The daily reading proceeded as usual after Barker's departure, but
neither Margaret nor Claudius mentioned the subject of the voyage.
Margaret was friendly, and sometimes seemed on the point of relapsing
into her old manner, but she always checked herself. What the precise
change was it would be hard to say. Claudius knew it was very easy to
feel the difference, but impossible to define it. As the days passed, he
knew also that his life had ceased to be his own; and, with the
chivalrous wholeness of purpose that was his nature, he took his soul
and laid it at her feet, for better for worse, to do with as she would.
But he knew the hour was not come yet wherein he should speak; and so he
served her in silence, content to feel the tree of life growing within
him, which should one day overshadow them both with its sheltering
branches. His service was none the less whole and devoted because it had
not yet been accepted.
One evening, nearly a week after they had been left to themselves,
Claudius was sitting over his solitary dinner in the casino restaurant
when a note was brought to him, a large square envelope of rough paper,
and he knew the handwriting. He hesitated to open it, and, glancing
round the brilliantly-lighted restaurant, involuntarily wondered if any
man at all those tables were that moment in such suspense as he. He
thought it was probably an intimation that she was going away, and that
he was wanted no longer. Then, for the first time in many days, he
thought of his money. "And if she does," he said half aloud, "shall I
not follow? Shall not gold command everything save her heart, and can I
not win that for myself?" And he took courage and quietly opened the
note.
"MY DEAR DR. CLAUDIUS--As the time is approaching, will you not do
me a favour? I want you to make a list of books to read on the
voyage--that is, if I may count on your kindness as an expounder.
If not, please tell me of some good novels.
"Sincerely yours,"
and her full name signed at the end. The hot blood turned his white
forehead red as Claudius finished reading. He could not believe his
eyes, and the room swam for a moment; for he was very much in love, this
big Swede. Then he grew pale again and quite calm, and read the note
over. Novels indeed! What did he know about novels? He would ask her
plainly if she wanted his company on the yacht or no. He would say,
"Shall I come? or shall I stay behind?" Claudius had much to learn from
Mr. Barker before he was competent to deal with women. But then Claudius
would have scorned the very expression "to deal" with them; theirs to
command, his to obey--there was to be no question of dealing. Only in
his simple heart he would like to know in so many words what the
commands were; and that is sometimes a little hard, for women like to be
half understood before they speak, and the grosser intellect of man
seldom more than half understands them after they have spoken.
A note requires an answer, and Claudius made the usual number of
failures. When one has a great deal more to say than one has any right
to say, and when at the same time one is expected to say particularly
little, it is very hard to write a good note. All sorts of ideas creep
in and express themselves automatically. A misplaced plural for a
singular, a superlative adjective where the vaguer comparative belongs;
the vast and immeasurable waste of weary years that may lie between
"dear" and "dearest," the gulf placed between "sincerely yours, John
Smith," and "yours, J.S.," and "your J.," until the blessed state is
reached wherein the signature is omitted altogether, and every word
bears the sign-manual of the one woman or one man who really exists for
you. What a registering thermometer of intimacy exists in notes, from
the icy zero of first acquaintance to the raging throb of boiling
blood-heat! So Claudius, after many trials, arrived at the requisite
pitch of absolute severity, and began his note, "My dear Countess
Margaret," and signed it, "very obediently yours," which said just what
was literally true; and he stated that he would immediately proceed to
carry out the Countess's commands, and make a list in which nothing
should be wanting that could contribute to her amusement.
When he went to see her on the following day he was a little surprised
at her manner, which inclined more to the severe coldness of that
memorable day of difficulties than to the unbending he had expected from
her note. Of course he had no reason to be disappointed, and he showed
his inexperience. She was compensating her conscience for the concession
she had made in intimating that he might go. It was indeed a concession,
but to what superior power she had yielded it behoves not inquisitive
man to ask. Perhaps she thought Claudius would enjoy the trip very much,
and said to herself she had no right to make him give it up.
They read together for some time, and at last Claudius asked her, in
connection with a point which arose, whether she would like to read a
German book that he thought good.
"Very much," said she. "By the by, I am glad you have been able to
arrange to go with us. I thought your engagements were going to prevent
you."
Claudius looked at her, trying to read her thoughts, in which he failed.
He might have been satisfied, but he was not. There was a short silence,
and then he closed the book over his hand and spoke.
"Countess, do you wish me to go or not?"
Margaret raised her dark eyebrows. He had never seen her do that before.
But then he had never said anything so clumsy before in his whole life,
and he knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth, and his face
was white in sunshine. She looked at him suddenly, a slight smile on her
lips, and her eyes just the least contracted, as if she were going to
say something sarcastic. But his face was so pitifully pale. She saw how
his hand trembled. A great wave of womanly compassion welled up in her
soul, and the smile faded and softened away as she said one word.
"Yes." It came from the heart, and she could not help it if it sounded
kindly.
"Then I will go," said Claudius, hardly knowing what he said, for the
blood came quickly back to his face.
"Of course you will, I could have told you that ever so long ago,"
chirped a little bullfinch in the tree overhead.
A couple of weeks or more after the events last chronicled, the steam
yacht _Streak_ was two days out on the Atlantic, with a goodly party on
board. There were three ladies--the Duke's sister, the Countess, and
Miss Skeat, the latter looking very nautical in blue serge, which sat
tightly over her, like the canvas cover sewn round a bicycle when it is
sent by rail. Of men there were also three--to wit, the owner of the
yacht, Mr. Barker, and Dr. Claudius.
The sea has many kinds of fish. Some swim on their sides, some swim
straight, some come up to take a sniff of air, and some stay below. It
is just the same with people who go to sea. Take half a dozen
individuals who are all more or less used to the water, and they will
behave in half a dozen different ways. One will become encrusted to the
deck like a barnacle, another will sit in the cabin playing cards; a
third will spend his time spinning yarns with the ship's company, and a
fourth will rush madly up and down the deck from morning till night in
the pursuit of an appetite which shall leave no feat of marine digestion
untried or unaccomplished. Are they not all stamped on the memory of
them that go down to the sea in yachts? The little card-box and the
scoring-book of the players, the deck chair and rugs of the inveterate
reader, the hurried tread and irascible eye of the carnivorous
passenger, and the everlasting pipe of the ocean talker, who feels time
before him and the world at his feet wherein to spin yarns--has any one
not seen them?
Now, the elements on board of the _Streak_ were sufficiently diverse to
form a successful party, and by the time they were two days out on the
long swell, with a gentle breeze just filling the trysails, and
everything stowed, they had each fallen into the groove of sea life that
was natural to him or to her. There were Barker and the Duke in the
pretty smoking-room forward with the windows open and a pack of cards
between them. Every now and then they stopped to chat a little, or the
Duke would go out and look at the course, and make his rounds to see
that every one was all right and nobody sea-sick. But Barker rarely
moved, save to turn his chair and cross one leg over the other, whereby
he might the more easily contemplate his little patent leather shoes and
stroke his bony hands over his silk-clad ankles; for Mr. Barker
considered sea-dressing, as he called it, a piece of affectation, and
arrayed himself on board ship precisely as he did on land. The Duke, on
the other hand, like most Englishmen when they get a chance, revelled in
what he considered ease; that is to say, no two of his garments matched
or appeared to have been made in the same century; he wore a flannel
shirt, and was inclined to go about barefoot when the ladies were not on
deck, and he adorned his ducal forehead with a red worsted cap, price
one shilling.
Margaret, as was to be expected, was the deck member, with her
curiously-wrought chair and her furs and her portable bookcase; while
Miss Skeat, who looked tall and finny, and sported a labyrinthine
tartan, was generally to be seen entangled in the weather-shrouds near
by. As for the Duke's sister, Lady Victoria, she was plain, but healthy,
and made regular circuits of the steamer, stopping every now and then to
watch the green swirl of the foam by the side, and to take long draughts
of salt air into her robust lungs. But of all the party there was not
one on whom the change from the dry land to the leaping water produced
more palpable results than on Claudius. He affected nothing nautical in
dress or speech, but when the Duke saw him come on deck the first
morning out, there was something about his appearance that made the
yachtsman say to Barker--
"That man has been to sea, I am positive. I am glad I asked him."
"All those Swedes are amphibious," replied Barker; "they take to the
water like ducks. But I don't believe he has smelled salt water for a
dozen years."
"They are the best sailors, at all events," said the Duke. "I have lots
of them among the men. Captain a Swede too. Let me introduce you." They
were standing on the bridge. "Captain Sturleson, my friend Mr. Barker."
And so in turn the captain was made known to every one on board; for he
was an institution with the Duke, and had sailed his Grace's yachts ever
since there had been any to sail, which meant for about twenty years. To
tell the truth, if it were not for those beastly logarithms, the Duke
was no mean sailing-master himself, and he knew a seaman when he saw
one; hence his remark about Claudius. The Doctor knew every inch of the
yacht and every face in the ship's company by the second day, and it
amused the Countess to hear his occasional snatches of the clean-cut
Northern tongue that sounded like English, but was yet so different.
Obedient to her instructions, he had provided books of all sorts for the
voyage, and they began to read together, foolishly imagining that, with
the whole day at their disposal, they would do as much work as when they
only met for an hour or two daily to accomplish a set purpose. The
result of their unbounded freedom was that conversation took the place
of reading. Hitherto Margaret had confined Claudius closely to the
matter in hand, some instinct warning her that such an intimacy as had
existed during his daily visits could only continue on the footing of
severe industry she had established from the first. But the sight of the
open deck, the other people constantly moving to and fro, the proper
aspect of the lady-companion, just out of earshot, and altogether the
appearance of publicity which the sea-life lent to their _tête-à-tête_
hours, brought, as a necessary consequence, a certain unbending. It
always seemed such an easy matter to call some third party into the
conversation if it should grow too confidential. And so, insensibly,
Claudius and Margaret wandered into discussions about the feelings,
about love, hate, and friendship, and went deep into those topics which
so often end in practical experiment. Claudius had lived little and
thought much; Margaret had seen a great deal of the world, and being
gifted with fine intuitions and tact, she had reasoned very little about
what she saw, understanding, as she did, the why and wherefore of most
actions by the pure light of feminine genius. The Doctor theorised, and
it interested his companion to find facts she remembered suddenly
brought directly under a neat generalisation; and before long she found
herself trying to remember facts to fit his theories, a mode of going in
double harness which is apt to lead to remarkable but fallacious
results. In the intervals of theorising Claudius indulged in small
experiments. But Barker and the Duke played poker.
Of course the three men saw a good deal of each other--in the early
morning before the ladies came on deck, and late at night when they sat
together in the smoking-room. In these daily meetings the Duke and
Claudius had become better acquainted, and the latter, who was reticent,
but perfectly simple, in speaking of himself, had more than once alluded
to his peculiar position and to the unexpected change of fortune that
had befallen him. One evening they were grouped as usual around the
square table in the brightly-lighted little room that Barker and the
Duke affected most. The fourfold beat of the screw crushed the water
quickly and sent its peculiar vibration through the vessel as she sped
along in the quiet night. The Duke was extended on a transom, and
Claudius on the one opposite, while Barker tipped himself about on his
chair at the end of the table. The Duke was talkative, in a disjointed,
monosyllabic fashion.
"Yes. I know. No end of a queer sensation, lots of money. Same thing
happened to me when I came of age."
"Not exactly the same thing," said Claudius; "you knew you were going to
have it."
"No," put in Barker. "Having money and being likely to have it are about
the same as far as spending it goes. Particularly in England."
"I believe the whole thing is a fraud," said the Duke in a tone of
profound reflection. "Never had a cent before I came of age. Seems to me
I never had any since."
"Spent it all in water-melon and fire-crackers, celebrating your
twenty-first birthday, I suppose," suggested Barker.
"Spent it some way, at all events," replied the Duke. "Now, here," he
continued, addressing Barker, "is a man who actually has it, who never
expected to have it, who has got it in hard cash, and in the only way
in which it is worth having--by somebody else's work. Query--what will
Claudius do with his millions?" Exhausted by this effort of speech, the
Duke puffed his tobacco in silence, waiting for an answer. Claudius
laughed, but said nothing.
"I know of one thing he will do with his money. He will get married,"
said Barker.
"For God's sake, Claudius," said the Duke, looking serious, "don't do
that."
"I don't think I will," said Claudius.
"I know better," retorted Barker, "I am quite sure I shall do it myself
some day, and so will you. Do you think if I am caught, you are going to
escape?"
The Duke thought that if Barker knew the Duchess, he might yet save
himself.
"You are no chicken, Barker, and perhaps you are right. If they catch
you they can catch anybody," he said aloud.
"Well, I used to say the mamma was not born who could secure me. But I
am getting old, and my nerves are shaken, and a secret presentiment
tells me I shall be bagged before long, and delivered over to the
tormentors."
"I pity you if you are," said the Duke. "No more poker, and very little
tobacco then."
"Not as bad as that. You are as much married as most men, but it does
not interfere with the innocent delights of your leisure hours, that I
can see."
"Ah, well--you see--I am pretty lucky. The Duchess is a domestic type of
angel. Likes children and bric-à-brac and poultry, and all those things.
Takes no end of trouble about the place."
"Why should not I marry the angelic domestic--the domestic angel, I
mean?"
"You won't, though. Doesn't grow in America. I know the sort of woman
you will get for your money."
"Give me an idea." Barker leaned back in his chair till it touched the
door of the cabin, and rolled his cigar in his mouth.
"Of course she will be the rage for the time. Eighteen or nineteen
summers of earthly growth, and eighteen or nineteen hundred years of
experience and calculation in a former state."
"Thanks, that sounds promising. Claudius, this is intended for your
instruction."
"You will see her first at a ball, with a cartload of nosegays slung on
her arms, and generally all over her. That will be your first
acquaintance; you will never see the last of her."
"No--I know that," said Barker gloomily.
"She will marry you out of hand after a three months' engagement. She
will be married by Worth, and you will be married by Poole. It will be
very effective, you know. No end of wedding presents, and acres of
flowers. And then you will start away on your tour, and be miserable
ever after."
"I am glad you have done," was Barker's comment.
"As for me," said Claudius, "I am of course not acquainted with the
peculiarities of American life, but I fancy the Duke is rather severe in
his judgment."
It was a mild protest against a wholesale condemnation of American
marriages; but Barker and the Duke only laughed as if they understood
each other, and Claudius had nothing more to say. He mentally compared
the utterances of these men, doubtless grounded on experience, with the
formulas he had made for himself about women, and which were undeniably
the outcome of pure theory. He found himself face to face with the old
difficulty, the apparent discord between the universal law and the
individual fact. But, on the other hand, he could not help comparing
himself with his two companions. It was not in his nature to think
slightingly of other men, but he felt that they were of a totally
different mould, besides belonging to a different race. He knew that
however much he might enjoy their society, they had nothing in common
with him, and that it was only his own strange fortune that had suddenly
transported him into the very midst of a sphere where such characters
were the rule and not the exception.
The conversation languished, and Claudius left the Duke and Barker, and
went towards his quarters. It was a warm night for the Atlantic, and
though there was no moon, the stars shone out brightly, their reflection
moving slowly up and down the slopes of the long ocean swell. Claudius
walked aft, and was going to sit down for a few minutes before turning
in, when he was suddenly aware of a muffled female figure leaning
against the taffrail only a couple of paces from where he was. In spite
of the starlight he could not distinguish the person. She was wrapped
closely in a cloak and veil, as if fearing the cold. As it must be one
of the three ladies who constituted the party, Claudius naturally raised
his cap, but fearing lest he had chanced on the Duke's sister, or still
worse, on Miss Skeat, he did not speak. Before long, however, as he
leaned against the side, watching the wake, the unknown remarked that it
was a delightful night. It was Margaret's voice, and the deep musical
tones trembled on the rise and fall of the waves, as if the sounds
themselves had a distinct life and beating in them. Did the dark woman
know what magic lay in her most trivial words? Claudius did not care a
rush whether the night were beautiful or otherwise, but when she said it
was a fine evening, it sounded as if she had said she loved him.
"I could not stay downstairs," she said, "and so when the others went to
bed I wrapped myself up and came here. Is it not too wonderful?"
Claudius moved nearer to her.
"I have been pent up in the Duke's _tabagie_ for at least two hours," he
said, "and I am perfectly suffocated."
"How can you sit in that atmosphere? Why don't you come and smoke on
deck?"
"Oh! it was not only the tobacco that suffocated me to-night, it was the
ideas."
"What ideas?" asked Margaret.
"You have known the Duke a long time," said he, "and of course you can
judge. Or rather, you know. But to hear those two men talk is enough to
make one think there is neither heaven above nor hell beneath." He was
rather incoherent.
"Have they been attacking your favourite theories," Margaret asked, and
she smiled behind her veil; but he could not see that, and her voice
sounded somewhat indifferent.
"Oh! I don't know," he said, as if not wanting to continue the subject;
and he turned round so as to rest his elbows on the taffrail. So he
stood, bent over and looking away astern at the dancing starlight on the
water. There was a moment's silence.
"Tell me," said Margaret at last.
"What shall I tell you, Countess?" asked Claudius.
"Tell me what it was you did not like about their talk."
"It is hard to say, exactly. They were talking about women, and American
marriages; and I did not like it, that is all." Claudius straightened
himself again and turned towards his companion. The screw below them
rushed round, worming its angry way through the long quiet waves.
"Barker," said Claudius, "was saying that he supposed he would be
married some day--delivered up to torture, as he expressed it--and the
Duke undertook to prophesy and draw a picture of Barker's future spouse.
The picture was not attractive."
"Did Mr. Barker think so too?"
"Yes. He seemed to regard the prospects of matrimony from a resigned and
melancholy point of view. I suppose he might marry any one he chose in
his own country, might he not?"
"In the usual sense, yes," answered Margaret.
"What is the 'usual sense'?" asked the Doctor.
"He might marry beauty, wealth, and position. That is the usual meaning
of marrying whom you please."
"Oh! then it does not mean any individual he pleases?"
"Certainly not. It means that out of half a dozen beautiful, rich, and
accomplished girls it is morally certain that one, at least, would take
him for his money, his manners, and his accomplishments."
"Then he would go from one to the other until he was accepted? A
charming way of doing things, upon my word!" And Claudius sniffed the
night air discontentedly.
"Oh no," said Margaret. "He will be thrown into the society of all six,
and one of them will marry him, that will be the way of it."
"I cannot say I discover great beauty in that social arrangement either,
except that it gives the woman the choice."
"Of course," she answered, "the system does not pretend to the
beautiful, it only aspires to the practical. If the woman is satisfied
with her choice, domestic peace is assured." She laughed.
"Why cannot each satisfy himself or herself of the other? Why cannot the
choice be mutual?"
"It would take too long," said she; and laughed again.
"Very long?" asked Claudius, trying not to let his voice change. But it
changed nevertheless.
"Generally very long," she answered in a matter-of-fact way.
"Why should it?"
"Because neither women nor men are so easily understood as a chapter of
philosophy," said she.
"Is it not the highest pleasure in life, that constant, loving study of
the one person one loves? Is not every anticipated thought and wish a
triumph more worth living for than everything else in the wide world?"
He moved close to her side. "Do you not think so too?" She said nothing.
"I think so," he said. "There is no pleasure like the pleasure of trying
to understand what a woman wants; there is no sorrow like the sorrow of
failing to do that; and there is no glory like the glory of success. It
is a divine task for any man, and the greatest have thought it worthy of
them." Still she was silent; and so was he for a little while, looking
at her side face, for she had thrown back the veil and her delicate
profile showed clearly against the sea foam.
"Countess," he said at last; and his voice came and went fitfully with
the breeze--"I would give my whole life's strength and study for the
gladness of foreseeing one little thing that you might wish, and of
doing it for you." His hand stole along the taffrail till it touched
hers, but he did not lift his fingers from the polished wood.
"Dr. Claudius, you would give too much," she said; for the magic of the
hour and place was upon her, and the Doctor's earnest tones admitted of
no laughing retort. She ought to have checked him then, and the instant
she had spoken she knew it; but before she could speak again he had
taken the hand he was already touching between both of his, and was
looking straight in her face.
"Margaret, I love you with all my soul and heart and strength." Her hand
trembled in his, but she could not take it away. Before she had answered
he had dropped to his knee and was pressing the gloved fingers to his
lips.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," he repeated, and his strength was
as the strength of ten in that moment.
"Dr. Claudius," said she at last, in a broken and agitated way, "you
ought not to have said this. It was not right of you." She tried to
loose her hand, but he rose to his feet still clasping it.
"Forgive me," he said, "forgive me!" His face was almost luminously
pale. "All the ages cannot take from me this--that I have told you."
Margaret said never a word, but covered her head with her veil and
glided noiselessly away, leaving Claudius with his white face and
staring eyes to the contemplation of what he had done. And she went
below and sat in her stateroom and tried to think it all over. She was
angry, she felt sure. She was angry at Claudius and half angry at
herself--at least she thought so. She was disappointed, she said, in the
man, and she did not mean to forgive him. Besides, in a yacht, with a
party of six people, where there was absolutely no escape possible, it
was unpardonable. He really ought not to have done it. Did he think--did
he flatter himself--that if she had expected he was going to act just
like all the rest of them she would have treated him as she had? Did he
fancy his well-planned declaration would flatter _her_? Could he not see
that she wanted to consider him always as a friend, that she thought she
had found at last what she had so often dreamed of--a friendship proof
against passion? It was so common, so commonplace. It was worse, for it
was taking a cruel advantage of the narrow limits within which they were
both confined. Besides, he had taken advantage of her kindness to plan a
scene which he knew would surprise her out of herself. She ought to have
spoken strongly and sharply and made him suffer for his sin while he was
yet red-handed. And instead, what had she done? She had merely said very
meekly that "it was not right," and had sought safety in a hasty
retreat.
She sighed wearily, and began to shake out the masses of her black hair,
that was as the thickness of night spun fine. And as she drew out the
thick tortoise-shell pins that bore it up, it rolled down heavily in a
soft dark flood and covered her as with a garment. Then she leaned back
and sighed again, and her eyes fell on a book that lay at the corner of
her dressing-table, where she had left it before dinner. It was the book
they had been reading, and the mark was a bit of fine white cord that
Claudius had cunningly twisted and braided, sailor fashion, to keep the
place. Margaret rose to her feet, and taking the book in her hand,
looked at it a moment without opening it. Then she hid it out of sight
and sat down again. The action had been almost unconscious, but now she
thought about it, and she did not like what she had done. Angry with him
and with herself, she was yet calm enough to ask why she could not bear
the sight of the volume on the table. Was it possible she had cared
enough about her friendship for the Doctor to be seriously distressed at
its sudden termination? She hardly knew--perhaps so. So many men had
made love to her, none had ever before seemed to be a friend.
The weary and hard-worked little sentiment that we call conscience spoke
up. Was she just to him? No. If she had cared even as much as that
action showed, had he no right to care also? He had the right, yes; but
he had been wanting in tact. He should have waited till they were
ashore. Poor fellow! he looked so white, and his hands were so cold. Was
he there still, looking out at the ship's wake? Margaret, are you quite
sure you never thought of him save as a friendly professor who taught
you philosophy? And there was a little something that would not be
silenced, and that would say--Yes, you are playing tricks with your
feelings, you care for him, you almost love him. And for a moment there
was a fierce struggle in the brave heart of that strong woman as she
shook out her black hair and turned pale to the lips. She rose again,
and went and got the book she had hidden, and laid it just where it had
lain before. Then she knew, and she bowed her head till her white
forehead touched the table before her, and her hands were wet as they
pressed her eyelids.
"I am very weak," she said aloud, and proceeded with her toilet.
"But you will be kind to him, Margaret," said the little voice in her
heart, as she laid her head on the pillow.
"But it is my duty to be cold. I do not love him," she argued, as the
watch struck eight bells.
Poor Saint Duty! what a mess you make of human kindness!
Claudius was still on deck, and a wretched man he was, as his chilled
hands clung to the side. He knew well enough that she was angry, though
she had reproached herself with not having made it clear to him. He said
to himself he ought not to have spoken, and then he laughed bitterly,
for he knew that all his strength could not have kept back the words,
because they were true, and because the truth must be spoken sooner or
later. He was hopeless now for a time, but he did not deceive himself.
"I am not weak. I am strong. And if my love is stronger than I what does
that prove? I am glad it is, and I would not have it otherwise. It is
done now and can never be undone. I am sorry I spoke to-night. I would
have waited if I could. But I could not, and I should despise myself if
I could. Love that is not strong enough to make a man move in spite of
himself is not worth calling love. I wonder if I flattered myself she
loved me? No, I am quite sure I did not. I never thought anything about
it. It is enough for me that I love her, and live, and have told her so;
and I can bear all the misery now, for she knows. I suppose it will
begin at once. She will not speak to me. No, not that, but she will not
expect me to speak to her. I will keep out of her way; it is the least I
can do. And I will try and not make her life on board disagreeable. Ah,
my beloved, I will never hurt you again or make you angry."
He said these things over and over to himself, and perhaps they
comforted him a little. At eight bells the Swedish captain turned out,
and Claudius saw him ascend the bridge, but soon he came down again and
walked aft.
"God afton, Captain," said Claudius.
"It is rather late to say good evening, Doctor," replied the sailor.
"Why, what time is it?"
"Midnight."
"Well, I shall turn in."
"If you will take my advice," said the captain, "you won't leave any
odds and ends lying about to-night. We shall have a dance before
morning."
"Think so?" said Claudius indifferently.
"Why, Doctor, where are your eyes? You are a right Svensk sailor when
you are awake. You have smelled the foam in Skager Rak as well as I."
"Many a time," replied the other, and looked to windward. It was true;
the wind had backed to the north-east, and there was an angry little
cross sea beginning to run over the long ocean swell. There was a
straight black belt below the stars, and a short, quick splashing,
dashing, and breaking of white crests through the night, while the
rising breeze sang in the weather rigging.
Claudius turned away and went below. He took the captain's advice, and
secured his traps and went to bed. But he could not sleep, and he said
over and over to himself that he loved her, that he was glad he had told
her so, and that he would stand by the result of his night's work,
through all time,--ay, and beyond time.