‘You are very kind, but I shall not be able to sleep.’
I continued to entreat her, and I saw she was affected by my earnestness.
‘Since it will please you if I lie down, Mr. Dugdale, I will do so,’ said she.
I whipped off my coat and rolled it up, and she removed her hat with a manner that made me see she abhorred even this trifling disturbance of her apparel, as though it signified a sort of settling down to the unspeakable life of the wreck. The fabric swayed so tenderly that the bottle containing the candle stood without risk of capsizal upon the table, and the small but steady flame shone clearly upon her. How delicate were her features by that light; how rich and beautiful the exceeding abundance of the dark coils of her hair, the richer and the more beautiful for the neglect in it, for the shadowing of her white brow by the disordered tresses, for the drooping of it about her ears, with the sparkle of diamonds there! Presently she was resting.
I removed the candle to the stanchion, and secured the bottle where the light would be off her eyes, and sat me down near the doorway as far from her as the narrow breadth of the structure would permit, where I filled a pipe and smoked, expelling the fumes into the air, and listening with a heavy heart to the faint sounds breaking from the interior of the hull to the washing moan at long intervals of some passing heave of swell, and to the squeaking of the rats in the cabin below—a most dismal and shocking sound, I do protest, to hearken to amidst the hush and blackness of that ocean night, scarce vexed by more than the pattering of the rain.
From time to time Miss Temple would address me; then she fell silent, and by-and-by looking towards her, and observing her to lie motionless, I softly crept to abreast of her, keeping the table between, and found her sleeping.
It was then something after ten by my watch, and she slept for five hours without a stir, though now and again she spoke in her sleep. I know not why I should have remained awake unless it was to keep my weather-eye lifting for the rats. There was nothing to watch for or to hope for in such weather as that. Once, when the beasts below were very noisy—for, as you will suppose, in that solemn stillness their squeakings rose with a singularly sharp edge to the ear—I bethought me of the pantry, and could not remember whether I had shut the door. For all I could yet tell, the stores we had to depend upon were in that little cabin, and if the rats found their way to the food, we might speedily starve. I lighted a second candle, that, should the girl suddenly awake, she might not find herself in the dark, and stepped below, and found the door closed. I opened it, and minutely surveyed the interior, and observing all to be well, shut the door and came away; but never can I forget the uncontrollable chills and shudders which seized me on passing through that cabin! I do not doubt my mind had been a little weakened. The remains of the mainmast pierced the deck, and stood like a pillar; it stirred to the movement of the candle in my hand, and I stopped with a violent start to gaze at it while the perspiration broke from my forehead. Vague indeterminable shapes seemed to flit past and about the stand of arms. The dull noises in the hold took to my alarmed ear the notes of human groans. Several rats scurried in flying forms of blackness towards the after cabins: they seemed to start up through the deck at my feet!
When I resumed my seat on the locker, I was trembling from head to foot, and my heart beat with feverish rapidity. A draught of wine rallied me, and I tried to find something ridiculous in my fears. But all the same my dejection was as that of a man under sentence of death, and again and again I would put up a prayer to God for our speedy deliverance, whilst I sat hearkening to the noises below, to the steady pattering of the rain, to the occasional melancholy sob of water, and to the broken, unintelligible muttering of the sleeping girl.
At some hour between three and four my companion awoke. She sat up with a cry of wonder, and by the candle-light I observed her staring around, with looks of astonishment and horror such as might appear in the face of a person who starts from some pleasant dream into the realities of a dreadful situation. I waited until she should have recollected herself, to use the fine expressive word of the old writers.
‘I have been dreaming of home,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘of safety, of comfort, of everything that I am now wanting. What time is it, Mr. Dugdale?’