We weren't two; we were one. What alloy does gold make mixed with brass?
We were that alloy. I was the brass.
We travelled down to Singapore first-class, with one-armed Yir Massir to
look after us--down the old Hoogli with the stubs of half-burned Hindus
bobbing alongside, crows sitting on 'em and tearing off strips. We ran
aground on all the regular old sand-bars that are never twice in the
same place; and one dusk we saw tigers come out of the jungle to drink.
We'd both travelled quite some, but you wouldn't have thought it. Ivy
Bower and Right Bower had just run away from school for to see the world
"so new and all."
Some honey-moons a man keeps finding out things about his wife that he
don't like--little tricks of temper and temperature; but I kept finding
out things about mine that I'd never even dared to hope for. I went
pretty near crazy with love of her. At first she was a child that had
had a wicked, cruel nightmare--and I'd happened to be about to comfort
her when she waked and to soothe her. Then she got over her scare and
began to play at matrimony, putting on little airs and dignities--just
like a child playing grown-up. Then all of a sudden it came to her, that
tremendous love that some women have for some of us dogs of men. It was
big as a storm, but it wasn't too big for her. Nothing that's noble and
generous was too big for her; nor was any way of showing her love too
little. Any little mole-hill of thoughtfulness from me was
changed--presto!--into a chain o' mountains; but she thought in
mountains and made mole-hills of 'em.
We steamed into Singapore and I showed her the old _Boldero_, that was
to be our home, laid against the Copra Wharf, waiting to be turned into
an ark. The animals weren't all collected and we had a day or two to
chase about and enjoy ourselves; but she wasn't for expensive pleasures.
"Wait," she said, "till you're a little tired of me; but now, when we're
happy just to be together walking in the dust, what's the use of
disbursing?"
"If we save till I'm tired of you," says I, "we'll be rich."
"Rich it is, then," said she, "for those who will need it more."
"But," says I, "the dictionary says that a skunk is a man that
economizes on his honey-moon."
"If you're bound to blow yourself," says she, "let's trot down to the
Hongkong-Shanghai Bank and buy some shares in something."
"But," says I, "you have no engagement ring."
"And I'm not engaged," says she. "I'm a married woman."
"You're a married child."
"My husband's arm around my waist is my ring," says she; "his heart is
my jewel."
Even if it had been broad daylight and people looking, I'd have put her
ring on her at that. But it was dark, in a park of trees and
benches--just like Central Park.
"With this ring," says I, "I thee guard from all evil."
"But there is no evil," said she. "The world's all new; it's been given
a fresh start. There's no evil. The apple's back on the tree of
knowledge. Eden's come back--and it's spring in Eden."
"And among other items," says I, "that we've invoiced for Sydney is a
python thirty feet long."
"Look!" says she.
A girl sat against one of the stems of a banyan, and a Tommy lay on his
back with his head in her lap. She was playing with his hair. You could
just see them for the dark.
"'And they lived on the square like a true married pair,'" says I.
"Can't people be naughty and good?" says she.
"No," says I; "good and naughty only."
"Suppose," says she, "you and I felt about each other the way we do, but
you were married to a rich widow in Lisbon and I was married to a wicked
old Jew in Malta--would that make you Satan and me Jezebel?"
"No," says I; "only me. Nothing could change you." She thought a little.
"No," says she; "I don't think anything could. But there isn't any
wicked old Jew. You know that."
"And you know about the rich widow?"
"What about her?" This said sharp, with a tug at my arm to unwrap it.
"She was born in Singapore," said I, "of a silly goose by an idle
thought. And two minutes later she died."
"There's nothing that can ever hurt us--is there?--nothing that's
happened and gone before?"
Man that is born of woman ought not to have that question put up to him;
but she didn't let me answer.
"Because, if there is," she said, "it's lucky I'm here to look after
us."
"Could I do anything that you wouldn't forgive?"
"If you turned away from me," she said, "I'd die--but I'd forgive."
Next daylight she was leaning on the rail of the _Boldero_ watching the
animals come over the side and laughing to see them turn their heads to
listen to what old Yir Massir said to them in Hindustani. He spoke words
of comfort, telling them not to be afraid; and they listened. Even
Bahut, the big elephant, as the slings tightened and he swung dizzily
heavenward, cocked his moth-eaten ears to listen and refrained from
whimpering, though the pit of his stomach was cold with fear; and he
worked his toes when there was nothing under them but water.
"The elephant is the strongest of all things," I said, "and the most
gentle."
Her little fingers pressed my arm, which was like marble in those days.
"No," said she--"the man!"