and the next time he called the girl was out. It was a fortnight before he saw her, and the meeting was embarrassing to both.
“I’m sorry I was out last time you came,” said Poppy.