happiness lay in the regretted fact that they were childless.
Then, in the sixth year, came a crisis and a change. Captain Barrett, an old crony of David's, wanted him to go with him on a voyage as mate. At the suggestion all David's long-repressed craving for the wide blue wastes of the ocean, and the wind whistling through the spars with the salt foam in its breath, broke forth with a passion all the more intense for that very repression. He must go on that voyage with James Barrett — he must! That over, he would be contented again; but go he must. His soul strugeled within him like a fettered thing.
Isabella opposed the scheme vehemently and unwisely, with mordant sarcasm and unjust reproaches. The latent obstinacy of David's character came to the support of his longing — a longing which Isabella, with five generations of land-loving ancestry behind her, could not understand at all.
He was determined to go, and he told Isabella so.
“I’m sick of plowing and milking cows,” he said hotly.
“You mean that you are sick of a respectable life,” sneered Isabella.
“Perhaps,” said David, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. “Anyway, I’m going.”
“If you go on this voyage, David Spencer, you need never come back here,” said Isabella resolutely.
