Two days later we were at the dock in New York. I had not seen Alice since she had been turned over to the care of the stewardess; but I waited for her to come on deck. She came, pale but self-possessed. She was still weak, but was now nearly recovered. The ship was being warped to the pier, and it would be a few minutes before we could leave her. I came up and held out my hand.
"Well," I said, "Alice, how about it? You were a good companion in trouble, a brave shipmate in the face of terrible danger. Somehow it has drawn me to you. I want to see you again."
"Always, Mr. Garnett; always will I be glad to see you—but do you think it wise under the circumstances? Don't you think we had better say good-by now? It will only be more difficult later on. You know what I mean——"
She looked up at me with moist eyes—eyes that told so much. I was taken all aback; but I understood. I was only a sailorman, a mate of a sailing ship. She was an heiress—a lady, as they say, educated and refined. She couldn't make me what she knew I would have to be to retain her respect and love, the love she would want to give. It was for my own good she was saying good-by. Yes, I believe she meant it only for that.
"Sure, girl, I was only fooling," I said, with my throat choking so that the blamed ship reeled and swung about me.
"Believe me, it's best so," she whispered, looking at me strangely with eyes now full of tears. She held out her hand, raised her head, put up her lips.
"Kiss me good-by. You were awful good to me. Good-by."
I felt that kiss burn my lips for many a day—yes, for a long time.