Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful, feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though they pressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed, there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come. There was but one interpretation to put on this—they had never left the ship.
"Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband was missing.
"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no time for anything."
There is no describing the misery of the day that followed—the terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had of the nightmare experience.
The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account of snakes and other disagreeables.
Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps fortunate for the poor lady—it gave her less time for brooding over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her to try.
Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hovering about his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inaction began to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for a while, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself. However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his mother lonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and her sorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.
"She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," he argued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one to comfort her."
But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was given her, but ate very little. Whatever she was thinking about, she did not speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether she and Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill or fever.
"I wish father or Bob would come quick," thought the boy helplessly; "we're no good. She is only thinking about taking care of us all the time; and I don't know how to look after her. It would have been better if I had been drowned instead of Aunt Dorothy; she would have known what to do."