He did so, as noiseless as a ghost, and then I rang
for the steward, and facing him boldly, directed him
to tidy up my stateroom while I was having my bath—“and
be quick about it.” As my tone admitted
of no excuses, he said, “Yes, sir,” and
ran off to fetch his dustpan and brushes. I took
a bath and did most of my dressing, splashing, and
whistling softly for the steward’s edification,
while the secret sharer of my life stood drawn up
bolt upright in that little space, his face looking
very sunken in daylight, his eyelids lowered under
the stern, dark line of his eyebrows drawn together
by a slight frown.
When I left him there to go back to my room the steward
was finishing dusting. I sent for the mate and
engaged him in some insignificant conversation.
It was, as it were, trifling with the terrific character
of his whiskers; but my object was to give him an opportunity
for a good look at my cabin. And then I could
at last shut, with a clear conscience, the door of
my stateroom and get my double back into the recessed
part. There was nothing else for it. He had
to sit still on a small folding stool, half smothered
by the heavy coats hanging there. We listened
to the steward going into the bathroom out of the saloon,
filling the water bottles there, scrubbing the bath,
setting things to rights, whisk, bang, clatter—out
again into the saloon—turn the key—click.
Such was my scheme for keeping my second self invisible.
Nothing better could be contrived under the circumstances.
And there we sat; I at my writing desk ready to appear
busy with some papers, he behind me out of sight of
the door. It would not have been prudent to talk
in daytime; and I could not have stood the excitement
of that queer sense of whispering to myself.
Now and then, glancing over my shoulder, I saw him
far back there, sitting rigidly on the low stool, his
bare feet close together, his arms folded, his head
hanging on his breast—and perfectly still.
Anybody would have taken him for me.
I was fascinated by it myself. Every moment I
had to glance over my shoulder. I was looking
at him when a voice outside the door said:
“Beg pardon, sir.”
“Well! . . .” I kept my eyes on him,
and so when the voice outside the door announced,
“There’s a ship’s boat coming our
way, sir,” I saw him give a start—the
first movement he had made for hours. But he did
not raise his bowed head.
“All right. Get the ladder over.”
I hesitated. Should I whisper something to him?
But what? His immobility seemed to have been
never disturbed. What could I tell him he did
not know already? . . . Finally I went on deck.
