“What do you mean by that?” asked Pomfrett, stupidly.
“I desire your company, gentlemen, at breakfast—and my servants do not sit at table with me,” said Mr Murch. “I beg you will so favour me.” With his customary abrupt action, he turned about and padded from the room. What should we do but follow? Mr Murch led us out into the verandah. A lady wearing a black lace mantilla, as the Spanish ladies use, came to him and kissed him.
We were presented in due form to Mistress Morgan Leroux. What shall I say of her? She had the blackest eyes I ever beheld (but no eyes are truly black), beneath level brows, and a mouth the colour of bruised poppies. In the shadow of her hood and her dark hair she glowed like a rose, a refreshing vision to eyes tired with the eternal waste of sea. Mistress Morgan looked curiously at these two gentlemen, who were slaves (the taint was upon us still) no later than this morning, and it was their glance that dropped.
Mr Murch ate enough for three, and talked in a proportion.
“A clean ship, and the log posted—there’s the rule for a mariner,” says he. “Now, gentlemen, I’ll tell you. I’ve had youngsters shipped to me before; their cases were clear; repentance was the thing for them, and discipline to back it. Repentance is the word. A man is blown out of his course—there’s never mortal man that isn’t—and fetches up on a lee-shore very likely. He claws off as best he may, and thinks no more about it. And when he’s shipwrecked once for all, he’s surprised. He likes to consider himself a clever man, you see—he hasn’t the heart to repent—he’s a fool. Well, now, when I came to post up the log last night, I had in my mind that Dawkins was lying, after what you told me of yourselves. I know Mr Dawkins better than he knows me. But I wasn’t sure. I took the night to think it over, and this morning I saw what to do. Yours, gentlemen, is not a common case.”
“I hope not,” said Pomfrett. “I’ve lost my ship.”
“And that’s better than losing your head, my lad,” observed Mr Murch.
“Was that the alternative?” enquired Pomfrett, apparently with ironical intention.
“Dawkins is bitter fond of money, but he must be growing strangely patient in his old age to have suffered an owners’ agent so long,” returned Mr Murch, shaking his great head. “Why, next to the captain who died, and lucky for him, you were the thorn in his pillow from the beginning. What! not content with being an agent, you must hector him on his quarterdeck, by your own account! No—it’s a miracle you came ashore, Mr Supercargo.”
Here was a new point of view. Mr Murch began to appear transfigured into the light of a saviour.