And above the
noises of their coming and going I heard the lapping of the water of
the incoming tide against the dock, which spoke with a voice more
powerful than that of Mr. Rowe.
And yet I went with him.
It was not because the canvas bag was empty, not because Fred would
not stay with me (for I had begun to think that the captain's grandson
was not destined to be the hero of exploits on the ocean), but when
Mr. Rowe spoke of my widowed mother and of Henrietta, he touched a
sore point on my conscience. I had had an uneasy feeling from the
first that there was something rather mean in my desertion of them.
Pride, and I hope some less selfish impulse, made me feel that I could
never be quite happy--even on the mainmast top--if I knew that I had
behaved ill to them.
I could not very well speak, but I turned round and began to walk in
the direction of the dock gates. Mr. Rowe behaved uncommonly kindly.
He said nothing more, but turned as if I had given the word of
command, and walked respectfully just behind me. I resolved not to
look back, and I did not. I was quite determined too about one thing:
Mr. Rowe should never be able to say he had seen me make a fool of
myself after I had made up my mind.
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