Her way to her cabin led her past the Edwards’ and she glanced in, at the sound of sobbing. Mrs. Edwards, who had no children, had borrowed little Tommy Field. She was kneeling before the couch on which she had placed him, her face buried in his frock, her whole frame shaking with sobs. Tommy regarded her doubtfully—and then, finding her hair soft under his little hands, began gleefully to pull it down, gurgling with joy. Mrs. Edwards did not seem to notice—even though they hurt her; it may be that she found a comfort in the touch of the little hands. At the sight, Norah suddenly found that she, too, was sobbing. She ran on into her cabin.
When she passed, a little later, on her way back, she heard the murmur of voices, and saw Major Edwards bending over his wife. Somehow Norah knew that she was better, though she went by quickly, averting her eyes. Dimly within her, though she had not learned to put the thought into words, Norah knew that the world holds few women whom a baby cannot help—even a borrowed baby.
“Norah! Norah! Hurry up!”
Jim’s voice came ringing down the alleyways.
“I’m coming!” Norah shouted, beginning to run. “What’s the matter? Anything wrong?”
“No—only the British ship is coming up hand over fist, and signalling like mad. And the German is just tearing away, but I don’t believe she can do it.” Jim’s face was flushed and his eyes dancing. “Losh, but I wish I was on that cruiser! Isn’t it the mischief that our wireless isn’t ready! Come along—I was afraid you’d miss her.” He raced up the companion-ladder, Norah at his heels.
At the top Wally was prancing with excitement.
“Oh, hurry up, you two!” Each boy grasped one of Norah’s hands, and they tore along the deck. Every one was hanging over the rail, watching the British ship approaching. Beside the great bulk of the Perseus, or of the German ship, she seemed small. But she was built for speed and armed to the teeth.
Mr. Linton offered Norah his glasses—but she found that her hands were shaking too much to use them. The change from despair to relief had, indeed, affected every one; ordinarily grave people laughed and talked excitedly, and the younger passengers were like children released from school. No one would go down to the second breakfast. Stewards wandered round with trays of beef-tea, and people took cups absent-mindedly, and forgot to drink them. The decks, generally so spic-and-span, were littered untidily, since rugs and wraps had been flung down wherever their owners happened to be standing—and the stewards were themselves far too disorganised to perform ordinary duties. For one morning at least, the sober Perseus was “fey.”
“I’d give something to understand what she’s talking about,” John West exclaimed, watching the cruiser, which was exchanging rapid signals with the Perseus.