it was not to sleep that emily returned when she carried the water to elsie of shanghai and, crouching in the cramped space, took the woman's scorching head in her lap. elsie was murmuring in a semi-coma, sometimes in english, but more often in chinese. occidental though she was, this woman's long, hard years in the gateways of the far east had breathed in her the orient's spirit of fatalism. the stoicism of the children of the sunset lands was hers; the immobility of feature which marks them was sealed in her striking, irregular features. her manner of speech and expression were theirs.
"i wonder if they will burn me in hell this way," she gasped as emily put the cup to her avid lips.
"no, no, you mustn't have such thoughts," emily whispered.
elsie was in pain. the difficulty with which she breathed told that. yet only now and then did a hardly audible moan escape her lips.
"he said i must be brave—that i was brave—that i must be patient," and emily granville knew that this strange woman was thinking of what lavelle had said to them in the morning. "did you ask him—the captain—for this water?" she asked after a seemingly very long time.
"no," emily told her with a feeling of guilt. "he made me bring it to you. he said it would be all right."
"god, what a white man—what a white man! oh, i know men, my dear child," and emily imagined that a sneer was upon her lips. "i know them as the canton money lenders know their gold." she spoke with a fierce tenseness. "i've trafficked in them—traded in them—as they trade in guns—and opium at macao." her breath stopped in a quick gasp. emily pressed another sup of water between her lips.
"are you afraid of death, my dear?" elsie whispered.
"i—i don't know——but you mustn't think these terrible thoughts," and yet as she spoke emily granville wondered at the calmness which possessed her. a different person than the emily granville she had known for twenty-four years seemed to be speaking and thinking in these wild and strange surroundings.
"i will not get better—i know," said the shanghai woman presently. "it is pneumonia again—the women of the lighted houses cannot stand the open." she sat up quickly, clutching at her breasts. "i am like fire—and lead—in here. oh, god, it is so hard to breathe!"
"can't i think of something to do for you?"
"only hold me—just this way," and she sank in emily's lap again. "i saw the way you held him. you are—very kind. you were made for—for the mother of men—strong men—like my—my captain out there. no; do not draw away from me. you would trust him if you could have seen him—him and that chang—that night in shanghai. there was a place for everybody—everybody—but the women—the toys from behind the green jalousies. ask chang—he—he will tell you. they picked us out—of the dark river. it's very dark now, isn't it? very dark——" her whisper trailed away in a low moan. emily tried to make her take a drink of water, but she refused it. "will you say, 'our—our father'"—and emily repeated the lord's prayer very slowly and sensed that the other woman's lips were following the words dumbly. "ask him—my captain—please if he—will not speak to me," elsie murmured after a long silence.
emily heard a movement aft and, pushing back the flap of the rug, saw chang relieving lavelle at the helm. the dawn was just pinking the eastern sky.
lavelle saw emily's hand beckoning and he crept forward. elsie held out a hand to him and he took it. her pulse flashed to him a history of what she was suffering. a glance at her face revealed to him the touch of death upon it.
"i'm going away—going home," elsie whispered. "will you hold——the dawn!"
lavelle understood her glance upward and pushed away the rug. he got behind her and lifted her into a sitting posture. she still clung to his hand.
"isn't it wonderful?" she asked, looking toward emily and then up into lavelle's face. he nodded. "i am not afraid, captain. i've learned—last night i learned—from you—to die unafraid."
a marvelous smile lighted her face. the marks of her hard years sped from it forever in the glow of the new day which suffused the sea and the sky with a spirit of the infinite mystery this waif of life was on the threshold of solving.
"our father, who——" she whispered. then, starting suddenly from lavelle's clasp she put out her hands to the dawn. "mother—mother o' mine," she called ecstatically. "moth——"
elsie of shanghai fell back into lavelle's arms, with a sigh of peace parting her lips in a smile.
emily looked up at lavelle and, as he turned away quickly, the pent-up misery and loneliness in her gave vent in a flood of tears. the sobs which she could not choke back aroused the sleepers forward. death had come and a soul had sped so quietly that it had not disturbed their slumbers.
starting to his knees, rowgowskii beheld lavelle just laying the burden out of his arms along the fore-and-aft seat near chang. the helmsman might have been an image. the chinese sailors arising from the bottom of the boat were seized immediately by the awe of the mystery that had so swiftly come among them. they huddled together on their haunches, muttering over some talisman held in common.
emily followed lavelle and sat at the feet of the shell of clay, smoothing down the bedraggled dress over the delicate ankles and feet.
"i—you understand—sometimes we can't find words——" he said to her gently, and she nodded in understanding. nothing he could have said would have conveyed more to her. the gentleness, the kindness, the comprehension of this man were battering a breach in the barriers of her terror and hatred of him. falling on her knees beside elsie's body she prayed for strength and fortitude and forbearance.
emily started up amid a silence broken only by the breeze and the boat snoring away before it. lavelle was sitting opposite, his gaze upon her. she sensed in the faces of chang and the others a new mystery of expectancy. lavelle stood up and handed her into his seat.
one of the chinamen crawled aft and passed lavelle a piece of rope and an iron block which had been left in the bow of the boat when chang cut the fall away. lavelle turned so that what he did with these things was hidden from emily's sight, but she understood. as he faced her again she saw that the block was fastened to shanghai elsie's ankles, although he had endeavored to hide it beneath the silken gown.
"do you know—would you wish to say a prayer, miss granville?" he asked.
emily stood up and met his gaze. he was asking her to do something; he expected something of her and she was helpless.
"i know only the simple prayers of the sea," lavelle added. with that emily found her voice.
"she—she would want you to say those—and so would i—if——" her eyes closed, and as from a great distance she heard him intoning the lord's prayer. she realized that never before had she known its full meaning. there came a pause and she looked up. the boat was fluttering into the wind. the chinamen, save chang, who had to stand to the helm, and rowgowskii, were on their knees.
lavelle stood with elsie in his outstretched arms, facing an arc in the sky where a blush of the dawn still lingered. the breeze seemed to pause. as chang checked the boat's way lavelle bent over and laid the burden in his arms upon the sea. so might a mother have put down a child to rest.
"'we therefore commit her body to the deep,'" he said very distinctly, "'to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of this body, when the sea shall give up her dead.'"
his gaze lingered overside for a moment and then he added:
"it's a clean grave, little woman."
turning quickly away from the sea he seemed another man.
"sail on!" he snapped at the helmsman.
