‘I was sure,’ said she, ‘you would wish to remain private for some little time yet. I hope I have brought you what you like. This red wine is Burgundy. Mr. McEwan bade me give it you; he says it is a very feeding wine. And what do you think I have just heard?’
‘I cannot imagine,’ said I.
‘Why, Mrs. Webber stopped me as I was passing through the saloon, and said, “What do you think, Mrs. Richards? Sir Frederick Thompson believes he has found out who Miss C—— is. And who do you think he says she is?” “I do not know, madam,” said I. “A Calthorpe,” said she. “What is a Calthorpe?” said I. “A Calthorpe,” she answered, “is a member of one of the oldest families in England. The Earl of —— is a Calthorpe, and Sir Frederick finds an extraordinary likeness between Miss C—— and Lady Lucy Calthorpe. He is quite satisfied that she is not Lady Lucy herself, because her ladyship’s hair is brown, not white, but he is willing to bet she is a Calthorpe.” “As for the hair being white,” said I, “if Miss C—— is Lady Lucy Calthorpe, she has undergone quite enough to change the colour of her hair. But how could Sir Frederick,” said I, “be sure of her with a bandage on?” “Well, he is sure,” said Mrs. Webber, “sure I mean that she is a Calthorpe,” and this was all that passed; the passengers were arriving to take their places, and I came away. What do you think?’
‘Do not ask me, Mrs. Richards. I am unable to think.’
‘Poor dear! Let me pour you out a glass of wine. It will be strange if you should prove a lady of title. And why should you not be a lady of title? You have the appearance of one. The moment I saw you I said to myself—and I said it to myself before I heard your story—“Though she has come out of a nasty little brig, I can see that she is a born lady.” Do you know that you have left your cap behind you?’
‘It is in Mrs. Lee’s cabin,’ said I.
‘Try and eat your lunch,’ exclaimed the stewardess, ‘and after lunch, if I were you, I would lie down, and endeavour to get some sleep.’
I passed the afternoon alone. I lay in my bunk, unable to read, dozing a little, and when I was not dozing strutting with recollection, and often with fits of horror and despair dreadful as madness. Some time near five the stewardess looked in to say that Mrs. Webber wished to visit me. She was anxious to have a long quiet chat. Would I receive her? I answered no. I should require, I said, to feel very much better to be able to endure a long quiet chat with Mrs. Webber.
‘She asked me to give you this book,’ said Mrs. Richards. ‘She said she had marked the pages which she would like you to read.’
I took the book, and when Mrs. Richards was gone, languidly opened it, and found that it was a collection of verses written by Eleanor Webber, and dedicated ‘To my Husband.’ Two pages were dog’s-eared, and one of them contained a poem called the ‘Lonely Heart,’ and the other a poem called ‘The Lonely Soul.’ I tried to read these verses, but could not understand them. They jingled unmeaningly, though not unmusically, in a melancholy key. Why do they tease one with such stuff? I said to myself, putting the book down.