What could he be doing among white-robed angels, among the spirits of good men made perfect, among cherubim and seraphim, with their pure eyes, around the Father's throne? Yet had God taken him.
The mysteries of life and death came home, in a vivid light, to Ralph's soul, as he stood holding on to a rope, and gazing down on that boiling sea, whence he dreaded, every moment, to see his young companion's white face looking up at him.
Kirke came by, and Denham's good heart prompted him to turn round and offer him his hand. Little Jackson had run after Kirke like a dog, admired, followed, idolised him, and Ralph thought he must be as much impressed as himself by this awful event.
So he put out his hand, saying—
"Oh, Kirke, I am so sorry to hear about Jackson!"
"Bother you and your sorrow! I wish it had been you," replied Kirke rudely.
Ralph turned away in silence. He, too, almost wished it had been himself, not that he felt more fit to go, but that the heartlessness of this fellow struck a chill to his heart.
But Kirke was not so heedless of the event as he tried to seem, nor so wholly ungrateful for Ralph's sympathy as he chose to appear. This was the first blow which had struck home to him, and in his pride and sullen humour he was trying to resist its softening influence. Not for the world would he have displayed any better feeling at that time, though it was not altogether absent from his heart.