I was astonished that she should have said this, but I was eager to encourage her to talk, and in our state of misery it would signify but little what topic we lighted upon.
‘Did he inform you he was engaged?’ said I.
‘No. I perceived it in his looks when his cousin asked him the question. Did he ever tell you who the young lady was?’ she added listlessly, and though she spoke of the thing it was easy to see that she was without interest in it.
I could not tell a lie, and silence would have been injurious to my wishes for her. Besides, she had guessed the truth by no help from me, and then, again, our situation rendered the subject exquisitely trifling and insignificant.
‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘we were cabin fellows, and intimate. He showed me the girl’s portrait—a plump, pretty little woman. Her name is Fanny Crawley, daughter of one of the numberless Sir Johns or Sir Thomases of this age.’
She was looking through the cabin door at the sea, and scarcely seemed to hear or to heed me. Am I strictly honourable in this? thought I. Pshaw! it was no moment to consider the rights and wrongs of such a thing. Her discovery had freed me from all obligation of secrecy, and what I had supplied she would have easily been able to ascertain for herself on her return home, if, indeed, home was ever to be viewed again by either of us.
‘What horrible weather!’ she exclaimed, bringing her eyes to my face; ‘there is no wind, and the sea rolls like liquid lead. When you were at sea, were you ever in a situation of danger such as this?’
‘This is an uneasy time,’ said I; ‘but do not call it a situation of danger yet. I am going shortly to overhaul the wreck. I must keep her afloat until we are taken off her.’
‘How long were you at sea, Mr. Dugdale?’
‘Two years.’