I believe she suspected what was in my mind, for she asked soberly:
“Were—were you referring to—to me?”
“Could it be otherwise? And I was thinking of poor Maxwell and his probable loss,” I answered, in an attempt to shift the subject I was not yet ready to discuss.
She drew herself up with sudden hauteur. “Mr. Maxwell’s loss—probable or otherwise—shall be made more than good to him. As for me, I am still above the circumstance that has brought us to this state,” she answered, and, turning quickly, went below.
It was a rebuke, and I saw that I might better have taken her into my confidence then and there, for Maxwell’s loss had had little weight with me. It was her loss and possibly my own. Though her position in society was too well assured for her to suffer in character through an adventure of the sort we were experiencing, there would be many who would talk behind their hands. When the facts were known—as they were bound to be—advantage would be taken of the opportunity to cast reflections and give the smile incredulous to any explanation. A young man and a young woman adrift for an indefinite number of hours in the night after having deliberately cut off communication with the shore would be a tempting morsel for scandalmongers. And what then?
It was just that “what,” and another, which were bothering me. My love for the girl was as pure as man’s love could be, yet after this what could I be to her? Must I cease to be even a friend? Was I to be sacrificed on the altar of circumstance, the force of which I asserted as strongly as she denied? I sat at the helm and turned my thoughts inward until the stars came out from behind the scattering clouds, and the wind, grown colder, fell to a force that barely filled the jib. I looked at my watch—it was past eleven. I was becoming faint for want of food, and, as the wind was now harmless, I dropped the helm and went below.
The fire was almost out and the oil in the lamp so low that it added another smell to the cabin. The girl lay on the hard locker fast asleep, and I could see that she had been weeping. For a time I gazed at her eagerly, then taking some food with me, stole back to my dreary watch. As the hours waned so did my spirits. I may have dozed, but about two o’clock the girl’s ghostly white dress appeared in the companionway and she stepped out on deck. She looked around at the darkness for a moment, then came and seated herself by my side.
“You have had an uncomfortable nap, I fear,” I said as I saw her dispirited face.
“Yes,” wearily, “but how did you know?”
“I went below and saw you. I am very sorry for you, Miss Edith.”