'
In the end of the same month, Captain Jenkin caught cold and was
confined to bed. He was so unchanged in spirit that at first there
seemed no ground of fear; but his great age began to tell, and
presently it was plain he had a summons. The charm of his sailor's
cheerfulness and ancient courtesy, as he lay dying, is not to be
described. There he lay, singing his old sea songs; watching the
poultry from the window with a child's delight; scribbling on the
slate little messages to his wife, who lay bed-ridden in another
room; glad to have Psalms read aloud to him, if they were of a
pious strain - checking, with an 'I don't think we need read that,
my dear,' any that were gloomy or bloody. Fleeming's wife coming
to the house and asking one of the nurses for news of Mrs. Jenkin,
'Madam, I do not know,' said the nurse; 'for I am really so carried
away by the Captain that I can think of nothing else.' One of the
last messages scribbled to his wife and sent her with a glass of
the champagne that had been ordered for himself, ran, in his most
finished vein of childish madrigal: 'The Captain bows to you, my
love, across the table.
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