“Poor uncle Dick now found himself completely at a loss; so, as the best plan he could think of, he put the affair into his lawyer’s hands, handing him also the blood-stained letter. This letter was soon afterwards intrusted to a chemist, who, in attempting to cleanse it, destroyed it altogether, and thus passed away the only clue which my uncle possessed. It is now rather more than sixteen years since my aunt sailed from Quebec, and poor uncle Dick has never succeeded in gaining a trace of her fate to this day.”
“Poor fellow!” ejaculated Lance, in an absent sort of way. “I’m sure I sincerely pity and sympathise with him. What! going below already? Then allow me to conduct you as far as the companion.”
Blanche bade Lance good-night at the head of the saloon staircase; he raised his smoking-cap, and then returning sauntered up and down the poop for over an hour, with his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on the deck, apparently in a brown study.
A few days after the narration of Blanche’s story, Lance Evelin, noticing Bob at the wheel, strolled up to him and asked him for his history.
“Miss Lascelles gave me the outlines of it a night or two ago, and it struck me as so peculiar and interesting that I should like to hear full particulars,” he explained, puffing lazily at his cigar meanwhile.
“Where would you like me to begin, Mr Evelin?” asked Bob.
“At the beginning of course, my dear fellow,” laughingly answered Lance. “I want to know everything. Do you remember being found on board the wreck?”
“Sometimes I think I do; and at other times I think it must be only the recollection of a dream which has produced a more than usually strong impression upon me,” answered Bob. “Now and then—perhaps not more than half a dozen times altogether—when I have been lying half asleep and half awake, a confused and indistinct idea presents itself of a ship’s cabin seen through a half-opened state-room door, with a lamp swinging violently to and fro; of a woman’s face, beautiful as—oh! I cannot describe it; something like Miss Dudley’s, only still more beautiful, if you can imagine such a thing. Then the dream, or whatever it is, gets still more confused; I seem to be in cold and wet and darkness, and I fancy I hear a sound like men shouting, mingled with the roar of the wind and the rush of the sea; then—then—I seem to have been kissed—yes—and the beautiful face seems to be bending over me again, but I am in the light and the warmth once more; and—then it all passes away; and if I try to carry my thoughts back to the first circumstance which I can distinctly remember, I see myself again with other boys, paddling about barefoot on the shore at Brightlingsea.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Lance, contemplatively. “I have no doubt but that—if the truth could be arrived at, which of course it never can be in this world—this dream, or whatever you like to call it, is the faint recollection which still remains impressed on your memory of some of the incidents connected with the wreck of your ship—what was her name, by the by? The Lightning, of London! Um; that’s not a very difficult name to remember, at all events. And the beautiful face of which you spoke—is your impression of it clear enough to enable you to describe it? Or, supposing it possible for you to see a picture of the original, do you think you would recognise it?—Do you mind my asking these questions? No; that’s all right; but if it is in the least painful to you, I will not put them. You see, Legerton, I have very little doubt that face was the face of your mother; and I confess I feel a trifle curious to know how far back a man can carry his remembrance of his mother. I cannot remember anything about mine previous to my fourth birthday.”
“Well,” answered Bob, “I can scarcely remember the face clearly enough to describe it. All I can say about it is that it was very beautiful, with tender loving eyes and dark hair, which I am almost sure must have been worn in curls; but I think that if ever I saw a really good picture of it I should recognise it directly.”