But on the whole I felt comforted. It was the prospect of being set ashore friendless at Toulon that had immeasurably added to my wretchedness whilst on board the Frenchman. But now that threatened state of hopelessness, of poverty, of homelessness, all to be exquisitely complicated by total mental blindness, was indefinitely postponed or removed. I had met with people who were taking pity on me, and amongst whom I might find friends. My health, too, would now be professionally watched. And then, again, if my home were in England, this ship would certainly in time return to that country, and in the long weeks between it might be that my memory would be restored to me. Therefore, as I walked about in my cabin I felt on the whole comforted.
Mrs. Richards brought me an armful of books, some of her own, and some from the ship’s little collection. She said, as she put the volumes down—it was about seven o’clock in the evening:—
‘Do you feel dull? If so, there are many in the saloon who would be glad to meet you and converse with you.’
‘No, I am not dull. My mind is much more tranquil than it was. I am thinking of last night. How glad I am to be here!’
‘Would you like to receive a visit? There are many who would be delighted to visit you. Mrs. Lee will gladly come and sit with you if you feel strong enough for a chat.’
‘I would rather remain quiet, Mrs. Richards. To-morrow I hope—— Perhaps in a day or two the doctor will remove this bandage.’
‘You must not think of your appearance,’ she said, smiling, ‘although it is a good sign. A little vanity is always a good sign in invalids. I would not give much for the life of an invalid woman who is without a touch of womanly conceit. But you are very well; you look very nicely. Do not think of your bandage,’ and with a kindly smile and nod she left me.
When I went to bed I found myself sleepless. But sleeplessness I might have expected after my deep slumbers during the day. At nine o’clock Mrs. Richards had brought me some brandy-and-water and biscuits, and when she left me I went to bed, and lay listening to the people in the steerage outside. I gathered that some of them were playing at cards: there were frequent short exclamations, and now and again a noisy peal of laughter. The sea was smooth and the ship was going along quietly; no creaking, no sounds of straining vexed the quiet when a hush fell upon the players.
At ten o’clock there was a tap upon my door, and the voice of a man bade me put my light out. I extinguished the lamp and returned to my bed. All was silent outside now; nothing was to be heard save a dim swarming noise of broken waters hurrying by, and at intervals the cry of a baby. For some time I listened to this cry, and it produced not the least effect upon me; but suddenly, on my hearing it more clearly, as though the door of the cabin in which the infant lay had been opened, a feeling of dreadful grief seized me—a feeling of dreadful loneliness. I sat up in my bed and racked my mind—I know not how else to express what I felt in my effort to compel my mind to seek in the black void of memory for the reasons why that infant’s cry had raised in me so insufferable a sense of grief, so incommunicable an ache of loneliness.
I grew calm and closed my eyes, but I could not sleep. Time passed, and still finding myself sleepless, I quitted my bed and went to the porthole, and perceived through the glass the bluish haze of moonlit darkness, with many brilliant stars in it, rhythmically sliding to the movements of the ship. I cannot sleep, I said to myself. I slept too deeply to-day to slumber now; I will go on deck. The fresh air will revive me. It is dreadful to be in this gloom, alone and bitterly wakeful, thinking of this time last night.