“I don’t know,” said Norah in a low voice. “I never asked him. What part of Ireland did ye come from?”
“I said that it is an unjust world, a danged unjust world,” said the man, pressing her tightly and kissing her. “And in Ireland ye see more injustice than can be seen anywhere in half the world. I’ve seen women and girls in Ireland working for a penny a day. They were knittin’ socks and they had to travel miles for the yarn; aye, and to cross an arm of the sea that took them to their breasts. In the height of winter, too, with the snow fallin’ and the sleet. Ah! if yerself had suffered such hardships ye wouldn’t live to tell the tale. And children too had to go out into the cold black water! My sister, a very little girl—just about that size”—the sailor held out his hand about two feet from the ground—“used to work fourteen hours a day when she was but twelve, and her pay was sevenpence ha’penny a week! The hanged little thing! and she wasn’t that size.... But I’ve made some money—salvage, ye know—and I’m goin’ to make my sister a lady when I go back to Donegal. She was such a nice wee girl. Wouldn’t it be fine if girls always kept young! I think of my sister now as I left her, not grown up at all.... Ye too are a nice lass, so different from those I’ve seen in the far corners of the world.”
“What is yer name?” asked Norah in a tremulous whisper. But she knew his name, recognised her brother Fergus, saw in his face that indescribable individuality which distinguishes each face from all others in the world. With tense, strained look she waited for the answer to her question.
III
“FERGUS Ryan of Frosses in the county Donegal,” replied the sailor, banging his fist against the corner of the chair. “Fergus Ryan, able-bodied seaman before the mast. I’ve sailed ever such a lot. Singapore, Calcutta, New York, and Melbourne; I’ve seen all those places, aye, and nearly all the countries of the world!... Ah! and I’ve come across a lot of trouble, fighting and all the rest of it. Two times a knife was left stickin’ in me; more than once I was washed into the sea. Ah! I could tell ye things about other places if I liked.... What’s wrong with ye? Ye seem scared. But ye’re not afraid of sailors, are ye? They’re all decent fellows, honest, though a little careless at times. My God! what’s comin’ over ye? Ye’re goin’ to faint!”
Norah had suddenly become heavy in the man’s arms; the hand which he held contracted tightly and a sickly pallor overspread her countenance.
“Jean!” cried the sailor, staring at the girl with a puzzled expression. “Jean! that’s not yer name, but it doesn’t matter. Ye aren’t afraid of sailors, are ye? They’re rough fellows, most of them, but good at heart. Has a man never told ye before that he got stuck in the ribs with a knife? Women here know nothin’, but in Calcutta.... What am I talkin’ about anyhow? Jean, waken up!”
The man rose unsteadily, and bearing the senseless girl in his arms he approached the bed and laid her down carefully, sorting with clumsy fingers the stray tresses on her brow as he did so. Then seizing a glass that stood on the mantelpiece, he rushed out and filled it with water from the tap on the landing. He came in, held Norah up in his arms, and pressed the glass to her lips. She opened her eyes.
“Drink this,” said the sailor. “What else can I do to help ye?”
“Leave me to myself,” said the girl. “Go away and leave me. At once, now!” She sat upright in bed and freed herself from his arms; the glass fell to the floor and broke with a musical tinkle; the water splashed brightly and formed into little wells on the planking. The sailor put his hands between his belt and trousers and gazed placidly at the girl.