In the midst of it
all, the wise woman quietly made terms. He was not to come to the house
but on her invitation, unless indeed he had news of the _Agra_ to
communicate; but he might write once a week to her, and enclose a few
lines to Julia. On this concession he proceeded to mumble her white
wrist, and call her his best, dearest, loveliest friend; his mother. "Oh,
remember," said he, with a relic of distrust, "you are the only mother I
can ever hope to have."
That touched her. Hitherto, he had been to her but a thing her daughter
loved.
Her eyes filled. "My poor, warm-hearted, motherless boy," she said, "pray
for my husband's safe return. For on that your happiness depends, and
hers, and mine."
So now two more bright eyes looked longingly seaward for the _Agra_
homeward bound.
CHAPTER VII
NORTH latitude 23.5, longitude east 113; the time March of this same
year; the wind southerly; the port Whampoa, in the Canton river. Ships at
anchor reared their tall masts here and there, and the broad stream was
enlivened and coloured by junks and boats of all sizes and vivid hues,
propelled on the screw principle by a great scull at the stern, with
projecting handles, for the crew to work; and at times a gorgeous
mandarin boat, with two great glaring eyes set in the bows, came flying,
rowed with forty paddles by an armed crew, whose shields hung on the
gunwale and flashed fire in the sunbeams: the mandarin, in conical and
buttoned hat, sitting on the top of his cabin calmly smoking Paradise,
_alias_ opium, while his gong boomed and his boat flew fourteen miles an
hour, and all things scuttled out of his celestial way.
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