II
I had married April; she cried when she thought she wasn't good enough for me; she smiled like the sun when I swore she was.
I had married June; she was like an armful of roses.
We weren't two; we were one. What alloy does gold make mixed with brass? We were that alloy. I was the brass.
We travelled down to Singapore first-class, with one-armed Yir Massir to look after us—down the old Hoogli with the stubs of half-burned Hindus bobbing alongside, crows sitting on 'em and tearing off strips. We ran aground on all the regular old sand-bars that are never twice in the same place; and one dusk we saw tigers come out of the jungle to drink. We'd both travelled quite some, but you wouldn't have thought it. Ivy Bower and Right Bower had just run away from school for to see the world "so new and all."
Some honey-moons a man keeps finding out things about his wife that he don't like—little tricks of temper and temperature; but I kept finding out things about mine that I'd never even dared to hope for. I went pretty near crazy with love of her. At first she was a child that had had a wicked, cruel nightmare—and I'd happened to be about to comfort her when she waked and to soothe her. Then she got over her scare and began to play at matrimony, putting on little airs and dignities—just like a child playing grown-up. Then all of a sudden it came to her, that tremendous love that some women have for some of us dogs of men. It was big as a storm, but it wasn't too big for her. Nothing that's noble and generous was too big for her; nor was any way of showing her love too little. Any little mole-hill of thoughtfulness from me was changed—presto!—into a chain o' mountains; but she thought in mountains and made mole-hills of 'em.
We steamed into Singapore and I showed her the old Boldero, that was to be our home, laid against the Copra Wharf, waiting to be turned into an ark. The animals weren't all collected and we had a day or two to chase about and enjoy ourselves; but she wasn't for expensive pleasures.
"Wait," she said, "till you're a little tired of me; but now, when we're happy just to be together walking in the dust, what's the use of disbursing?"
"If we save till I'm tired of you," says I, "we'll be rich."
"Rich it is, then," said she, "for those who will need it more."
"But," says I, "the dictionary says that a skunk is a man that economizes on his honey-moon."
"If you're bound to blow yourself," says she, "let's trot down to the Hongkong-Shanghai Bank and buy some shares in something."
"But," says I, "you have no engagement ring."
"And I'm not engaged," says she. "I'm a married woman."
"You're a married child."
"My husband's arm around my waist is my ring," says she; "his heart is my jewel."
Even if it had been broad daylight and people looking, I'd have put her ring on her at that. But it was dark, in a park of trees and benches—just like Central Park.
"With this ring," says I, "I thee guard from all evil."
"But there is no evil," said she. "The world's all new; it's been given a fresh start. There's no evil. The apple's back on the tree of knowledge. Eden's come back—and it's spring in Eden."
"And among other items," says I, "that we've invoiced for Sydney is a python thirty feet long."
"Look!" says she.
A girl sat against one of the stems of a banyan, and a Tommy lay on his back with his head in her lap. She was playing with his hair. You could just see them for the dark.
"'And they lived on the square like a true married pair,'" says I.
"Can't people be naughty and good?" says she.
"No," says I; "good and naughty only."
"Suppose," says she, "you and I felt about each other the way we do, but you were married to a rich widow in Lisbon and I was married to a wicked old Jew in Malta—would that make you Satan and me Jezebel?"
"No," says I; "only me. Nothing could change you." She thought a little.
"No," says she; "I don't think anything could. But there isn't any wicked old Jew. You know that."
"And you know about the rich widow?"
"What about her?" This said sharp, with a tug at my arm to unwrap it.
"She was born in Singapore," said I, "of a silly goose by an idle thought. And two minutes later she died."
"There's nothing that can ever hurt us—is there?—nothing that's happened and gone before?"
Man that is born of woman ought not to have that question put up to him; but she didn't let me answer.
"Because, if there is," she said, "it's lucky I'm here to look after us."
"Could I do anything that you wouldn't forgive?"
"If you turned away from me," she said, "I'd die—but I'd forgive."
Next daylight she was leaning on the rail of the Boldero watching the animals come over the side and laughing to see them turn their heads to listen to what old Yir Massir said to them in Hindustani. He spoke words of comfort, telling them not to be afraid; and they listened. Even Bahut, the big elephant, as the slings tightened and he swung dizzily heavenward, cocked his moth-eaten ears to listen and refrained from whimpering, though the pit of his stomach was cold with fear; and he worked his toes when there was nothing under them but water.
"The elephant is the strongest of all things," I said, "and the most gentle."
Her little fingers pressed my arm, which was like marble in those days.
"No," said she—"the man!"