‘But this ship is going on a long voyage,’ said I, ‘and if I remain in her she will be carrying me away from where my home may be.’
‘Yes, but if your home is in England, this ship will convey you back there if you remain in her.’
‘How long will it take the ship to sail to the place you spoke of?’
‘Sydney. She is going to Sydney. Well, it may take her three months, or it may take her four months, to get there, and she will stop at Sydney for three months. We all hope—all of us, I mean, whose homes are in England—to be home by next August.’
I turned her words over in my mind, but was unable to attach any meaning to what she said. I could not understand time—that is, I did not know what Mrs. Richards meant when she spoke of ‘next August.’ But I would not question her; my incapacity made me feel ashamed, and exquisitely wretched at heart, and I asked no questions, lest she should divine that I did not comprehend her.
There were people drinking tea at the tables outside. I heard the occasional cry of a baby, the voices of children, the murmur of men and women conversing. Mrs. Richards informed me that those people were second-class passengers, who inhabited this part of the ship.
‘Are there many passengers in all?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, the ship is full of men and women,’ she replied.
‘Where do they come from?’
‘The ship sailed from London. The people joined her at the docks, or at Gravesend, from all parts of the kingdom.’