tumbled into his cabin after his watch, into the heeling room where
the lamp swung overhead like a crazy thing, and all was a litter of
oilskins and sea-boots, and a great dampness everywhere, he would know
there was a swept cottage in Louth where the delft shone on the dresser
in the kindly light of the turf, and there would be a spinning-wheel in
the corner, and big rush-bottomed chairs, and the kettle singing on the
hob.... And when his comrades would leave the ship in port of nights to
go to the houses where music and dancing were, and crazy drinking, and
where the adroit foreign women held out their arms of mystery and
mercenary romance, he would lean over the taffrail and laugh and shake
his head:

"No, I think I'll stay on board." "Come on, young Shane. There's a woman
down at Mother Parkinson's and they say she's an Austrian archduchess
who has run away with a man, and got left. Come on." Or, "There's a big
dance over on the beach to-night, and a keg of rum, and the native
women. Jump in." "No, I think I'll stay on board and read." "Come on.
Don't be a fool." "No, go ahead and enjoy yourselves. I'll stay on
board." And there would be the plash of oars as they rowed shoreward,
and maybe a song raised.... And he would make himself comfortable under
the awning of the after deck, and read the bundles of newspapers from
home, of how Thomas Chalmers, the great Scottish preacher, was dead, or
how a new great singer had been heard in London, a Swedish girl, her
name was Jenny Lind, or how Shakspere's house had been bought and a
great price paid for it, three thousand pounds.... Or he would read one
of the new books that were coming out in a flood, a new one by Mr.
Dickens, the bite of the new writer, Mr. Thackeray with his "Vanity
Fair," or that strange book written by a woman, "Wuthering Heights"....
But in a little minute the volume would fall to his knees, and the
people of the book would leave the platform of his mind, and a real,
warmer presence come to it.... He could see the gracious, kindly
womanhood now move through the house, now come to the door to watch the
far horizon.... Of evenings she would stand dreaming at the lintel while
he was leaning dreaming over the taffrail, and though there were ten
thousand miles between them their hearts would be intimate as
pigeons.... And he would think of coming home to the peaceful cottage
and the wife with the grave eyes and kindly smile, and if he were a day
ahead of t