David bore the separation well. "To-morrow morning I shall have her
all to myself," said he. He played with Kenealy and Reginald, and
chatted with Bazalgette. In the evening she was surrounded as usual,
and he obtained only a small share of her attention. But the thought
of the morrow consoled him. He alone knew that she walked before
breakfast.
The next morning he rose early, and sauntered about till eight
o'clock, and then he came on the lawn and waited for her. She did not
come. He waited, and waited, and waited. She never came. His heart
died within him. "She avoids me," said he; "it is not accident. I have
driven her out of her very garden; she always walked here before
breakfast (she said so) till I came and spoiled her walk; Heaven
forgive me."
David could not flatter himself that this interruption of her
acknowledged habit was accidental. On the other hand, how kind and
cheerful she had been with him on the same spot yesterday morning. To
judge by her manner, his company on her quarter-deck was not unwelcome
to her yet she kept her room to-day, from the window of which she
could probably see him walking to and fro, longing for her. The bitter
disappointment was bad enough, but here tormenting perplexity as to
its cause was added, and between the two the pining heart was racked.
This is the cruelest separation; mere distance is the mildest. Where
land and sea alone lie between two loving hearts, they pine, but are
at rest.
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