But honest Captain Jahnsen viewed all in silence. It was certainly the silence of admiration for Claude’s cleverness—nay, almost genius—in the art of turning a yacht into a lady’s boudoir. But, after all, Jahnsen was a very practical sailor, so no doubt he thought, although he said nothing, that he would just as soon sail in a less costly fitted barque.
But then Captain Jansen was not going in the Alba. His sailing days were over, unless, as he said, something wonderful turned up to cause him to go to sea again.
Well, the Alba being completely fitted, it is only necessary to add that as many of Claude’s Arctic messmates as he could find were easily prevailed upon to join the ship.
Among these I need only name boy Bounce, who was rated wardroom steward; Paddy O’Connell, second officer—he was a good sailor, and true, as we already know; giant Byarnie, head steward and general superintendent; and last, but not least, Dr Barrett, surgeon, of course. His duties were bound to be very light, and he was rejoiced to have an opportunity to get that rest in southern climes which his adventures in the Arctic regions rendered a necessity.
It was gay and happy company that sat down to breakfast on that beautiful autumn day on which Claude and Meta were married; and perhaps the happiest, the most calmly, serenely happy face at that festive board was that of the Dowager Lady Alwyn.
And Claude, with his bride, went away to sea.
But one thing is worthy of note in this place. Before bidding his mother good-bye, he took the snow-bird from his shoulder and whispered some words in its ear. I do not for a moment wish any one to believe that the bird knew what was said, but one thing is certain: when Claude placed Alba in his mother’s arms, it nestled there, and it never afterwards left Dunallan Towers.
Seated on a mossy bank, in a wooded ravine, I have been writing this last chapter, dear reader mine, while the Nith goes wimpling through the glen close beneath me.