But now my presence on deck had been observed, and in a few moments a number of the passengers gathered about me. I cannot recollect what was said. I was confused by many eyes being bent upon me. One hoped that I was quite recovered, another congratulated me upon my preservation, a third marvelled that I had not died of fright in the cabin of the French brig. Many such things were said, and I had to shake hands with several of the friendly people. There were twenty-five or thirty passengers, and, though a few held aloof, the crowd about me seemed a large one.
A stout, handsomely-dressed, middle-aged woman in a large hat exclaimed, ‘Mrs. Lee, I hope the poor lady understands that whatever I can lend her she may command.’
A tall gentleman with long whiskers and a white wide-awake and an eyeglass, said, ‘My wife is below in her cabin. It is her wish to be of use to the lady. I contend that every living person on board this ship is responsible for her present situation. That is to say, morally responsible. My wife clearly recognises that, and is therefore anxious to be of use.’
The captain uttered an exclamation, Mr. Harris raised his voice in a cry, and immediately eight chimes, signifying the hour of noon, were struck upon a silver-toned bell in some part of the ship forward. The captain and first officer left the deck. In twos and threes the passengers fell away, leaving me to Mrs. Lee. She asked me to give her my arm, and we quietly paced a part of the deck that was unoccupied.
But though the passengers had drawn off, they continued to observe me. My appearance doubtless struck them as remarkable. My figure was that of a fine young woman of five-and-twenty, and my face, with its bandaged brow, its thin white hair, its fine network of wrinkles—not, indeed, so minutely defined as the delicate lines had shown when I first observed them on the brig, but clear enough to make a sort of mask of my countenance when closely looked into—my face, I say, might have passed for a person’s of any age from forty to sixty. There were two tall handsome girls who incessantly watched me as I walked with Mrs. Lee.
‘I hope,’ said I, ‘the people will not continue to stare. It makes me feel nervous to be looked at, and it must come to my waiting until it is dark to take the air on deck.’
‘No rudeness is meant,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘You are the heroine of the hour, and are paying the penalty of being famous. Fame is short-lived, and you will not long be looked at.’
‘Who is that little man near the boat there, with fur upon his coat? He is unable to remove his eyes from me.’
‘He is Sir Frederick Thompson,’ replied Mrs. Lee in her soft, deliberate voice. ‘Do not look at him. I have heard who he is, and will tell you. He is a City knight. I believe he deals in provisions. I heard him tell Captain Ladmore that after being the most prosperous man in the City of London for years everything suddenly went wrong. People who owed him money became bankrupt, a confidential clerk absconded, the price of the commodities he dealt in fell, and his goods being chiefly perishable, he had to sell them at a heavy loss. He thereupon made up his mind to go a voyage, hoping to find that things had righted themselves by the time that he returned. A rather rash resolution, I think.’
‘And who are those two gentlemen who seem to be arguing near the rigging at the end of the deck on the other side?’