Newfoundland was not far off, and a keen northwester sang in the Falernian’s shrouds. Her lights swung with a measured heave and green halos shone and melted in the foam that leaped about her starboard bow. When the long rollers broke one felt the shock, but the big engines throbbed steadily and the keen bows thrust ahead. Sometimes a broken sea rolled across the forward well, and the spray from the plunging forecastle beat the navigation officers keeping dreary watch on the inclined bridge.
The Falernian, however, was large, and in the third-class saloon near the water line one hardly felt the deck planks heave, and the turmoil of the flung-back seas was dull and soothing. Benches and chairs were occupied, and a big red ensign hung like a curtain by the piano. The blue and white crosses reflected the electric light, and when the flag wavered in the draft it looked as if the Beaver carried the maple leaf across the crimson field.
A thin young man at the piano sang a song from the music-halls. His accent was the Lancashire accent and he struck wrong notes, but his audience was not fastidious. The passengers wanted to be amused, for when one laughs one forgets. Kit, in the gloom behind the flag, fingered his violin. His turn was soon, and he thought a new string stretched.
People smiled, but he imagined the smiles were rather brave than humorous. He saw shabby clothes, careworn faces, and bent shoulders. In the back row a tired woman soothed a fretful child. Another leaned against her husband and held a handkerchief to her mouth. Her face was pinched, and Kit heard her straining cough; he doubted if the immigration officers would allow her to land. He saw young men and women, and some laughed, but for the most part their look was not joyous. A number were broken by war; others had borne dreary labor and grinding poverty. They were on board because they hoped in Canada their luck might turn.
The strange thing was, Kit thought they heard the Old Country call. In the morning they would see Newfoundland, and the Falernian would carry them up the St. Lawrence to the West optimistic advertisements declared was golden. Yet one does not gladly leave all one knows, and the stern Old Country was home.
By and by the music stopped, and a girl advanced. Kit had talked to Alison Forsyth and he gave her a smile. He thought her attractive, but he did not altogether know where was her charm. Although she was short, she carried herself well, and her neck and shoulders were strong; her hair and eyes were brown and her look was frank. Now she was obviously nervous, and when she put some music on the stand her color came and went. Then she turned, and tilting her head a little, faced the audience. Although Kit saw her hand shake, her pose was firm.
He could not fix the tinkling prelude, but he thought it was not strange and the song was out-of-date. Then the girl began to sing, and he looked up sharply.
“Had I the wings of a dove....”
Although her voice was not cultivated, it was musical. Her intonation was good and she sang with feeling; in fact, Kit began to see she sang with emotion. He thought her rash. She was young, and it looked as if the music might break her control.
“.... I would flee, Just for to-night to my own country.”