“Sir Charles wrote to me,” Faircloth said a little huskily.  “He told me I might come and see you again and talk to you, and bid you good-bye before I go to sea.  And I should have been here sooner, but that I was away at Southampton Docks, and the letter only reached me this morning.  I telegraphed and started on at once.  And he—­Sir Charles—­walked out over the warren to meet me, and brought me up here right to the door.  And on the way we talked a little,—­if he chose he could make the very stones speak, I think—­and he said one or two things for which—­I—­well—­I thank first Almighty God, and next to God, you—­Damaris”—­

This last imperatively.

“You did ask for me?  You did wish to have me come to you?”

“Yes, I did wish it,” she answered.  “But I never knew how much until now, when he has brought you.  For that is the right, the beautiful, safe way of having you come to me and to this house.”

Yet, as she spoke, she lightly laid her hand over the tattooed image of the flying sea-bird, concealing it, for it moved her to the point of active suffering in its quaint prettiness fixed thus indelibly up in the warm live flesh.

At the touch of her hand Faircloth drew in his breath sharply, seeming to wince.  Then, at last, Damaris looked up at him, her eyes full of questioning and startled concern.

“I didn’t hurt you?” she asked, a vague idea of suffering, attached to that fanciful stigmata, troubling her.

“Hurt me—­good Lord, how could you, of all people, hurt me?” he gently laughed at her.  “Unless you turned me down, gave me to understand that, on second thoughts, you didn’t find me up to your requirements or some mean class devilry of that kind—­of which, by the way, had I judged you capable, you may be sure I should have been uncommonly careful never to come near you again.—­No, it isn’t that you hurt me; but that you delight me a little overmuch, so that it isn’t easy to keep quite level-headed.  There’s so much to hear and to tell, and such scanty time to hear or tell it in, worse luck.”

“You are obliged to go so soon?”

The flames of jealousy had effectually, it may be noted, died down in Damaris.

“Yes—­we’re taking on cargo for all we’re worth.  We are booked to sail by noon the day after to-morrow.  I stretched a point in leaving at all, which won’t put me in the best odour with my officers and crew, or—­supposing they come to hear of it—­with my owners either.  I am giving my plain duty the slip; but, in this singular ease, it seemed to me, a greater duty stood back of and outweighed the plain obvious one—­since it mounted to a reconstruction, a peace-making, ridding the souls of four persons of an ugly burden.  I wanted the affair all settled up and straightened out before this, my maiden voyage, in command of a ship of my own.  For me it is a great event, a great step forward.  And, perhaps I’m over-superstitious—­most men of my trade are supposed to be touched that way—­but I admit I rather cling to the notion of this private peace-making, this straightening out of an ancient crookedness, as a thing of good augury, a favourable omen.  As such—­let alone other reasons”—­and he looked down at Damaris with a fine and delicate admiration—­“I desired it and, out of my heart, I prize it.—­Do you see?”