“Can I help you, Walters?” said Miss Denning, suddenly appearing at the door-way; and as I looked at her bright gentle face, with my wretched messmate’s words still ringing in my ears, I could not help thinking that there must be hope even for such a cowardly traitor as he had proved, when she was here ready to help him and forgive all the past.
“Yes, Miss Denning, I think you can,” I said very clumsily, I know. “Walters knows what a brute he has been, and of course he is horribly sorry, and bad now, and keeps on speaking about there being no hope for him, and wanting to die. I can’t talk to him, because I don’t seem to be able to do anything but pitch into him—I mean with words—but you can.”
“Poor fellow!” she said gently; and she laid her hand upon his hot brow; “he is very feverish, and in great pain.”
“Yes, of course he is,” I cried hurriedly; “but that’s the way. I couldn’t have said that. It would do any fellow good. And I say, Miss Denning, you tell him that I didn’t mean all I said,” I continued. “He’s done wrong, and he’s sorry for it, and I’m sure I’ll forgive him if you will.”
She smiled at us both so gently that the stupid weak tears came in my eyes.
“That means you will,” I cried hurriedly. “Then I say, you speak to him, and make him feel that talking about dying’s no good. He can’t show how sorry he is if he does, can he?”
“Of course not.”
“Then tell him he’s to get well as soon as he can, and play the man now and help us to save the ship, and you, and all of us; and I say, I really must go and help now, and—oh, Miss Denning, don’t sit down there; that’s my sandwich.”
I caught up the partly eaten biscuit and meat, and hurried out of the cabin to make my way forward.
“What a donkey I have made of myself!” I cried, mentally. “I thought I had said stupid enough things to poor old Walters, and now I’ve spoken such nonsense to her that she’ll always look upon me as a regular booby. Yes, that she will.”