VII
Medbury descended to his room, opened the lid of his desk, and fumbled about aimlessly with hands that trembled; then, as if he had found what he had been looking for, he lowered the lid, and, leaning his elbows upon it, stood looking moodily before him. He told himself that he was glad it was over; anything was better than the long uncertainty that had held him bound in chains for years. But no one should know that he cared, and he glanced at the little hand-glass under his window to see if his face had changed. It cheered him to note no difference since morning, and, with boyish affectation, he smiled at his image in the glass. But suddenly, as if to test his strength, his mind flashed the image of Hetty before him—her face turned up to him smilingly, as he had often seen it, her eyes, every feature. With a groan he dropped his head upon his arms.
He put the mood away from him sternly, and began to debate with himself whether it would be better to keep on loving her all his days, going to his grave a sad and lonely man, or gaily to turn to another at once, to show how little he cared. He came to no decision because he could not determine which course would hurt her more.
It was his watch below, but he could not sleep, so taking his log-book, pen, and ink out into the cabin, he sat down at the table, though it was neither the time nor the place for writing up his log.
Mrs. March was there alone, and, saying that he could not write at his desk, Medbury opened his book.
He wrote down the date, saw that he had written that of two days before, so scratched it out, and replaced it with the correct one, and slowly began to write "Dead calm" in bold letters up and down the column for winds.
"How long do you suppose this is going to last, Tom?" asked Mrs. March.
Medbury looked up and shook his head.
"There's no telling. Wind's an uncertain thing; nothing more so," he replied, and dipped his pen into the ink, squared his shoulders, and made the down stroke of the first letter of a new word with a care for details that seemed to indicate that he had left the subject of winds irrevocably behind, and then added, "except women."
Mrs. March had thought the sentence finished, and had taken up her knitting again. Now she merely nodded.