(After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief.)

KEENEY (after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown).  Remember, I warn’t hankerin’ to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY.  I wanted to be with you, David, don’t you see?  I didn’t want to wait back there in the house all alone as I’ve been doing these last six years since we were married—­waiting, and watching, and fearing—­with nothing to keep my mind occupied—­not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney’s wife.  I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean.  I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all.  I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport.  And instead—­(her voice grows tremulous) all I find is ice—­and cold—­and brutality!

(Her voice breaks.)

KEENEY.  I warned you what it’d be, Annie.  “Whalin’ ain’t no ladies’ tea party,” I says to you, “and you better stay to home where you’ve got all your woman’s comforts.” (Shaking his head) But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY (wearily).  Oh, I know it isn’t your fault, David.  You see, I didn’t believe you.  I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY (protestingly).  I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY looks around her in wild scorn.) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin’ it might be soothin’ to ye to be playin’ it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY (wearily).  Yes, you were very kind, David.  I know that. (She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out—­then suddenly bursts forth.) I won’t stand it—­I can’t stand it—­pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping.  He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders.) Take me away from here, David!  If I don’t get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I’ll go mad!  Take me home, David!  I can’t think any more.  I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain.  I’m afraid.  Take me home!

KEENEY (holds her at arm’s length and looks at her face anxiously).  Best go to bed, Annie.  You ain’t yourself.  You got fever.  Your eyes look so strange like.  I ain’t never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY (laughing hysterically).  It’s the ice and the cold and the silence—­they’d make anyone look strange.

KEENEY (soothingly).  In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I’ll have her filled with ile and then we’ll give her everything she’ll stand and p’int for home.

MRS. KEENEY.  But we can’t wait for that—­I can’t wait.  I want to get home.  And the men won’t wait.  They want to get home.  It’s cruel, it’s brutal for you to keep them.  You must sail back.  You’ve got no excuse.  There’s clear water to the south now.  If you’ve a heart at all, you’ve got to turn back.