Malcolm went over to one of the open port-holes of his stateroom. The Galatea lay in the harbor of Queenstown. The setting sun lay kindly on the houses of the small Irish port that behaved as though it were the hub of the universe. In one of them, a few hours ago, he had stood in the shabby little room of the registrar of births, deaths and marriages, making a mental and never-to-be-forgotten picture of a worn, cheap desk, a worn, cheap man with a mop of grizzled hair and an absolutely expressionless face, an inkpot which looked as though it had never been cleaned, a square of green blotting paper, a dog-eared testament, and a strip of carpet across which, slanting from the door to the desk, there was a threadbare path made by the passing of feet. Births, deaths and marriages,—they were all the same to the registrar. He had his quiet days and his busy ones. Births and deaths gave a little less trouble than marriages but they all worked out pretty much the same.
And in this picture, a startling contrast to the shabby and sordid room, stood the vital figures of Beatrix and Franklin, hand in hand, the representatives of the spirit of youth and love in that place which also registered the beginning and the end of life. The feeling and the symbolism and the beauty of this scene made their appeal to Malcolm Fraser both as a poet and a man. Here stood a man and a woman, in all the glory of youth, at the second of the three milestones. On to the third, hidden behind the curtain of spring leaves, they would now go together. God grant them the gifts of give and take and the blessed fruit of love. Here stood his friend and the woman he had loved and loved still. He wasn't losing her because he was never in the running to win. He wasn't losing him because their bond was everlasting. All was well, then. He had no complaints.
In this picture stood the vital figures of Beatrix and Franklin, hand in hand.
He followed his luggage on deck. Beatrix and Franklin were waiting for him. How different they looked, he thought. No wonder. They had found the way to live.
"Don't go, Mally," said Beatrix, putting an arm round his shoulder. "Send your things down again and come back with us."
"Yes," said Franklin. "Come on."
Malcolm shook his head. "Don't tempt me," he said. "I've been lazy long enough. I'm going to begin to work in the old cities. With any luck I'll have a thin volume ready, very expensively bound, for your golden wedding."
They all laughed. It was, somehow, a rather emotional moment. It was good to laugh.
"All ready, sir," said Jones, who regretted to be the one to put good old Peter Pan ashore.