IX.
Ellen did not move or manifest any consciousness when the steamer left her dock and moved out into the stream, or take any note of the tumult that always attends a great linerās departure. At breakfast-time her mother came to her from one of the brief absences she made, in the hope that at each turn she should find her in a different mood, and asked if she would not have something to eat.
āIām not hungry,ā she answered. āWhen will it sail?ā
āWhy, Ellen! We sailed two hours ago, and the pilot has just left us.ā
Ellen lifted herself on her elbow and stared at her. āAnd you let me!ā she said, cruelly.
āEllen! I will not have this!ā cried her mother, frantic at the reproach. āWhat do you mean by my letting you? You knew that we were going to sail, didnāt you? What else did you suppose we had come to the steamer for?ā
āI supposed you would let me stay, if I wanted to: But go away, momma, go away! Youāre all against meāyou, and poppa, and Lottie, and Boyne. Oh, dear! oh, dear!ā She threw herself down in her berth and covered her face with the sheet, sobbing, while her mother stood by in an anguish of pity and anger. She wanted to beat the girl, she wanted to throw herself upon her, and weep with her in the misery which she shared with her.
Lottie came to the door of the state-room with an arm-load of long-stemmed roses, the gift of the young Mr. Plumpton, who had not had so much to be entreated to come down to the steamer and see her off as Boyne had pretended. āMomma,ā she said, āI have got to leave these roses in here, whether Ellen likes it or not. Boyne wonāt have them in his room, because he says the man thatās with him would have a right to object; and this is half my room, anyway.ā
Mrs. Kenton frowned and shook her head, but Ellen answered from under the sheet, āI donāt mind the roses, Lottie. I wish youād stay with me a little while.ā
Lottie hesitated, having in mind the breakfast for which the horn had just sounded. But apparently she felt that one good turn deserved another, and she answered: āAll right; I will, Nell. Momma, you tell Boyne to hurry, and come to Ellen as soon as heās done, and then I will go. Donāt let anybody take my place.ā
āI wish,ā said Ellen, still from under the sheet, āthat momma would have your breakfast sent here. I donāt want Boyne.ā
Women apparently do not require any explanation of these swift vicissitudes in one another, each knowing probably in herself the nerves from which they proceed. Mrs. Kenton promptly assented, in spite of the sulky reluctance which Lottieās blue eyes looked at her; she motioned her violently to silence, and said: āYes, I will, Ellen. I will send breakfast for both of you.ā
When she was gone, Ellen uncovered her face and asked Lottie to dip a towel in water and give it to her. As she bathed her eyes she said, āYou donāt care, do you, Lottie?ā
āNot very much,ā said Lottie, unsparingly. āI can go to lunch, I suppose.ā
āMaybe Iāll go to lunch with you,ā Ellen suggested, as if she were speaking of some one else.
Lottie wasted neither sympathy nor surprise on the question. āWell, maybe that would be the best thing. Why donāt you come to breakfast?ā
āNo, I wonāt go to breakfast. But you go.ā
When Lottie joined her family in the dining-saloon she carelessly explained that Ellen had said she wanted to be alone. Before the young man, who was the only other person besides the Kentons at their table, her mother could not question her with any hope that the bad would not be made worse, and so she remained silent. Judge Kenton sat with his eyes fixed on his plate, where as yet the steward had put no breakfast for him; Boyne was supporting the dignity of the family in one of those moments of majesty from which he was so apt to lapse into childish dependence. Lottie offered him another alternative by absently laying hold of his napkin on the table.
āThatās mine,ā he said, with husky gloom.
She tossed it back to him with prompt disdain and a deeply eye-lashed glance at a napkin on her right. The young man who sat next it said, with a smile, āPerhaps thatās yours-unless Iāve taken my neighborās.ā
Lottie gave him a stare, and when she had sufficiently punished him for his temerity said, rather sweetly, āOh, thank you,ā and took the napkin.
āI hope we shall all have use for them before long,ā the young man ventured again.
āWell, I should think as much,ā returned the girl, and this was the beginning of a conversation which the young man shared successively with the judge and Mrs. Kenton as opportunity offered. He gave the judge his card across the table, and when the judge had read on it, āRev. Hugh Breckon,ā he said that his name was Kenton, and he introduced the young man formally to his family. Mr. Breckon had a clean-shaven face, with an habitual smile curving into the cheeks from under a long, straight nose; his chin had a slight whopper-jaw twist that was charming; his gay eyes were blue, and a full vein came down his forehead between them from his smooth hair. When he laughed, which was often, his color brightened.
Boyne was named last, and then Mr. Breckon said, with a smile that showed all his white teeth, āOh yes, Mr. Boyne and I are friends alreadyāever since we found ourselves room-mates,ā and but for us, as Lottie afterwards noted, they might never have known Boyne was rooming with him, and could easily have made all sorts of insulting remarks about Mr. Breckon in their ignorance.
The possibility seemed to delight Mr. Breckon; he invited her to make all the insulting remarks she could think of, any way, and professed himself a loser, so far as her real opinion was withheld from him by reason of his rashness in giving the facts away. In the electrical progress of their acquaintance she had begun walking up and down the promenade with him after they came up from breakfast; her mother had gone to Ellen; the judge had been made comfortable in his steamer-chair, and Boyne had been sent about his business.
āI will try to think some up,ā she promised him, āas soon as I HAVE any real opinion of you,ā and he asked her if he might consider that a beginning.
She looked at him out of her indomitable blue eyes, and said, āIf it hadnāt been for your card, and the Reverend on it, I should have said you were an actor.ā
āWell, well,ā said Mr. Breckon, with a laugh, āperhaps I am, in a way. I oughtnāt to be, of course, but if a minister ever forces himself, I suppose heās acting.ā
āI donāt see,ā said Lottie, instantly availing herself of the opening, āhow you can get up and pray, Sunday after Sunday, whether you feel like it or not.ā
The young man said, with another laugh, but not so gay, āWell, the case has its difficulties.ā
āOr perhaps you just read prayers,ā Lottie sharply conjectured.
āNo,ā he returned, āI havenāt that advantageāif you think it one. Iām a sort of a Unitarian. Very advanced, too, Iām afraid.ā
āIs that a kind of Universalist?ā
āNotānot exactly. Thereās an old jokeāIām not sure itās very goodāwhich distinguishes between the sects. Itās said that the Universalists think God is too good to damn them, and the Unitarians think they are too good to be damned.ā Lottie shrank a little from him. āAh!ā he cried, āyou think it sounds wicked. Well, Iām sorry. Iām not clerical enough to joke about serious things.ā
He looked into her face with a pretended anxiety. āOh, I donāt know,ā she said, with a little scorn. āI guess if you can stand it, I can.ā
āIām not sure that I can. Iām afraid itās more in keeping with an actorās profession than my own. Why,ā he added, as if to make a diversion, āshould you have thought I was an actor?ā
āI suppose because you were clean-shaved; and your pronunciation. So Englishy.ā
āIs it? Perhaps I ought to be proud. But Iām not an Englishman. I am a plain republican American. May I ask if you are English?ā
āOh!ā said Lottie. āAs if you thought such a thing. Weāre from Ohio.ā
Mr. Breckon said, āAh!ā Lottie could not make out in just what sense.
By this time they were leaning on the rail of the promenade, looking over at what little was left of Long Island, and she said, abruptly: āI think I will go and see how my father is getting along.ā
āOh, do take me with you, Miss Kenton!ā Mr. Breckon entreated. āI am feeling very badly about that poor old joke. I know you donāt think well of me for it, and I wish to report what Iāve been saying to your father, and let him judge me. Iāve heard that itās hard to live up to Ohio people when youāre at your best, and I do hope youāll believe I have not been quite at my best. Will you let me come with you?ā
Lottie did not know whether he was making fun of her or not, but she said, āOh, itās a free country,ā and allowed him to go with her.
His preface made the judge look rather grave; but when he came to the joke, Kenton laughed and said it was not bad.
āOh, but that isnāt quite the point,ā said Mr. Breckon. āThe question is whether I am good in repeating it to a young lady who was seeking serious instruction on a point of theology.ā
āI donāt know what she would have done with the instruction if she had got it,ā said the judge, dryly, and the young man ventured in her behalf:
āIt would be difficult for any one to manage, perhaps.ā
āPerhaps,ā Kenton assented, and Lottie could see that he was thinking Ellen would know what to do with it.
She resented that, and she was in the offence that girls feel when their elders make them the subject of comment with their contemporaries. āWell, Iāll leave you to discuss it alone. Iām going to Ellen,ā she said, the young man vainly following her a few paces, with apologetic gurgles of laughter.
āThatās right,ā her father consented, and then he seized the opening to speak about Ellen. āMy eldest daughter is something of an invalid, but I hope w...