The hours dragged on. The children slept; some of the women slept also, worn out by their fears. Katrine’s cramped arms still held their burden, but Nancy Mannering had turned herself round in her seat, presenting her broad back as a support.
“Let yourself go, my dear; lean your weight on me. Nothing like a support to your back. I was at the opera just before I sailed—six shillings’ worth of gallery, and never a rail at the back. Leaned back against a young lad’s knees, and he wriggled in seventeen fits. Prudery, eh? Or perhaps I was too old. Well! Well!”
The voice had its old jaunty tone, but the language in which she spoke was unintelligible. Opera! Katrine shrank at the sound. Face to face with death, the trivial happenings of life retreated to an illimitable distance. Was it possible that one had ever cared for such baubles—had counted them among the goods of life!
At the stern of the boat a woman was praying aloud, while those around joined in with tears and sobs. Katrine roused herself to listen, and caught fervid confessions of sin and wrong-doing. Her thoughts turned inward; she also ought to pray, to make confession. Drearily she asked herself what she had done, and failed to discover a tangible offence. Honestly she had endeavoured; honestly she had refrained. Looking back over her life she could find no shrinking from duty, no unfair dealing, no violation of a law. She had not “gone astray,” she had not been “vile and sinful altogether”; the woman’s abasement of self-blame left her untouched. The searchlight of conscience revealed sin indeed, but not of commission. Lack of level—that was the flaw—of whole-hearted, unselfish love which gave all and asked for no return; love which could transform the commonest events, and make of duty a joy!
Grizel possessed that love; a spring of tenderness and sympathy, welling within her heart. She had found it easy to live with a querulous old woman. “She doesn’t worry me: I love her!” Katrine heard again the tone of the deep, rich voice giving the simple explanation. She herself had placed Martin before all created things, but there had been no tenderness in her heart. With opened eyes she looked back on the critical, exacting sentiment which she had called love, and found it unworthy the name. Her arms tightened round the sleeping child. This then was the secret of life. Love—“the fulfilment of the law.” If life were spared, it would be the motive spring for which she would strive; given that, the rest would follow. The women at her side were imploring for forgiveness, and comfort in death. Katrine prayed for life. “More life: fuller life! Fill my mean heart—!”
Ten minutes later when the rescuing ship steamed into view the sight which should have brought exhilaration broke down the most sternly-kept composure. Men and women wept together, wept and laughed, and sobbed and clung, even the most composed giving way to their emotion now that the strain was at an end.
On she came, a stately form, summoned by the wondrous message of the air, racing through the water to the noble work of rescue. Nearer and nearer, until she was close at hand, and white faces looked down from the crowded decks. The nightmare of removal from the boat was accomplished in safety. Katrine felt her waist encircled by a tender arm, and heard a woman’s voice addressing her in tremulous tones. Her cramped limbs could hardly move, she was half-led, half-carried into a luxurious cabin, undressed, laid in a warm, fresh bed, fed with soup and wine. The women who waited upon her shed tears as they worked, but she herself was dry-eyed. She was thinking of that yellow glimmering light through the fog, the light of the ship which held her world,—the ship with a hole in her side...
But an hour later Nancy Mannering came to her bedside with a face working with emotion, to tell glad news. The passengers of the injured ship had been transferred to the C—, but the crew remained at their posts, for the water-tight compartments were bravely doing their work, and there was hope of keeping her afloat until Bombay Harbour could be reached. Meantime the rescuing vessel had her in tow.
“Shut your eyes, my beauty, and sleep!” said Nancy Mannering gently. “He’s off to his bed. I’ve seen him, and touched him, and heard his voice. He’s a real live man and no ghost, as to-morrow morning you’ll see for yourself, and if you ever say good-bye to him again,—well! you deserve all you may get.—Go to sleep, child, go to sleep, and thank the good God!”
But the next morning Katrine did not get up. She was prostrate with physical collapse, and there was no mental effort to spur her into action. She did not want to meet Bedford. Now that safety was assured, it was torture to remember her own words, and to realise that the first confession of love had come from her own lips, not his. She welcomed the weariness and pain which kept her a prisoner in the cabin; dreaded the meeting which must inevitably come. The dread and the shame, the excitement and the distress, increased her physical ailments; the doctor was summoned, once and again, before the day was over, and other methods failing prescribed a sleeping-draught to secure a night’s rest before landing. As a result Katrine slept heavily, but awoke to so crushing a headache that movement appeared out of the question.