“Perhaps it is home-sickness,” she said, in a low voice, while she pretended to be busy tightening up the mainsail sheet. “I should like to see Borva again.”
“But you don’t want to live there all your life?” he said. “You know that would be unreasonable, Sheila, even if your husband could manage it; and I don’t suppose he can. Surely your papa does not expect you to go and live in Lewis always?”
“Oh, no,” she said, eagerly. “You must not think my papa wishes anything like that. It will be much less than that he was thinking of when he used to speak to Mr. Lavender about it. And I do not wish to live in the Lewis always; I have no dislike to London—none at all—only that—that—” And here she paused.
“Come, Sheila,” he said in the old paternal way to which she had been accustomed to yield up all her own wishes in the old days of their friendship, “I want you to be frank with me, and tell me what is the matter. I know there is something wrong; I have seen it for some time back. Now, you know I took the responsibility of your marriage on my shoulders, and I am responsible to you, and to your papa and myself for your comfort and happiness. Do you understand?”
She still hesitated, grateful in her inmost heart, but still doubtful as to what she should do.
“You look on me as an intermeddler,” he said with a smile.
“No, no,” she said; “you have always been our best friend.”
“But I have intermeddled, none the less. Don’t you remember when I told you that I was prepared to accept the consequences?”
It seemed so long a time since then!
“And once having to intermeddle, I can’t stop it, don’t you see? Now, Sheila, you’ll be a good little girl and do what I tell you. You’ll take the boat a long way out; we’ll put her head around, take down the sails, and let her tumble about and drift for a time, till you tell me all about your troubles, and then we’ll see what can be done.”