"May be I don't want to hear it! How can you?" says John, edging up. And she began:--
"I told you, Captain, that I had been dethroned, and I have,--wilely dethroned, and brought low, by my own woluntary act."
"Dear heart!" says John, "so much the worse, if it was woluntary, so few pities you."
"Ah, that 's it," says the widow; "nobody pities me,--nobody in the wide world has got a warm heart toward me." She broke quite down, and the tears came to her eyes.
"What may your name be?" says John, seizing both her hands and gazing tenderly in her face.
"Why do you ask? I 'm but a transient wisitor to your boat; you can't have no interest in me; and, besides, my name is hateful to me."
"Well, then, inwent a name. My maiden name reminds me of the royal hours when my father's position gave me rank, and before the wicissitudes of fortune brought me low; I cannot therefore consent to be called by that; and my married name is the name of a wagabond, and I despise it. O sir, inwent a name, for mercy's sake!"
"I 'll inwent it for love's sake," says John, slipping his arm round her waist, and drawing her close to him; "and I 'll call you my dove, coz you see you 've got all the timidity and gentleness o' that lovely bird, and your voice is sweeter than the turtle's, I 'm sure."
"O Captain, my woice is n't a nice woice now-a-days,--my woice went with the rest of my attractions when I was dethroned. I had a nice woice once. If we could have met then!"
"My dove!" says John, "whatever your woice hes ben, I would n't hev it no sweeter than what it is now; it kerries me back to the years that hed hope in 'em,--the years when I was a boy, and in love."
"Say no more," says the widow; "my heart already tells me that you love another,"--and she began to pout.
"Lord bless us!" says John; "our boat is aground. I was so took up with you, Rose, that I did n't see she was driftin' down stream, and here we be, high and dry, and a storm a-comin' on; but you can't blame me so ha'shly, my dear Rose, as what I blame myself. Can you forgive me?"
"Forgive you?" cries the widow, reproachfully. "Can you forget that I am an undertaker's daughter?"
This speech did not convey any very clear meaning to the mind of John Chidlaw; but he attributed that to his own dulness, and as this struck him as being very great, somehow or other, though he could not tell how, he bowed his head in shamefaced silence.