Was it her vanity that was wounded after all? “You forget,” said I, “that you would not answer when he addressed you at dinner.”
“I should think I wouldn't, after the way he spoke to Mr. Ready; and he too agitated to come to table, poor fellow!”
“Still, the captain felt the open slight.”
“Then he shouldn't have used such language in front of me.”
“Your father felt it, too, Miss Denison.”
I hear nothing plainer than her low but quick reply:
“Mr. Cole, my father has been dead many; many years; he died before I can remember. That man only married my poor mother. He sympathizes with Captain Harris—against me; no father would do that. Look at them together now! And you take his side, too; oh! I have no patience with any of you—except poor Mr. Ready in his berth.”
“But you are not going.”
“Indeed I am. I am tired of you all.”
And she was gone with angry tears for which I blamed myself as I fell to pacing the weather side of the poop—and so often afterwards! So often, and with such unavailing bitterness!
Senhor Santos and the captain were in conversation by the weather rail. I fancied poor old Harris eyed me with suspicion, and I wished he had better cause. The Portuguese, however, saluted me with his customary courtesy, and I thought there was a grave twinkle in his steady eye.
“Are you in deesgrace also, friend Cole?” he inquired in his all but perfect English.
“More or less,” said I ruefully.
He gave the shrug of his country—that delicate gesture which is done almost entirely with the back—a subtlety beyond the power of British shoulders.
“The senhora is both weelful and pivish,” said he, mixing the two vowels which (with the aspirate) were his only trouble with our tongue. “It is great grif to me to see her growing so unlike her sainted mother!”
He sighed, and I saw his
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