I did not answer. He watched me, I think, for a little time; and then, confounded by this stone statue of a girl, he turned abruptly away and walked the remaining paces to the top of the gangway. The foghorn blew its single note from off the breakwater. He struck the wooden railing with his fist.

“The Deuce, Miss Thomas! Where is your duty?”

Numb, I looked at him. “Who am I to help her?”

“She is beyond help. And, I must say, your inexplicable behavior smacks of disregard, of violent disregard!”

“Sir!” Jonathan’s shocked voice rang out behind us.

“No,” I said softly to Mr. Cutting. “You cannot understand. How am I to help her, when he could not?”

“She is going to Him,” Mr. Cutting replied.

“You misunderstand. Bart dove to find Mama. He has not returned. Mama will not return. I must wait for him here.” I turned from the sight of the man’s face. “And then we two will come up to see Mama.” And I smiled at the pink face of the sea.

I think Jonathan moaned then, although I do not recall, for suddenly the world went blank.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I awoke to whispering just near, and upon my closed lids the quiet flicker of candlelight danced black flames. Perhaps I had crossed over, at last, and when I opened up my eyes, there would be those who might call me by my certain name, instead of these who had a partial hold of Maisie, Maisie. “Maisie?”

I opened my eyes. Jessie’s anxious face bent close to mine. “Ah. There you are, child.”

“Is he found?”

“Who?”

“Bart,” I whispered.

She shook her head. I closed my eyes again and turned my head from the light.

There was the rustle of silk close by, and then a cool hand closed over my own. “Maisie,” I thought Cook whispered into my ear, “I am here.”

A tear forced its way over my lid, and then, unbidden, another, then another. “Cook?” I said brokenly, still not opening my eyes or moving.

“Yes?”

But there was nothing to reply. She sat beside me, remaining quiet for a long while. Finally, however, she leaned close again and asked, “Do you want to see your mother?”

I shook my head.

There was a long silence beside me.

“Why not, Maisie?”

“She is dying because of me.”

Cook patted my cheek and leaned close again. “No, girl.”

I opened my eyes then and sniffed. “She came for her daughter, but I am … not her.” I could not speak again for a short while, just lay there against the pillow, weeping. And when I had done, though the sorrow did not lift, I closed my eyes again and dozed.