"She was not guilty, except in this--she knew who _was_ guilty, and concealed it. Of that, I have reason to be sure."

"Her brother, of course--the Juan Catheron of the papers?"

"Who is to tell? Even that is not certain. No," in answer to her look of surprise, "it is not certain. I am sure my aunt believes in his innocence."

"Then who--"

"Ah--_who_?" the baronet said mournfully, "who was the murderer? It may be that we will never know."

"You will know," Edith said decidedly. "I am sure of it. I am a firm believer in the truism that 'murder will out.' Sooner or later you will know."

She spoke with the calm conviction of prophecy. She looked back to shudder at her own words in the after-days.

"Three-and-twenty years is a tolerable time to forget even the bitterest sorrow, but the thought of that tragedy is as bitter to my aunt to-day, as it was when it was done. She cannot bear to speak of it--I believe she cannot bear to think of it. What I know, therefore, concerning it, I have learned from others. Until I was eighteen, I knew absolutely nothing. Of my mother, of course I have no remembrance, and yet"--his eyes and tone grew dreamy--"as far back as I can recall, there is in my mind the memory of a woman, young and handsome, bending above my bed, kissing and crying over me. My mother was fair, the face I recall is dark. You will think me sentimental--you will laugh at me, perhaps," he said, smiling nervously; "you will set me down as a dreamer of dreams, and yet it is there."

Her dark, earnest eyes looked up at him, full of womanly sympathy.

"Laugh at you! Think better of me, Sir Victor. In these days it is rare enough to see men with either memory or veneration for their mother--whether dead or alive."

He looked at her; words seemed struggling to his lips. Once he half spoke. Then he checked himself suddenly. When he did speak it was with a total change of tone.

"And I am keeping you selfishly here in the cold. Take my arm, Miss Darrell; you must not stop another instant."

She obeyed at once. He led her to her cabin-door--hesitated--took her hand and held it while he spoke:

"I don't know why, as I said before, I have talked of this; I could not have done it with any one else. Let me thank you for your sympathy with all my heart."

Then he was gone; and, very grave and thoughtful, Edith sought Trixy and the upper berth. Miss Stuart lay calmly sleeping the sleep of the just and the sea-sick, blissfully unconscious of the traitorous goings on about her. Edith looked at her with a sort of twinge. Was it fair, after all? was it strictly honorable? "Poor Trix," she said, kissing her softly, "I don't think it will be _you_!"

Next morning, at breakfast, Miss Darrell noticed that Mr. Stuart, junior, watched her as he sipped his coffee, with a portentous countenance that foreboded something. What it foreboded came out presently. He led her on deck--offered her his arm for a morning const.i.tutional, and opened fire thus wise:

"What were you and the baronet about on deck at abnormal hours of the night? What was the matter with you both?"

"Now, now!" cried Edith, "how do you come to know anything about it?

What business have small boys like you, spying on the actions of their elders, when they should be safely tucked up, and asleep in their little beds?"

"I wasn't spying; I was asleep. I have no restless conscience to keep me prowling about at unholy hours."

"How do you come to know, then?"

"A little bird told me."

"I'll twist your little bird's neck! Who was it, sir? I command you."

"How she queens it already! Don't excite yourself, you small Amazon.

It was the officer of the deck."

"The officer of the deck might be much better employed; and you may tell him so, with my compliments."

"I will; but you don't deny it--you were there!"

"I never deny my actions," she says with royal disdain; "yes, I was there."

"With Sir Victor--alone?"

"With Sir Victor--alone!"

"What did you talk about, Miss Darrell?"

"More than I care to repeat for your edification, Mr. Stuart. Have you any more questions to ask, pray?"

"One or two; did he ask you to marry him, Edith?"

"Ah, no!" Edith answers with a sigh that is genuine; "there is no such luck as _that_ in store for Dithy Darrell. A baronet's bride--Lady Catheron! no, no--the cakes and ale of life are not for me."

"Would you marry him, if he did? Will you marry him when he does? for that is what it comes to, after all."

"Would I marry him?" She looks at him in real incredulous wonder.

"Would I marry Sir Victor Catheron--I? My dear Charley, when you ask rational questions, I shall be happy to answer them, to the best of my ability, but not such absurdity as that."

"Then, you _will_?"

"Charley, don't be a tease--what do young persons of your juvenile years know about such things? I don't like the turn this conversation has taken; let us change it, let us talk about the weather--that's always a safe subject. Isn't it a splendid morning? Isn't it charming to have a perpetual fair wind? And how are you going to account for it, that the wind is always fair going to England, and always ahead coming out?

"'England, my country--great and free Heart of the world--I leap to thee!'"

She sings, with a wicked look in her dark eyes, as she watches her cavalier.

Charley is not going to be put off however; he declines to talk of either wind or weather.

"Answer my question, Edith, if you please. If Sir Victor Catheron asks you, will you be his wife?"

She looks at him calmly, steadily, the man she loves, and answers:

"If Sir Victor Catheron asks me, I will be his wife."

CHAPTER VII.

SHORT AND SENTIMENTAL.

Two days later, and Fastnet Rock looms up against the blue sky; the iron-bound Irish coast appears. At noon they will land in Queenstown.

"Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen," sings Charley's voice down the pa.s.sage, early in the morning.