‘AGNES’
It blew very hard in the night. It was a black, wet gale, as they call
it, but favourable, and throughout the thick and howling midnight
hours the ship continued to thunder along her course, with the sailors
chorusing at the ropes and running up the reeling heights to shorten
the canvas. Yet I knew nothing of all this until I was told next
morning how the weather had been. The sun was then shining, and a
large, swollen, freckled sea brimming to the ship’s side.
I had slumbered deeply during the night, and awoke with a sense of
refreshment and of strength which lightened my spirits even to
cheerfulness. My spirits were easier because I felt better, and I
could not feel better without hoping that, as I gained strength, my
memory would return to me. I was greatly refreshed by putting on the
under-linen that had been lent to me. I also wore Miss Lee’s dress,
for it was my intention to mingle with the passengers this day. The
material was a fine dark-green cloth. The shifted buttons made the
bosom a little awry, but this was a trifling and scarce noticeable
defect, and wholly atoned for by the excellent fit of the dress. Oh,
it must be as they tell me, I thought to myself as I looked into the
square of mirror. My figure is that of a young woman. I cannot be so
old as my face seems to represent me. Who am I? Who am I?
But I was rescued from one of my depressing, heart-subduing reveries by
the timely entrance of the stewardess with my breakfast. She brought a
message from Miss Lee. Would I visit her at eleven? I answered ‘Yes, I
would visit her with the greatest pleasure.’
‘And will you lunch in the saloon?’ said Mrs. Richards.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘That is right,’ said she, ‘and this breakfast shall be your last meal
in this gloomy little cabin.’
I did not care to immediately leave my berth after breakfast, so I
opened one of Mrs. Richards’ books and found I could read. The book
was ‘Jane Eyre,’ a novel that I had formerly delighted in, but now it
was all new to me and I read it as for the first time. I opened it by
chance and my eye rested upon a passage, and beginning to read I read
on. The part I had lighted on described Jane Eyre wandering lonely,
starving, soaked through, in the dark of a bitter moorland night after
she flees from the house of Mr. Rochester. I continued to read till the
tears blurred the page to my sight, and whilst I thus sat Mr. McEwan
entered.
‘Well, any memory this morning?’
I shook my head and put away the book. He instantly saw that I had been
weeping, but took no notice.
‘I believe it’s that bandage,’ said he, ‘which keeps you mumping and
dumping down in this darksome steerage. You think it is not becoming.
Well, now let us see if you can manage without it.’
He removed it, and backed away as though looking at a picture. ‘Your
nose is broken,’ said he.
‘I feared so,’ I exclaimed.
‘But it is broken,’ said he, ‘in such a way as to improve your looks.
Did you ever see a portrait of the famous Lady Castlemaine?’ I said no.
‘Congratulate yourself,’ said he. ‘Your nose is now exactly the shape
of the nose in the portrait of the celebrated Lady Castlemaine. The
scar looks a little angry, but you can do without the bandage. Pray, my
dear lady, don’t stare at the looking glass. When are you coming into
the saloon? Very well; we shall meet at the luncheon table,’ said he,
when I had answered him, and with an abrupt nod he left me.
By daylight the scar did not look so formidable as it had by lamplight.
The eyebrow was a long smear of sulky red without hair, with a violet
streak running through it. The flesh of the eyebrow appeared to have
been torn off, and a new skin formed. I screwed my head on one side
to catch a view of my profile, but my former face was not in my
memory. My present face was the only face that I could recollect, and
I was therefore unable to perceive that the injury which had changed
the shape of my nose had in any way modified the expression of my
countenance.
But I did not choose to exhibit my face with that sulky crimson scar
streaming like a red trail across my right brow, and not knowing what
to do I stepped to Mrs. Richards’ cabin, knocked, and found her busy
with some accounts. She started on seeing me, but quickly recollected
herself and exclaimed with a smile: ‘Now, indeed, you look as you
should.’
‘I am ashamed,’ said I, ‘to go amongst the passengers with this
unsightly forehead.’
‘It is not unsightly, my dear.’
‘How can I conceal it?’
She reflected, and then jumped up. ‘I believe I have the very thing you
want,’ said she, and after hunting in a box she produced a short white
veil. It was of gossamer, and it had a gloss of satin; she pinned it
round my cap, contriving that it should fall a little lower than the
eyes.
‘Will that do?’ she exclaimed.
‘It is the very thing,’ I cried with a child-like feeling of
exultation; and then, as it was nearly eleven o’clock, I walked to the
after steps and entered the saloon.
The concealment of my face gave me confidence. People might stare at
me now, and welcome. There were a number of passengers lounging on
sofas and chairs in various parts of the saloon, held under shelter, no
doubt, by the weather, for though the sun was shining there was a brisk
breeze blowing which came cold with the white spray that it flashed off
the broken heads of the swelling running waters. The first person to
see me as I was passing to Miss Lee’s berth was Mrs. Webber. She sprang
with youthful activity from her chair and came to me, floating and
rolling over the slanting deck with her hands outstretched.
‘I have quite made up my mind about you, Miss C----,’ she exclaimed. ‘I
have invented a history for you, and I shall never rest until you have
recovered your memory, and are able to tell me how far I am right or
wrong.’
‘Let me at once thank you for your great kindness, Mrs. Webber,’ said
I, returning the bows of the ladies and gentlemen who were now looking
towards me.
‘Not a word of thanks, if you please. When are we to have a good long
talk together?--Oh, sooner than _some_ of these days! Did you receive
the volume of poems I gave to Mrs. Richards?’
I replied that I had received the book, and that I had read the poems
she had marked, and that I did not doubt I should find them very
beautiful when my mind had become stronger. We stood a few minutes
conversing, and I then went to Miss Lee’s cabin.
The mother and daughter were together; the mother knitting, and the
daughter reading or seeming to read. The girl looked very pale. There
was a haggard air about the eyes as though she had not slept, but her
smile of greeting was one of inexpressible sweetness, and when I took
her hand she drew me to her and pressed her lips to my cheek. The
mother also received me with as much warmth and kindness as though we
had been old friends.
I seated myself by the side of Miss Lee, and after the three of us had
conversed for awhile, Mrs. Lee said:
‘Alice has made out a long list of names. You will be surprised by her
industry and imagination, for she has had no book of names to help
her,’ and opening a desk that lay upon the deck she extracted a number
of sheets of note paper filled with names--female Christian names and
surnames written in a delicate hand in pencil.
I held the sheets of paper in my hand;--there was a faint odour of rose
upon them; I knew not what that odour was--I could not have given it a
name; yet it caused me to glance at Alice Lee with some dim fancy in my
mind of an autumn garden and of an atmosphere perfumed by the breath
of dying flowers. Was this dim fancy a memory? It came and went with
subtle swiftness, but it left me motionless with my eyes fixed upon the
sheets of paper in my hand.
‘We will go through those names together,’ said Alice Lee, ‘and until
your memory enables you to fix upon your real name I have chosen one
for you. If you do not like it tell me, and we will choose another.
Miss C---- is hard and unmeaning--I cannot call you Miss C----.’
‘What name have you chosen?’ I asked.
‘For your Christian name,’ she answered, ‘I have chosen Agnes. It is a
pretty name.’
‘It is Alice’s favourite name,’ said Mrs. Lee.
I repeated the word Agnes, but no name, not the strangest that was to
have been suggested, could have been more barren to my imagination.
‘If Sir Frederick Thompson is to be believed,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘you
undoubtedly belong to the Calthorpe family, whoever they may be, for I
am sorry to say I never before heard of them.’
‘Does he continue to say that I am a Calthorpe?’ said I.
‘Yes,’ she answered; ‘he offers to wager any sum of money that you will
prove to be a Calthorpe.’
‘I am sure he is mistaken,’ said Miss Lee. ‘How would it be possible
for him to recognise a likeness in you when your face was almost
concealed by a bandage? And besides, is it not certain that the
terrible sufferings you have undergone have greatly changed the
character of your face? You may resemble the Calthorpe family now, but
you could not have resembled them before your sufferings altered you,
and therefore Sir Frederick Thompson must be mistaken.’
‘That is cleverly reasoned, my love,’ said her mother, looking at
her fondly and wistfully; ‘nobody appears to have taken that view.
Everybody except Mrs. Webber seems inclined to think Sir Frederick
right. She, good soul, will not allow him to be right because she has a
theory of her own.’
‘Perhaps now,’ said Miss Lee, ‘that your face is more concealed by your
veil than it was by your bandage Sir Frederick will discover a likeness
in you to somebody else.’
‘There is no good in speculating,’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee; ‘did not you
say, Miss C----, that you would not know your own name if you were to
see it written down?’
‘I fear I should not know it,’ I answered.
‘We must call her Agnes, mother,’ said Miss Lee; ‘and, Agnes, you will
call me Alice.’
‘It is an easy name, and sweet to pronounce,’ said I, smiling.
‘But if our friend’s name should not be Agnes, my love,’ said Mrs.
Lee. ‘Miss C----is more sensible, and C is certainly the initial of
her surname. But since it is your wish, my darling, and if you do
not object,’ she added, addressing me with a manner that made me
understand that she lived but for her daughter, and that her life was
an impassioned indulgence of the beautiful fading flower, ‘I will call
you Agnes.’
Her daughter’s face lighted up, but a violent fit of coughing obliged
her to conceal it in her handkerchief the next instant. Her mother
watched her with an expression of bitter pain, but she had smoothed
it before Alice could lift her eyes and see her. There was a brief
silence; the fit of coughing had taken away the girl’s breath, and she
held her hand to her side, breathing short, with a glassier brightness
in her eyes, and a tinge of hectic on her cheeks.
‘I am sure it comforts you to conceal your face,’ said Mrs. Lee,
breaking the silence with an effort. ‘The concealment is certainly
effectual. I can scarcely distinguish your eyes through the gossamer.’
‘The scar is an unsightly one,’ I exclaimed, and I raised the veil that
they might see my forehead.
‘It is not so bad as I had feared,’ said Miss Lee, leaning forward and
gazing with a face exquisitely touching and beautiful, with the pure,
unaffected heart-sympathy in it. Mrs. Lee gazed in silence, with a look
of consternation which she could not immediately hide.
‘It was a terrible wound,’ she murmured; ‘who can doubt that the blow
which produced that dreadful wound bereft you of your memory?’
‘Mother, you frighten poor Agnes. The scar is not so very dreadful,
dear; indeed it is not. When the eyebrow grows the marks will not be
seen.’
‘My nose is broken,’ I said, putting my finger above the bridge of it.
‘I should not know that,’ said Mrs. Lee, taking her cue of cheerful
sympathy from her daughter. ‘I assure you, whether it be broken or not,
there is no disfigurement.’
I let fall the veil. Alice Lee kept her eyes fastened upon me. What was
passing in her mind who can tell, but her face was that of an angel,
so spiritually beautiful with emotion that to my sight and fancy it
seemed actually glorified, as though her living lineaments were a mere
jugglery of the vision clothing an angelic spirit in flesh for a
passing moment that the physical sight might behold it.
This cabin occupied by the Lees was so comfortable, fresh, and bright,
that I never could have supposed the like of such a bedroom was to
be found at sea. The sleeping shelves were curtained with dimity,
which travelled upon brass rods. The beds were draped as on shore.
There were chests of drawers, some shelves filled with books, a few
framed photographs suspended against the cabin wall by loops of blue
ribbon. As the vessel rolled the white water that was racing past rose,
gleaming and boiling, and the flash of it flung a lightning-like dazzle
into the sunshine that was pouring upon the large cabin porthole and
filling the berth with the splendour of the wide, windy, foaming, ocean
morning.
When I had let fall my veil I sat silent, with the eyes of Alice Lee
tenderly dwelling upon me. Mrs. Lee pulled out her watch and said,
‘It is half-past twelve. Luncheon is served at one. You will take your
place at the table, I hope, Agnes?’ she added, pronouncing the word
with an air of embarrassment and a smile at her daughter.
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I intend to take my meals henceforth in the saloon.’
Mrs. Lee looked at Alice, who immediately said, ‘I will lunch at table
to-day.’
‘But do you feel strong enough to do so?’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee anxiously.
‘I can withdraw when I feel tired,’ said the girl; ‘it is not far to
walk, mother; but Agnes, sister Agnes, must sit next to me.’
‘I will speak to the steward,’ said Mrs. Lee, and, throwing a shawl
over her shoulders, she smiled at me and quitted the berth.
‘We will go over the names I have written down this afternoon,’ said
Alice. ‘It may be that you will not know your own name if you see it!
But, supposing you should see it and remember it! There are many things
I shall think of to try. And, Agnes, we must not forget to ask God to
help us and to bless our efforts.’
‘God?’ I repeated, and I looked at her.
A startled expression came and went in her eyes. ‘Lift up your veil,
dear,’ said she; ‘I wish to see your face.’
I raised the veil, and directed my gaze fully at her.
‘Can it be,’ said she in a low, sweet voice, ‘that you have forgotten
the sacred name of God?’
‘No,’ I answered; ‘I have not forgotten the name of God. Tell me----’ I
paused.
‘It is so! How strange!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yet God must live in the
memory too. It is hard to realise. Oh, Agnes, this brings your loss
home to me as nothing else could. Lonely indeed you must be if you do
not feel that you are being watched over, and that your Heavenly Father
is with you always.’
Her eyes sank, and she fell into a reverie; her lips moved, and she
faintly smiled. I continued to watch her, but within me there had
suddenly begun a dreadful conflict. I pronounced the word ‘God,’ but I
could not understand it, and the struggle of my spirit rapidly became
a horror, which, even as my companion sat with her eyes sunk, faintly
smiling and her lips moving, caused me to shriek aloud and bury my face
in my hands.
In a moment I felt her arm round my neck; I felt the pressure of her
cheek to mine; and I heard her voice murmuring in my ear.
‘It is my loneliness,’ I cried; ‘it is my heart-breaking loneliness! I
walk with blinded eyes in utter darkness. Oh, if I could but know all,
if I could but know all _now_, I would be content to die in the next
instant.’
She continued to fondle me with her arm round my neck, and to soothe me
with words which I understood only in part. Presently she removed her
arm, on which I arose and went to the porthole, and looked at the white
sea swelling into the sky as the ship rolled; then, turning, I saw that
Alice had resumed her seat and was wistfully watching me with a face of
grief. I went to her side, and, kneeling down, hid my face on her lap.
‘You will teach me to feel that I am not alone,’ I exclaimed. ‘Speak to
me about God. Make me know Him and understand Him, that, if my memory
should never return to me, if my life should be the horrible blank it
now is, I may not be alone.’
I felt her fingers toying with my hair.
‘I have seen the steward,’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee, opening the door; and
then, pausing, she cried out, ‘What is the matter?’
‘Do not ask, mother.’
‘But, my darling, I fear that anything that affects you may prove
harmful.’
I returned to my chair and dropped my veil. I felt the truth of the
mother’s words, and could not bear to meet her gaze.
‘Will the steward find a place at my side for Agnes?’ asked Alice.
Mrs. Lee replied yes, looking from her daughter to me as though she
sought, but was unwilling to ask for, an explanation for my kneeling at
the girl’s side and hiding my face in her lap.
‘That is the Church of St. Nicholas, at Newcastle-on-Tyne,’ said Alice,
pointing to a photograph upon the cabin wall; ‘and that,’ said she,
pointing to another photograph, ‘is our home at Jesmond.’
I arose to look at them, and whilst I looked, Alice talked of
Newcastle-on-Tyne, and of the scenery of Jesmond Dene, and of Gosforth
and the Town Moor. Her pleasant gentle speech brought her mother into
the subject, and some while before the luncheon bell was rung in the
saloon I had recovered my composure.
When the bell rang, we stepped forth. Alice took my arm. Her mother
made a movement as though to support her; they exchanged a look,
and Mrs. Lee passed out alone. Sweet as a blessing from loved lips,
grateful as slumber after hours of pain, was this girl’s sympathy
to me. The pressure of her arm on mine extinguished the sense of
loneliness in my heart. Her companionship supported me. It enabled me
to face the ordeal of that crowded table without shrinking, and I loved
her for guessing that _this_ would be the effect of her taking my arm
and walking with me to our seats.
The chair which the head steward pointed to placed me between the
mother and daughter. As I seated myself, Mrs. Lee whispered in my ear:
‘Alice has fallen in love with you. I am truly thankful. You will
be just such a companion as I would choose for her. But she is very
emotional, and her health--but you can see what her health is. We must
endeavour to protect her against any excitement that is likely to react
upon her.’
I was unable to reply to this speech, owing to Alice on the other side
asking me some question that demanded an instant answer, and when I
had responded, my attention was occupied in bowing and in murmuring
responses to the greetings of the people at the table.
It was a bright and cheerful scene. The long centre table was
handsomely furnished with good things, and the whole surface of it
was as radiant as a prism with the glitter of crystal and decanters
and plate. The ship rolled steadily, and the movement was without
inconvenience. Her canvas supported her. Had she been a steamer she
would have rolled most of the articles off the table, so high was
the sea. Through the skylight glass you saw the swollen white sails
rising into a dingy blue sky, across which large rolls of cloud were
journeying. The captain occupied the head of the table, and when our
eyes met he gave me a low bow, but called no salutation. At the foot of
the table sat the first officer, Mr. Harris. He too gave me a bow--but
it was an odd one. The passengers looked at me, some of them, almost
continuously, yet with a certain furtiveness. But my veil and the
having Alice by my side gave me all needful courage to bear a scrutiny
that otherwise I should have found too distressing for endurance.
Yet I could not wonder that I was stared at. The mere circumstance of
my appearing in a veil heightened me as a mystery in the eyes of the
people. Who was I? Nobody knew. I was a woman that had been strangely
met with at sea, and found to be without memory, unable to give myself,
or my home, or my country a name. And then piquancy was added to the
mystery by Sir Frederick Thompson’s discovery that I was a Calthorpe.
He might be mistaken, but he might be right also; and to suppose me a
Calthorpe, or, in other words, a person of far loftier social claims
than anyone could pretend to on board that ship, was to create for
me an interest which certainly nobody could have found had it been
suspected that I was merely a poor passenger on board the French brig,
or the wife of the captain, or the sister of his nephew the waiter.
Sir Frederick Thompson sat opposite me. He was for ever directing
his eyes at my face, and often he would purse up his mouth into an
expression which was the same as saying that the longer he looked the
more he was convinced. But my veil kept him off, as I believe it kept
others off. People stared, but they seemed to hesitate to accost me
through that gossamer screen, which scarcely gave them a sight of my
eyes.
As Mrs. Webber sat on my side of the table some distance down, she was
unable to speak to me, for which I was thankful. From time to time
she stretched her neck to catch a view of me, but I was careful not
to see her for fear of her obliging me to raise my veil in answer.
Some handsome girls were sitting at the bottom of the table near the
chief officer; they were showily dressed, and their gowns fitted them
exquisitely. One of them I supposed had been Mr. McEwan’s beautiful
singer of the preceding evening. They could not see too much of me, I
thought. Indeed their eyes were so often upon me that after a little
I found myself looking at them eagerly, with a tremulous hope that
at some time in our lives we had met, and that they would be able to
suggest something to my memory, I whispered this hope to Alice; she
glanced at them and said:
‘I fear it is no more than girlish curiosity, together with the idea
that you may be a titled lady. Did you hear them ask Mr. McEwan about
you just now after he had given you one of his strange, abrupt nods? I
am afraid they will not be able to help us.’
‘Do you observe,’ said Mrs. Lee, on the other side, ‘how the chief
officer, Mr. Harris, watches you?’
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Probably he is thinking of our conversation the
other night. He may have another idea about my memory to offer.’
‘He should attend to the navigation of the ship,’ said Mrs. Lee; ‘but,
like most sailors, he will be glad to trouble himself about anything
else.’
My sweet companion made no lunch. She feigned to eat to please her
mother, who frequently projected her head past me to see her. I noticed
that every eye which rested upon the beautiful fading girl wore an
expression of pity.
The conversation became general, and the long and gleaming interior was
filled with the hum of it, with the sounds of corks drawn, with the
noise of knives and forks busily plied upon crockery ware. There was
also a dull echo of wind, a dim hissing of broken and flying waters,
that gave a singular effect to this hospitable picture of gentlemen and
well-dressed ladies eating and drinking.
I listened to the conversation, but what I heard of it conveyed no
meaning to my mind. For example, Sir Frederick Thompson spoke of having
visited a certain London theatre a couple of nights before the vessel
sailed.
‘I never saw such a full ’ouse,’ he said. ‘Yet it was Shakespeare--it
was “’Amlet.” They clapped when Ophelia came on mad, but it was the
scenery that gave the satisfaction. Without the scenery there would
have been no ’ouse; and though I consider Shakespeare top-weight as
a writer, what I say is, since it’s scenery that takes, why don’t
managers draw it mild and give us plays easy to follow and written in
the language that men and women speak?’
He seemed partly to address this speech to me, and I listened, but
hardly understood him. Others talked of Australia and the growth of the
colonies, of England, of emigration, of many such matters; but, so far
as my understanding of their speech went, they might have discoursed
in a foreign tongue. The captain, at the head of the table, spoke
seldom, and then with a grave face and a sober voice. Occasionally he
glanced at me. I do not doubt that many watched me, to remark how I
behaved. Knowing that I had no memory, they might well wonder whether
I should not often be at a loss, and stare to see if I knew what to do
with my glass, my plate, and my napkin.
Before lunch was half over Mr. Wedmold and Mr. Clack, who immediately
confronted Mrs. Webber, raised their voices in a discussion. Mrs. Lee,
leaning behind me to her daughter, exclaimed:
‘Those unhappy men are going to begin!’
‘What do they intend to argue about?’ said Alice, in her soft voice,
looking towards them.
There was no need to inquire of our neighbours, for the two
gentlemen’s voices rose high above all others.
‘It is idle to speak of Carlyle as a good writer,’ exclaimed Mr.
Wedmold; ‘his style is as barbarous as his matter is trite. Never was
reputation so cheaply earned as Carlyle’s. His philosophy is worth
about twopence-ha’penny. Here is a great original writer, who goes to
the Son of Sirach, and to Solomon, and to Collections of the Proverbs
of Nations, and taking here a thought and there a thought, he dresses
it up in a horrid jargon, harder than Welsh, more repulsive than
Scotch, more jaw-breaking than German, puts his name to it, and offers
the fine old fancy in its vile new dress as something original!’
‘It is not Dickens and Thackeray to-day,’ said Mrs. Lee.
‘Well, you may sneer as much as you like at Carlyle,’ cried Mr. Clack,
‘but to my mind his style is the most magnificent in the English
tongue. He is sometimes obscure, I admit; but why? His style is a
Niagara Fall of words, and it is veiled by the mist that rises from the
stupendous drench.’
‘Give me Swift for style,’ exclaimed Mr. Webber, a gentleman whom I
have before described, with long whiskers and a glass in his eye.
‘Pray do not be drawn into the discussion,’ said Mrs. Webber, calling
across to him.
‘I beg your pardon? You mentioned----’ exclaimed Mr. Wedmold.
‘I said Swift. Give me Swift for style,’ rejoined Mr. Webber, pulling
down one whisker.
‘Swift has no style,’ said Mr. Wedmold. ‘Swift wrote as he thought,
as he would speak; so did Defoe. Style is artificial. Talk to me of
De Quincey’s style, of the style of Jeremy Taylor, of Johnson, of
Macaulay; but I never want to hear of the style of Swift.’
‘Give me Goldsmith for style,’ exclaimed a little elderly man seated
next to Mrs. Lee.
‘And give me Paris for style!’ said Mrs. Webber, in a loud voice.
There was a general laugh.
‘These arguments are incessantly happening,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘I wish the
captain would put a stop to them.’
‘Can you follow what has been said?’ whispered Alice.
‘Some of the names mentioned are familiar to me,’ I answered; ‘but I
can collect no ideas from them.’
‘Shall we withdraw?’ said she.
I at once arose and gave her my arm. Her mother remained seated at the
table. When I left my chair Sir Frederick Thompson stood up, and I
paused, believing he was about to address me, but quickly perceived
that his movement was a mark of respect. I had scarcely entered the
Lees’ berth when someone tapped on the door, even whilst I still
grasped the handle of it, and, on looking out, I perceived that it was
the steward or servant who waited upon the captain.
‘Captain Ladmore’s compliments, madam; he wishes to know if it will be
convenient to you to visit him in his cabin presently?’
‘I will visit him with pleasure,’ I replied; and, closing the door, I
turned to Alice Lee and said, ‘What can the captain want?’
‘Do not be nervous, dear. I will go with you if you wish, or mother
shall accompany you. He intends nothing but kindness, you may be sure.’
‘I dread,’ I exclaimed, putting my hand upon my heart, ‘to be sent into
another ship.’
‘No, no; he will not do that.’
‘What would become of me in another ship? I shall be without friends,
and my loneliness will be the darker for the memories which I shall
take away from this vessel. And what will they do with me on board
another ship? Where will they take me? Wherever I arrive I shall be
friendless. Oh, I hope the captain does not mean to send me away.’
‘Do not fear. It is not likely that he will send you away until your
memory returns and enables you to tell him who you are and where your
home is.’
I placed a rug over her knees, and sat at her side and waited.
Presently Mrs. Lee entered the berth.
‘Captain Ladmore has asked me to say he is ready to see you, my dear,’
said she.
‘Will you go with Agnes, mother?’ said Alice.
‘But Captain Ladmore does not want to see _me_, my love,’ exclaimed
her mother; then, looking from me to her daughter, the good little
woman cried, ‘Oh, yes! I will go with you, Agnes. Give me your arm.’