“THE SEA KING’S DAUGHTER”
The next day the passengers all arose early to go on deck; but most of
them had to lie down again before they had finished dressing; and to
remain in their staterooms, where they were attended by the stewardess.
The ship was approaching Queenstown.
All our party, however, came upon deck. Some of them were sick enough,
but they all thought that the fine air of the upper deck was better for
them than the close air of the staterooms, or even of the cabin.
The weather-beaten and weather-proof old skipper and his grandniece,
little Rosemary Hedge, were the only ones who remained perfectly well,
with a keen appetite for breakfast and a wholesome enjoyment of the
sharp March morning.
“How is it with you, my girl?” inquired the skipper, when they all met
in the bows and exchanged their morning greetings and compared notes
about endured or threatened sickness. “How is it with you? You look as
fresh and as bright as a brand new sixpence, and you are as steady on
your pins as if you had been to sea all your life!”
“She has been to sea longer than that!” put in Wynnette, the
incorrigible. “She is only seventeen years old, but she has been to sea
about two hundred years to my certain knowledge! And how many thousand
years before that I don’t know! And if she has not exactly followed the
sea, in her own person, she has in that of her ancestry, on both sides
of the house. Her father was a sailor, her two grandfathers were
sailors, and her four great-grandfathers. And from them she has
inherited her good sea legs.”
“No—doubt—of—it. No—doubt—of—it,” slowly and approvingly replied the old
skipper, as he gazed admiringly on his little niece. “Ah! if she had
only been a boy, what a sailor I could have made of her!”
They were drawing very near to Queenstown now, and in less than half an
hour the _Asia_ dropped anchor in the Cove of Cork.
As soon as the ship was still the seasick got well and went down to
breakfast.
After that they returned to the deck, to look out upon the coast of
Ireland.
As the _Asia_ was to wait there for some hours to get the last mail,
many of the passengers went on shore. Our party remained on the steamer.
In the afternoon the excursionists returned. The ship made preparations
for sailing.
Our party sitting on deck, and all feeling perfectly well now that the
ship was still, overheard some “grew-some” words from one of the men.
“That bank of clouds in the west means mischief and dirty weather
ahead.”
“Do you hear that, Jack Tar?” inquired the old skipper of his little
niece.
“Yes, Uncle Gideon,” she answered, lifting her large, blue eyes to his
face.
“And do you know what ‘dirty weather ahead’ means?”
“Yes, Uncle Gideon.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“Why, it means furious storms to come.”
“Did you ever hear the phrase before?”
“No, Uncle Gideon.”
“Then how do you know what it means?”
“I don’t know; but the meaning seems plain enough.”
“Oh! then I must tell you how you know. By instinct. By inheritance.
Just as the blind kitten knows a dog the instant it scents his approach.
I should think you would know not only what dirty weather means, but
also the signs of its coming.”
“Even I, who am neither a sailor nor the son of a sailor, can tell the
signs of its presence,” said Wynnette. “They are a ship deluged with
rain and dilapidated by wind, slopped all over by waves, and holding
several hundred human wretches, all deadly sick at their stomachs. If
that is not dirty weather, I don’t know the meaning of words.”
“And that is just such weather, Miss Wynnette, as we shall be likely to
have, more or less, for the next ten days, or longer. And the officers
and men know it and are preparing for it. But never you mind, little
Jack Tar. We shall not go down. And as for the rest, you can stand the
storm. You’re a natural born sailor!”
As the old skipper spoke the signal gun was fired, and the _Asia_
steamed out of the cove.
The sun had now set behind a heavy bank of clouds. The wind had risen
with more force than on the preceding evening, and blew so freshly that
all the passengers, with the exception of a few weather-beaten men and
well-seasoned voyagers, went below.
All our party, with the exception of the old skipper and his little
niece Rosemary, not only went down, but turned in to be looked after by
the hard-worked stewardess, or not unfrequently by one of the stewards.
“You don’t want to go below to the stifling cabins, do you, now, little
Jack Tar?” inquired Capt. Grandiere of his small companion.
“No, Uncle Gideon, I do not, indeed. I should much rather stay up here
with you as long as I may,” replied the child.
“Thought so! And so you may. Ah! if Heaven had given me such a boy!”
“But, Uncle Gideon, although I can walk the deck when the ship is
rolling, without falling or turning sick, I know I should not make a
good sailor boy,” said Rosemary.
“Why not, pray? I say you would make a splendid sailor boy! Why, every
one of the passengers has gone down and turned in as sick as dogs, and
here you are as well as I am!”
“But I couldn’t be a sailor boy, because——”
“Because what?”
“Because I should be afraid to climb the ropes and things so high. I
should be afraid of falling on the deck and killing myself, or falling
into the sea and getting drowned,” pleaded Rosemary.
“Now, don’t go to tell me that you have inherited your sailor
forefathers’ sea heads and sea legs without their stout hearts! Don’t go
to tell me that!” said the skipper, taking his pipe from his mouth and
staring down at his little companion.
The quaint little creature looked so ashamed of herself that the old man
took pity on her, and said:
“Ah, well! you are nothing but a bit of a girl, after all, and the very
tiniest mite of a girl, for seventeen years of age, that I ever saw in
my life! Well, you shan’t be a sailor and work on board ship! You shall
be a dainty little lady in your own house:
“‘With servants to attend you
When you go up or down.’
“Come, now! tell you old uncle a secret: Isn’t my lord sweet on you?”
And the old sailor took his pipe from his mouth and poked the stem of it
into her side.
“‘Sweet on me?’” echoed Rosemary, in perplexity.
“In love with you, then. Every girl knows what that means as soon as she
knows her right hand from her left, or sooner. Tell me the truth,
now—isn’t the earl in love with you?”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Rosemary, in all sincerity; for although she knew
that Lord Enderby had proposed to marry her, it never occurred to her to
think of his being “in love” with her, or anybody else, because she
considered him so much too old for her—old enough to be her father, as
in truth he was.
“Well, then I don’t know the weather signs in that latitude! That’s all.
His eyes are never off you, child. If he has not told you he loves you,
he will do so soon. You must then refer him to me. I am the head of the
family, and in the lack of your father, must stand in his shoes. You are
very young to marry, Rosemary—only just seventeen. And I should accept
his lordship’s offer only with the understanding that he should wait for
you a year; but then I should accept him, my girl; for it is not often
that an English earl offers marriage to the daughter of a merchant
captain, even though she is a little beauty and does come of a good
family. And Enderby is a good sort. That is better than being an earl.
He is a good sort.”
Here the old man put his pipe in his mouth and smoked on in silence for
some minutes, during which Rosemary sat by his side in dumb distress.
At last the skipper took out his pipe, blew off a cloud of smoke that
went floating over the sea, and then he said:
“So you understand, my dear, that I, the head of your family, entirely
approve the suit of Lord Enderby.”
Rosemary was ready to cry.
“But, Uncle Gideon, I don’t want to marry the earl! I like him so very
much! I love him—I love him dearly! He is the best man I ever saw in my
life! And I do love him dearly, dearly; but I couldn’t marry him, and I
wouldn’t marry him for the whole wide world!” exclaimed Rosemary, with
her little face and frame all quivering with her earnestness.
“Well—upon—my—word!” muttered the old skipper, laying down his pipe for
good and all, and staring at his little niece, but to no purpose, for
they were sitting in deep shadow now, and he could not see her face.
“You love the earl dearly, and would not marry him for the world! That
is crazy talk. What do you mean by it?”
“Why, one does not want to marry people because one loves people. I love
you and Uncle Force, and Cousin Le, and Sam and Ned, and ever so many
more; but I would not marry any of you for all the world, even if I
could. And I love Lord Enderby more than I do all the others, but I
would not marry him. I would die first!”
“Then, I know what is the matter. The secret is out! You love some one
else even better than you do the earl! Is not that so? I am the head of
the family, Rosemary, and I have a right to know.”
“Uncle,” whispered the little creature, in a tremulous voice, as she
clasped her tiny hands over her heart, speaking frankly under the
friendly cover of the darkness—“uncle, I am not free to marry the earl,
even if I wished to do so, which, indeed, I do not. I am engaged to
Roland Bayard!”
“Good Lord bless my soul alive!” exclaimed the old man. “Since when, if
you please?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Uncle Gideon; but I have been engaged to Roland for
years and years and years.”
“Bless my soul and body!”
“It is a sacred bond, and I wouldn’t break it even if I could.”
“Ah! the love that grew from childhood—was that it, Rosemary?”
“Yes, dear Uncle Gideon.”
“Well, he’s a good sort, too—is Bayard.”
As the old skipper spoke, one of the stewards came on deck with a
message from Mrs. Force.
“Would Capt. Grandiere be so good as to send Miss Hedge down to the
ladies’ cabin, as it was too late and too cold for her to remain on
deck?”
“I will take you down myself,” said the old man.
And he escorted the girl to the door of her stateroom, and bade her
good-night.
Rosemary was soon asleep in the upper berth of the room she shared with
Wynnette.
But the old skipper spent hours on deck before he turned in.