They saw it come down to them—to the very water. Then they were uplifted. This was the world coming back—but a changed world. A great kindness had come over all men. Bellair saw the tears in the eyes of the people gathered on the deck. He almost expected to see Bessie Brealt there.... Perhaps the change had come from her singing.... There was a choke in the voices of the people gathered around them.
“Please,” he managed to say, “don’t keep us apart to-night—we three. Please let us be together.”
And down the deck-passage he heard the voices of women, and among them, the Faraway Woman’s voice, in answer:
“Yes, I will go with you thankfully—but not for long. My companions and I must be together very soon. We three—to-night—it is promised between us.”
There was no voice from Fleury.
The kindness of every one, that was like a poignant distress to Bellair. He dared not speak; in fact, there was danger of him breaking down even without words. The eyes about him were searching, in their eagerness to help. An Englishman came forward at intervals and gripped his hand; a German spoke to others of the remarkable condition of the boat and its three, after ten days; another German moved in and out helping, without any words, though his eyes lifted Bellair over several pinches of emotion. The American ship-doctor was the best of all; young, gruff, humorous, quick-handed, doing and saying the right thing.... They brought him stimulants and sups of water by the teaspoon. The merest aroma of thin broth in the bottom of a tea-cup was lifted to his lips. He was helped to a hot bath; a splendid quiet friendliness about it all. Now it occurred to Bellair that they were tremendously eager to hear his story. He wanted to satisfy them....
“It was the fifth day—that Stackhouse died,” he was saying, though he was mistaken. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him ... owns a lot of ships and islands down here.... That was the climax for us. He died hard and he was a big man—but we did not murder him.... His body did not sink....”
There was a boom of running water in the bathroom; the steam rising. Bellair’s voice was ineffectual. The face of the ship-surgeon bent to him in the steam, saying:
“Cut it—there’s plenty of time.... Leave it all to us.... I say, lean back. You’ve got a bath coming. Guess you’ve never been on a sick-list before. We can wait for the story.”
Bellair did try to lean back. One by one, the sheathes of will power that he had integrated in the past ten days relaxed. It was strange to feel them go. They had come hard, and they were correspondingly slow to ease in their grip. He had to be told again and again—to be helped to rest. It was good to think that a man does not lose such hard-won strength more easily than it comes—that one, in fact, has to use the same force to relax with. It was all delightful, this friendliness, the ease of his body, and the giving—the giving into human arms of great kindliness, and the sense of the others being cared for similarly. They had fixed a berth for him, when he said: