As I stood by the fire the door of the house opened, and the girl came out. She had on some sort of light dress, and all trace of the bedraggled condition of the previous evening was gone; her brown hair was smoothly swept back from a face still pale, and a bit of bright ribbon at the neck gave the effect of a flower. She came down toward me with a kindly smile and a good-morning greeting, which I returned. Somehow a senseless, foolish embarrassment came over me, which like an idiot I attributed to the fact that I did not know her name. Actuated by a ridiculous impulse, I pulled out my pocketbook and extracted therefrom a stained and withered visiting-card, whereon in the most recherché style of the copperplate engraver’s art appeared my name, “William Morgan.” This precious document I handed to her with a deliberate bow, hat in hand. A smile ran over her countenance as she bent to receive it, so very expressive that I could not fail to understand it. She was undoubtedly laughing at me. Like a flash the full absurdity and incongruity of my act came over me. I pictured my own appearance,—barefoot, clad in pantaloons of moleskin stained to a thousand tints of autumn brown and rolled up half-way to the knee, a blue flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up and throat open, and a hat of bungling rushes; my skin, where exposed, tanned and peeled; a great bush and shock of hair, the growth of nine months, tangled and unkempt, faded by the sun at the ends, and reaching down to my shoulders; the cavalier air; the limp, red-stained, dirty visiting card. I felt the hot blood surge for a moment into my face, and then the absurdity of it all overpowered me and I laughed aloud. She also, after a little struggle, and looking at me again to see, perhaps, whether I was hurt, joined in the chorus, my visiting-card in her hand.
“Mr. Morgan,” said she presently, “both my father and I are deeply grateful to you. You saved our lives, and your kindness and tenderness to a helpless old man I shall never forget. I thank you for him and for myself. My father’s name,” here there was a faint indication of a return of the smile, “is Caleb Millward, and mine is Alice.”
I asked her how her father had passed the night, and was informed that he had slept almost continuously, and was still slumbering peacefully. Then I told her that I thought her father was suffering from paralysis, produced, probably, by cerebral hemorrhage; that some small blood vessel had burst in the brain, and that if this could become absorbed in a reasonably short period he would probably recover the use of his faculties either wholly or partially; that we could only await results, keeping him warm, well nourished and quiet; that I believed this was all the best of doctors could do for him, and that we must put our trust in his good constitution and the favor of the Almighty, and hope for the best.
I learned from her account that her father, Caleb Millward, was a missionary, whose work for the past five years had been among the coolie laborers, of whom large numbers from Hindostan and the lower provinces of China had been imported into various of the West India Islands, under what has been known as the contract-labor system, only another name for slavery. Her mother had died several years before, during a yellow fever epidemic, and since her death the Rev. Mr. Millward had broken up his permanent home station, and had travelled in a regular circuit from point to point in his little schooner, making a complete round in a period of about six months. It was on one of these trips, while sailing from one small island to another, that the series of mishaps took place which resulted in their being cast away. There was on board only her father, herself, and a young Jamaican of English descent, who was employed to help sail the boat, and to take care of the vessel when in port. The voyage they were at the time engaged upon, was a traverse of about twenty miles. The wind was fair with no appearance of bad weather. Suddenly a tremendous wave was seen approaching, not parallel with the swell but at an angle thereto. All three saw it coming down. Her father called out to the Jamaican to lower some sail, and the Jamaican was forward at this work, when the sea struck the boat with tremendous force and dashed him overboard, and also tore loose the water cask and carried it away. The Jamaican never rose to the surface. Her father, she said, appeared to be wonderfully affected by the accident, and soon grew faint and half stupid. Presently partially recovering, he set the sails so that the boat was hove to under the sail that she subsequently bore, then almost immediately sank down unconscious. He remained thus all day breathing heavily, and then came to, but was unable to move. So they drifted without water, until the storm came and they were drenched with spray. After a long period of suffering they were rescued as we have seen. This was the story of their disaster. Leaving Miss Millward to watch the stew, I went up to the house, and finding the old man now awake gave him a thorough rubbing with my hands,—a sort of massage treatment,—until the circulation of the blood was evident on the surface. This seemed to do him good. Then I put on his clothes, now dry, and returned to the fire.
Miss Millward had gone down to the “Alice” and rummaged out some spoons and knives and forks, a small tablecloth, some salt and some black pepper, three bowls, three plates, and some glass tumblers, and had them at the fire in a hand basket, and the kettle containing the stew had been removed from the fire.
“Now, Mr. Morgan,” said she, as I came up, “Let us understand each other. I intend while we stay here to make myself useful. I have been taught to work, and the cooking and housekeeping are woman’s work. You will let me do that work as far as I am able, will you not?”
“Certainly I will, Miss Millward. There will be plenty of work for both of us. It will relieve me, and frankly, I think you will be better contented and happier for it.”
“Very well, then. Please give me a lift with this kettle to the house. Our breakfast is ready as soon as the cloth can be laid.”
That breakfast of delicious iguana-stew, toasted pilot-bread, and cool, pure water sparkling in glass, set on a clean, white cloth, and eaten from real dishes with the table implements of civilization, will linger long in my memory. I picture the scene before me even now; the cool white interior, the old man stretched on the couch, the table presenting to my long unaccustomed eyes an appearance of elegance, though plain and common enough in reality, the savory fragrance of the stew, the beautiful girl seated opposite me, the open doorway, and the glimpse through it of the sunlit sea,—all return to me as a happy, pleasant dream. It seemed to me then like a dream, and as though it all might fade away on awakening.
Heretofore I had eaten my food in a perfunctory fashion, spending no unnecessary time over it, with no special enjoyment except the satisfaction due to hunger allayed. Now all was different. Meals were about to become, I foresaw, delightful domestic episodes, enlivened by talk and rendered social by companionship. This was life, and not a mere struggle for existence.