"You dare . . . What's the matter now?"
These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her
back. Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches
of hair of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his
hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes.
He was heard from the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting
that the berthing master was alongside and that he wanted to move the
ship into the basin before the crew came on board.
His captain growled "Well, let him," and waved away the ulcerated and
pathetic soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive
woman while the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora.
"You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make them."
"I am trying to be."
"Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would become of--me."
"Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It wasn't a joke. It was
forgetfulness. You wouldn't have been wronged. I couldn't have gone.
I--I am too tired."
He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently
from taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he
had been tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside
and lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin. It was
only after she passed by him that he looked up and thus he did not see
the angry glance she gave him before she moved on. He looked after her.
She tottered slightly just before reaching the door and flung it to
behind her nervously.
Anthony--he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside
his very breast--stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for
Mrs. Brown. This was the steward's wife, his lucky inspiration to make
Flora comfortable. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" At last she appeared from
somewhere. "Mrs. Anthony has come on board. Just gone into the cabin.
Hadn't you better see if you can be of any assistance?"
"Yes, sir."
And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood
and inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better go on deck. In
fact he ought to have been there before. At any rate it would be the
usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound of muttering and of faint
thuds somewhere near by arrested his attention. They proceeded from Mr.
Smith's room, he perceived. It was very extraordinary. "He's talking to
himself," he thought. "He seems to be thumping the bulkhead with his
fists--or his head."