Кінець рабства

           Sometimes,notabovetwiceayear,hehadtouseathickcudgel-likestickonaccountofastiffnessinthehip—aslighttouchofrheumatism,hesupposed.Otherwiseheknewnothingoftheillsoftheflesh.Attheringingofthebreakfastbellhewentbelowtofeedhiscanaries,windupthechronometers,andtaketheheadofthetable.Fromtherehehadbeforehiseyesthebigcarbonphotographsofhisdaughter,herhusband,andtwofat-leggedbabies—hisgrandchildren—setinblackframesintothemaplewoodbulkheadsofthecuddy.Afterbreakfasthedustedtheglassovertheseportraitshimselfwithacloth,andbrushedtheoilpaintingofhiswifewithaplumatekeptsuspendedfromasmallbrasshookbythesideoftheheavygoldframe.Thenwiththedoorofhisstateroomshut,hewouldsitdownonthecouchundertheportraittoreadachapteroutofathickpocketBible—herBible.Butonsomedaysheonlysatthereforhalfanhourwithhisfingerbetweentheleavesandtheclosedbookrestingonhisknees.Perhapshehadrememberedsuddenlyhowfondofboat-sailingsheusedtobe.

           Shehadbeenarealshipmateandatruewomantoo.Itwaslikeanarticleoffaithwithhimthatthereneverhadbeen,andnevercouldbe,abrighter,cheerierhomeanywhereafloatorashorethanhishomeunderthepoop-deckoftheCondor,withthebigmaincabinallwhiteandgold,garlandedasifforaperpetualfestivalwithanunfadingwreath.Shehaddecoratedthecenterofeverypanelwithaclusterofhomeflowers.Ittookheratwelvemonthtogoroundthecuddywiththislaboroflove.