At that moment a heavy thud just outside made her heart leap to her mouth.
"Who's there?" she cried out.
"It's only me," answered Armitage. "I'm fixing the door of your hotel. I guess nothing can get in now. Good night."
"Good night!" she replied faintly.
She listened to his footsteps as they died away in the distance, and slowly began to disrobe.
She was soon undressed and was about to get into bed and cover herself up when a thought occurred to her. There was something still to be done. Dropping on her knees, her bare feet on the cold sand, she buried her face in her hands and for the first time in her life offered up a fervent prayer to the unknown, Almighty Power that directs all things. Grace had never been a devout girl. She had no decided metaphysical views of any kind. She was merely indifferent. Given up solely to a life of pleasure, religion to her had been only a word. Her parents had a pew at St. Thomas', on Fifth Avenue, and when she had a new hat or a new gown to show off, she attended the services in the same spirit that she would go to the horse show or any other fashionable function. Never until now had she felt the need of that moral support and encouragement which never fails to bring comfort to the faithful in their hour of trouble. She prayed earnestly to be saved from her present desperate situation, for protection during the coming night, and she prayed also for her late ship companions who at that moment might be suffering in the open boats. This done, her mind felt easier, and, covering herself as well as she could, she closed her eyes and courted sleep.
Happily the night was warm, otherwise her scant covering, consisting solely of a thin mantle, would not have sufficed. Everything outside was perfectly still. The lazy splash of the surf and the gentle murmur of the breeze were the only sounds that reached her ears. Not hearing Armitage moving about she concluded that he had rolled himself up near the fire and gone to sleep.
She closed her eyes, and, lulled into drowsiness by the distant music of the sea, she gradually sank into the delicious semi-conscious state that just precedes slumber. Through her tired brain passed confused mental pictures of the extraordinary happenings of the last forty-eight hours—the dance on the deck, the sudden storm, the shock as the great liner struck the sunken reef, the rush for the life-boats, her fall into the water and the long swim until she came to herself on this island and recognized the refractory stoker, Armitage, as her rescuer. She wondered if he was really as black as he had been painted. If he was, she had seen nothing of his bad qualities. He was only a stoker—a superior one to be sure, from his conversation and knowledge of things—and so far he had behaved like a gentleman.
She wondered what she would do if suddenly he forced his way in now and attacked her. Would she scream, or faint, or do any of the hysterical things a woman is supposed to do in such circumstances? Her mind dwelt upon his personal appearance. She recalled how handsome, and graceful, and strong he looked as he came along the beach at a swinging gait, bringing to her that greatly needed breakfast, which she had devoured with such appetite. From him, her thoughts traveled homeward. She saw her poor mother and father grieving for her, and her supposed loss the sensation of the hour in their immediate circle of friends. Then her thoughts grew mixed and confused. Her breathing grew more regular, her bosom rose and fell with rhythmic motion, her brain ceased thinking. She was asleep.