“When I was a young man I would not take any pleasure.  No, pleasure means money, and I was saving.  When I am old I will buy, I said.  It needs money, when I am old I shall have it.  I can buy then.  But, ah! when one is old it is all dust and ashes.”

I looked at his thin shrunken form, poorly clad, at his face, deeply lined with great furrows, made there by incessant toil and constant pain.  I felt my joy in Suzee to wither in the grey shadow of his grief.  Some people would have thought him doubtless an immoral old scoundrel, and that he had no business in his old age to try to be happy as younger men are, to wish, to expect it.  But I cannot see that joy is the exclusive right of any particular age.  A young man or young woman has no more right or title to enjoy than an old man or woman; they have simply the right of might, which is no right at all.

“Well, what do you want me to say or do?” I exclaimed impatiently.  “Take your wife back with you now, no harm has happened to her.  Take her home with you.”

“Yes, I can take her body, but not her spirit,” answered the old man sadly.

His tone made me look at him keenly.  Hitherto I had felt sorry for Suzee that she was his; now, as I heard his accent, I felt sorry for him that he was hers.

A great capacity for suffering looked out of the aged face, such as I knew could never look out of hers.

“If you lift your finger she would come to you!  Promise me you will not see her again, not speak to her; that you will go.  And if she comes to you, you will not accept her.”

I was silent for a moment.

“My ship goes to-morrow morning,” I answered; “I am not likely to see your wife again.  I shall not seek her.”

“That is not enough,” moaned the old man; “she will find a way.  She will come to you.  Promise me you will not take her away with you; if you do you will have an old man’s murder on your head.”

I moved impatiently.

“I am not going to take her away,” I answered.

“But promise me.  If I have your promise I shall feel certain.”

I hesitated, and looked across at Suzee, a patch of beautiful colour against the grey background of bent and aged trees.

What had I intended to do, I asked myself.  I could not take her, in any case.  I had not meant that.  A virtuous American ship like the Cottage City would hardly admit a Suzee to share my cabin.

Then what did my promise matter if it but reflected the fact, and if it satisfied him?

“You are not willing to promise,” he said, coming close to me and peering into my face; “I feel it.”

I thought I heard his teeth close on an unuttered oath.  Still he did not threaten me.  As I remained silent he suddenly threw himself on the ground in front of me, and stretched out his hands and put them on my feet.

“Sir I implore you.  Give me your word you will not take her, then I am satisfied.  Better take my life than my wife.”