Back and forth we paced, and talked as we paced, until the stars were
dimming in the sky and the darkness fading from the sea. He stopped by
the rail and stared, aweary-like, I thought, upon the waters.
"Simon, surely few men but would rather be themselves than anybody else
that lives; but surely, too, no man sailing his own wide courses but
comes to the day when he wishes he'd been less free in his navigation at
times. You are honest and right, Simon. Even when you are wrong you are
right, because for a man to do what he thinks is right, whether he be
right or wrong, at the time, is to come to be surely right in the end.
And it is the like of you, not yet aweary in soul or body, should mate
with the women moulded of God to be the great mothers."
"You have done much thinking of some matters, captain," I said, not
knowing what else to say.
"Alone at sea before the dawn--it is a wonderful hour for a man to
cross-question himself, Simon; and not many nights of late years that I
haven't seen the first light of dawn creeping up over the edge of the
ocean. You marry Mary Snow, Simon."
He knew. What could I say? "I never thought to talk like this, captain,
to a living man." In the growing light we now stood plain to each
other's sight. "I don't understand what made me," I said, and said it,
doubtless, with a note of shame.
"It may be just as well at your age that you don't understand every
feeling that drives you on, Simon. Our brains grow big with age, but not
our hearts. No matter what made you talk to-night, Simon, you marry Mary
Snow."
I shook my head, but opened my heart to him, nevertheless. "I haven't
the clever ways of Saul Haverick."
"Simon, it's my judgment this night that Mary Snow will never marry Saul
Haverick."
"I'm glad to hear you think that, captain. 'Twould spoil her life--or
any woman's."
"No, no," he said, quick-like. "Almost any woman's--yes; but not Mary
Snow's--not altogether."
"And why?"
"Because she's too strong a soul to be spoiled of her life by any one
man; because no matter what man she marries, in her heart will be the
image, not of the man her husband is, but of the man she'd wish him to
be, and in the image of that man of her fancy will her children be born.
Women moulded of God to be the mothers of great men are fashioned that
way, Simon. They dream great dreams for their children's sake to come,
and their hearts go out to the man who helps to make their dreams come
true. If I've learned anything of good women in life, Simon, it is that.
And, no saying, I may be wrong in that, too, Simon, but so far I've met
no man who knows more of it than I to gainsay me. You marry Mary Snow,
Simon, and she will bear you children who will bring new light to a
darkening world."
The dawn was rolling up to us and the next on watch was on deck to
relieve me; and the cook, too, with his head above the fo'c's'le hatch,
was calling that breakfast was ready, and we said no more of that.
"Go for'ard, Simon," said Captain Glynn, "and have your breakfast. After
breakfast we'll break out her anchor, and out dories and get that gear
aboard afore it's too late. I'll go below and see how Saul's getting
on."
With that he went into the cabin; but soon was back to take his seat at
the breakfast table; but no word of Saul until we had done eating, and
he standing to go up on deck. Then he said: "Saul says he is still too
sick to go in the dory with you, Simon."
And to that I said: "Well, I've hauled a halibut trawl single-handed
before, Captain Glynn, and I can do it again if need be."
He put on his woollen cap, and across the table he looked at me, and I
looked hard at him.
"This will be no morning to go single-handed in a dory, Simon. Saul is
not too sick, he says, to stand to the wheel and handle the vessel in my
place. I will take his place along with you in the dory."
What he was thinking I could not say. His head was thrown back and his
eyes looking out and down at me, as from the top of a far-away hill, and
no more knowing what thoughts lay behind them than what ships lay beyond
the horizon.