“But now—Nora?”
Still she saw but the river and the lights; but she was glad; timid, too, but very glad. Johnny’s hand stole to her side, took hers, and kept it. . . . “No,” she said, “not sorry—now.”
“Say Johnny.”
What was before her mattered nothing; he sat by her—held her hand. . . . “Not sorry now—Johnny!”
Why came tears so readily to her eyes? Truly they had long worn their path. But this—this was joy. . . . He bent his head, and kissed her. The wise old Trinity light winked very slowly, and winked again.
So they sat and talked; sometimes whispered. Vows, promises, nonsense all—what mattered the words to so wonderful a tune? And the eternal stars, a million ages away, were nearer, all nearer, than the world of common life about them. What was for her she knew now and saw—she also: a new heaven and a new earth.
Over the water from the ship came, swinging and slow, a stave of the chanty:—
“I’m a flying-fish sailor straight home from Hong-Kong—
Aye! Aye! Blow the man down!
Blow the man down, bully, blow the man down—
O give us some time to blow the man down!Ye’re a dirty Black-Baller just in from New York—
Aye! Aye! Blow the man down!
Blow the man down, bully, blow the man down—
O give us some time to blow the man down!”
Time went, but time was not for them. Where the tug-engineer, thrusting up his head for a little fresh air, saw but a prentice-lad and his sweetheart on a bollard, there sat Man and Woman, enthroned and exultant in face of the worlds.
The ship swung round on the tide, bringing her lights square and her stem for the opening lock. The chanty went wailing to its end:—