“Where are we going now?” asked Mrs. Carraways, as she suffered herself to be led in and out of what she called the shocking fitter upon the deck. “Yes; I recollect—down stairs.”
“A very noble ship, indeed; beautiful—very beautiful,” said Carraways, pausing, and looking about him, in his way to the companion-ladder; for he felt that the dreadful moment, the fearful instant of trial was at hand; and therefore ventured to deliver himself of a triumphant flourish upon the magnificence of the floating prison in general, ere he introduced his wife to her dark, close berth; her condemned cell for many, many weeks.
“Many more stairs?” asked Mrs. Carraways, having taken about three in her descent.
“None; that is, none to speak of,” answered her husband; still and still descending. “Here we are,” he cried at length. “Fine and roomy between decks. Nothing can be more airy,” said Carraways, taking off his hat.
“I feel as if I should faint,” said Mrs. Carraways.
“Admirably ventilated,” observed the husband.
“I had no idea it could be so nice,” said Bessy, and she looked with as much hope, as much sweet cheerfulness about her, as though she stood in her own old, early summer bower: the play-place of her childish days.
“Here are the cabins,” and Carraways opened a door, and showed in a sort of long box two opposite rows of boards.
“Cabins! My dear Carraways,” cried the desponding wife; “why, they’re like kitchen shelves, and not a bit broader. I couldn’t sleep in one of them”—
“Oh yes, mamma,” cried Bessy, “I’m sure they’re much broader than they look.” Still Mrs. Carraways considered that shelf whereupon for four months she was to be laid aside, with a troubled eye—a very rueful face. “And, after all, I’ve no doubt, mamma, with a little use they’re much nicer than a bed.” Carraways said nothing; but made up his mouth, as though contemplating the enjoyment of a whistle. “Very much nicer than a bed, especially at sea. And if the ship should ever go up and down—I say if it should—why, it’s impossible to fall out with this ledge to the shelf. Nothing could be more considerate; nothing could be more comfortable.” The face of Mrs. Carraways gradually relented at the cheerful voice of Bessy: by degrees, too, it took a somewhat comic look; there was, in truth, positive fun peeping through its sadness, and breaking up its shadow. And Bessy still continued eloquent upon the unintrusive advantages of a shelf—as Carraways avowed to himself not much broader than a boot-jack—over the ostentatious pretensions of any bedstead soever. “I’m sure, I shouldn’t wonder, mamma, when you’ve become quite used to this, if you ever care to sleep upon a bedstead again.”