Our conversation was interrupted by a shift of wind, which compelled me to issue orders for trimming sails.
The steward then announced luncheon, and I remained some time on deck after my passengers had gone below.
I had observed Dick, who did not often trouble himself about scenery, watching the coast with more than usual interest.
“Do you know, captain,” he said, coming up to me, “I have a notion that I have seen this island before. The look of the coast is very like that we sailed along when I was aboard the Laurel, before I picked you up. I shall be able to tell better when we come off the harbour, for then I think I should be sure to know the place again. It will be strange if it should turn out that I am right in my idea, and if so, I would advise you to make inquiries, and learn if any of the families on shore about that time lost a little boy in the way you were lost. Maybe, as the newspapers say, you will hear of something to your advantage; and if you don’t, why you won’t be worse off than you are now, and you may be very sure that as long as Dick Driver lives, you have got a friend who will stick to you, blow high or blow low.”
“I am sure you will, Dick,” I answered. “Though perhaps, as many years have passed by since you were last on these seas, you may be mistaken as to the island.”
Yet, although I said this, I could not help allowing strange hopes and fears to agitate my bosom. I might discover my parents, or they might be dead, and their successors might be unwilling to acknowledge a stranger coming among them. I could scarcely calm myself sufficiently to go into the cabin. I determined, however, to say nothing about Dick’s remarks, but to try and overcome all the hopes which I found rising within me. I apologised for being late to luncheon, on the plea of being detained on deck by duty, and did my best to perform the honours of the table and try to converse in my usual manner. The ladies were eager to know when I thought we should get in.
“The wind is so light that I do not expect to enter the harbour till to-morrow morning,” I replied. “I cannot pretend to regret this, as I know my stay will be very short, and it will defer the time when I must bid you farewell.”
Sophie looked up at me, and a shade of sadness passed over her sweet countenance. I could not be mistaken. I interpreted her feelings by my own, and just then I would have given a great deal to have had a proper excuse for remaining at Saint Lucia.
Night came on, and the Ellen floated calmly on the moonlit sea. Emilie had insisted on Henri going below, afraid of his being exposed to the night-air: indeed, the trying cough from which he suffered showed how necessary it was that all care should be taken of him.
Sophie still lingered on deck. I invited her to come to the side and watch the moonbeams playing on the waters.