‘Now Miss C——,’ said he; ‘but am I to call ye Calthorpe? Half the ninnies are swearing that’s your name, on no better authority than the dim recollection of a little old man who would swear to a ducal likeness in a cook’s mate, if by so doing he could find an excuse to air his acquaintance with the nobility—what I want to say is this: I’m your medical adviser, and I desire to see ye with some memory in your head that the captain may be able to send you home. But if you intend to mope in this cabin, sitting in yon bed and glaring at vacancy, as though the physical faculty of memory was a ghost capable of shaping itself out of thin air and of rushing into your body with a triumphant yell, then it’s my duty to tell you that, instead of your memory revisiting its old haunt, the ghost or two of sense that still stalks in your brain will make a bolt o’ t, leaving ye clean daft. Ye understand me?’
‘I do not,’ said I.
‘Do you understand me when I say you must get out of this cabin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand me when I say that you must mix with the passengers, take your place at the saloon table, and humanise yourself into the likeness of others by conversing, listening to the piano playing, walking the deck and surveying the beauties of the ocean? Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ said I.
‘You look frightened. There is nothing to be afraid of. But you must do what you’re told, or how are you to get home?’
‘I will do anything,’ I cried passionately, ‘that will give me back my memory.’
‘Very well,’ said he, ‘to-morrow you shall begin. To-morrow you must become a passenger and cease to be a stowaway. Why, only think of what your mind may be meessing. The saloon dinner tables are stripped, there are people amusing themselves at cards and chess, and there is a young lady at the piano singing, like a nightingale. She is singing, a beautiful Scotch song, and the singer herself is a beautiful woman, and how am I to know that there may not be a magic leagues out of sight of my poor skill to touch, to arouse, to give life, colour and perfume to that delicate flower of memory which you believe lies dead in you?’
I started up. ‘I will go and listen to the singing.’