The Admiral jumped out of his chair with an evil word in his throat.
"There, there, ma'am," he cried. "Drop it for a time. I have heard
enough. You've turned me a point or two. I won't deny it. But let it
stand at that. I will think it over."
"Certainly, Admiral. We would not hurry you in your decision. But we
still hope to see you on our platform." She rose and moved about in her
lounging masculine fashion from one picture to another, for the walls
were thickly covered with reminiscences of the Admiral's voyages.
"Hullo!" said she. "Surely this ship would have furled all her lower
canvas and reefed her topsails if she found herself on a lee shore with
the wind on her quarter."
"Of course she would. The artist was never past Gravesend, I swear. It's
the Penelope as she was on the 14th of June, 1857, in the throat of the
Straits of Banca, with the Island of Banca on the starboard bow, and
Sumatra on the port. He painted it from description, but of course, as
you very sensibly say, all was snug below and she carried storm sails
and double-reefed topsails, for it was blowing a cyclone from the
sou'east. I compliment you, ma'am, I do indeed!"
"Oh, I have done a little sailoring myself--as much as a woman can
aspire to, you know. This is the Bay of Funchal. What a lovely frigate!"
"Lovely, you say! Ah, she was lovely! That is the Andromeda. I was a
mate aboard of her--sub-lieutenant they call it now, though I like the
old name best."
"What a lovely rake her masts have, and what a curve to her bows! She
must have been a clipper."
The old sailor rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened. His old ships
bordered close upon his wife and his son in his affections.
"I know Funchal," said the lady carelessly. "A couple of years ago I had
a seven-ton cutter-rigged yacht, the Banshee, and we ran over to Madeira
from Falmouth."
"You ma'am, in a seven-tonner?"
"With a couple of Cornish lads for a crew. Oh, it was glorious! A
fortnight right out in the open, with no worries, no letters, no
callers, no petty thoughts, nothing but the grand works of God, the
tossing sea and the great silent sky. They talk of riding, indeed, I am
fond of horses, too, but what is there to compare with the swoop of a
little craft as she pitches down the long steep side of a wave, and then
the quiver and spring as she is tossed upwards again? Oh, if our souls
could transmigrate I'd be a seamew above all birds that fly! But I keep
you, Admiral. Adieu!"
The old sailor was too transported with sympathy to say a word. He could
only shake her broad muscular hand. She was half-way down the garden
path before she heard him calling her, and saw his grizzled head and
weather-stained face looking out from behind the curtains.