The Admiral moved uneasily in his chair. “Yours is an exceptional case,” said he.
“But no woman has a voice. Consider that the women are a majority in the nation. Yet if there was a question of legislation upon which all women were agreed upon one side and all the men upon the other, it would appear that the matter was settled unanimously when more than half the population were opposed to it. Is that right?”
Again the Admiral wriggled. It was very awkward for the gallant seaman to have a handsome woman opposite to him, bombarding him with questions to none of which he could find an answer. “Couldn’t even get the tompions out of his guns,” as he explained the matter to the Doctor that evening.
“Now those are really the points that we shall lay stress upon at the meeting. The free and complete opening of the professions, the final abolition of the zenana I call it, and the franchise to all women who pay Queen’s taxes above a certain sum. Surely there is nothing unreasonable in that. Nothing which could offend your principles. We shall have medicine, law, and the church all rallying that night for the protection of woman. Is the navy to be the one profession absent?”
The Admiral jumped out of his chair with an evil word in his throat. “There, there, ma’am,” he cried. “Drop it for a time. I have heard enough. You’ve turned me a point or two. I won’t deny it. But let it stand at that. I will think it over.”
“Certainly, Admiral. We would not hurry you in your decision. But we still hope to see you on our platform.” She rose and moved about in her lounging masculine fashion from one picture to another, for the walls were thickly covered with reminiscences of the Admiral’s voyages.
“Hullo!” said she. “Surely this ship would have furled all her lower canvas and reefed her topsails if she found herself on a lee shore with the wind on her quarter.”
“Of course she would. The artist was never past Gravesend, I swear. It’s the Penelope as she was on the 14th of June, 1857, in the throat of the Straits of Banca, with the Island of Banca on the starboard bow, and Sumatra on the port. He painted it from description, but of course, as you very sensibly say, all was snug below and she carried storm sails and double-reefed topsails, for it was blowing a cyclone from the sou’east. I compliment you, ma’am, I do indeed! ”
“Oh, I have done a little sailoring myself–as much as a woman can aspire to, you know. This is the Bay of Funchal. What a lovely frigate!”
“Lovely, you say! Ah, she was lovely! That is the Andromeda. I was a mate aboard of her–sub-lieutenant they call it now, though I like the old name best.”
“What a lovely rake her masts have, and what a curve to her bows! She must have been a clipper.”
The old sailor rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened. His old ships bordered close upon his wife and his son in his affections.
“I know Funchal,” said the lady carelessly. “A couple of years ago I had a seven-ton cutter-rigged yacht, the Banshee, and we ran over to Madeira from Falmouth.”
“You ma’am, in a seven-tonner?”
“With a couple of Cornish lads for a crew. Oh, it was glorious! A fortnight right out in the open, with no worries, no letters, no callers, no petty thoughts, nothing but the grand works of God, the tossing sea and the great silent sky. They talk of riding, indeed, I am fond of horses, too, but what is there to compare with the swoop of a little craft as she pitches down the long steep side of a wave, and then the quiver and spring as she is tossed upwards again? Oh, if our souls could transmigrate I’d be a seamew above all birds that fly! But I keep you, Admiral. Adieu!”
The old sailor was too transported with sympathy to say a word. He could only shake her broad muscular hand. She was half-way down the garden path before she heard him calling her, and saw his grizzled head and weather-stained face looking out from behind the curtains.