You in your sky dreams,
Good night, Starlight.”
I do not, indeed, apprehend Sadler to be directly addressing Susannah, as such, in these terms and with that inharmonious vocalisation; but I apprehend the impact of Susannah upon Sadler to arouse in him something other than jubilation, something within the sunless caverns of his memory, certain uneasy glimmerings of an old romance. And I ask, why? To the eye of pure reason, Susannah contains as much of the vapour of moonlit sentiment as a coal scuttle. The eye of pure reason, after any continuous examination of Susannah, feels as if it had been in a prize fight, and emerged therefrom a blackened optic and out of business for the time. And yet there arises—hark! again, above the low breath of the sea wind, rises that melancholy song:
“ Good night, my Starlight,
Trembling to tears,
White is my hair, white
In the wake of the years.
Over the lee wave
You shine on my night,
Me, the old sea waif,