Part 14 (2/2)
”And that is why a woman--But how long have you been writing poetry?”
”Poetry? Or rhyme? Never before the day I saw you.”
”But when did such ideas before take hold of you?”
”The other night I was lying here looking up, and after a time the moon shone through onto my cot, and you crossed its path--you had given me my night cup and I had pretended to be asleep; and I thought of you looking out on the moonlit sea and I got to wondering what you were thinking of.
And I remembered a thousand such moonlit nights when you were not there.
And I thought what a difference it would have made had you been there, and so when I say
”'The Western Ocean smiled that night--Sweetheart, 'twas a dream of thee!'
”you must not smile. I meant it; for if the ocean smiles and whispers and makes men dream of--”
”Oh-h!” her head had settled and now her cheek was against mine. ”Go on,” she said softly.
”It made me dream of her that was never more than a dream-woman until I saw you. No longer a dream--not after you stepped out onto the veranda of the Governor's house that night in Momba. I knew it again when, looking out from the shrubbery in the garden, you looked at me and said, 'And who is this?' And I knew it when with you in the long-boat, when I wanted to reach out and take your hand--”
”And why didn't you? I knew you were weak from your wound, and it would have been a charity in me to cheer you up.”
”Divine charity--but I was not weak--not from any wound. I had not the courage. A sailor may shape his course by a star, but that does not mean that he ever thinks of reaching up and trying to grasp it.”
”And you've heard the sea whisper, too, Guy?”
”Many a time. In the night mostly--in the mid-watch, when it's quietest.
I've leant over the rail and heard it whisper up to me. People laugh at that, but they know nothing of the sea. And the day, or the night, comes to some men, when she whispers up to him and beckons with her wide arms and on her deep bosom offers to pillow him, and weary of the wrong-doing, mostly it's wrong-doing, or despair, when men hear it--weary, weary to death, they are glad to--”
”No, no--no, Guy--you must never go like that!”
”But when a man's alone?”
She rested her chin on my shoulder, she reached a hand down to mine.
”You will not be alone, dear--never, never again.”
A voice from above recalled me. ”Guy! O Guy! If you can make s.h.i.+ft to come on deck, you would do well. We are in close quarters and like to be yet closer.”
I looked up, not in full time, but in time to catch a glint of his eyes.
Pain in his voice, suffering in his eyes--never till that moment did it come to me that this whole cruise had been but a wooing of s.h.i.+ela Cunningham. And I, who owed him everything in life, I had stood in his way. And even with s.h.i.+ela there my heart ached for him.
VI
When I made the deck I saw that off each beam was an American frigate, and ahead was the land--the coast of Georgia.
No doubt of what they were after. The _Bess_ was a much-desired prize, and known as far as a long gla.s.s could shape her lines or pick her rig.
”But there is yet time, sir,” I suggested, ”to put about, run between them, and escape to the open sea.”
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