A look of boyish embarrassment came over his weather-beaten face.
“Don’t do that, child!” he stammered. Then, looking with a quizzical interest at the spot she had kissed, he went on: “This old hand is something rough and tarry for a woman’s lips. But do you know, now, I kind of think more of it, rough as it is, than I ever did before. If ever, child, you should want a friend in that country of ours you’re going to, remember that Captain John Stayner, of Machias, Maine, is at your call.”
To escape thanks he strode off abruptly, with a loud order on his lips.
Easy in her mind, Mother Pêche went back to capture a little more sleep, Yvonne’s restlessness having roused her too early. As for Yvonne, she never knew quite how that morning, up to the magical period of “one hour before noon,” managed to drag its unending minutes through. It is probable that she ate some pretence of a breakfast; but her memory, at least, retained no record of it. All she remembered was that she sat huddled in her cloak, or paced up and down the deck and talked of she knew not what to the kind Captain John Stayner, and watched the space of sea between the ships slowly—slowly—slowly diminish.
For diminish it did. That marvel, as it seemed to her, actually took place—as even the watched pot will boil at last, if the fire be kept burning. While it yet wanted more than an hour of noon, the two ships came near abreast; and at an imperative hail from the “Good Hope” her consort hove to. A boat was quickly lowered away. Four sailors took the oars. Two women surrounded by children of all sizes were swung down into it; then the gratefully ejaculating old mother of Petit Joliet, the tear-stains of a sleepless night still salty in the wrinkles of her smiles; then Mother Pêche, serene in the sense of an astonishing good fortune for those she loved; last of all, Yvonne—she went last, for self-discipline.
As Captain John Stayner moved to hand her over the side, she turned and looked him in the eyes. The words she wanted to say simply would not come—or she dared not trust her voice; but the radiance of her look he carried in his heart through after-years. A minute more, and the boat dropped astern; and Yvonne’s eyes were all for the other ship. But Mother Pêche looked back; and she saw, leaning hungrily over the taffrail of the “Good Hope,” the long form of the boy-faced soldier who had twice carried Yvonne in his fortunate arms.