The morning after the vessel left Dartmouth brought with it lovely weather, brisk and clear, with a fresh breeze that just topped the glittering swell with white. There was, however, a considerable roll on the ship, and those poor wretches, who for their sins are given to sea-sickness, were not yet happy. Presently Arthur observed the pretty black-eyed girl — poor thing, she did not look very pretty now — creep on to the deck and attempt to walk about, an effort which promptly resulted in a fall into the scuppers. He picked her up, and asked if she would not like to sit down, but she faintly declined, saying that she did not mind falling so long as she could walk a little — she did not feel so sick when she walked. Under these circumstances he could hardly do less than help her, which he did in the only way at all practicable with one so weak, namely, by walking her about on his arm.
In the midst of his interesting peregrinations he observed Mrs. Carr gazing out of her deck cabin window, looking, he thought, pale, but sweetly pretty, and rather cross. When that lady saw that she was observed, she pulled the curtain with a jerk and vanished. Shortly after this Arthur’s companion vanished too, circumstances over which she had no control compelling her, and Arthur himself sat down rather relieved.
But he was destined that day to play knight-errant to ladies in distress. Presently Mrs. Carr’s cabin-door opened, and that lady herself emerged therefrom, holding on to the side-rail. He had just begun to observe how charmingly she was dressed, when some qualm seized her, and she returned to re-enter the cabin. But the door had swung-to with the roll of the vessel, and she could not open it. Impelled by an agony of doubt, she flew to the side, and, to his horror, sprang with a single bound on to the broad rail that surmounted the bulwark netting, and remained seated there, holding only to a little rope that hung down from the awning-chain. The ship, which was at the moment rolling pretty heavily, had just reached the full angle of her windward roll, and was preparing for a heavy swing to leeward. Arthur, seeing that Mrs. Carr would in a few seconds certainly be flung out to sea, rushed promptly forward and lifted her from the rail. It was none too soon, for next moment down the great ship went with a lurch into a trough of the sea, hurling him, with her in his arms, up against the bulwarks, and, to say truth, hurting him considerably. But, if he expected any thanks for this exploit, he was destined to be disappointed, for no sooner had he set his lovely burden down, than she made use of her freedom to stamp upon the deck.
“How could you be so foolish?” said he. “In another moment you would have been flung out to sea!”
“And pray, Mr. Heigham,” she answered, in a cutting and sarcastic voice, “is that my business or your own? Surely it would have been time enough for you to take a liberty when I asked you to jump over after me.”
Arthur drew himself up to his full height and looked dignified — he could look dignified when he liked.
“I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Carr,” he said, with a little bow. “What I did, I did to save you from going overboard. Next time that such a little adventure comes in my way, I hope, for my own sake, that it may concern a lady possessed of less rudeness and more gratitude.”
And then, glaring defiance at each other, they separated; she marching off with all the dignity of an offended queen to the “sweet seclusion that a cabin grants,” whilst he withdrew moodily to a bench, comforted, however, not a little by the thought that he had given Mrs. Carr a Roland for her Oliver.
Mrs. Carr’s bound on to the bulwarks had been the last effort of that prince of demons, sea-sickness, rending her ere he left. When the occasion for remaining there had thus passed away, she soon tired of her cabin and of listening to the inarticulate moans of her beloved Agatha, who was a most faithful subject of the fiend, one who would never desert his manner so long as he could roll the tiniest wave, and, sallying forth, took up her position in the little society of the ship.
But between Arthur and herself there was no attempt at reconciliation. Each felt their wrongs to be as eternal as the rocks. At luncheon they looked unutterable things from different sides of the table; going in to dinner, she cut him with the sweetest grace, and on the following morning they naturally removed to situations as remote from each other as the cubic area of a mail steamer would allow.
“Pretty, very much so, but ill-mannered; not quite a lady, I should say,” reflected Arthur to himself, with a superior smile.
“I detest him,” said Mrs. Carr to herself, “at least, I think I do; but how neatly he put me down! There is no doubt about his being a gentleman, though insufferably conceited.”
These uncharitable thoughts rankled in their respective minds about 12 A.M. What then was Arthur’s disgust, on descending a little late to luncheon that day, to be informed by the resplendent chief-steward — who, for some undiscovered reason, always reminded him of Pharaoh’s butler — that the captain had altered the places at table, and that this alteration involved his being placed next to none other than Mrs. Carr. Everybody was already seated, and it was too late to protest, at any rate for that meal; so he had to choose between submission and going without his luncheon. Being extremely hungry, he decided for the first alternative, and reluctantly brought himself to a halt next his avowed enemy.
But surprises, like sorrows, come in battalions, a fact that he very distinctly realized when, having helped himself to some chicken, he heard a clear voice at his side address him by name.
“Mr. Heigham,” said the voice, “I have not yet thanked you for your kindness to Miss Terry. I am commissioned to assure you that she is very grateful, since she is prevented by circumstances from doing so herself.”
“I am much gratified,” he replied, stiffly; “but really I did nothing to deserve thanks, and if I had,” he added, with a touch of sarcasm, “I should not have expected any.”
“Oh! what a cynic you must be,” she answered with a rippling laugh, “as though women, helpless as they are, were not always thankful for the tiniest attention. Did not the pretty girl with the black eyes thank............