“Be quiet!” said Watkins; his ears, attuned to the elements, he said, were the first to hear an answering call. It was the hoot of a steamer—at that moment of all sounds most blessed—even the voice of Diana must have been less sweet.
“It’s a yacht,” said Marcus.
“The Scotts, I expect,” said Ralph St. Jermyn; “I told them if they should be round here to look us up.” (What a comfortable thing it is to have cousins who have yachts! and other things, most desirable.) “They will find difficulty in getting a boat off—unless they can get under the lee of the island,” he added.
Until that moment when Mrs. Scott held out two hands to Marcus to greet him, he had never been able to excuse his want of judgment in having allowed himself to call her beautiful. He had always felt he had risked his reputation in so doing—his reputation as a judge of beauty. Now as he took her hands in his he found her of all women the most to be admired. There was something after all that was better than beauty of line, there was charm of expression, and she was, at this moment, perhaps, even beautiful: but he could not see because she wore a sou’wester well pulled down over her eyes, but he could imagine the kindness beaming from those eyes. The smile on her lips he could see, so that if he did not stand completely exonerated he at least must be largely excused—to a cold, wet man all women may seem beautiful.
“You dear moist things,” she said, “how did you get stranded here?”
A few minutes after they had left the island, and Marcus was being ministered to by Mrs. Scott, Miles Hastings came in search of him. He shouted; but there was no answer except the screeching of birds as they flew up in their thousands at his approach. There was no sign of man. Was this another joke?—this time a poor one—a very poor one? It had not been Diana’s fault that the day had turned out wet; but this was childish. He walked on and shouted again. There was still no answer. The waves hurled themselves against the rocks, making a noise like the booming of guns—old Watkins had said that. It was quite evident that by some miraculous chance the others had got off the island, and had forgotten him. He wondered that St. Jermyn had forgotten him: perhaps he had not—that was another way of looking at it!
There was nothing to be done so he went back to the cave, where he found that the little bird, at all events, had not forgotten him. “What shall we do?” he asked, and the little bird said nothing—how should he know when he had lived so short a time—and knew nothing as yet of the division of days? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, were to him as one. He would have no divisions between them—if he had the ordering of things.
There was one thing Hastings could always do, and that anywhere, no matter where—think of Diana! He pulled up the collar of his coat closer round his ears, sat down in the best shelter he could find, picked up the little bird, told it to be good, and proceeded to think of Diana. If she had forgotten him the situation was about as bad as it could be, but he was convinced something must have happened—a thousand things might have happened. The motor launch might have gone wrong—if it had, then she might be in danger. He sprang up to look. “All right, old chap, I won’t drop you.” He looked first one way, then another, and in neither direction could he see anything. A veil impenetrable hung between him and the mainland. The storm raged—more and more furiously. He knew it must spend itself in time, it was bound to. Diana at that moment was wondering what he was doing?
She could never have guessed that he was greatly exercised over the feeding of his young charge with bits of sardine—meant for Marcus. That done he was going to think about her. That he would think about her she might have guessed—but she could hardly have guessed how tenderly he was going to do it.