CHAPTER XXI
TheBritannic, bound for Liverpool, rose, fell, and plunged on stubbornly, in a wintry head sea.
Enoch lay in his berth, reading. Every little while her bow buried itself under a great wave. Some burst upon her fore-deck, with the boom and vibration of big guns, her bow obliterated under the explosion in a blinding mass of spray.
Heavy-booted sailors clambered back and forth over the ceiling of the plain little stateroom, busily lashing some canvas as a windbreak on the starboard-deck. Below, the woodwork creaked in unison to the lift and roll of the ship. People who had no longer any interest in life rang for the stewards or stewardesses, and groaned while they waited.
None of these sounds, however, disturbed Enoch. He was not only thoroughly comfortable, but supremely happy. It showed in every line of his face, in the quiet twinkle in his eyes. He read on. Now and then his smile widened into a broad grin over a page—pages he knew by heart, and had never yet grown tired of.
“What a wonderful fellow Carroll is,” he declared. “What a subtle artisan in humor!
“‘They were learning to draw,’ the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was gettingvery sleepy, ‘and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with “M”——’
“‘Why with an “M”?’ said Alice,” as Enoch turned the page.
“‘Why not?’ said the March Hare.
“Delicious!” exclaimed Enoch aloud.
Two thousand miles back over that vast desert of wintry sea, the old house in Waverly Place stood stark and empty. Robbed even of its sign, “For Sale”—having been sold, and only waiting now for the crow-bars of a wrecking crew to complete its final ruin and give place to a new building.
A general exodus of its tenants and their belongings from cellar to roof had occurred immediately after Joe and Sue’s quiet wedding. Fortune and Mercury still smiled at the passer-by, but over a filthy vestibule, dust begrimed, a refuge for stray cats and dentists’ circulars.
Close to the locked area gate stood a battered ash-can, from which emerged a pair of cast-off shoes, and the skeleton of a broken umbrella; the whole place seemed dead and forgotten.
Even Moses and Matilda’s black cat now dozed contentedly before a new kitchen fire in Brooklyn, in a snug frame house Enoch had bestowed upon these faithful servitors, including an income sufficient for their declining years.
Since her sister Jane’s death, Miss Ann had been living in Virginia, in a fine old estate close to Richmond, an inheritance from a cousin. An old schoolfriend, a Miss Patricia Belford, lived with her now—a maiden lady of rare humor, a gentle voice, and continuous cheerfulness. And here it would not be amiss to state that Emma Ford had persuaded Ebner at last to relinquish his strenuous business career in New York and return to her plain native town in North Carolina, where he became a really successful dealer in simple real estate and a popular superintendent of the Sunday-school and local Lyceum. The firm of Atwater & Grimsby had moved up-town, away from the redolent lemons and bananas, and was now newly installed in Twenty-third Street, just opposite the National Academy of Design, Atwater selecting his bachelor quarters as far up as Forty-third Street. As for theSeamaid, she was still cruising, her arrival in Havana being cited only the week before as follows:
Havana—Cuba—Dec. 18th arrived the auxiliary schoonerSeamaidwith her owner Mr. J. Lamont and guests—all well.
Havana—Cuba—Dec. 18th arrived the auxiliary schoonerSeamaidwith her owner Mr. J. Lamont and guests—all well.
Enoch read on through Alice’s fascinating, playful wonderland, cradled by the lift and roll of the good ship.
Now and then a big sea caught her under its dead weight amidships, sent her staggering up under tons of water, and the swash scurrying down her scuppers.
The raw, wintry afternoon began to wane. Presently a sailor, whose duty it was to attend to the stateroom lights, lit Enoch’s from the corridor, a fat sort of coach-candle, back of a round glass, close tohis berth, its glow screened by a green baize curtain, with a roller-shade attachment.
Enoch pulled up the curtain and continued in company with the Dormouse, Alice, and the March Hare, the Hatter joining them on the next page. So absorbed was he that he almost forgot it was Christmas Eve, or that he had missed his usual afternoon cup of tea and chat with his old friend, the captain. Finally he laid aside his book, stretched himself, flung himself out of his berth briskly, went to his port-hole and peered out at the mountainous leaden sea.
“A head sea,” he said aloud, as the crest of a wave smashed against the port-hole. “The skipper was right; he expected it.”
The perfume of a sizzling hot plum pudding from the pantry wafted down the corridor and over the ventilating space of his stateroom.
“So it’s Christmas Eve,” he said, turning from the dreary outlook to his wash-basin.
He put on a clean shirt, carefully combed his sparse hair, washed his face and hands vigorously, and rang for the steward.
“A rough night, Tim,” said Enoch, as the man appeared with a steaming tin pitcher.
“’Tis cruel bad, sor,” declared the Irishman. “’Twill be worse before mornin’. If it was the hot water, sor, you be after ringin’ for, sure here it is, sor,” said he, setting down the pitcher safely in the wash-basin. “I biled it meself. They be busy in the pantry to-night—seein’ it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Thank you, Tim, for the hot water,” smiled Enoch, “but I’ve washed. Are you married, Tim?”
“Yis, sor; to as fine a little woman as iver came from the County Kerry.”
“Any children?”
“Three, sor—two byes and a gurl.”
“I want you to wish them a merry Christmas when you reach port,” said Enoch. He dove into his pocket, separated two gold sovereigns from some keys and silver, and forced them into the astonished steward’s hand.
The man’s eyes slowly filled with tears.
“God bless ye, sor,” he said, and paused. “’Tis thim that’ll bless ye, too. May I be so bold as to ask if ye have any childer, sor? If ye have, sor, ’tis Christmas Eve, an’ I wish thim a merry wan.”
“Two,” said Enoch. “Both married.”
“They’ll be missin’ ye to-night, sor,” said Tim. “’Tis a long ways to land.”
The first gong for dinner reverberated down the corridor. As the steward withdrew and closed the stateroom door, Sue came laughing down the corridor, followed by Joe.
“Uncle Enoch, may we come in?” she asked, knocking at his door.
“Come in, my children,” cried Enoch heartily, flinging his door wide open to them both.
“Oh, it’s glorious on deck,” cried Sue, pushing back the soaked hood of her ulster, her fair hair glistening from the salt spray.
“Great!” cried Joe, filling the doorway. “Ripping old weather—splendid old sea—smashing right over her,” he declared. “We’ve been watching it for hours. Hello! there’s the second gong. I’m as hungry as a bear.”
“Do you realize it’s Christmas Eve?” said Enoch, meeting Sue’s eyes. “Your first Christmas Eve together?”
She looked up at him radiantly, then she flung her arms about his neck, pressing her fresh, girlish cheek to his, and kissed him.
“A merry Christmas, dear,” she whispered. “I’m going to wish you a merry Christmas now; I just can’t wait till morning.”
Then the three struggled down the long corridor to dinner.
“I’ve been thinking things over since luncheon,” said Enoch, as they entered the dining-saloon. “What do you say to our taking in Venice on our way back, and going straight to Cairo? Venice is as cold as Christmas in January,” he added gayly, as he turned Sue’s chair for her and slipped into his own beside her, next to the captain.
THE END