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Frank Rignold had never been the favoured suitor, not at least sofar as anything definite was concerned; but he had always beenwelcome at the little house on Commonwealth Street, and amongstthe neighbours his name and that of Florence Fenacre were coupledas a matter of course and every old lady within a radius of threemiles regarded the match as good as settled. It was not Frank'sfault that it was not, for he was deeply in love with the widow'sdaughter and looked forward to such an end to their acquaintanceas the very dearest thing fate could give him. But in theseaffairs it is necessary to carry the lady with you—and the lady,though she had never said "no," had not yet been prevailed upon tosay "yes." In fact she preferred to leave the matter as it was,and boldly forestalling a set proposal, had managed to convey toFrank Rignold that it was her wish he should not make one.
"Let us be good friends," she would say, "and as for anythingelse, Frank, there's plenty of time to consider that by and by.Isn't it enough already that we like each other?"
Frank did not think it was enough, but he was not withoutintuition and willing to accept the little offered him and begrateful—rather than risk all, and almost certainly lose all, bytoo exigent a suit. For Florence Fenacre was the acknowledgedbeauty of the town, with a dozen eligible men at her feet, and wasmore courted and sought after than any girl in the place. Theplace, to give it its name, was Bridgeport, one of those dead-alive little ports on the Atlantic seaboard, with a dozenfactories and some decaying wharves and that tranquil air ofhaving had a past.
The widow and her pretty daughter lived in a low-roofed, red-brickhouse that faced the street and sheltered a long deep shady gardenin the rear. Land and house had been bought with whale oil. Theirlittle income, derived from the rent of three barren and stonyfarms and amounting to not more than sixty dollars a month,represented a capitalisation of whale oil. Even the old greychurch whither they went twice of a Sunday, was whale oil too, andhad been built in bygone days by the sturdy captains who now layall around it under slabs of stone. There amongst them wasFlorence's father and her grandfather and her great-grandfather,together with the Macys and the Coffins and the Cabotts with whomthey had sailed and quarrelled and loved and intermarried in theyears now gone. The wide world had not been too wide for them tosail it round and reap the harvests of far-off seas; but in deaththey lay side by side, their voyages done, their bones mingling inthe New England earth.
Frank Rignold too was a son of Bridgeport, and the sea which ranin that blood for generations bade him in manhood to rise andfollow it. He had gone into the engine-room, and at thirty was thechief engineer of a cargo boat running to South American ports. Hewas a fine-looking man with earnest grey eyes; a reader, astudent, an observer; self-taught in Spanish, Latin, and French; agrave, quiet gentlemanly man, whose rare smile seemed to light h