“Well, not overmuch,” replied the Captain. “Seemed to know all about it, howiver. Talked as if he was in your confidence. Asked when you were goin’ to be married. Well, now, he didn’t exactly say it, you know, but he somehow gave me to understand that you were in love with Miss Ames, an’ she likewise with you; an’ thought her family wouldn’t make no objections. That was about all.”
Harrington, with a look of pain, reddened while the Captain was speaking, and his nostrils quivered.
“I am shocked and grieved that Witherlee should talk in this way,” he said, sadly. “I shall certainly call him to account for this.”
“John, you musn’t mention it,” said the Captain, anxiously. “He said he thought I knew all about it, or he wouldn’t have alluded to it, and he made me promise not to speak of it. It won’t do, John. Fact is, I oughtn’t to have said a word.”
Harrington leaned his elbows on the table, and for a moment buried his face in his hands. He had a clear glimpse into the method of the good Fernando.
“Very well, Eldad,” he said, calmly, leaning back in his chair. “Let it go, I won’t speak of it. But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in this statement, so far as I’m concerned, and I hope there is not in regard to Miss Ames!”
The Captain did not answer, but lounged away, and during the long silence that followed, walked up and down with a ruminating air. At length he stopped and fronted the young man, who was absorbed in musing.
“John,” said he, “to-day’s the day, you know.”
Harrington, knowing what he meant, bent his head, looking with half-absent sadness into vacancy.
“Twelve years ago to-day, John, the good ship Contocook went down,” continued the Captain, in a hushed voice, with a half-soliloquizing air. “All the women an’ children saved. That was a comfort, John.”