CHAPTER XIII

THE SHIP IS MY HOME

The saloon was empty of passengers, and the stewards were occupied in clearing the long table. We walked to the door of the captain’s berth, knocked and entered. Captain Ladmore put down a pen with which he was writing in a book, and, rising, received us with a grave bow.

‘You are very good, Mrs. Lee,’ he exclaimed, ‘to take Miss C---- under your protection.’ He placed chairs for us. ‘I am happy to observe, Miss C----, that you have found kind friends in Mrs. Lee and her daughter.’

‘They are kind, indeed, Captain Ladmore. How kind I have no words to tell you.’

‘My reason for wishing to see you is this,’ said the captain. ‘Sir Frederick Thompson, a shrewd, keen-eyed man of business, whose opinion on any matter must carry weight, persists in declaring that you are a Calthorpe. Whether you are the Honourable Miss Calthorpe or Lady So-and-so Calthorpe he does not pretend to guess. He persists in holding that the likeness between you and Lady Lucy Calthorpe is too striking, altogether too extraordinary to be accidental, by which he would persuade us that you are a member of the family.’ He paused to give me an opportunity to speak. I had nothing to say. ‘I own,’ he continued, ‘that I am impressed by Sir Frederick’s conviction, for that is what it amounts to. On leaving the table just now I said to him, “I am about to see the lady on the subject. You have no doubt?” “I would venture five hundred pounds upon it,” said he. “Yet you only met Lady Lucy Calthorpe once; how can you remember her?” “I do remember her all the same,” said he, “your shipwrecked lady is a Calthorpe. Take my word for it!” Now, if Sir Frederick is right my duty is plain.’

‘Sir Frederick is not right,’ said Mrs. Lee.

The captain arched his brows. ‘Why, madam,’ said he, ‘if Miss C---- can tell you who she is not, she ought to be able to tell you who she is.’

‘She has told me nothing,’ said Mrs. Lee; ‘it is my daughter’s common sense which settles Sir Frederick’s conjectures to my mind.’ The captain bent his ear. ‘Lift your veil, my dear,’ said Mrs. Lee. I did so. ‘Now, Captain Ladmore, look at this poor lady’s face. We are all agreed that her figure proves her to be a young woman. But her face is that of a middle-aged woman. And how has that come about? Some horrible adventure, some frightful experience, of which we know nothing, of which she, poor dear, knows nothing, has whitened her hair and cruelly thinned it, and seamed her face. And judge now how she has been wounded, and why it is that her memory has gone.’

Her voice failed her, and for a few moments she was silent. Captain Ladmore viewed me with a look of earnest sympathy.

‘If,’ continued Mrs. Lee, ‘our friend is like Lady Lucy Calthorpe _now_, she could not have been like her before she met with whatever it may be that has changed her. Therefore, since Sir Frederick believes her to be a Calthorpe simply because of her resemblance to that family, she cannot be anybody of the sort, seeing that she must have been a different-looking woman before she was found in the open boat.’

‘Well, certainly, that is a view which did not occur to me,’ said the captain, continuing to observe me and gravely stroking his chin. ‘But how are we to know, Mrs. Lee, that our friend was a different-looking person before she was found in the open boat?’

‘Her face tells its own story,’ answered Mrs. Lee, looking at me pityingly.

I let fall my veil.

‘But to return to the motive of this interview,’ said the captain with an air of perplexity. ‘If I am to suppose, with Sir Frederick Thompson, that you are a member of Lord ----’s family, then my duty is plain. I must convey you on board the first homeward-bound ship which we can manage to signal, acquaint the captain with Sir Frederick’s opinion, and request him to call upon the owners of this ship in order that members of the Calthorpe family may be communicated with.’

‘I cannot imagine that Calthorpe is my name,’ I cried, pressing my brow.

‘She is not a Calthorpe, captain,’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee, ‘and, since she is comfortable here and with friends, it would be cruel to remove her until her memory returns and she is able to give you the positive information you require.’

Captain Ladmore smiled. ‘I hope not to be cruel,’ said he; ‘whatever I do, I trust to do in the lady’s own interest. Then, addressing me, he continued, ‘You shall decide for yourself, Miss C----. You are quite welcome to remain in this ship. No feeling of being obliged need disturb you. We nearly drowned you, and it is our duty to keep you with us until we can safely place you. But consider that time is passing, that it may be of the utmost importance to your present and your future interests that your safety should be known to your friends. Whether you be a Calthorpe or not, yet if your home is in England, which I do not doubt, there are abundant methods of publishing the story of your deliverance and safety, so that it would be strange, indeed, if your friends did not get to hear of you.’

Mrs. Lee watched me anxiously. I gazed at the captain, struggling hard to think; a horror of loneliness possessed me. I was again filled with the old terror that had visited me on board the French brig when I thought of being landed friendless, and blind in mind, without money, without a home to go to, or, if I had a home, of arriving in a country where that home might not be.

‘She does not wish to leave the ship,’ said Mrs. Lee.

‘Then by all means let her remain,’ said the captain.

‘Her memory,’ continued Mrs. Lee, ‘may return at any time. Suppose, _then_, that she should tell you her home is not in England, and that she has no friends there. How glad you will be that you kept her.’

Again the captain gravely smiled. ‘What are _your_ ideas as to her past, Mrs. Lee?’

‘I have no ideas whatever on the subject.’

‘But you do not doubt that she is English?’

‘No, I do not doubt that she is English,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘but though she be English still she may have no residence, and even no friends in England.’

‘Granting her to be an English woman,’ said the captain, ‘where would you have her live?’

‘Anywhere in Europe--anywhere in America--anywhere in the world, Captain Ladmore,’ answered Mrs. Lee.

‘But here is a lady,’ said the captain, ‘found in an open boat, not very far south of the mouth of the English Channel. Now what more reasonable to suppose than that the lady was blown away from an English port?’

‘Why not from a French port?’ said Mrs. Lee.

‘She had English money on her,’ exclaimed the captain.

‘English people who live in France often have English money on them,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘But why do you say she was blown away from a port? Is it not more likely that she is a survivor of a shipwreck, the horrors of which have extinguished her memory? Assume this, Captain Ladmore,’ said the little woman with an air of triumph, ‘and in what part of the world are you going to tell me her home is?’

‘Well, Miss C----,’ said the captain, ‘the matter need not be discussed any further. If you are satisfied to remain, I am satisfied to keep you.’

I left my chair and took his hand and pressed it in silence. I was unable to speak.

As we left the captain’s cabin, Mrs. Lee said: ‘My husband was a shipowner, and I know how to reason with sea captains. I believe I have made Captain Ladmore see your case in its true light. We shall hope to hear no more of Sir Frederick Thompson’s absurd notion.’

‘Oh, Mrs. Lee,’ I exclaimed, ‘I feel happy now. It would break my heart to be removed to another ship, not knowing what was to befall me there and afterwards.’

‘Will you come on deck for a turn?’ said she. ‘You can join Alice later on. I wish her to rest every afternoon,’ and she then asked me to send the stewardess to her, as she desired to unpack a bonnet and cloak which were at my service.

At the foot of the stairs, which conducted to the steerage, I found Mr. Harris, the chief officer. I had not before encountered him in this part of the ship. He was talking to a bearded steerage passenger, who was leaning with folded arms against a table, but on seeing me, Mr. Harris turned his back upon the bearded passenger, and saluted me by raising his cap.

We stood in the light floating through the wide hatch from the saloon fore windows, and now, having a near and good view of his face, I was struck by its whimsical expression. His skin was red with years of exposure to the weather; one eye was slightly larger than the other, which produced the effect of a wink; his eyebrows, instead of arching, slanted irregularly into his forehead, and the expression of his somewhat awry mouth was as though, being a sour sulky man, he had been asked to smile whilst sitting for his photograph! These were points I had been unable to observe when I met Mr. Harris at one o’clock in the morning, and at table this day I had barely noticed him.

‘Good afternoon, mam,’ said he.

‘Good afternoon,’ I answered.

‘There’s a gossip running about the passengers aft,’ said he, ‘that you belong to a noble family. What d’ye think yourself?’

‘How can I tell, Mr. Harris?’ I exclaimed. ‘I do not know who I am.’

‘I haven’t rightly caught the name of the noble family,’ said he. ‘I’m a poor hand at fine language. Perhaps you know it?’

‘Sir Frederick Thompson,’ I answered, says that I resemble a certain Lady Lucy Calthorpe.’

‘Ah, that’s it,’ he exclaimed. ‘Calthorpe’s the word. Don’t the mention of it give you any inward sensations?’

‘No,’ I answered.

‘Then bet your life, mam, you’re somebody else. That’s what I’ve been wanting to find out. No inward sensations! Over goes the show as far as concerns Calthorpe.’

‘Mrs. Lee is waiting for me,’ said I, making a step.

‘One minute,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve been turning over the matter of shocks in my mind. There’s nothing for it, I fear, but a shock. Now, if you are willing, I’ll have a talk with the captain, and tell him the scheme that’s running in my head. But you must know nothing about it, or it won’t be a shock.’

‘I am not willing, Mr. Harris,’ said I. ‘I do not like the idea.’

Seeing that I was moving away he exclaimed: ‘If you leave yourself in the hands of the doctor he’ll do nothing for you. Place yourself in my hands. I’m your man.’

Thus speaking he climbed the stairs, and I entered my berth. I considered Mr. Harris, the chief officer, eccentric and well meaning, and I dismissed him from my mind when, having sent the stewardess to Mrs. Lee, I entered my berth.

I stood with my eyes fixed upon the cabin porthole, that was at one moment buried in the white thunder of the pouring waters and at the next lifted high and weeping into the windy dazzle of the afternoon, thinking over what had passed in the captain’s cabin; and whilst I thus stood, a strange and awful feeling as of the unreality of all things took possession of me. Everything seemed part of the fabric of a dream, and I, the central dreamer of it all, seemed the most dreamlike feature of the mocking and startling vision. Oh, what a strange and horrible feeling was that!

It was dispelled by the entrance of Mrs. Richards. Her hearty, homely presence brought me to my senses.

‘Well, it is good news indeed!’ cried she. ‘Mrs. Lee has told me what the captain said, and I am truly glad to know that there is no chance of your leaving the ship until your memory is able to point true to your own home. What think you of this bonnet? And what do you say to this cloak? I am sure the Lees, mother and daughter, are the very soul of goodness. But who could help being kind to one in your condition? So helpless! So lonely! And Mrs. Lee has settled that you’re not a Calthorpe. Well, I daresay she’s right. And yet, do you know that little City gentleman don’t look much of a fool either. But whatever you be you’re a born lady. There’s breeding in your voice--oh! I’ve got an ear for quality voices. The cloak’s a bit short, but it looks very well. Let me pin that veil for you.’

And now, being equipped for the deck, I ascended to the saloon. Mrs. Lee waited for me near the hatchway. She said that her daughter was sleeping, and then putting her hand with an affectionate gesture upon my arm she exclaimed:

‘Alice has told me what passed between you before lunch. I am sure she will be able to help you. She is my child, she is flesh of my flesh, yet I think of her as an angel of God, and His praises no angel in heaven could sing with a purer and holier heart, and He will forgive me for believing this.’

She released my arm, and bowed her head and stood silent a minute, struggling with emotion. We then mounted on to the deck.

The scene was noble and inspiring. The high seas came brimming to the ship, their colour was sapphire, and as they rolled they broke into dazzling masses of foam. The stately swollen white clouds of the morning were still on high; they floated in slow processions across the masts which reeled solemnly as though to music. The sails upon the ship were few, and their iron-hard, distended concavities hummed like a ceaseless roll of military drums in their echoing of the pursuing thunder of the wind. The water roared in snowstorms from either bow as the great ship rushed onwards, and the broad and hissing furrow she left behind seemed to stream to the very horizon, lifting and falling straight as a line, like the scintillant scar of a shooting star on the cold blue heights of the night.

A sail showed in the far windy distance; she was struggling northwards under narrow bands of canvas, and sometimes she would vanish out of sight behind the ridge of the sea, and sometimes she would be thrown up till the whole body of her was visible. Her hull was black and white, and a long length of copper flashed out like gold every time she rose to the summit of a billow.

Walking was not difficult. The slanting of the deck was so gradual that one’s form swayed to the movement with the instinct and the ease of a wheeling skater. Not above half a dozen passengers were on deck, and Mrs. Webber, I was glad to see, was not amongst them; in truth, I was without the spirits, and perhaps without the strength just then, to support a course of her voluble tongue.

When we approached the forward end of the poop we paused to survey the scene of the deck beneath us and beyond. I do not know how many emigrants the _Deal Castle_ carried; her decks appeared to be filled with men, women, and children that afternoon. You did not need to look at their attire to know that they were poor. There was everywhere an air of sullen patience, bitterly expressive of defeat, and of a dull and sulky resignation that might come in its way very near to hopelessness. Here and there were children playing, but their play was stealthy, snatched with fear, dulled by vigilance as though they knew that the blow and the curse could never be far off. A growling of voices ran amongst the men, and this noise was threaded by the shrill-edged chatter of women. But I do not remember that ever a laugh rose from amongst them.

‘Are all those people going to Australia?’ I asked Mrs. Lee.

‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘this ship does not call at any port. She is proceeding direct to Australia.’

‘They appear to be very poor.’

‘Most of them,’ said she, ‘have probably sold all they possess in the world, with the exception of the clothes upon their backs, to enable them to get to Australia. Poor creatures! I pity the women, and even more do I pity the children. How are they fed? Not so well, I am sure, as the pigs under that big boat yonder. And what sort of quarters have they below? Oh, gloomy, dark and evil-smelling be sure, and suffocating when the weather is heavy and the hatches are closed.’

‘I should like to see the place where all those poor people sleep,’ said I.

‘I would not accompany you,’ she answered. ‘It is miserable to witness sufferings which one cannot soothe or help.’

‘And what will they do when they arrive in Australia?’

‘A good many will starve, I daresay, and wish themselves home. The colonies are full. There is plenty of land, but people when they arrive will not leave the towns. They will not do what those who created the colonies did--dig and build new places--and there is no room in the towns.’

‘There are a great many people down there,’ said I, running my eye over the groups. ‘I wonder if any one of them has lost his memory.’

‘It would be a blessed thing,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘for most of them, perhaps for all of them, if they had left their memories behind them. What have they to remember? Years of toil, of famine, of hardship, years of heart-breaking, struggles for what?--for this! How big is this world!’ she exclaimed, casting her eyes round the sea, ‘yet there is no room for these people in it. How abundant are the goodly fruits of the earth! And yet those people there represent hundreds and thousands who cannot find a root in all the soil to provide a meal for themselves and the children. Yet though we all say there is something wrong, who is to set it right? Do you observe how that strange, fierce, dark woman is staring at you?’

‘Yes. She is one of two wild-looking women who pressed forward to view me when I came on board.’

‘What is her nation?’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee. ‘She looks like a gipsy.’

The woman sat upon the corner of the great square of hatch within easy distance of the sight. Her complexion was tawny, her nose flat. Thick rings, apparently of silver, trembled in her ears, and her head was covered with a sort of red hood. The stare of her gleaming black eyes was fierce and fixed. I had observed her without giving her close attention, but now that my mind was directed to her, her unwinking fiery gaze made me feel uneasy.

‘Let us walk,’ said Mrs. Lee.

We turned our faces towards the stern of the ship and paced the deck, but every time we approached the edge of the poop I encountered the cat-like stare of the toad-coloured woman’s eyeballs.

Our conversation almost wholly concerned Alice Lee. The mother’s heart was full of her sweet daughter. When she began to speak of her she could talk of nothing else. She hoped that the voyage would benefit the girl, but the note of a deep misgiving trembled in the expression of her hope, and I could not doubt that secretly within herself she thought of her child as lost to her. Do you wonder that I should have found such a warm-hearted sympathetic friend as Mrs. Lee in so short a time? When I look back I believe I can understand how it was: she was a woman with a heart heavy with sorrow, but in me she beheld a person far more deeply afflicted than she was in her fears for her child, or could be in her loss of her. Her daughter was dying--she might die; but the memory of the girl’s sweetness, her purity, her angelic character would be the mother’s whilst she drew breath. But what had gone out of _my_ life? She could not imagine--but she would guess that love--love not less precious nor less holy than hers for her child lay black, and, perhaps, extinguished for ever in my past. It might be the love of a parent, of a sister, nay of a sweetheart: thus she would reason; not dimly for an instant conceiving me to be a married woman with children; but some sort of love, not less precious and holy than her own, might have passed out of my life by the eclipse of my mind. This she would conjecture, and the sympathy of her own deep affliction would be mine in a sense of friendship that association might easily ripen into affection. In a word, she pitied me with a heart that asked pity for herself, and she pitied me the more lovingly because of her daughter’s tender touching interest in me.

We paced the deck for something less than an hour, during which we were occasionally addressed by the passengers, and once joined by one of the ladies who had contributed to what I may call my outfit. But this was towards the end of our stroll, after we had talked long and deeply of Alice Lee, and after Mrs. Lee had opened her heart to me in many little memories of her life before God had widowed her.

When we entered the saloon my companion went to her berth, and a moment after put her head out with her finger upon her lip and a slight smile of gratification, by which I understood that Alice still slumbered; so I walked to the stairs which conducted to the steerage, but as I put my foot on the first step, the door of a berth opened, and Mrs. Webber came forth. She immediately saw me, and called:

‘Where are you going, my dear Miss C----?’

‘I am going to my cabin.’

‘I will accompany you. I have not yet been downstairs, and I wish to see the part of the ship you sleep in. Oh, I am making great progress with the materials for the poem you are to be the heroine of. I wish I could write prose. I believe the tale I have in my head would be more readable in prose. Yet poetry gives you this strange advantage: it enables you to be impassioned. You can make use of expressions which cannot be employed in prose without provoking contempt, which is a disagreeable thing.’

All this she said loudly, as we stood together at the head of the steerage stairs. There were several passengers sitting about the saloon, reading or dozing. Two or three of them exchanged a smile. Perhaps they would have laughed outright had they not heard her imperfectly. But a rolling ship is full of noises; all the strong fastenings creak, doors clatter, there is for ever a rattle of crockery, though one knows not whence it proceeds, and these and other noises mingling with Mrs. Webber’s tones possibly rendered her indistinct to the passengers sitting a little way off.

‘By all means come with me downstairs,’ said I.

So together we went downstairs, or ‘below,’ as it is called at sea, and all the way to my cabin Mrs. Webber’s tongue was going.

‘This is a very gloomy corner,’ she cried, as we entered the steerage; ‘the captain ought to find you more cheerful quarters. But I believe all the upstairs cabins are taken. So this is the place where the second-class passengers live! Pray pause one moment, that the scene may paint itself upon my mind. I shall probably require this interior as a setting for you.’

Whilst she stood gazing round her a woman came out of a berth. She carried a baby in her arms. It was the baby that I had held and kissed, but the person who carried it now was the mother. Mrs. Webber took not the least notice of the child. As the person who carried it approached to pass us, I made a step to kiss the little creature. It knew me and smiled. I kissed it and took it in my arms, and when I had nursed it for a minute I returned it to the mother, who looked proudly as she received the pretty little thing, and, with a respectful bow that was half a curtsey, went on her way.

The child awoke no sensations. Why should that baby, I thought to myself, have caused a dreadful struggle in my mind when I first saw it? And why am I now able to nurse and kiss it without the least emotion? Can the darkness be deepening? Is the surface of the mind hardening under the frost and blackness of my sunless life?

‘I am very glad there is not a baby in the saloon,’ exclaimed Mrs. Webber. ‘I did not know there was such a thing in the ship--I mean in this part of it.’

‘Have you any children?’ said I, recalling my wandering mind with difficulty.

‘I am thankful to say I have not. It is enough to have a husband. My hubby is very good, but even _he_ does not permit me to enjoy that perfect leisure of retirement which literature demands. He is constantly looking in upon me at the wrong moment. Thought is a spider’s web, and the least interruption is like passing your finger through it. But how would it be with me if I had children? So this is your cabin? Well, it is not so gloomy as I had feared to find it,’ and seating herself she restlessly turned her eyes about; but there was little enough for her to look at, and nothing whatever to inspire her.

However, she was in my berth, and I was her companion, and she was resolved not to lose an opportunity she had been on the lookout for, and so she began to tell me what she considered to have been my past.

‘You are not,’ said she, ‘a member of the noble family that Sir Frederick Thompson talks of. I am sure I cannot tell who you are, but you are not a Calthorpe. It is very wonderful, and I was almost going to say delightful, to meet with so impenetrable a mystery as you in the flesh. It is not as though your past and your name were _your_ secret. You are as great a mystery to yourself as to everybody else, and there is something awful and beautiful to my mind in such a thing. No, you will find that you are the daughter of a country gentleman, who is not very rich--pray excuse me! one never knows what ideas may be of service: your being without jewellery makes me suppose that your people live quietly somewhere; unless, indeed,’ she continued, looking at my hands and at my ears and throat, ‘you were robbed. But that we need not believe. I am not going to tell you how you came to be in an open boat. No, if Captain Ladmore cannot understand that, how should I? Does it not help you a little to hear you are the daughter a plain country gentleman?’

I answered not, gazing at her earnestly, and straining my mind that I might closely follow her words.

‘I have settled,’ she went on, ‘and the Miss Glanvilles are of my opinion, that you were pretty before you met with your accident, whatever it may have been, that turned your hair white and aged and mutilated your poor face. You have a sweet mouth. I envy you your teeth, and your eyes are wonderfully fine, and depend upon it you had a very great deal of hair before it came out. Do I seem to suggest even a faint fancy?’

‘None whatever,’ said I, still with my mind on the strain, and still gazing at her eagerly.

‘Your age is about thirty,’ said she. ‘When you first came on board you looked about forty. Now you might pass for six-and-thirty. How delightful to be able to reverse the old-fashioned process! Ten years hence you will be ten years younger, and I shall be ten years older. But your real age--your age as you there sit--is from thirty to thirty-two.’

She dropped her head on one side in a posture of enquiry. I gazed at her in silence.

‘I am going to be very candid,’ said she. ‘You are not a married woman. When a woman arrives at the age of thirty to two-and-thirty, and perhaps a wee bit more, it is not often, very often let me say, that she is engaged to be married, or, put it more pointedly, that she has a sweetheart. Her life’s romance will in all probability have been lived out.’ She paused to sigh. ‘There may be sweet, impassioned memories, but at the age of thirty or two-and-thirty.... So the past I construct for you amounts to this, Miss C----: you are not a nobleman’s daughter as Sir Frederick will have it, but you are the daughter of a plain country gentleman, who is not very well off. Your father and mother are living. You probably have a brother, who is in the Army or Navy; you see to the housekeeping at home. This, I must tell you, is Mrs. Richards’ idea. You are heart-whole, and though your absence will of course cause consternation and anxiety, yet when your memory comes back to you and you return to your home, you will find all well, and in a few weeks settle down as though nothing had happened.’

I listened with devouring eagerness. Had Mrs. Webber been a witch of diabolic skill and potency, I could not have followed her words with more consuming attention. She had but to look at my face, however, to know that all her ingenious surmises had gone for nothing. She pursued the matter a little further, afterwards talked of her poetry, and presently, taking up the slender volume which she had sent to me by the stewardess, read aloud the ‘Lonely Soul.’ She stayed with me for about half an hour, and then left me.