The After House | Page 9

not even take the trouble
to ignore me. And yet, once or twice, I had found her eyes fixed on me
with a cool, half-amused expression, as if she found something in my
struggles to carry trays as if I had been accustomed to them, or to
handle a mop as a mop should be handled and not like a hockey stick -
something infinitely entertaining and not a little absurd.
But that morning, after they had settled to bridge, she followed me to
the rail, out of earshot I straightened and took off my cap, and she stood
looking at me, unsmiling.
"Unclench your hands!" she said.
"I beg your pardon!" I straightened out my fingers, conscious for the
first time of my clenched fists, and even opened and closed them once
or twice to prove their relaxation.
"That's better. Now - won't you try to remember that I am responsible
for your being here, and be careful?"
"Then take me away from here and put me with the crew. I am stronger
now. Ask the captain to give me a man's work. This - this is a
housemaid's occupation."
"We prefer to have you here," she said coldly; and then, evidently
repenting her manner: "We need a man here, Leslie. Better stay. Are
you comfortable in the forecastle?"
"Yes, Miss Lee."

"And the food is all right?"
"The cook says I am eating two men's rations."
She turned to leave, smiling. It was the first time she had thrown even a
fleeting smile my way, and it went to my head.
"And Williams? I am to submit to his insolence?"
She stopped and turned, and the smile faded.
"The next time," she said, "you are to drop him!"
But during the remainder of the day she neither spoke to me nor looked,
as far as I could tell, in my direction. She flirted openly with Vail,
rather, I thought, to the discomfort of Mrs. Johns, who had appropriated
him to herself - sang to him in the cabin, and in the long hour before
dinner, when the others were dressing, walked the deck with him,
talking earnestly. They looked well together, and I believe he was in
love with her. Poor Vail!
Turner had gone below, grimly good-humored, to dress for dinner; and
I went aft to chat, as I often did, with the steersman. On this occasion it
happened to be Charlie Jones. Jones was not his name, so far as I know.
It was some inordinately long and different German inheritance, and so,
with the facility of the average crew, he had been called Jones. He was
a benevolent little man, highly religious, and something of a
philosopher. And because I could understand German, and even essay
it in a limited way, he was fond of me.
"Seta du dick," he said, and moved over so that I could sit on the
grating on which he stood. "The sky is fine to-night. Wunderschon!"
"It always looks good to me," I observed, filling my pipe and passing
my tobacco-bag to him. "I may have my doubts now and then on land,
Charlie; but here, between the sky and the sea, I'm a believer, right
enough."

"'In the beginning He created the heaven and the earth,'" said Charlie
reverently.
We were silent for a time. The ship rolled easily; now and then she
dipped her bowsprit with a soft swish of spray; a school of dolphins
played astern, and the last of the land birds that had followed us out
flew in circles around the masts.
"Sometimes," said Charlie Jones, "I think the Good Man should have
left it the way it was after the flood just sky and water. What's the land,
anyhow? Noise and confusion, wickedness and crime, robbing the
widow and the orphan, eat or be et."
"Well," I argued, "the sea's that way. What are those fish out there
flying for, but to get out of the way of bigger fish?"
Charlie Jones surveyed me over his pipe.
"True enough, youngster," he said; "but the Lord's given 'em wings to
fly with. He ain't been so careful with the widow and the orphan."
This statement being incontrovertible, I let the argument lapse, and sat
quiet, luxuriating in the warmth, in the fresh breeze, in the feeling of
bodily well-being that came with my returning strength. I got up and
stretched, and my eyes fell on the small window of the chart-room.
The door into the main cabin beyond was open. It was dark with the
summer twilight, except for the four rose-shaded candles on the table,
now laid for dinner. A curious effect it had - the white cloth and
gleaming pink an island of cheer in a twilight sea; and to and from this
rosy