‘I do not seem able to think, I do not feel able to reason,’ I exclaimed, putting my hand to my forehead.
‘Do not trouble to think or to reason either,’ said the stewardess; ‘the captain will do it for you.’
‘What,’ said Captain Ladmore, fixing his eyes upon Mrs. Richards, but talking as though he thought aloud—‘what should I be able to tell the shipmaster to whom I transferred this lady? I should have positively nothing whatever to tell him. He might hesitate to receive her. His reluctance would be justified. I myself should certainly hesitate to receive a shipwrecked lady under such circumstances. I should say to myself, When I arrive, whom shall I find to receive her? There might, indeed, be philanthropic institutions to take her in, but if I could not find such an institution, what should I do? I should have to take charge of her until I could place her somewhere. I might, indeed, advertise, send a letter to the newspapers, and trust by publishing her case to make her existence known to her friends. But then she may have no friends in England—and meanwhile? I have thought the matter over,’ said he, addressing me, ‘and believe that I cannot do better than keep you on board, with a chance of your memory returning at any moment, and enabling me then to take the first opportuning of sending you to your home, wherever it may be. What do you think?’
‘I cannot think. Oh, if but the dimmest idea would visit my mind to help you and to help me! It would be dreadful,’ I said in a voice that was failing me, ‘to find myself on shore, in destitution, without friends, not knowing what to do, where to go. That thought was a horror to me in the French brig, when the Frenchmen talked of landing me at Toulon and handing me over to the British Consul. I remember what they said: What would the British Consul do for me?’ And then I sprang from my chair and cried out, hysterically, ‘Oh, Captain Ladmore, what is to become of me? what is to become of me?’
‘You are amongst friends. Do not take on so, dear,’ said the stewardess.
‘It is my dreadful loneliness,’ I cried, speaking out of the old terror that was again upon me—the miserable terror that had possessed me again and again on board the Frenchman.
‘All of us are alone,’ said the captain, in his deep, serious voice; ‘we arrive and we depart in loneliness. God Himself is alone.’
‘Think of that!’ said the stewardess.
‘Whilst you are with us,’ said Captain Ladmore, ‘it is proper that you should be known by some name. Your initials are clearly A. C. Now suppose we call you Miss C.? By so terming you we shall be preserving as much of your real name as we can discover.’ He paused, and a moment later added, addressing the stewardess, ‘Do you suggest Miss C. or Mrs. C., Mrs. Richards?’