Part 12 (1/2)
Pride and conceit const.i.tute what stands for courage in most men. The wild animal has no conceit, he has no pride. Does the male lion rush out to be shot in place of his mate? He do not. He sneaks off in the high reeds and leaves her to take care of herself. The Captain of this steamer is so full of pride zat he will stay on it till it goes under the wave. It is not courage, Mr. Percivail. It is his pride in the power zat--that G.o.d has give to his s.e.x. These men here,--you, my friend,--face the danger now so unflinching for why? Because for ages and ages you have believe in and depend upon the man beside you, the men around you. Zat is the difference between man and woman. Woman believes in and depends on man. She has no faith in her own s.e.x. So, you see, my friend, when I say I am brave and you say Miss Clinton is plucky, it is all because we have men about us who are so proud and conceited zat they will die before they will admit that they are not as helpless and as weak as we are in times like zis.”
”You may be right,” he mused, struck by her argument. ”It's usually pride that makes a man stand up and fight another, even when he knows he's sure to be beaten. It's neither confidence nor courage. It's just plain fear of being a coward.”
”You will admit then that I understand the wonderful male animal which struts on two legs and rules all the other animals of the world, eh?
It is the only animal in the whole big world zat--that is completely satisfied with itself. So now, Mr. Percivail, you have the secret of the so-called courage of the male of our species.”
”I hope all women haven't gone into the subject so deeply,” he said, with a rueful smile. ”You make rather small potatoes of us.”
”Ah, do not say that,” she cried, ”for, alas, I am denied potatoes.”
”Well, then,” he said, laughing, ”if all women understood us as well as you do, we wouldn't rule the world very much longer. They'd yank us off the pedestal and revile us forevermore.”
”But you do not understand women, my friend. Did we not bring you into the world? Are you not our sons, and therefore begotten to be kings? We may despise our husbands, we may loathe our brothers and our fathers, we women, but our sons are the G.o.ds we wors.h.i.+p. My dear Mr. Percivail, women will go on being ruled to the end of time unless they cease populating the world with sons. The mother of the man is the humblest subject of the son and yet the proudest. The mothers of kings, of emperors, of presidents,--do they think of them as kings, emperors, presidents? No. They think of them as sons. That is why man is supreme.
That is why he rules. To be sure, we women are not always disposed to have our husbands rule, we even go so far as to say they are not fit to rule, but alas, the men we are permitted to know the best of all are always the sons of some one else, and so there you have the endless chain. Sons! Sons! Sons! Sons to create new sons,--sons without end, amen! G.o.d bless our sons!”
”And I say G.o.d bless our mothers!”
”In that one little sentence, Mr. Percivail, spoke from the heart, you have reveal the secret history of the world. You have account for everything.”
”You are a million years old, Madame Obosky,” he said, looking into her deep, unfathomable eyes.
She smiled. ”So? And which of my sons, Mr. Percivail, do you think I love the most? Cain or Abel?”
”It would take a woman to answer that question. There's one thing certain, however. You loved both of them more than you loved Adam.”
”True. But I followed Adam out of the Garden of Eden and I have never left his heels from zat day to this. What more could any man ask?”
On the second morning after the storm, the lookout fixed his straining eyes on a far-distant, shadowy line that had not been a part of the boundless horizon the day before. Dawn was breaking, night was lifting her sheet from the new-born day. He waited. He could not be sure.
Minutes that seemed like hours pa.s.sed. Then suddenly his hoa.r.s.e shout rose out of the silence:
”Land ho!”
Down into the heart of the s.h.i.+p boomed the cry, taken from the lookout's lips by one after another of the weary men below. The sweating, exhausted toilers who manned the pumps paused for a moment, then fell to work again revitalized. Out from the cabins, up from every nook and corner of the s.h.i.+p scrambled the excited horde, fully dressed, their faces haggard with doubt, their eyes aglow with joy. Land! In every round little window gleamed a face,--for a moment only along the portside. Nothing but the same endless ocean on the port side of the s.h.i.+p. Water! Sick and wounded drew themselves up to the portholes and peered out from their cells for the first time.
”Where?... Where?” ran the wild, eager cry of the scurrying throng, and there was disappointment--bitter disappointment in their voices. They had been tricked. There was no land in sight! The gla.s.ses of the s.h.i.+p's officers, cl.u.s.tered far forward, were directed toward some point off the starboard bow, but if there was land over there it was not visible to the naked eye. A junior engineer saluted Captain Trigger and left the group.
”There is land ahead,--a long way off,” he announced as he pa.s.sed through the throng in the saloon deck.
Up above the clamour of questions shouted from all sides as the crazed people flocked behind the messenger of hope, rose the voice of Morris s.h.i.+ne.
”Land ahoy! Ahoy-yoy-yoy!” he yelled over and over again, his chin raised like that of a dog baying at the moon.
Every person on deck was either carrying a life-belt or was already encased in one. Grim orders of the night just past. Here and there were to be seen men who clutched tightly the handles of suitcases and kit bags! Evidently they were expecting to step ash.o.r.e at once. In any case, they belonged to the cla.s.s of people who never fail to crowd their way down the gang-plank ahead of every one else. The fas.h.i.+onable ocean liners always have quite a number of these on board, invariably in the first cabin.
Percival ranged the decks in quest of Ruth Clinton. She was well aft on the boat deck, where the rail was not so crowded as it was forward.
Her arm was about the drooping, pathetic figure of her aunt. They were staring intently out over the water,--the girl's figure erect, vibrant, alive with the spirit of youth, her companion's sagging under the doubt and scepticism of age. He hesitated a moment before accosting them.
Nicklestick, the Jew, was excitedly retailing the news to them. He went so far as to declare that he could see land quite clearly,--and so could they if they would only look exactly where he was pointing. He claimed to have been one of the very first men on board to see the land.
Ruth was hatless. Her braided brown hair had been coiled so hastily, so thoughtlessly that stray strands fell loose about her neck and ears to be blown gaily by the breeze across her cheek. Her blouse was open at the neck, her blue serge jacket flared in the wind. Every vestige of the warm, soft colour had left her face. She was deathly pale with emotion.