I looked at her! at her sunken eyes, at her drawn mouth, at the malignant bloom her cheeks were touched with, at her thin, her miserably thin hands, and I thought to myself, how selfish am I to immediately intrude my sorrow upon this poor girl, who knows that she is fading from her mother’s side, and in whose heart therefore must be the secret, consuming grief of an approaching eternal farewell. Her wretchedness must be greater than mine, because her trouble is positively defined to her mind, whereas mine is a deep shadow, out of which I can evoke nothing to comfort me or to distress me, to gladden my heart or to break it.
She gazed at me earnestly, and with a touching look of sad affection, as though she had long known me. I was about to speak.
‘There is something,’ said she, ‘in your face that reminds me of a sister I lost four years ago. It is the expression, but only the expression. Mother will see it, I am sure.’
‘Was your sister like you?’ I asked.
‘No, you would not have known us for sisters. Yet we were twins, and it is seldom that twins do not closely resemble each other.’
I bent my gaze downwards. I was sensible of a sudden inward, haunting sense of trouble, a sightless stirring of the mind, that affected me as a pain might.
‘When I look at you,’ she continued, ‘I fully agree with Mr. McEwan that you are not nearly so old as your white hair makes you appear. Most people look older as the months roll on, but as time passes you will look younger. Even your hair may regain its natural colour, which the doctor says is black. How strange it will be for you to look into the glass and behold another face in it! But the change will be too gradual for surprise.’
‘You are returning to England in this ship, I believe?’ said I.
‘Yes, we engaged this cabin for the round voyage, as it is called. A long course of sea-air has been prescribed for me. A steamer would have carried us too swiftly for our purpose. You can tell what my malady is?’
She was interrupted by a little fit of coughing.