His lordship’s pale, dreamy eyes had, as I have said, a habit of observing things, and his wits were tolerably acute.
He was blaming himself now for not having observed certain things before, or, at least, for not having studied them more closely, and he was busily connecting them with more recent observations made that very day.
He had observed, for instance, that Blood’s ship was named the Arabella, and he knew that Arabella was Miss Bishop’s name. And he had observed all the odd particulars of the meeting of Captain Blood and Miss Bishop, and the curious change that meeting had wrought in each.
The lady had been monstrously uncivil to the Captain. It was a very foolish attitude for a lady in her circumstances to adopt towards a man in Blood’s; and his lordship could not imagine Miss Bishop as normally foolish. Yet, in spite of her rudeness, in spite of the fact that she was the niece of a man whom Blood must regard as his enemy, Miss Bishop and his lordship had been shown the utmost consideration aboard the Captain’s ship. A cabin had been placed at the disposal of each, to which their scanty remaining belongings and Miss Bishop’s woman had been duly transferred. They were given the freedom of the great cabin, and they had sat down to table with Pitt, the master, and Wolverstone, who was Blood’s lieutenant, both of whom had shown them the utmost courtesy. Also there was the fact that Blood, himself, had kept almost studiously from intruding upon them.
His lordship’s mind went swiftly but carefully down these avenues of thought, observing and connecting. Having exhausted them, he decided to seek additional information from Miss Bishop. For this he must wait until Pitt and Wolverstone should have withdrawn. He was hardly made to wait so long, for as Pitt rose from table to follow Wolverstone, who had already departed, Miss Bishop detained him with a question:
“Mr. Pitt,” she asked, “were you not one of those who escaped from Barbados with Captain Blood?”
“I was. I, too, was one of your uncle’s slaves.”
“And you have been with Captain Blood ever since?”
“His shipmaster always, ma’am.”
She nodded. She was very calm and self-contained; but his lordship observed that she was unusually pale, though considering what she had that day undergone this afforded no matter for wonder.
“Did you ever sail with a Frenchman named Cahusac?”
“Cahusac?” Pitt laughed. The name evoked a ridiculous memory. “Aye. He was with us at Maracaybo.”
“And another Frenchman named Levasseur?”
His lordship marvelled at her memory of these names.
“Aye. Cahusac was Levasseur’s lieutenant, until he died.”
“Until who died?”
“Levasseur. He was killed on one of the Virgin Islands two years ago.”
There was a pause. Then, in an even quieter voice than before, Miss Bishop asked:
“Who killed him?”
Pitt answered readily. There was no reason why he should not, though he began to find the catechism intriguing.
“Captain Blood killed him.”
“Why?”
Pitt hesitated. It was not a tale for a maid’s ears.
“They quarrelled,” he said shortly.
“Was it about a... a lady?” Miss Bishop relentlessly pursued him.
“You might put it that way.”
“What was the lady’s name?”
Pitt’s eyebrows went up; still he answered.
“Miss d’Ogeron. She was the daughter of the Governor of Tortuga. She had gone off with this fellow Levasseur, and... and Peter delivered her out of his dirty clutches. He was a black-hearted scoundrel, and deserved what Peter gave him.”
“I see. And... and yet Captain Blood has not married her?”
“Not yet,” laughed Pitt, who knew the utter groundlessness of the common gossip in Tortuga which pronounced Mdlle. d’Ogeron the Captain’s future wife.
Miss Bishop nodded in silence, and Jeremy Pitt turned to depart, relieved that the catechism was ended. He paused in the doorway to impart a piece of information.
“Maybe it’ll comfort you to know that the Captain has altered our course for your benefit. It’s his intention to put you both ashore on the coast of Jamaica, as near Port Royal as we dare venture. We’ve gone about, and if this wind holds ye’ll soon be home again, mistress.”
“Vastly obliging of him,” drawled his lordship, seeing that Miss Bishop made no shift to answer. Sombre-eyed she sat, staring into vacancy.
“Indeed, ye may say so,” Pitt agreed. “He’s taking risks that few would take in his place. But that’s always been his way.”
He went out, leaving his lordship pensive, those dreamy blue eyes of his intently studying Miss Bishop’s face for all their dreaminess; his mind increasingly uneasy. At length Miss Bishop looked at him, and spoke.
“Your Cahusac told you no more than the truth, it seems.”
“I perceived that you were testing it,” said his lordship. “I am wondering precisely why.”
Receiving no answer, he continued to observe her silently, his long, tapering fingers toying with a ringlet of the golden periwig in which his long face was set.
Miss Bishop sat bemused, her brows knit, her brooding glance seeming to study the fine Spanish point that edged the tablecloth. At last his lordship broke the silence.
“He amazes me, this man,” said he, in his slow, languid voice that never seemed to change its level. “That he should alter his course for us is in itself matter for wonder; but that he should take a risk on our behalf—that he should venture into Jamaica waters.... It amazes me, as I have said.”
Miss Bishop raised her eyes, and looked at him. She appeared to be very thoughtful. Then her lip flickered curiously, almost scornfully, it seemed to him. Her slender fingers drummed the table.
“What is still more amazing is that he does not hold us to ransom,” said she at last.
“It’s what you deserve.”
“Oh, and why, if you please?”
“For speaking to him as you did.”
“I usually call things by their names.”
“Do you? Stab me! I shouldn’t boast of it. It argues either extreme youth or extreme foolishness.” His lordship, you see, belonged to my Lord Sunderland’s school of philosophy. He added after a moment: “So does the display of ingratitude.”
A faint colour stirred in her cheeks. “Your lordship is evidently aggrieved with me. I am disconsolate. I hope your lordship’s grievance is sounder than your views of life. It is news to me that ingratitude is a fault only to be found in the young and the foolish.”
“I didn’t say so, ma’am.” There was a tartness in his tone evoked by the tartness she had used. “If you would do me the honour to listen, you would not misapprehend me. For if unlike you I do not always say precisely what I think, at least I say precisely what I wish to convey. To be ungrateful may be human; but to display it is childish.”
“I... I don’t think