I rushed to get water. It was I who first bent over that stricken form as the skipper lifted the unconscious head. It was Waylao who lay there before me; but so wasted was she that I did not recognise her. As the cool winds drifted across the deck and the sailors and the black squad stepped back, the fresh air revived her. We saw her eyelids quiver—they opened and gazed upon the crew silently.
As I stood among those men and stared at that face through the gloom, I thought it was some beautiful white girl. There was no semblance to a half-caste in that thin face before us. I thought that I must be going mad as I pushed the cook aside and stared again, for in the excitement of it all I had fancied that the girl that lay before us, pale-faced and stricken, was Pauline.
It was a mad idea, I know; but I had been thinking more about John L——’s daughter than I have cared to confess.
As the shadows of the funnel’s smoke passed over us, it seemed that I was a member of a phantom crew, so silent were those huddled men as they watched the pale face of that figure lying there, on the hatchway.
The captain ordered us to lift the grating and take her into the cuddy. When we had placed her tenderly in the spare cabin’s bunk, we saw the way she was. The light of the swinging lamp lit up her face. Her bosom was quite bare, her garments being torn to fragments. We had no sooner placed her in the bunk and laid her head on the pillow than she fell asleep. There were only four of us, beside the skipper, as we stood in that cabin. I saw them look solemnly at each other; then each coughed, as if to say in significant silence: “So that’s the secret of the stowaway. She’s stowed away because of That.”
In a flash I had recognised Waylao. For a moment I was so astounded that I couldn’t even speak or think. Then my wits came to my assistance. I decided to keep my own counsel and never reveal by the slightest sign that I had seen the girl before.
It was three days before Waylao could sit up in her bunk and think reasonably. But, considering her serious condition when found in the hold, her improvement was wonderfully rapid. The cook made special soups, and the skipper seemed always to be examining the small drawers of his medicine chest. “That’s fine for cuts and bruises,” he’d say, as he brought out boxes of ointment and went off to give Waylao medical attention.
I do not think I can do better than refer to my diary and reproduce my own remarks at this period of my story. Here’s how the entries go:
“September 19th.—Waylao looks wonderfully well to-day. Her finger-nails have fallen off, and the new nails are just peeping out of the quicks. I played the violin to her this afternoon. She’s got a voice that fairly thrills one. The skipper says she’d make a fortune in America, on the stage. As we sat on deck last night, Waylao and I referred to the poor escapee girl form Noumea, and I told her exactly how I found the convict girl afloat in the lagoon at daybreak. Waylao cried like a child when I said I had placed a little cross on the girl’s grave.
“The boatswain’s given Waylao a beautiful silk and tappa dress. She looks fine in it. He’d bought it from a native at Hivaoa, for his wife, I suppose. Poor wife, she’ll never see that dress.