"The idea of a Malay, born Mahometan, being reared in the Vatican, hit me as funny."
"It would be funny—just as a trustworthy Malay would be funny. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. But none ever puts his foot on this boat. To-morrow we'll raise our first island. And from then on we'll see them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage. I've opened the case of books. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. Take your pick, Mrs. Spurlock."
The shock of hearing this title pronounced was equally distributed between Ruth and her husband; but it aroused two absolutely different emotions. There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her.
"You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. "I'll fetch it."
She made the companion without touching stay or rail, which necessitated a fine sense of balance, for there was a growing vigour to the wind and a corresponding lift to the roll of the sea. The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould.
Silk. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk.
McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. Probably hadn't. As for that, what man ever had?
"That's a remarkable young woman," he offered, merely to note what effect it would have.
Spurlock looked up. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keen-eyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. "Did you ever see the like of her?"
"No," answered McClintock, gravely. "I wonder how she picked up
Kanaka? On her island they don't talk Kanaka lingo."