IN THE EARLY DAYS.
I was not a girl, but a woman, when I married Tom. He, a man incapable
of grossness in any shape or form, was still a man, healthily natural,
of ripe experience in the ways of men. Whatever our faults in the
past--if they were faults--the result was to teach us what we could
never otherwise have learned, the meaning of wedlock in its last
perfection. Don't let any one run down second marriages to me! The way
to them must necessarily be painful and troubled, and one always desires
passionately to keep one's children out of it; but the end of the
journey, bringing together, open-eyed to all the conditions, educated to
discriminate and understand, two born mates like Tom and me--ah, well!
One mustn't say all one thinks about these matters--except, of course,
to him.
Talking of being open-eyed, I was so blind at one time as actually to
fancy that he was in no hurry to have me. When I gave him to
understand--hardly knowing what I did--that I should die or something
without him to take care of me, he said he asked nothing better than to
take care of me, God knew, but that how to do it for the best was what
bothered him. It did not bother me in the slightest degree. I depended
on him--only on him of all the world--and I told him so; and yet he
wanted, after _that_, to send me back to my father with some old woman
whom I had never seen, in another ship, while he took the Racer
home--which never would have got home, nor he either. And I a married
woman, independent in my own right, and over twenty-one! However, I
flatly refused to go, except with him, as I had come. He said he would
not trust my life to that rotten tub again, and I said--I forget what I
said; but I hurt his feelings by it; and then I cried bitterly, and
said I would go out and be a housemaid.
The deadlock was suddenly ended by the Racer being condemned by the
authorities of the port as unfit for sea again. When that happened we
both decided to stay in the new country, and, having him near me, I was
quite content to postpone matrimony until things became a little
settled. It was soon plain enough that he was not anxious to postpone
for the mere sake of doing so; he only wanted a clear understanding with
father first, as well as with his owners, and to give me time for second
thoughts, and for considering the advice of my family.
It took long for letters to come and go, and I began to be haunted in my
walks by a strange man, who--I suppose--admired me. Tom found this out
on the same day that he accepted an appointment as chief officer with a
Melbourne shipping company. I could not imagine what had happened when
he came to see me at my poor lodging with such a resolute face.
"Mary," he said, "who's that fellow hanging round outside? I've seen him
several times."
"Tom," I protested sincerely, "I don't know any more than you do. But he
is a rude man; he stares at me and follows me, and I can't get rid of
him. Of course, he sees that I am----" I was going to say "unprotected,"
and hastily substituted "alone," which was not much better.
"Well, now, look here--I've got a ship, Mary"--he did not pain me with
further explanations on that head; later I wept to think of his
subservient position in that ship--"and this means an income, dear. Not
much, but perhaps enough----"
"Does it mean that you are going away?" I cried, terrified.
"Not far. Only for a few days at a time. I start on Friday. This is
Monday."
He took my hands; he looked into my eyes; I knew him so well that I knew
just what he was going to say. The colour poured into my face, but I
made no mock-modest pretence of being shy or shocked.
As a preliminary, he questioned me as if I were on trial for my life.
"Answer me _quite_ truthfully, Mary"--he called me Mary before we were
married, but always Polly afterwards--"tell me, on your solemn word of
honour, do you love me--beyond all possible doubt--beyond all chance of
changing or tiring, after it's too late?"
I told him that I loved him beyond doubt, beyond words, beyond
everything, and should do so, I was absolutely convinced, to my life's
end. I further declared that he knew it as well as I did, and was simply
wasting breath.
"And you really and truly do wish to marry me, Mary?"
I attempted to laugh at his tragic gravity and his awkward choice of
words. I said I didn't unless he did, that I wouldn't inconvenience him
or force his inclination for the world. I asked him, plainly, whether he
thought that quite the way to put it.
"Yes," he said. "For I want to make sure that I--that
circumstances--are not taking advantage of you while you are young and
helpless. And yet how can I be sure?"
He took my face between his hands and gazed at it, as if he would look
down through my eyes to the bottom of my soul. I shut them after a
moment, and tears began to ooze between the lids at the thought that he
could doubt me. One trickled out and splashed upon his knee, and my
heart began to heave with the impulse to cry in earnest. Then he drew my
face--drew me into his arms, and we sat a little without speaking,
hearing our hearts thump.
"We'll chance it, shall we?" he whispered between short breaths. "Sooner
or later it must come to that, and better as soon as possible if I have
to leave you in Melbourne alone. You won't be so much alone if you
belong to me, even when I am away--will you, sweetheart?"
I merely sighed--that kind of long, full, vibrating sigh which means
that your feelings are too deep for words.
"I think I shall be able to answer to your father--I hope so," he
continued, rallying his constant self-control. "I think I am justified,
Mary. If not----"
But I would not let him go upon that tack. Justification was absolute,
in my view of the case. I know what the ill-natured reader will say--she
will say that I threw myself at his head, that I forced myself upon him,
that I did not give him a chance to get out of marrying me if he had
wanted to; but that is only because she knows nothing whatever about it.
I cannot explain. I simply state the fact that we had one mind between
us on the matter, and if she doesn't believe me I can't help it.
"This is Monday," Tom repeated, "and I sail on Friday. If we are going
to do it, Mary, I'd like it done before I leave. There's nothing to wait
for, if we don't wait for the letters, is there?"
I told him nothing--that I was in his hands; and he proposed that we
should walk out then and there to find some one to "splice" us, as he
appropriately termed it, because it would be so much easier to attend to
all the other business after we were man and wife than before.
Sailors have a terse way of acting as well as of speaking, and the
change that made life such a different thing for both of us actually
took place that very day as ever was. When the unknown admirer would
have followed young Mrs. Filmer in her evening walk--it was too hot to
go out earlier--there was no such person. Mrs. Braye was dining
delicately at a pleasant seaside hostelry, in the company of her lawful
protector, whose name alone was like a charm to keep his proud wife in
safety.
We gave ourselves until Wednesday morning. Then we worked all Wednesday
and Thursday, like two navvies, to settle ourselves in the small lodging
that we selected for our first home. We were as poor as poor could be
and had to proceed accordingly, but little I cared for that, or for
anything now that I had him. On Friday afternoon he sailed--a
subordinate on that trumpery intercolonial boat, after being captain and
lord of an English ship--and I cried all night, and counted the hours
all day till he returned, when I went quite daft with joy. Not that much
joy was allowed us, even now, seeing that the greater part of his short
sojourn in port had to be spent on board. But it was wonderful what
value we could cram into the precious minutes when we did get them.
Again we had the agony of parting, the weary interval of separation, the
renewed bliss of the return, continually intensified; and then the
letters came--the letters we had tried, so unsuccessfully, to wait for.
Father desired me to come home for a time--a foregone conclusion--and
Miss Coleman did the same in more impassioned sentences. I daresay it
was heartless, but I laughed and danced with delight to know that it was
all too late for advice of that sort. And, to counteract any possible
feeling of remorse, Aunt Kate wrote in the sweetest way, all fun and
jokes, practically approving and encouraging me in the course I had
taken. To a young woman so situated, she said, fathers were quite
useless and superfluous, and she advised me to please myself, as I had
always done--that was how she put it. Best of all, she sent me a draft
for £500, either to come home with or for a wedding present, as the case
might be. And this precious windfall enabled us to take a little private
house that we could make a proper home of.
* * * * *
The worst of being on these small lines is the uncertainty about the
movements of your ship. In winter Tom would run one trip for months, or
suddenly stop in the middle for docking and repairs--a mere excuse for
laying up, I used to say, because trade was not paying expenses--in
which case he would have a holiday without salary, and the pleasure of
his companionship would be marred by anxieties about money. In summer
there were occasional special excursions, "round tours," that kept him
away for a month or six weeks at a time; and these were what I dreaded
most.
We had not yet had this long separation, but I knew--knew, but would not
admit--there was danger of it when we had been married a little less
than a year. It was our second Australian summer, and the time of all
times when I could not endure to part from him. I had now grown
accustomed to having him at home for a day and a couple of nights
weekly--happily he had a command again, such as it was, and could do as
he liked in port--and that was far, far too little, under the
circumstances.
He was sleeping late, and I, having prepared his breakfast, sat down by
an open window to read the morning paper until he should appear. As a
matter of course, I _always_ saw the name of our ship before I saw
anything else, even the Births, Marriages, and Deaths; she had her place
in a list of the company's vessels, with her sailing dates, in smallish
print, answering to her comparatively modest rank in life; my eye fell
on the exact spot by instinct in the moment of the page becoming
visible. I suppose it was the same instinct which to-day drew my first
glance to quite another column, where s.s. Bendigo stood in larger type.
My heart jumped and seemed to stop--"Christmas Holiday Excursion to West
Coast of New Zealand, if sufficient inducement offers." There it was!
And I felt I had all along expected it.
I got up to run to Tom with the news. On second thoughts I decided to
let him have his sleep out before dealing him a blow that would spoil
his rest for many a night to come, and tramped round and round the
breakfast-table, moaning and wringing my hands, asking cruel Fate why
Christmas should be chosen--_this_ Christmas of all times--and how I was
to get through without my husband to take care of me.
My husband looked most concerned when he saw what I was doing. "Hullo,
Polly, what's up?" was his greeting, as he faced me from the doorway;
and his bright home-look vanished like a lamp blown out.
I could not speak for the rush of tears. I held out the newspaper,
pointing to the fatal spot, and, when he took it, abandoned myself upon
his shoulder.
"Oh, Tom--Christmas! _Christmas_, Tom!"
He read in silence, with an arm round my waist. For a whole minute and
more we heard the clock ticking. Then he cleared his throat, and said
soothingly: "After all, it mayn't come to anything--at any rate, not
till afterwards. People don't care to be away from their homes at
Christmas. It's only an approximate date."
He was wrong. The postponements that invariably take place at other
times did not occur this time--as if on purpose. The hot weather set in
early, and it seemed that many people did desire to escape, not from it
only, but from the social responsibilities of the so-called festive
season. The Bendigo was a good boat, as everybody knew, and her captain
a great favourite with the travelling public. I don't wonder at it! So
that the passenger list filled rapidly, and every day brought us less
hope of a reprieve. Tom seemed a year older each time that he returned
from the regular voyage, bringing this information, and I know I nearly
drove him mad with my pale face and tear-sodden eyes. One day he told me
so.
"_What_ am I to do?" he groaned, staring strangely. "How can I leave you
like this? I can't, I can't! and yet, if I don't go, Polly--it is all
our living, my dear----"
Nothing ever frightened me so much. For _him_ to have that look of
agitation--my strong rock of protection and defence--he who had never
wondered what he was to do, but always knew and did it, while others
wondered--it was too shocking. I pulled myself together immediately.
"After all," I said, with a gulp and a smile, "the other poor seamen's
wives have to take their chance of this sort of thing, so why not I?"
"You," he replied, in his fond, stupid way, "are not like the others, my
pretty one."
He meant that I was far more choice and precious.
"Being pretty," I rejoined, "is no disadvantage that I know of, having
regard to the present circumstances. Now if I was delicate, then you
_might_ be anxious. Tommy, dear, I can't have you look like that! And
there's no reason in the world why I should not do as well as
possible--as well as everybody else does; indeed, I'm sure I shall. Of
course I shall miss you awfully--awfully"--my cheerful voice quavered in
spite of myself--"but there will be the proper people to look after me,
and--and--_think_ what it will be when you come back again!"
He had me in his arms now, with my face under his left ear.
"My brave girl!" he murmured. "My own brave girl!"
Just as when he called me that before, my heart rose elated. I
determined to deserve the title.
"Of course you must go," I said firmly; "it is our living, as you say.
No use having a family, and nothing to keep it on, is it? I suppose it
won't be _more_ than a month? A month is soon over. I can send you
telegrams. Don't you worry about me. I'm a wicked idiot to fret and
grumble; it is because you have spoiled me, love! I have got so used to
having you to take care of me----"
I choked, and burst into fresh tears.
However, I did manage to keep up very well until he went. Of course he
_had_ to go; we agreed about that. Not much of Aunt Kate's wedding
present was left by this time. We had our little home, all comfortable
and paid for, but his small salary comprised the whole of our current
income. It would never have done to jeopardise that.
But oh, it was cruel! It _was_ cruel! He says I shall never understand
the agony of his soul when he bade me good-bye, and I tell him he can't
possibly have suffered the thousandth part of what I suffered. We
clasped and kissed as if we never expected to see each other again. I
really don't think we did expect it. And yet I was quite well and
strong, and every possible thing had been done to safeguard me in his
absence. Poor as we were, he made the nurse, who charged three guineas a
week, come into the house before he left it, and engage to stay there
till his return; and he also installed a nice old lady, whose son he had
befriended, and who he thought would be a mother to me when the time of
trial came. So she was; but not even an own mother could have made up
for the want of him.
"God keep you safe for me," he prayed, as he held me to him, heart to
heart. "And you'll take care of yourself, my Polly. You won't fret, and
make yourself sick and weak--promise that you won't--for my sake!"
"I won't," I answered him, trying to comfort him; "I will be as good as
possible. We'll _both_ be well and strong--well and happy--to meet you
when you come home again. Tom! Tom! _do_ you realise what the next
home-coming will be? Let us look forward to that."
So I kept up to the last, to hearten him. The very last was the seeing
the ship go by at nightfall, on her way to sea. I lived where I lived on
purpose to have this view of her as she passed in and out. I watched for
her for an hour, and when she came it was too dark for me to see my
darling on the bridge through the strong glasses he had given me on
purpose that I might see him, and the flutter of his cabin towel against
the black funnel. Nor could he see me in the blue dusk of the shore,
with the evening afterglow behind it. But he sent a farewell toot across
the water, and I pulled the blind to the top of my window, and lit up my
room with every lamp and candle I could find. I knew he was looking, and
that he knew I knew it. We always signalled good-night in this way when
he passed out late.
So I kept up to the very last. But when I saw his mast-head light go
round the pier, like a bright star in the evening sky, and glide towards
the sea that was to keep him from me so long when I wanted him so
desperately, then I collapsed like a spent bubble, and all my courage
went out of me. I think I fainted there by the window, all of a heap
upon the floor.
At any rate, his back was hardly turned--he could scarcely have cleared
the Heads, we reckoned--when the catastrophe befell. I have often tried
to imagine what his feelings were when, at his first port of call, the
intelligence was conveyed to him that he had a son, and that mother and
child were doing well. He attempted to express them by letter, but he is
not literary. And he can't gush. All the same, I know--I know!
Did I say that the happiest moment of my life was when he called me a
brave girl? I was wrong. The happiest moment of my life--even though Tom
was away from me--was the moment when I heard the first cry of my own
child. Words cannot describe the effect on me of that little voice so
suddenly audible, as great an astonishment as if one had never expected
it; but every mother in the world will understand.
Oh, I am getting maudlin with these reminiscences! I can't help it.
He was a beautiful boy--my Harry--worthy to be his father's son. We
called him Harry because Henry was Tom's second name, and also that of
my own father, whom I wished to please; for, after all, he was a good
father to me, and I used to think that perhaps I had not been as good a
daughter to him as I might have been. This thought occurred to me when I
had a baby of my own, and wondered how I should feel if, when he was
grown up, he were to take his own wilful way as I had done. It does make
such a difference in one's point of view, with regard to all sorts of
things--having a baby of one's own. For instance, I knew that Miss
Coleman--Mrs. Marsh, I ought to say--had two, and when Aunt Kate told me
I was actually angry about it; it seemed to me that it was just another
impertinence on her part, and that the children were interlopers in my
old home. I could not bear to picture them sitting on father's knee, and
being carried in his arms, filling my place and consoling him for the
loss of me. But now I was quite glad that he had them, and I sympathised
with Miss Coleman. I wished she could come and nurse me now, as she used
to do; how much better we should understand each other! I resolved to
have baby's likeness taken as soon as possible to send home to her, and
to ask her to send me the photos of her little ones in return. I was
convinced, of course, that there would be no comparison between them.
Doubtless hers were nice children enough--father was a particularly
handsome man, in the prime of life--but my baby was really a marvel;
_everybody_ said so. His proportions were perfect, his skin as fine and
pure as could possibly be, his little face too lovely for words, and his
intelligence simply wonderful. Before he was a week old he knew me and
smiled at me. He had Tom's fair hair and straightforward blue eyes----
However, I suppose all this is silly. At any rate, the silly fashion is
to call it so.
It was dreadfully hot upstairs in that venetian-shuttered room, but
still I rallied quickly, and everything went well. The old lady was
indeed a mother to me, the nurse inflexibly conscientious, and my own
little maid like a faithful dog upon the doormat, constantly asking to
look at the baby and to be allowed to hold him. And yet--I know it was
ungrateful to them, but I could not help it--I never felt that I was
properly taken care of, because Tom was not behind them. I pined for
him--oh, _how_ I did pine for him!--happy as I was in every other
respect. While I was still weak, and inclined to be a little feverish, I
fell asleep and dreamed that the Bendigo had been wrecked, and that he
would never come home to see his child. I cannot describe how that dream
frightened me and haunted me--that, and the memory of our last parting,
when we seemed to have had so many forebodings.
"If I could only go to him!" was my constant thought, knowing that weary
weeks had still to pass before he could return to me, even if his voyage
prospered; and once I put it into words, "If we could only go to him,
Mrs. Parkinson, _what_ wouldn't I give!"
The old lady patted my shoulder soothingly, and assured me he would be
home in no time, if I would have but a grain of patience; while I had to
reflect that it was impossible to go a-travelling without money. I would
have "given anything" indeed, but I had nothing to give, though Tom had
amply provided for all my wants at home. Moreover, I could only have
left the house, while she was in it, over the dead body of my nurse. I
could manage the old lady, but not her; she was a rock of resolution
where her duty was concerned.
Suddenly a series of things happened. The old lady had a telegram
summoning her to the sick-bed of her son--the very son that Tom had been
so good to--and flew to him, distracted. Poor old lady! My mother's
heart bled for her. And next day my little maid upset a kettle of
boiling water over the nurse (providentially, when the baby was not in
her arms), and the poor thing had to go to a hospital to have the
scalds dressed. She sent a substitute at once, because it was found that
she was for a few days incapacitated for her work; but I was able to
manage without the substitute. I told her I was now perfectly well--as
in truth I was--and therefore did not require her services. And the day
after that, by the English mail, I had a letter from _dear_ Aunt Kate,
which, when I opened it, shed a bank draft upon the floor. She had heard
that I was going to have a baby, and sent fifty pounds to pay expenses.
A box of baby-clothes, she said, had been despatched by the same ship;
for she didn't suppose I had any money to buy them, or that, if I had, I
could get anything in "that outlandish country" fit for a poor child to
wear.
I went straight into town and cashed that draft, taking my son with
me--proud to carry him myself, though he nearly dragged my arms off. At
the same time I ascertained at the company's office that the Bendigo was
hourly expected to report herself from Sydney.
"We will go to Sydney," said I to my little companion, as we travelled
home again, rich and free. "We'll get Martha's mother to come and keep
house until we all return together--with _father_ to take care of us."
That same night I had a wire from him. He was safe at Sydney, all well;
and would I telegraph immediately to inform him how it was with me?
Would I also write fully and at once, so that he might get the letter
before he left?
"We will telegraph immediately, to set his dear mind at rest," I said to
the son, who smiled and guggled as if he perfectly understood--and I am
sure he did; "but we won't write fully and at once. We can get to him as
quickly as a letter, and he would rather have us than a million letters.
Oh, what a simply overwhelming surprise we shall give him!" I was so
full of this blissful prospect that I never thought how I might be
embarrassing him in his professional capacity.
There were no intercolonial railways then, and we could not have stood
the wear and tear of overland travel if there had been. Nor was there
any choice in the matter of sea transport. I was obliged to take the
mail steamer that brought me Aunt Kate's money, for it was the only
vessel going to Sydney that could get me there in time. I had to be very
smart to catch her, and just managed it, leaving my home at the mercy of
a plausible red-nosed charwoman who was all but a perfect stranger to
me.
Of course I was an idiot--I know that; but, as Tom says, you can't put
old heads on young shoulders, and don't want to; and there is no
occasion to remember things of that sort now. _He_ never blamed me for a
moment, and I am sure I cannot regret what I did, when I weigh the
pleasures of that expedition against what in the end we had to pay for
them. They were richly worth it.
The voyage, even without the nursemaid whom I did not feel justified in
adding to my other extravagances, not only did me no harm, but really
invigorated me. A new-made mother, I had been informed, was never
sea-sick, and my experience seemed to prove the fact; while as for baby,
in spite of his catching a little cold, which he might have caught at
home, the exquisite sea air must have been better for him than the
gutter smells of Melbourne. He was as good as gold, and the stewardess
was an angel, and we slept like tops all through our two nights on
board.
It was afternoon when we entered Sydney Harbour--that beautiful harbour
which I had never seen before, but had no eyes for now. All I cared to
look at was my beloved Bendigo, and there she was at her berth, and the
blue-peter was up! When I saw that, I felt quite faint. I ran round the
deck asking everybody when she was expected to leave, and all but those
who did not know said at five o'clock. It was now three. So that, with
other weather, I might have missed her! And Tom would have gone home to
find----Great heavens! But with the misadventures that we did have,
there is no need to count those we didn't. As it chanced, I was in
plenty of time.
It was nearly four before I could get off the mail boat, and it was
considerably past that hour when I hurried up the gangway of the
Bendigo, panting, and bathed in perspiration--for Sydney is a hot place
in January--looking everywhere for Tom. The second officer, who knew me,
uttered an exclamation as he ran to take my bag from the cabman; and the
way he looked at baby--then asleep, fortunately--was very funny.
"Oh, Mr. Jones," I cried, "is the captain on board?"
"No, Mrs. Braye; he's on shore," was the reply, accompanied with violent
blushes. "You must have missed him somehow. Are you--are you going back
with us?"
"Of course I am," I said, as calmly as I could. "But he does not know it
yet. I had some business in Sydney, and I thought I would give him a
surprise. Don't tell him, please; I will go up to his cabin on the
bridge and wait for him."
"He may be here any moment," said the young man. And, looking to right
and left in an embarrassed way, he asked if he should call the
stewardess.
"Not yet," I returned affably. "I will ring when I want her. He will
sleep for a long time. He's such a good baby--not the least little bit
of trouble." And then I turned back the lace handkerchief from the
placid face, and asked Mr. Jones what he thought of that for a month-old
child.
He said he was no judge, and behaved stupidly. So I left him, and went
up to the bridge, where Tom had a room composed of a bunk and a bay
window, entirely sacred to himself. I don't suppose a baby had ever been
in it, but the pillows and things I found there made a perfect cradle.
As I laid my little one down on his father's bed, I was afraid the
thumping of my heart would jog him awake, but it did not. He sank into
his nest without sound or movement, leaving me free to watch at the
window for Tom's coming.
It was past five o'clock before he came, and I knew when I saw him why
he was so late. He had been looking for his expected letter up to the
last moment, and had now abandoned hope. I also knew that somebody on
deck had betrayed my secret when I heard the change in his step as he
ran upstairs. Ah--ah! Before I could arrange any plan for my reception
of him I was in his arms. Before either of us could ask questions, we
had to overcome the first effects of an emotion which arrested breath as
well as speech. Never when we were lovers had we kissed each other as we
did now.
"But what--how--why--where?" the dear fellow stuttered, when we began to
collect our wits; and in the same bold and incoherent style I
simultaneously gave my explanation. Half a minute sufficed to dispose of
these necessary preliminaries. Then I led him into his own cabin, the
doorway of which I had been blocking up.
* * * * *
"But what are we going to do with him?" Tom asked--a singular question,
I considered, but he was full of the business of the ship--I wondered
how he _could_ think about the ship at such a moment. "Hadn't you better
make a nursery of my cabin on deck? It's empty, and the stewardess'll
rig you up whatever you want."
"I will make a nursery of it," I replied, "when I want to bath and dress
him for the night. And, by the way, perhaps I had better do that now,
before we start." For our son had been wakened out of his sleep, in
order that his father should see how blue his eyes were.
"Yes, yes, do it now," urged Tom, in a coaxing way. It was sweet of him
not to cloud my perfect happiness by hinting at the scandalous breach of
etiquette it would be to let a baby appear on the bridge while he was
taking the ship out. For my part, I never thought of it.
He took me down to the deck, now crowded with people, who stared rudely
at us, and into the one cabin there, which was his own; and he called
the stewardess--a delightful woman, charmed to have the captain's baby
on board--and left us together, while he rushed off to speak with the
superintendent of the Sydney office, I suppose about my passage. Soon
afterwards we started, and until we were away at sea I was fully
occupied with Harry's toilet. Then came dinner, and Tom made me go in
with him, while the stewardess stayed with the child; and the short
evening was taken up with preparations for the night. It was arranged
that I should spend it in the nursery, of course, and I was strongly
advised to retire early.
But the cabin was hot, and the outside air was cool, and I simply could
not rest so far from Tom. The moonlight was lovely at about ten o'clock,
so bright that, stepping out on the now deserted deck to look for him, I
could plainly see his figure moving back and forth at the end of the
bridge, outlined against the sky. And I could not bear it. Slipping back
into my room to pick up my child and roll him in a shawl, I prepared to
storm the position with entreaties that I felt sure my husband was not
the husband to withstand.
He came plunging down the stairs just as I was about to ascend. I
stopped, and called to him.
"Tom, _do_ let me be with you!"
"I was on my way to you, Polly, to see if you were awake, and would like
to come up for a little talk. It's quiet now."
He put his arm round my waist, and turned to hoist me upward.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "Is that----"
"Of course it is. You wouldn't have me leave him behind, all alone by
himself?"
"But won't he catch his death of cold?"
"How can he, on a night like this? It will do him good. And I won't let
him cry, Tom."
"Give him to me. I'll carry him up."
"_Can_ you?"
He laughed, and took the little creature from me in a delightfully
paternal fashion, and without bungling at all. I had been half afraid
that he was going to turn out like so many men--like Mr. Jones, for
instance--but had no misgivings after that. Even when we encountered Mr.
Jones on duty, he was not ashamed to let his officer see him with an
infant in his arms. Certainly he was born to be a father, if anybody
ever was.
It was very stuffy in his little house, which had the funnel behind it;
so he put a chair for me outside, under the shelter of the screen, and I
sat there for some time. It was simply the _sweetest_ night! The sea is
never still, of course, however calm it may be, but its movements were
just as if it were breathing in its sleep. And the soft, wide shining of
the moon in that free and airy space--what a dream it was! At intervals
Tom came and dropped on the floor, so that he could lean against my knee
and get a hand down over his shoulder. The man at the wheel could see
us, but carefully avoided looking--as only a dear sailor would do. The
binnacle light was in his face, and I watched him, and saw that he never
turned his eyes our way. As for Prince Hal, he slept as if the sea were
his natural cradle. So it was.
Presently Tom went off the bridge, and when he returned a steward
accompanied him, carrying a mattress, blankets, and pillows, which he
made up into a comfortable bed beside me.
"How will that do?" my husband inquired, rubbing the back of a finger
against my cheek. "It isn't the first time I've made you a bed on
deck--eh, old girl?"
I was wearing a dressing-gown, and lay down in it, perfectly at ease. He
lowered the child into my arms, punched the pillows for our heads,
tucked us up, and kissed us.
"This is on condition that you sleep," he said.
"It is a waste of happiness to sleep," I sighed ecstatically. "I want to
lie awake to revel in it."
"If I see you lying awake an hour hence," he rejoined, pretending to be
stern, while his voice was so full of tenderness that he could scarcely
control it, "I shall send you back to your cabin, Polly."
So I did not let him see it. But for several hours, when he was not
looking, I watched his dear figure moving to and fro, and the sea, and
the stars, with the smoke from the funnel trailing over them, and
revelled in full consciousness of my utter bliss.
Even now--after all these years--I get a sort of lump in my throat when
I think of it.