Black Pawl and his daughter were together through that afternoon, below,
in the cabin; and there they cast up the old accounts of the year. And
there were times when they were unhappy; but for the most part they were
very happy together. There was no more rancor in Black Pawl; he loved
the world, and he loved his daughter, and he loved the memories she
evoked in him. Into these few hours of life Black Pawl compressed more
happiness than he had seen for twenty years; he was like a boy again,
gay and youthful and mirthful. Yet was there a humility about him, and a
deference.
At dusk he went on deck. Red Pawl was there, superintending the work on
the bowsprit. Black Pawl looked at what was being done; and he said:
“Good work, Red!”
There was in him a desire to placate his son, to win back the old
comradeship, to redeem Red Pawl from the evil that obsessed the man.
But the mate looked up at his father’s words and said dourly:
“I do my work. No fear!”
Black Pawl scowled, for the old, quick anger was not entirely dead in
him; nevertheless he curbed himself and turned away. Red was surprised
at this. It was not like the Captain. Was his father slacking,
weakening, losing his grip? He smiled furtively at his own thoughts, and
his heart began to pound.
After supper Black Pawl went to his cabin, alone. He wanted to sleep; he
undressed and blew out the whale-oil lamp that hung near his bunk’s
head, and lay down.
But there was no sleep in him; he thought of Ruth, and could not sleep
for happiness; he thought of his son, and could not sleep for sorrow and
concern. He thought of his wife and he spoke with her in his thoughts.
There was a great peace between him and her in this communion in the
night. Black Pawl was filled with peace. Even when he thought of his
son, he was not disturbed; he was only sorrowful. He no longer blamed
himself so bitterly on Red’s account; he felt himself in some measure
absolved. It was as though he had made an atonement; it may have been
that he was provisioning the immediate atonement he must make. He loved
Red, his son; but in his heart, he condemned the man--condemned him with
the stern justice which is both justice and love.
He had a great faith that Red should never harm Ruth. It was his task to
guard her; and if his strength were not sufficient, strength would be
given him. There was strength in her, for that matter. Thinking of this
daughter of his, he was immensely proud of her. She was a woman, even as
her mother had been. He thought, without disloyalty, that she was finer
than her mother. And--she would never come to harm.
But--Red? What of him? Black Pawl wondered whether to tell Red that Ruth
was his sister. He put the thought away. He had a feeling that this
would be cowardice and shirking, that the issue was between Red and him.
He was like <i>Frankenstein</i>; Red was a monster he had himself created and
for which he must take responsibility. He could not beg off.
He had somewhat the attitude of the missionary. The man of the church,
guessing Ruth was Black Pawl’s daughter, had yet kept silent. He had
said that he felt the whole matter was in God’s hands. Black Pawl
thought his problem was the same. He found peace in the thought. He
could do his duty as he saw it--no more.
He said softly, in the darkness, to this God he had found that day:
“It’s in Your hands, Sir.”
And he added: “But I’ll do my part of what’s to be done.”
So passed the night.