II
The tiny cottage parlour was flooded with sunshine: through the open window the throaty bubbling song of a thrush poured like a cascade from among the blossoms of an apple-tree that came near to thrusting inquisitive lower branches into the room. The Commander sat at the breakfast-table chipping the top off an egg; opposite him stood a girl, her brows knitted in the preoccupation of coffee-making. At his left hand, perched in a high chair, sat a smaller edition of himself with a bib under his chin, watching the decapitation of the egg with intent solemnity.
“What did the White Queen say?” asked the Commander.
“Off wiv his ’ead,” came the reply promptly, in rich tones of anticipation.
“’Head,’ darling,” protested the coffeemaker without raising her eyes from her task.
“Never mind, John Willie,” said his father. “Let’s cut the cackle and get to the ’osses.” He extended the top of the brown egg to his son and heir, who gravely accepted it, and delved into its white and gold with an unwieldy egg-spoon.
“Well?” said his father.
“Fank you,” said John Willie absent-mindedly. He finished the egg’s head and passed on to the more serious business of porridge in a blue-and-white bowl. “Can I go to see daddy’s ship ’smorning?” he queried presently. A tiny shadow passed across his mother’s eyes and was gone again. For nearly a week she had been able to forget that ship.
She looked at her first-born across the table and smiled. “What d’you want to see?” she asked.
“Blug,” said John Willie calmly.
His father raised his eyebrows. “The deuce you do. How d’you know there’s blood there?”
“Cook told Nannie,” said the child. “She said ve scuppers must have been full wiv it. What’s scuppers?”
“Eat your porridge,” retorted his father. “Once upon a time there was a little boy who played with his breakfast——”
“I’ll speak to cook,” said the mother in a low voice.
“An’ cook said——”
“Never mind what cook said. Just you listen to my story. The little boy’s mummie took him to see the White Queen—know what she said?”
“Off wiv——”
A shadow darkened the sunlight and the head and shoulders of the post-girl passed the open window.
“Hi! Here you are, Janet!” shouted the Commander. He leaned back in his chair, thrusting a long arm out of the window, and took the orange-hued envelope from the girl’s hand. Slowly and deliberately he selected a knife and slit the envelope; there was silence in the little room, and the clock on the mantelpiece punctuated it with even, unhurried ticks. “No answer,” he called over his shoulder, refolded the message and put it in his pocket; then he held out his cup to be replenished.
His wife filled the cup and looked at him across the flowers and china. But her husband had slipped into one of his musing silences and sat with knitted brows, drumming his fingers on the white cloth. She knew only too well those imperturbable abstractions, and the futility of asking questions. She was one of those women who have learned to wait as men rarely learn any lesson.
The meal finished and the Commander rose, filling a pipe. “Lemme strike your match,” said his son.
“He’ll burn his fingers,” said his mother.
“Yes,” said the man. “That’s the only way he’ll ever learn to respect matches.” He held out the box: the match was duly struck and the pipe lit without catastrophe. When the pipe was drawing properly he turned and watched his wife’s profile as she moved about the homely disorder of the breakfast-table. His eyes were full of a great tenderness.
“Like to run up to town to-morrow?” he said casually.
She turned swiftly. “London!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Bill! Rather extravagant, isn’t it?”
“Um.... No. I don’t think so. I’ve got to go—on duty. You’d better come too. It’s only for the day. We might lunch somewhere where there’s a band ... buy a hat, p’r’aps....”
“Me too!” said John Willie.
“Once upon a time,” said his father, “I was in a ship where there was a man who said ‘Me too’ every time any one ordered a drink.”
“Was he a firsty man?”
“Very. There were twenty-three people in the mess, consequently he drank twenty-three times more than he ought to.”
“Ven what happened?”
“He was attacked by pink rats and blue spiders and piebald snakes.”
“Did vey bite him?”
“Something frightful. He never said ‘Me too’ again.”
The girl turned from contemplation of the sunlit garden, the tip of her slim forefinger between her teeth as was her habit when deep in thought.
“Bill! Don’t be awful.... Do you think that grey dress looks nice enough ...? We needn’t go anywhere really smart, need we ...?”
The man put his pipe down on the mantelpiece, and crossing the little room took her face between his hard hands. Three times he kissed her: once on the forehead, once on the mouth, and once on the tip of her pretty nose. “Anything’s good enough,” he said, and his voice vibrated on a note she rarely heard. Then abruptly he released her and turned to his son.
“Now then, John Willie, come on outside! I’m going to bowl to you, and if you don’t keep a straight bat you shall never come on board daddy’s ship again.”
. . . . .