I AM SUPPLIED WITH CLOTHES
‘I did not think,’ said Mrs. Lee, when we were alone, ‘that Mrs. Webber
had so good an opinion of herself. But she is well meaning, and she
will be useful to you.’
‘Do you think her imagination will help me?’ said I.
‘Until your memory returns,’ she answered; ‘what could she tell you
that you would be able to say yes or no to? But let her question you.
On a dark morning, without a compass, one can never tell in what
quarter the day will break.’
At this moment Captain Ladmore arrived on deck, and he immediately
joined us.
‘I hope, madam,’ said he, addressing me, ‘to have the pleasure of
seeing you at the saloon table to-day.’
‘You are extremely good,’ I answered, ‘but I do not yet feel equal to
sitting at the saloon table. The privacy of my cabin and the society of
Mrs. and Miss Lee, whenever they will endure me, are all that I wish.
Besides, I cannot forget----’ I faltered and was silent.
‘What cannot you forget?’ said he gravely.
‘I am not a passenger,’ said I, looking down.
‘What is in your mind when you pronounce the word passenger?’ he asked.
‘A passenger is one who pays,’ I answered.
‘How do you know that?’ said he.
‘I know it,’ said I, after thinking a little; ‘because Miss Lee told me
that her mother had hired the cabin for the round voyage.’
‘Ha!’ he exclaimed, exchanging a look with Mrs. Lee. ‘Well?’ he
continued, slightly smiling, ‘you will consider yourself a passenger
who does not pay. You are the guest of the ship. Some ships are
hospitable and liberal hostesses, and the owners of the _Deal Castle_
would wish her to be one of them. Do, pray, be perfectly easy on that
score.’
I bowed my head, murmuring a ‘Thank you.’
‘There is one consoling part to be borne in mind,’ said he, addressing
Mrs. Lee; ‘one fact that should tend to console and soothe this lady:
it is this--she is single. She might have been a married woman driven
by disaster from her husband, and, worse still, from her children.
But put it that she has parents--it may not be so, who can tell that
her parents are living? But to be sundered from a mother and a father
to whom, in the course of time, one is certain to return, is not like
being torn from one’s children. This is a consideration to console
you, Miss C----.’
‘Do not cry,’ said Mrs. Lee, taking my arm. ‘I fully agree with the
captain. Only think how it would be if, instead of being single, you
were a mother cruelly and strangely taken away from your children.’
At this point, Sir Frederick Thompson, who had been intently surveying
us from the other side of the deck, approached. He bowed, and lifted a
little white wideawake.
‘I beg pardon for intruding,’ said he, ‘but I should like to ask this
lady a question.’
‘If it refers to anything that is past, Sir Frederick,’ exclaimed
Captain Ladmore, ‘I fear she will not be able to satisfy your
curiosity.’
‘There’s no curiosity,’ said Sir Frederick; ‘it’s merely this: when I
was sheriff, Lady Thompson and me, for my poor wife was then living,
were invited to the ’ouse of Lord ----,’ and he named a certain
nobleman; ‘and I remember that at supper I sat next to his lordship’s
sister-in-law, Lady Loocy Calthorpe, whose father was the third Earl
----,’ and here he pronounced the name of another nobleman. ‘What I
wanted to say is that this lady is the very himage of Lady Loocy,
excepting that Lady Loocy ’adn’t white ’air. Now, mam,’ said he,
addressing me; ‘of course you’re not Lady Loocy; but you might be a
relative, for Lady Loocy had several sisters and a great number of
cousins.’
‘I do not know who I am,’ I answered.
‘How long ago is it since you sat beside Lady Lucy Calthorpe at supper,
Sir Frederick?’ asked the captain.
‘Why, getting on for two years and an ’arf.’
‘And you remember her distinctly enough to enable you to find a
likeness to her in this lady?’
‘God bless you, captain, yes. If it wasn’t for the white ’air, I should
say that this lady was Lady Loocy herself.’
‘Is Calthorpe the family name of the Earl of ----?’ said Mrs. Lee.
‘Certainly, it is,’ answered Sir Frederick; ‘you’ll find it in the
Peerage.’
‘The lady’s initials are A. C.,’ said the captain.
Sir Frederick struck the palm of his hand with his clenched fist, and
his little eyes shone triumphantly as he said: ‘I’d like to make a
bet, captain, that you’ve had the honour of preserving the life of a
Calthorpe. Such a likeness as I see is only to be found in families.’
‘The accident of the lady being on board the French brig is accounted
for,’ said the captain, eyeing me thoughtfully and earnestly; ‘she was
rescued out of an open boat. But where did that boat come from?’
‘Would not Miss C----’s handkerchief, the handkerchief you spoke of,
Captain Ladmore, that has her initials, would it not be marked with
something more than plain initials if she had rank?’ said Mrs. Lee.
‘I cannot tell,’ answered Captain Ladmore. ‘What should a simple sea
captain know of such things?’
‘The haristocracy,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘mark their linen all ways. I’m
hable to speak with authority. At a Mansion ’Ouse ball a friend picked
up an ’andkerchief, a beautiful lace ’andkerchief, and brought it to my
poor wife. The word “Fanny” was worked in the corner and that was my
wife’s name, and he thought the ’andkerchief was ’ers. But it didn’t
belong to ’er at all. It was the property of Lady ---- whose ’usband
’ad been raised to the peerage in the preceding year. There was no
coronet on that ’andkerchief.’
Observing that I was expected to speak, I exclaimed: ‘The names Sir
Frederick mentions suggest nothing to me.’
‘Well, all that I can say is,’ exclaimed Sir Frederick, ‘that the
likeness is absolutely startling.’
He again lifted his little white wideawake, and, crossing the deck,
joined a group of passengers with whom he entered into conversation.
‘There is nothing for it but to wait,’ said Captain Ladmore.
‘If your name were Calthorpe,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘surely the utterance of
it would excite some sensations, however weak, in your mind.’
‘One should say so,’ remarked the captain.
‘I fear,’ said I, with much agitation, ‘that if I were to see my name
fully written I should not know it. And yet it is strange!’
‘What is strange?’ asked Mrs. Lee.
‘You will not think me vain for repeating it. There can be no vanity
in a poor miserable outcast such as I. But I remember that one of
the people of the French brig, the young man Alphonse, who had been
a waiter, and who had attended upon a great many English people--I
remember him once saying he was persuaded that I was a woman of title,
or, if not a lady of title, that I belonged to the English aristocracy.
I cannot imagine why he should have thought so.’
‘Well,’ said the captain, smiling at Mrs. Lee, ‘it may be that we
have preserved the life of the daughter of an Earl, or better still
of a Duke. Anything higher we must not hope for. But enough for the
present, at all events, that Miss C---- should be a fellow-creature
in distress;’ and with a bow that seemed to have gained something in
respectfulness, but nothing in kindness, he walked away.
The luncheon-bell rang, and we descended into the saloon. Mrs. Lee
begged me to join the company at table. ‘I will ask the steward,’ she
said, ‘to find you a place next to my daughter.’ But I entreated her to
excuse me.
‘I do not like to show myself in company with this bandage on,’ I said,
‘and I feel weak and shy, and my talk I fear is often childish. I hope
to join you in a few days,’ and thus speaking I put her daughter’s hat
and the shawl she had lent me into her hands, and made my way to my
berth.
When I entered my berth I sat down to rest myself and reflect. I felt
weary. The fresh air had rendered me somewhat languid, and I had
overtaxed my strength with the several conversations I had held with
one and another on the poop. I said to myself, can it be that the
little man with the fur on his coat is right? Is my name Calthorpe, and
am I a lady of title, and is my home actually in England? And then I
hunted in my mind for an idea to help me, but I found none. I groped,
as it were, with my inner vision over the thick black curtain that
had descended upon my past; but nothing, no, not the most phantasmal
outline of recollection glimmered upon the sable folds of my mind.
The cries of my heart were unanswered. No echo was returned from the
dreadful silent midnight that hung upon my spirit. I looked upon my
naked hands; I drew forth my purse, and for the twentieth time gazed
at it, and at the money in it; I examined the pocket handkerchief and
mused upon the initials in the corner, and whilst I was thus occupied,
Mrs. Richards entered with my lunch.
‘I was sure,’ said she, ‘you would wish to remain private for some
little time yet. I hope I have brought you what you like. This red wine
is Burgundy. Mr. McEwan bade me give it you; he says it is a very
feeding wine. And what do you think I have just heard?’
‘I cannot imagine,’ said I.
‘Why, Mrs. Webber stopped me as I was passing through the saloon,
and said, “What do you think, Mrs. Richards? Sir Frederick Thompson
believes he has found out who Miss C---- is. And who do you think he
says she is?” “I do not know, madam,” said I. “A Calthorpe,” said she.
“What is a Calthorpe?” said I. “A Calthorpe,” she answered, “is a
member of one of the oldest families in England. The Earl of ---- is a
Calthorpe, and Sir Frederick finds an extraordinary likeness between
Miss C---- and Lady Lucy Calthorpe. He is quite satisfied that she
is not Lady Lucy herself, because her ladyship’s hair is brown, not
white, but he is willing to bet she is a Calthorpe.” “As for the hair
being white,” said I, “if Miss C---- is Lady Lucy Calthorpe, she has
undergone quite enough to change the colour of her hair. But how could
Sir Frederick,” said I, “be sure of her with a bandage on?” “Well, he
is sure,” said Mrs. Webber, “sure I mean that she is a Calthorpe,” and
this was all that passed; the passengers were arriving to take their
places, and I came away. What do you think?’
‘Do not ask me, Mrs. Richards. I am unable to think.’
‘Poor dear! Let me pour you out a glass of wine. It will be strange
if you should prove a lady of title. And why should you not be a lady
of title? You have the appearance of one. The moment I saw you I said
to myself--and I said it to myself before I heard your story--“Though
she has come out of a nasty little brig, I can see that she is a born
lady.” Do you know that you have left your cap behind you?’
‘It is in Mrs. Lee’s cabin,’ said I.
‘Try and eat your lunch,’ exclaimed the stewardess, ‘and after lunch,
if I were you, I would lie down, and endeavour to get some sleep.’
I passed the afternoon alone. I lay in my bunk, unable to read, dozing
a little, and when I was not dozing strutting with recollection, and
often with fits of horror and despair dreadful as madness. Some time
near five the stewardess looked in to say that Mrs. Webber wished to
visit me. She was anxious to have a long quiet chat. Would I receive
her? I answered no. I should require, I said, to feel very much better
to be able to endure a long quiet chat with Mrs. Webber.
‘She asked me to give you this book,’ said Mrs. Richards. ‘She said she
had marked the pages which she would like you to read.’
I took the book, and when Mrs. Richards was gone, languidly opened it,
and found that it was a collection of verses written by Eleanor Webber,
and dedicated ‘To my Husband.’ Two pages were dog’s-eared, and one of
them contained a poem called the ‘Lonely Heart,’ and the other a poem
called ‘The Lonely Soul.’ I tried to read these verses, but could not
understand them. They jingled unmeaningly, though not unmusically, in
a melancholy key. Why do they tease one with such stuff? I said to
myself, putting the book down.
The wind had increased during the afternoon, and the ship was leaning
over with steep decks, which reminded me of the French brig. But how
different was her motion as she rose stately to the seas, every massive
heave of her satisfying and inspiring one with its suggestion of
victorious power! I felt that the ship was rushing through the water.
There was a peculiar tingling throughout her frame, as though she was
thrilled from end to end by the sting and hiss of the milk-white brine
which poured from either bow and raced in hills along her side, again
and again clouding my cabin-window with a leap of seething dazzle, the
blow and dissolving roar of which fell like a thunder-shock upon the
ear.
But for my unwillingness to meet the passengers I should have gone on
deck. I felt a sort of madness upon me that afternoon. It came and
went, but when the feeling was upon me I craved for the open air, for
the sweep and trumpeting of the wind, for a sight of the great ship
hurling onwards, for a sight too of the warring waters; and at these
moments I said to myself, I will not go on deck now and meet the
passengers; I will wait until the darkness comes; I will wait until the
people are sleeping, and the silence of the slumber of many is upon
the ship, as it was last night, and then I will steal on deck and ease
the torments of my sightless mind by blending my thoughts with the dark
picture of ship and white-peaked seas and rushing black-winged sky; and
this I will do in some obscure corner of the ship, where I shall not be
seen.
But when the inscrutable horror, the insupportable agitation which
drove me into this resolution of going on deck at midnight had passed,
I shivered and stealthily wept, for _then_ I seemed to see an awful
shadow, a menacing shape of darkness, crouching and skulking behind
my impulse--a spectre of self-murder, whose first step it would be to
impel me on deck in the darkness of the night, and whose next step
after I should have stood lonely for some time on deck would be to
tempt me to leap overboard into the ocean grave, where my memory lay!
Yes, there could be no doubt that I was a little mad, sometimes more
than a little mad at intervals during that afternoon, and one cause of
those fits of horror and despair, and of the desire to mingle my spirit
with the wild commotion outside, and to pass out of myself into the
starry freedom of the blowing ocean-night, lay in a sort of dumb, blind
anguish that racked me when the clouding of my cabin-window by the
passing foam carried my thoughts to the speeding of the ship through
the sea. Though I knew not from what or where, yet I seemed to feel
with God knows what muteness, and blindness and faintness of instinct,
that I was being borne away--that, wherever my home might be, from it
I was being swept. Feeling indeed was no more than seeming; I could be
sure of nothing; thought was absolutely indeterminate; nevertheless
there was a secret movement in my dark mind that goaded me, as though
the tooth of something venomous, unreachable, and unconjecturable was
subtly at work within me.
But having fallen into a short doze, I awoke calm, and then I resolved
that I would not go on deck that night, for I feared, if I should be
visited whilst on deck, and in darkness, by such moods as had tormented
me throughout the afternoon, I should destroy myself.
Some dinner was brought to me by a very civil under-steward, who stated
that Mrs. Richards was too busy to attend upon me, but that she would
be having occasion to call upon me later on. Being without the power of
contrasting, I was unable to understand how fortunate I was in having
fallen into the hands of such a man as Captain Frederick Ladmore. I did
not imagine that other captains would not use me equally well; indeed,
I never gave that view of the matter a thought. I ate and drank, and
accepted all the kindnesses which were done me as a child might, and
yet I was grateful, and the tears would stand in my eyes when I sat
alone and thought of what had been done for me; but my gratitude and my
appreciation were not those of a person whose faculties are whole.
The under-steward had lighted the lamp, and when he fetched the tray I
got into my bunk and sat in it and asked myself all the questions which
occurred to me. I then arose and took the glass from the cabin wall,
and returning to my bunk fixed my eyes upon my reflection. It may be,
I thought to myself, that I do not know who I am, because ever since
I returned to consciousness my face has been obscured and deformed by
sticking-plaister and a bandage. If I remove the bandage I may know
myself. So I took the bandage off and looked. The lint dressing came
away with the bandage and exposed the injury, and I saw that my right
eyebrow was of a pale red, with a long dark scar going from the temple
to above the bridge of the nose. The hair on the brow was entirely
gone, and my face, having but one eyebrow, had a wild odd foreign look.
I also perceived that my nose, where it was indented betwixt the brow
and the bridge, was injured. It was necessary to view myself in profile
to gather the extent of this injury; and this I could not do, having
but one glass.
Then I said to myself, it may be that I am disfigured beyond
recognition of my own eyes. In the case of my face it is not my memory
that is at fault. Calamity and horror of mind have ravaged my face, and
I do not know myself. If my face was now as it had been prior to the
disaster that has blinded my mind and rendered me the loneliest woman
in the world, the sight of it would give me back my memory. I continued
to gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I then readjusted the bandage,
hung up the glass, and resumed my seat in my bunk.
I was sitting motionless, with my eyes rooted to the deck, when the
door was vigorously thumped and thrown open, and Mr. McEwan entered.
He stood awhile looking at me, swaying on wide-spread feet to the
movements of the ship, and then exclaimed:
‘I thought as much. But it won’t do. Ye’ll have to come out of this.’ I
looked at him. ‘And you’ve been meddling with your bandage. Did not I
tell you to leave it alone? Oh, vanity, vanity! is not thy name woman?
Did ye want to see how much beauty you’ve lost? Come to the light that
I may see what you’ve been doing to yourself.’ He undid the bandage,
and said: ‘Well, it’s mending apace, it’s mending apace. Another day
of that wrap and you shall have my permission to appear as you are.’
He then with an air of roughness, but with a most tender hand, bound my
brow afresh.
‘Now Miss C----,’ said he; ‘but am I to call ye Calthorpe? Half the
ninnies are swearing _that’s_ your name, on no better authority than
the dim recollection of a little old man who would swear to a ducal
likeness in a cook’s mate, if by so doing he could find an excuse to
air his acquaintance with the nobility--what I want to say is this:
I’m your medical adviser, and I desire to see ye with some memory
in your head that the captain may be able to send you home. But if
you intend to mope in this cabin, sitting in yon bed and glaring at
vacancy, as though the physical faculty of memory was a ghost capable
of shaping itself out of thin air and of rushing into your body with
a triumphant yell, then it’s my duty to tell you that, instead of your
memory revisiting its old haunt, the ghost or two of sense that still
stalks in your brain will make a bolt o’ t, leaving ye clean daft. Ye
understand me?’
‘I do not,’ said I.
‘Do you understand me when I say you must get out of this cabin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand me when I say that you must mix with the passengers,
take your place at the saloon table, and humanise yourself into the
likeness of others by conversing, listening to the piano playing,
walking the deck and surveying the beauties of the ocean? Do you
understand that?’
‘Yes,’ said I.
‘You look frightened. There is nothing to be afraid of. But you must do
what you’re told, or how are you to get home?’
‘I will do anything,’ I cried passionately, ‘that will give me back my
memory.’
‘Very well,’ said he, ‘to-morrow you shall begin. To-morrow you must
become a passenger and cease to be a stowaway. Why, only think of what
your mind may be meessing. The saloon dinner tables are stripped,
there are people amusing themselves at cards and chess, and there is a
young lady at the piano singing, like a nightingale. She is singing, a
beautiful Scotch song, and the singer herself is a beautiful woman, and
how am I to know that there may not be a magic leagues out of sight of
my poor skill to touch, to arouse, to give life, colour and perfume to
that delicate flower of memory which you believe lies dead in you?’
I started up. ‘I will go and listen to the singing.’
‘No, rest quiet here for this evening. Take your night’s rest. You
shall begin to-morrow. I’ll send Mrs. Richards to sit with ye. You
shan’t be alone. And now, d’ye know, Miss C----, for all your scared
looks you’re better than you were when I opened the door just now.
Good-night.’
He spoke abruptly, but he grasped my hand kindly and looked at me with
kindness and sympathy in the face.
The moment I was alone I opened the door and put my head out, hoping to
hear the voice of the beautiful young woman, whoever she might be, who
was singing in the saloon, but either the song was ended or the music
was inaudible down in this part of the ship where my cabin was. Instead
of the tones of a beautiful young woman, rising and falling in a sweet
Scotch melody, I heard the grumbling accents of four men playing at
whist at a table at the forward end of the steerage. The movements of
the ship were indicated by the somewhat violent oscillations of the
lamp under which they sat, four bearded men holding cards.
I was about to withdraw my head when I observed Mrs. Richards coming
along the steerage. She bore a large bundle in her arms under whose
weight she moved with difficulty, owing to the rolling of the ship; and
she came directly to my cabin.
‘Here it is,’ she exclaimed, letting the bundle fall upon the deck.
‘How heavy good under-linen is! It’s the rubbish that’s light, though
it looks more, and that’s why it pays. Here, my dear, is quite an
outfit for you. You may take them as gifts or you may take them as
loans, that’s as your pride shall decide. There’s some,’ said she,
kneeling and opening the bundle, ‘from Mrs. Webber, and some from Mrs.
Lee, and likewise a dress from Miss Lee, which she hopes will fit, and
some from----;’ and she named three other ladies among the passengers.
The collection was indeed an outfit in its way. There was no essential
article of female attire in which it was lacking.
‘The ladies,’ said Mrs. Richards, ‘put their heads together, and one
said she’d give or lend this, and another said she’d give or lend that;
so here’ll be enough to last you to Sydney, ay, and even home again.’
The good little creature’s face was bright with pleasure and
satisfaction as she held up the articles one after another for me to
look at.
‘How am I to thank the ladies for their kindness?’ said I.
‘By wearing the things, my dear, and in no other way do they look for
thanks,’ she answered; and then she proposed that I should put on Miss
Lee’s dress to see if it fitted me.
It was of the right length, but tight in the chest, though it fitted me
in the back.
‘You shall shift the buttons,’ said Mrs. Richards, ‘and then it will
fit you. I’ll fetch my work-basket and you shall make the alteration
this very evening, for the doctor only a little while ago told me that
you are not to be allowed to mope in this cabin or you will go mad.’
She withdrew, and in a few minutes returned with her work-basket. She
placed a chair for me under the lamp, put the dress and the work-basket
on my knee, and preserving her cheerful smile bade me go to work. I
believe she suspected I should be at a loss, and at a loss I certainly
should have been had not the articles I required been set before me.
I could not have asked for scissors, needle, thread, thimble, and
the like; because I should not have been able to recollect the terms
nor the objects which the terms expressed. But when I saw the things
my recognition of them cost me no effort of mind. I took them up in
the order in which I required to use them, picking up the scissors
and cutting off a button, then threading a needle, then putting on a
thimble, and all this I did as readily as though my memory were as
perfect as it now is. Mrs. Richards watched me in silence. Presently
she said:
‘There is no reason, my dear, why you should not belong to a noble
family, but I do not believe you are a lord’s daughter. You use your
needle too well to be the daughter of a lord.’
‘I do not dream that I am the daughter of a lord,’ said I.
‘You might be the daughter of a gentleman whose brother is a lord,
and there may be reasons, which there is no accounting for until your
memory returns, why you should have been taught to use your needle. No
nobleman’s daughter would think of learning to sew. Why should she?
She might learn fancy work for her entertainment, but your handling
of the needle isn’t that of a fancy worker. I shouldn’t be surprised
if your father is a clergyman. There are many clergymen who belong to
noble families; and do you know, Miss C----, if you wore a wedding ring
I should be disposed to think that you had plenty of times mended and
made for little ones of your own. Why do I say this? Is it your manner
of sitting? your way of holding the dress? What puts it into my head?
I’m sure I can’t tell, but there it is.’
She came and went whilst I was busy with the buttons of the dress, and
when I had made an end I put the dress on and it fitted me. We then
between us packed away the linen and other articles in some drawers in
a corner of the cabin, and when this was done she left me and returned
with wine and biscuits and a glass of hot gin and water for herself,
and for an hour we sat talking.