Some dreary days, and even weeks, passed by, and one evening Wallingford passed the captain\'s cabin on his way to his own. It had lately been rough, windy weather in the harbor, but that night the Ranger was on an even keel, and as steady as if she were a well-built house on shore.
The door was open. "Is that you, Mr. Wallingford? Come in, will you?" The captain gave his invitation the air of a command.
Wallingford obeyed, but stood reluctant before his superior.
"I thought afterward that you had gone off in something of a flurry, that night we dined together, and you have avoided any conversation with me since my return from Paris. I don\'t like your looks now. Has anything come between us? Do you repent your confidence?"
"No, I do not repent it," said the lieutenant slowly.
"Something has touched your happiness. Come, out with it! We were like brothers then. The steward caught us hand in hand; it is long since I have had so happy an evening. I am grateful for such friendship as you showed me, when we were together that night. God knows I have felt the lack of friendship these many days past. Come, sir, what\'s your grievance with me?"
"It is nothing that I should tell you. You must excuse me, sir."
The captain looked at him steadily. "Had I some part in it? Then you are unjust not to speak."
There was great kindness, and even solicitude, in Paul Jones\'s tone. Wallingford was moved. It was easier to find fault with the captain when his eyes were not upon one; they had great power over a man.
"Come, my dear fellow," he said again, "speak to me with frankness; you have no sincerer friend than I."
"It was the sight of the ring on your finger, then. I do not think you meant to taunt me, but to see it was enough to rob me of my hope, sir: that was all."
The captain colored and looked distressed; then he covered his eyes, with an impatient gesture. He had not a guilty air, or even an air of provocation; it struck Wallingford at the moment that he wore no look, either, of triumphant happiness, such as befitted the accepted lover of Mary Hamilton.
"You knew the ring?" asked the captain, looking up, after some moments of perplexing silence.
"I have always known it," answered Roger Wallingford; "we were very old friends. Of late I had been gathering hope, and now, sir, it seems that I must wish another man the joy I lived but to gain."
"Sit ye down," said the captain. "I thought once that I might gather hope, too. No man could wish for greater happiness on earth than the love of such a lady: we are agreed to that."
Then he was silent again. The beauty of Mary Hamilton seemed once more before his eyes, as if the dim-lighted cabin and the close-set timbers of the ship were all away, and he stood again on the terrace above the river with the pleading girl. She had promised that she would set a star in the sky for him; he should go back, one day, and lay his victories at her feet. How could a man tell if she really loved this young Wallingford? In the natural jealousy of that last moment when they were together, he had felt a fierce delight in bringing Wallingford away; she was far too good for him,—or for any man, when one came to that! Yet he had come himself to love the boy. If, through much suffering, the captain had not stood, that day, at the very height of his own character, with the endeavor to summon all his powers for a new effort, the scale at this moment would have turned.
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XXI THE CAPTAIN GIVES AN ORDER
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