He stood a moment or so debating what he should do, then going to the door of her cabin, knocked gently.
"Who ... who's there?" she questioned, breathlessly.
"Adam!" he murmured.
"What ... do you ... want?"
"Why do you weep?"
"Because I ... I'm so minded."
"Oh!"
"Yes!"
"Then I grieve to have troubled you."
"Oh ... go away!"
"Good night!" he answered softly, and went.
Yet scarcely had he settled to his studies again than came a tapping on his door; rising he opened it to see Antonia looking at him through her tears and, to his great relief, completely dressed.
"Adam.... Oh, Adam," she sobbed, "I am so very miserable. I do so hate myself, and this great, vile ship and everyone on it and ... 'specially ... one! I would I were dead, or back in England ... our dear England ... even though they ... swung me on a ... gallows!"
"Ah no!" he murmured. "No!"
"I do!" she retorted. "Yes I do, and all your fault. Oh, you meant me well I know, but see now what you have led me into ... and I have made myself such ... failure! I've tried so hard to seem a man ... you've learned me to fight ... I've made myself seem bold, a braggart and swearer, but ... God made me a woman and ... Oh, I do yearn ... for my petticoats!"
"Now God love and bless thee!" murmured Adam, then laughed a little shakily, whereupon she began to laugh also, even while she wept, and to his dismay.
"Hush!" he whispered, taking her two hands in his quick clasp that could be so unexpectedly strong. "Come out with me and find comfort in the glory and wonder of God's stars."
So, hand in hand, soft-treading, forth they went to such starry splendour as may only be seen in those latitudes.
"See now, Antonia,—yonder, up from dark ocean riseth Venus in radiant majesty."
"And like a little moon, to make a glory on the sea, Adam."
"Ay, and, yonder again, hangeth the Southern Cross! And there above our mast-heads, sprawled across the firmament, is the Scorpion. So here stand we, two children o' God, amid the glory of His creation. Above us the everlasting wonder of His heaven, below us the abiding mystery of His ocean,—and this great ship no more than merest atom afloat between these His immensities."
"Yes," she murmured, "all this speaks forth the awful majesty of God ... and He is so mighty and so remote from poor me!"
"And yet so near us, Antonia, that the griefs we suffer, the harms we do, all these are known to Him that heedeth the fall of a sparrow. For this eternal so mighty God is also our all merciful Father."
Thus Adam talked for her comfort, and his own, until up from dark ocean rose the great, tropic moon to pale the myriad stars and show him all things touched with a new beauty,—towering sails, broad, white decks and—the loveliness of her who leaned beside him so near and yet so remote, her dreamful gaze upon the glittering, ever restless sea. Thus for a while they were silent and the night about them full of sounds grown familiar,—the sighing hiss of placid waters, murmur of wind in rigging, hoarse mutter of voices from the lookout forward and slow-pacing step where the officer of the watch kept his lonely vigil on lofty poop above them.
At last, deep-sighing, Antonia leaned nearer and spoke.
"Adam, you have called me your brother and oh, my dear, as a brother I love you, and as a man I honour you most truly. And now because you are so wise I must tell you that which troubles and greatly surprises me. This evening while you were sitting with Sir Benjamin I went into your cabin to order it and set out your books as is my custom, and found ... him there."
"Absalom?"
"Yes. But no sooner did he see me than ... oh, Adam ... he knelt to me! Yes, on his knees ... at my feet ... and in his look no least sign of mockery. And while I stood there amazed beyond words, he ... pleaded my forgiveness ... stammering ... his voice broke ... then he leapt afoot and was gone, yet oh ... not before I had seen ... tears in his eyes,—yes, tears, Adam, tears! And he a man so proud and hard! What shall this mean now?"
"Truly, that he is neither."
"Then what is the miracle hath so changed him?"
"Ah, child, doth not ... thine own heart tell thee this?"
"Nay," she whispered, "my poor heart tells me only what I would so fain believe ... yet dare not."
"So then," said Adam, keeping his face averted, "I am to know ... you love him ... very greatly."
"Yes, Adam, yes ... from the first moment he looked on me in that English lane! Yes, I love him despite myself ... and very grievously because I know it is all ... so hopeless!"
"Hopeless?" repeated Adam, angrily amazed. "Now in the Lord's name, why?"
"Because I am a nameless waif ... a poor foundling and ... oh ... a fugitive from the Law. Ah, how could he ... a man so great and splendid ... ever love ... only me?"
"Because you are indeed merely yourself ... the Only Antonia in all this world. Never disparage thyself, for thou art one with this great glory of stars and ocean since thou, too, art God's handiwork. He made thee woman, and hath endowed thee with noble valiance of soul and sweet loveliness of body. Well, respect thyself therefore, and know thyself worthy all honour and ... and worship and a glory to the man shall win thee. And remember this,—Beauty is a power—one of the mightiest in life, for thereby a woman may ennoble or debase a man. Beauty is either shame or a crowning glory. Oh, indeed, to be a woman and beautiful is vast responsibility!"
"Am I then ... so beautiful, Adam?"
"Yes."
"And doth ... he ... think so, think you?"
"This he shall tell you himself anon."
"Oh!" said she, breathlessly. "Will he? Are you sure, dear Adam?"
"Very sure!" he answered, between shut teeth.
Now after this they were silent some while, and when at last she spoke again, it was in voice very soft with tenderness:
"Oh, Adam ... dear, loved brother, now I pray God bless the clean, brave soul of thee ever and always ... and so, good night!" Then, swiftly, lightly, she kissed his silvery hair and was gone, flitting silent as a ghost.
For some while Adam stood motionless, staring down into that dark mystery of ever-moving waters and when at last he looked up it was to see the stars all dimmed through a blur of scalding tears. For as she had left him now, so she would leave him very soon to solitude and great desolation; and from the loneliness of his stricken heart he cried speechlessly to that God his so loved father had taught him was, and ever would be, his stay, his consolation and ultimate salvation so long as he kept faith.
So Adam watched the night through until the stars paled their fires and, to end his lonely vigil, came the dawn making a radiance of sky and ocean. And standing in the light of this new day, he found strength to implore a blessing on these two whose love was to make him a loveless, solitary man all his days.
CHAPTER XXII
WHICH INTRODUCES DIVERS PAGES OF ADAM'S JOURNAL
Among the personal effects Amos Perrin had bequeathed to Adam was a journal, a small, stout, handy volume of many pages as yet untouched by quill, and in this book it now became Adam's custom to note down in his small, neat script the minor happenings of each day, together with such thoughts and self-communings as his lips might never utter. And since this may show him forth better than any bald statement of fact, it is deemed well to include divers pages thereof from time to time in this narrative and record of his early adventures, grievous sufferings, few joys and many triumphs, beginning on this wise:
June 2
I begin this my Journal in the dawn and with marvellous heaviness of spirit, for now I am assured beyond doubt how my hopes are all vain, and in my bitter loss can but say her will be done. And in this black hour thankful to assure myself that by no look or word have I betrayed to her that her choice and Absalom's coming happiness are my despair and abiding grief. For I, that never had woman to love, no not even my own mother that died too soon, do now love this woman so greatly that in all my life can be no other. May Absalom, that hath, as confessed, loved so many, now love this one with fervour as deep and abiding, to the assured and lasting happiness of them both, I pray God. Amen. I pray also for strength to bear myself towards them both with a cheerful amity, and that my jealousy of Ab. and envy for his happiness may nowise lead me to any word or act unbecoming the son of my Father whose sign, this grief-stricken white head, I bear upon me like his Blessing and Memorial to remind me how I must live in honour and die unfearing—even as did he.