And Pascualo, in truth, was the honor of the family, the boy whose hard work had redeemed her lost station, her lost importance, in that community. Her tears now were not of sorrow only but of remorse. She had never loved the boy enough, not half so much as he deserved. Her affection was overflowing now—she must make up for all the past. Then, she was afraid, yes, sir, afraid, that her Pascualet, her poor little Rector, would go the way his father went; and as the words hung tremulously upon her lips, she looked off toward the tavern-boat, just visible from the Mayflower's splendid hull, in which that martyr of the sea had met his frightful end.
What a contrast between the Mayflower, so new, and strong, and spick, and span, and that rotting hulk which, for lack of custom now, was daily growing blacker and more worm-eaten! The old woman seemed to vision in the future a day when the Mayflower might drift ashore, cracked and water-logged, just as old Fleet-Foot had come home with her husband's corpse in her hold. No, she could not be happy. All that roistering and carousing was a sin. It was making fun of the sea, that hypocrite with the smiling face out there, that purring cat that was meek enough for the moment, but that would show her claws when once the Mayflower was in her power. Her boy! What a strong handsome boy—and she loved him as much as though he had just come back from a long voyage! But old Pascualo had been just as strong and handsome. And he made fun of the sea too! Now, she knew it, she was sure of it! The sea had a grudge against her family, and would swallow the new boat as it had wrecked the old.
"Bosh, mama, bosh! Recristo, the old lady will never get her hands on me! But anyhow, why go crying on a glad day like this? You're just getting religion, like most of the old ladies—your conscience is at you for having forgotten papa for so long, perhaps. But you can make that right by lighting a good fat candle to the old sailor, in case his soul is still in Purgatory. Come now, mama, brace up. No more prophesying! The sea is a good fine lover of mine. I won't listen to any gossip about her! She gets riled at times, but after all she gives poor folks like us a living. Here, Tonet! Give us a drink, a good big swig! Cheer the place up a bit. Let's give the Mayflower a good old-fashioned send-off."
He took the beaker that was handed him and drank a deep draught. But his mother went on weeping, her eyes still gazing at the tavern-boat down the shore. The Rector showed some signs of irritation. "Still bawling, eh! And this is the time to talk of funerals! See, ma, you ought to have made me a bishop, then there'd be no cause for whining from the women folks. Honest, and work hard, say I, and trust to luck! That's the sailor's creed! The sea? The sea gives us everything. It raises us when we are little. And it feeds us when we're grown up. We're always asking something of the sea! Well, we have to take a storm now and then, along with the big runs. Besides, somebody's got to risk his skin, if folks are going to have fish to eat. That somebody is me. Out to sea I go, as I've always gone. And that's the end of that! And now, enough of this whimpering business, what do you say, ma? Here's to Flor de Mayo! Here's to 'Mayflower.' Cristo! another mug, boys, on me, on me! Drink her down, drink her down, till every mother's son of you is drunk. And I'll feel insulted if they don't come down and get you to-night because you can't walk home, and find you all rooting in the sand here like so many grunting hogs!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE MAYFLOWER PUTS TO SEA
Pascualo was on his way home from an afternoon in Valencia; but on reaching the Glorieta, he stopped in front of the Old Customs House.
It was six o'clock. The sun was tinting the enormous front of the building an orange gold, softening the colors of the greenish black smudge that the rain had left on the mansard windows. The statue of Charles II seemed to be melting into the mellow bluish transparency of the light-filled atmosphere. Through the gratings drifted the hum of a busy hive—voices calling, songs coming from a distance, the metallic click of scissors as the workers picked them up or let them fall.
Out through the big entrance the girls from the nearest floors were beginning to pour in animate throng—a horde of Indian shawls, a medley of strong arms with sleeves rolled above the elbow, an army of lunch-boxes slung over shoulders, a pitter-patter of feet, hopping in short quick steps like sparrows, a hub-bub of good-nights, of greetings, of parting gibes. The promenade for the guards, where a few drinking fountains were the only obstructions, was one seething mass of feminine youth.
The Rector, attracted by that curious riot of tobacco-girls, had paused on the sidewalk across the street, among the newspaper stands. A strange fascination it had for him, that moving mass of white handkerchiefs drawn tightly over pretty foreheads! What a bedlam! A regiment of females in mutiny! A nunnery gone mad! A meteor-shower of black eyes, that stared at a man boldly, immodestly, stripping the clothes off one, it seemed, with mocking effrontery!