CHAPTER XVII

MY DYING FRIEND

Captain Ladmore descended into the saloon, and several of the passengers followed him to finish the brandy and water or wine which they had been sipping when called upon to view the ship on fire. A figure came across the deck to where I stood in the shadow of the mast. I had supposed myself hidden, so dark was the shadow cast by the mast, and I stood in the shadow. The figure was Mr. Harris, the chief officer.

‘Good evening,’ he exclaimed.

‘Good evening,’ I answered.

‘Been looking at the burning ship?’ said he.

‘Yes, I have been looking at the burning ship.’

‘Ever seen a ship on fire before?’

‘I suppose I never have.’

‘What d’ye think of a ship on fire as a show?’

‘It is a wonderful but a terrible sight,’ said I. ‘I hope no poor creature has perished by the burning of that ship.’

‘No chance of it,’ he exclaimed; ‘the vessel that was hove to close by long ago took every living creature aboard. Fine night, isn’t it?’

‘It is a beautiful night,’ said I.

‘It’s a bit early still,’ said he, making a step to cast his eye upon a clock that stood in one of the skylights. ‘There’s no hurry this time; not like one o’clock in the morning.’

‘If Mrs. Lee were on deck,’ said I, ‘I should be glad to remain here and walk a little. The air is sweet and refreshing, and the headache I have had this evening has gone. It is very warm in the steerage.’

‘It’ll be warmer by-and-by,’ said he. ‘I should be happy to take a turn with you, but I have charge of the deck and strolling wouldn’t be in order. But there’s no law to hinder a man from talking on a fine clear night like this, and with your permission I shall be glad of a short yarn with you, miss.’

‘What do you wish to say?’ said I, feeling uneasy. ‘I hope you do not mean to talk to me about shocks. I do not like the idea of such things, and beg that you will not say a word about them.’

‘It’s not shocks to-night,’ said he, ‘though--but as I see you don’t like the subject I’ll drop it. What I want to talk to you about is that gipsy woman. I’ve been turning over what she said as to your being married and having a husband waiting for you at home, and the like of that. What are your sentiments on what that tar-brush of a woman told you this afternoon?’

‘Do not ask me, Mr. Harris. I remember nothing, and it would be all the same if the gipsy had told me I was the queen of England.’

He stood in the moonlight and I in the trunk-like shadow cast by the mast, and I observed that he regarded me steadfastly, with an expression of earnestness that might have gathered a deeper character than it really owned from the nature of the light; he eyed me as though he would read my face, but the shadow was as good as my veil, which I had not thought of putting on at that hour.

‘I’ll tell you what my notion is,’ said he; ‘that gipsy woman is full of lies. How should she know that you’re married? Wouldn’t you wear a wedding-ring if you were married? What does she want to make out: that your wedding-ring was stolen off your finger when you were in the boat? But those French chaps found you alone, didn’t they? You couldn’t have been very long unconscious, and who’s to tell me that you weren’t alone when you fell insensible? If there was a sailor with you, you must have been sensible when he was in the boat; and no man’s going to persuade me--whether you can remember that sailor plundering you or not--no man’s going to persuade me that any sailor or sailors--distressed as such people as were along with you must have been--supposing any parties to have been along with you----’ he paused, having lost the thread of his argument, and then, smiting the palm of his left hand with his fist, he exclaimed with subdued energy, ‘What I mean is, I don’t believe you were robbed.’

He glanced round to observe if anyone was near enough to have overheard him.

‘I can tell you nothing, Mr. Harris,’ said I.

‘The gipsy and her lies may be put on one side,’ said he. ‘In fact, if I catch her aft again with her confounded yarns I’ll make her wish that this ship had never been built with a poop. Sir Frederick Thompson’s opinion is another matter. I don’t reckon you’re a Calthorpe, as he calls it; for there’s no inward echo to the name, and an inward echo there’d be if a Calthorpe you were, so I think, and I believe I’m no fool. But if you’re not a Calthorpe, you may be somebody as good and perhaps better.’ After a pause he exclaimed, ‘Suppose your memory don’t return to you?’

‘Do not suppose it,’ I cried with bitterness.

‘I wish to say nothing to wound you, miss,’ said he, ‘but there can be no harm in us two talking matters over. It’s early as yet, the ship doesn’t want watching, a more beautiful night you may sail round the world twenty times over without falling in with. You’ve got to consider this; suppose your memory don’t return--what then?’ I did not answer. ‘Of course,’ continued he, ‘your memory is going to return some time or other. The faculty’s alive. It’s only turned in for the present. Some of these days something’ll happen to act like the thump of a bo’sun’s handspike, and the faculty’ll tumble up wide awake as though it was to a roar of “All hands!” But whatever it be that’s going to rout that sleeping faculty out may keep you waiting. And meanwhile?’

I had no answer to make him and held my peace.

‘The captain, no doubt,’ he went on, ‘will keep you on board this ship until her arrival in London, if so be your memory won’t enable him to send you home sooner. But when this ship arrives in dock, what then? You can’t go on living on board her. The captain’s got no home now that his wife and child are dead. He’s a good man and might find you a lodging for a bit, but he don’t stay ashore above a couple or three months. And what, I’ve been asking of myself ever since that gipsy was aft here with her lying yarns, what’s to become of you?’

I drew myself erect and my foot tapped the deck with vexation and distress.

‘For God’s sake, miss,’ said he, ‘don’t feel offended by anything I may say. You have friends aboard, and I want to be one of them, and prove myself one of them by behaving as a friend, and perhaps as more than a friend. My object in keeping you yarning here is to ask you to think over what’s to become of you if your memory hasn’t returned by the time the ship reaches England.’

I bit my lip and answered with a struggle, ‘What would be the good of my thinking? My memory may return. In any case I must trust in God to help me.’

‘Well, you’ll be safe in trusting in God,’ said he, ‘but someone to trust in on this earth wouldn’t be out of the way either. You see, miss, it may come to this: the ship arrives in dock and you’ve got to go ashore; where will ye go to? You don’t know. There may be scores of friends of yours within hail, but owing to your memory being at fault ne’er a one of them can be of more use to you than if they were in their graves. It seems cruel to talk of the Union; but my notion is, that whenever one’s in a mess the first thing to do is to take a good look round. I believe there are homes for destitute females, but for my