CHAPTER XXI
WE SIGHT A SAIL
I should but tease you by attempting to narrate the passage of the hours from this point. All day long it rained; no air stirred, and the leaden sea flattened into sulky heavings wide apart, on which the hull rolled quietly. Possessing but the clothes in which I stood, I fetched an oilskin from the ’tweendecks to save me from a wet skin, and thus attired made several journeys into the foretop, where I lingered, straining my gaze all around into the shrouded horizon till my eyeballs seemed to crack to the stretching of my vision. Sometimes, when in the deck-house, I would start to my feet on fancying I heard a sound of oars, but it was never more than some sobbing wash of swell, or some stir of the rudder swayed on its pintles by the movement of the fabric. There was plenty of stuff below with which to produce smoke, but no preparation for such a signal could be made whilst it rained, nor could any purpose be served by having the materials ready until the weather cleared, and wind blew, and something hove into sight.
Miss Temple’s miserable dejection grieved me bitterly. The horror of our situation seemed to increase upon her, and say what I might I never succeeded in coaxing the least air of spirit into her face. It was distressing beyond language to see this haughty, beautiful, high-born woman, accustomed to every refinement and elegance that was to be purchased or contrived, reduced to such a pass as this: languidly putting her lips to the rough pannikin in which I would hand her a draught of wine and water; scarcely able to bite the flinty biscuit which, with marmalade and cheese, formed our repasts; sitting for weary long spells at a time motionless in a corner of the rough structure, her eyelids heavy, her gaze fixed and listless, her lips parted, with all their old haughty expression of imperious resolution gone from them, her fingers locked upon her lap, her breast now and again rising and falling with hysteric swiftness to some wrenching emotion which yet found her face marble-like, and her eyes without their familiar impassioned glow.
I recollect wondering once, whilst watching her silently, whether there would prove anything in this experience to change her character. Should the Indiaman recover us, there might be a full fourteen or even sixteen weeks of association before us yet. Once safely aboard the Countess Ida, would she let this experience slip out of her mind as an influence, and repeat in her manner towards myself the cold indifference, the haughty neglect, the distant supercilious usage which I had found so objectionable, that I was coming very near to as cordially hating her character as I deeply admired the beauties and perfections of her face and person. Was she not a sort of woman to accept an obligation and to look, if it suited her to do so, very coldly afterwards upon the person who had obliged her? Ridiculous as the emotion was at such a time, when, for all I knew, in a few hours the pair of us might be floating a brace of corpses, fathoms deep in that leaden ocean over the side, yet I must confess to a small stir of exultation to the thought that supposing us to be rescued, let her behave as she pleased, she never could escape the memory of having been alone with me in this horrible hull, nor avert the discovery of this circumstance by her relatives and friends. It was a consideration, indeed, to bring her mightily closer to me than ever she had dreamt of, and to my mind it was as complete a turning of the tables as the most romantic fancy could have invented—that she who could scarce address me on board the Indiaman for pride, and for dislike too, for all I could tell, should now be in the intimate and lonely association of shipwreck with me, clinging to me, entreating me not to leave her side; dependent upon such spirit and energy as I possessed for the food and drink that was to support us, and again and again talking to me with a freedom which she would have exhibited to no living creature in the Indiaman, her aunt excepted.
When that second night came down black as thunder, raining hard, the ocean breathless, I entreated her to rest.
‘You must sleep, Miss Temple,’ said I; ‘I will keep watch.’
She shook her head.
‘Nay,’ I continued, ‘you will rest comfortably upon this locker. You need but a pillow. There is nothing in the cabins to be thought of for that purpose; but I believe I can contrive a soft bolster for you out of my coat.’