“Yes,” he answered, “I have been there for many years.”
I then told him that my commander, Captain Schank, had some time before written to him on an important matter, and asked whether he had received the letter.
“Yes,” he answered, “just before I left India, and I will speak to you by-and-by on that matter.”
After supper he took me aside, and begged to know further particulars of the death of Mr Herbert. “Though,” he remarked, “that was not the name by which you knew him.”
“Well,” he said, after I had told him, “the less his poor daughter knows of these painful circumstances the better. I am now returning with her, and, I am thankful to say, her health has already benefited by the voyage. I trust the meeting with her mother will have a beneficial effect on her.”
“I am sure it will on Mrs Lindars,” I observed: “her great wish was, that should her daughter have been taken away, she might have left some children on whom she might bestow her long pent-up affection.”
“Alas!” said Mr Bramston, “our one only child, a little daughter, was taken from us at an early age in a very sad way. Mrs Bramston had been very ill, and had been advised to proceed to Madras for change of air. An old naval friend offered her and me a passage, and I accordingly hurried on board, leaving our child under the charge of a friend at Colombo. I returned as soon as possible, and finding my wife yearning for her little one, I resolved to send her to her. A dhow was on the point of sailing, in which several friends had taken a passage. I committed our child and nurse to their charge. The dhow never reached her destination, and we have every reason to believe that she foundered with all on board.”
“That is indeed strange!” I said aloud. I stopped, for I was afraid of raising hopes in the heart of the father which might be disappointed. He heard me.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“When was this?” I inquired.