"I did n't mean to speak to you to-day. But sometime I did mean to speak; because, whatever I was, I loved you; and I thought you did n't dislike me."
"I did like you," she murmured, "very much. And I respected you. But you can't say that I ever gave you any hope in this--this--way." She almost asked him if she had.
"No,--not purposely. And if you did, it 's over now. You have rejected me. I understand that. There's no reason why you shouldn't. And I can hold my tongue." He did not turn, but looked steadily past her at the boat's head.
An emotion stirred in her breast which took the form of a reproach.
"Was it fair, then, to say this when neither of us could escape afterwards?"
"I did n't mean to speak," he said, without looking up, "and I never meant to place you where you could n't escape."
It was true that she had proposed to go with him in the boat, and that she had chosen to come back with him, when he had offered to have her driven home from Leyden. "No, you are not to blame," she said, at last.
"I asked to some with you. Shall I tell you why ?" Her voice began to break. In her pity for him and her shame for herself the tears started to her eyes. She did not press her question, but, "Thank you for reminding me that I invited myself to go with you," she said, with feeble bitterness.
He looked up at her in silent wonder, and she broke into a sob. He said gently, "I don't suppose you expect me to deny that. You don't think me such a poor dog as that."
"Why, of course not," she answered, with quivering lips, while she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"I was only too glad to have you come. I always meant to tell you--what I have told; but not when I should seem to trap you into listening."
"No," she murmured, "I can believe that of you. I do believe it. I take back what I said. Don't let us speak of it any more now," she continued, struggling for her lost composure, with what success appeared in the fresh outburst with which she recognized his forbearance to hint at any painfulness to himself in the situation.
"I don't mind it so much on my account, but oh! how could you for your own sake ? Do let us get home as fast-as we can!"
"I am doing everything I can to release you," he said. "If you will sit here," he added, indicating the place beside him in the stern, "you won't have to change so much when I want to tack."
She took the other seat, and for the first time she noticed that the wind had grown very light. She watched him with a piteous impatience while he shifted the sail from side to side, keeping the sheet in his hand for convenience in the frequent changes. He scanned the sky, and turned every current of the ebbing tide to account. It was useless; the boat crept, and presently it scarcely moved.
"The wind is down," he said, ****** the sheet fast, and relaxing his hold on the tiller And-- And the tide is going out!" she exclaimed.
"The tide is going out," he admitted.
"If we should get caught on these flats," she began, with rising indignation.
"We should have to stay till the tide turned."
She looked wildly about for aid. If there were a row-boat anywhere within hail, she could be taken to Jocelyn's in that. But they were quite alone on those lifeless waters.
Libby got out a pair of heavy oars from the bottom of the boat, and, setting the rowlocks on either side, tugged silently at them.
The futile effort suggested an idea to her which doubtless she would not have expressed if she had not been lacking, as she once said, in a sense of humor.
"Why don't you whistle for a wind?"
He stared at her in sad astonishment to make sure that she was in earnest, and then, "Whistle!" he echoed forlornly, and broke into a joyless laugh.
"You knew the chances of delay that I took in asking to come with you," she cried, "and you should have warned me. It was ungenerous--it was ungentlemanly!"
"It was whatever you like. I must be to blame. I suppose I was too glad to have you come. If I thought anything, I thought you must have some particular errand at Leyden. You seemed anxious to go, even if it stormed."
"If it had stormed," she retorted, " I should not have cared! I hoped it would storm. Then at least I should have run the same danger,--I hoped it would be dangerous."
"I don't understand what you mean," he said.
"I forced that wretched creature to go with you that day when you said it was going to be rough; and I shall have her blood upon my hands if she dies"
"Is it possible," cried Libby, pulling in his useless oars, and leaning forward upon them, "that she has gone on letting you think I believed there was going to be a storm? She knew perfectly well that I didn't mind what Adams said; he was always croaking." She sat looking at him in a daze, but she could not speak, and he continued. "I see: it happened by one chance in a million to turn out as he said; and she has been ****** you pay for it. Why, I suppose," he added, with a melancholy smile of intelligence, "she's had so much satisfaction in holding you responsible for what's happened, that she's almost glad of it!"
"She has tortured me!" cried the girl. " But you--you, when you saw that I did n't believe there was going to be any storm, why did you--why didn't--you"--I did n't believe it either ! It was Mrs. Maynard that proposed the sail, but when I saw that you did n't like it I was glad of any excuse for putting it off. I could n't help wanting to please you, and I couldn't see why you urged us afterwards; but I supposed you had some reason."
She passed her hand over her forehead, as if to clear away the confusion in which all this involved her. "But why--why did you let me go on thinking myself to blame"--"How could I know what you were thinking? Heaven knows I didn't dream of such a thing! Though I remember, now, your saying"--"Oh, I see!" she cried. "You are a man! But I can't forgive it,--no, I can't forgive it! You wished to deceive her if you did n't wish to deceive me. How can you excuse yourself for repeating what you did n't believe?"
"I was willing she should think Adams was right."
"And that was deceit. What can you say to it?"
