As she spoke, she presented a glass, filled with a cooling beverage, which, as Ada felt very thirsty, and her mouth dreadfully parched, she gratefully drank off and lay back on her pillows.
She saw that she was in a large cabin, furnished and ornamented with much taste; and through the open stern-ports, from which a light pure breeze blew in and cooled her fevered brow, she saw the calm blue sea glittering in the sunshine, and in the far distance the land rising in picturesque hillocks from out of the water. While she was gazing at this calm and soothing scene, and meditating on the meaning of Marianna’s words, she fell into a quiet slumber.
The Maltese girl watched her mistress till she saw that she slept, and then busied herself in putting the cabin in order, and in dusting the furniture, as if she were in a room on shore.
The cabin was, as has been described, in the after part of the vessel, and occupied its entire width. It was fitted up with bird’s-eye maple, and the mouldings were gilt.
There were two large sofas, or standing bed-places, on either side, with brass bars overhead, by which a curtain could be drawn round them.
The space between the two ports was occupied by a rack, on which were arranged with much taste, a number of richly-embossed arms, pistols, swords, and daggers—and against the bulkhead was another stand, filled with muskets and cutlasses, brightly polished.
On the couch farthest from the door, on the starboard side, lay Ada; with her feet towards the stern, and her head supported by pillows; so that the full force of such air as could find its way through the ports should blow on her face. As she slept, a fresh bloom slowly crept over her cheek, which had hitherto been of a deathlike paleness, and as her faithful attendant watched its appearance, she hailed it as a sign of returning health.
In the centre of the cabin was a table on which now stood a large vase, filled with sweet-scented flowers, which spoke of the shore and civilisation. There was, indeed, in the arrangement of the cabin generally, a mixture of elegant luxury and warlike preparation, which gave it the appearance of the cabin of a yacht fitted for a voyage among savage or treacherous people. Whatever she was, Marianna seemed perfectly at home. Her work-basket was on the table, and various things belonging to it were scattered about; as were several articles of female apparel, which showed also that she considered the cabin sacred to her mistress and herself. When she had arranged everything to her satisfaction, she again sat down composedly to her work, and amused herself, as she plied her needle, by singing a song of her native island, in a tone, however, too low to run any risk of disturbing her mistress. After some time she got tired of singing, and then as some people are apt to do, who are fond of keeping their tongues going when they have nobody else to speak to, she began to talk to herself. She did not raise her voice, it is true, above a whisper, but still it was sufficient to give exercise to that little fidgety occupant of the mouth.
“Well, this is all very nice, and very pleasant, and very agreeable; and the gentlemen are very civil, and very respectful, and very kind; but I wonder when we shall ever reach the shore,” she said; and then she went on singing again, and then once more began to talk as follows:—“I suppose, as they say, we shall at last reach the shore, and everything will be as it should be, and my mistress will be happy and contented after all her troubles—poor dear, sweet, young lady—I’m sure she ought to be. Well, it does puzzle me, exceedingly—that it does—I cannot make it out, no more, I am sure, would wiser heads than mine. But there is one thing I am very sure of, that Signor Paolo is one of the wisest and most amiable young gentlemen I ever saw. So melancholy, too, he seems—something very dreadful weighs on his spirits, I am sure. I don’t think he is in love—I thought so at first; but when I hinted that he was, he gave the nearest approach to a smile of which he is capable, which I’m sure he would not have done, if he was a victim of the tender passion. One thing is certain, however—he saved the life of my sweet young mistress. If it had not been for his knowing how to doctor, I’m sure she would have died—dear, dear, how sad it would have been—what would have become of me, too! Well, when she recovers, and I tell her all that has happened, I am sure she’ll think the same of him that I do. When she does begin, she will be asking me so many questions—I wish that I could answer one half of them—first, she’ll want to know what has become of the poor old gentleman, her uncle. Well, he certainly was a passionate, grumpy, sour old man as ever lived. Yet he had his good points—he had a kind heart, which made him do many a kind thing in his own rough way. He was generous, too, when he thought people deserving, and then he dotingly loved my young mistress, and intended to leave her all his money. What shall I tell her has become of him? I can tell her nothing; for I know no more than she does; or what has become of the brave Captain Bowse, or his polite mates, or even of that stupid long-legged fellow, Mitchell. I’m afraid, after the dreadful noise I heard, they must all long ago have gone to the other world. But to believe so would make my young lady sad, and would agitate her, and Signor Paolo says she must be kept quiet, so I will tell her I know nothing. Ah! that will be the safest plan.”
While she was running on in this way, a gentle knock was heard at the door—she sprang up, and went to it cautiously.