The young lady had stopped, and was looking about her; presently she came on to us.
“Can you tell me if I am likely to find a lodging hereabouts for a few days?” she asked in a sweet voice; “I have left my luggage at the inn in the village, but I do not wish to remain there, and I feel very tired with walking about.”
“Will you like to walk in, miss, and rest yourself?” said Susan, “for you do look tired and ill too.”
The young lady’s cheek was very pale.
“I shall indeed be thankful if you will let me do so,” she answered, and coming in she sank down in a chair.
Susan got tea ready; it seemed to revive her a little; the child, I observed, did not call her mother; and as I saw no wedding ring on her finger, I began to think that Susan was right about her not being the child’s mother. Susan was evidently taken with the young lady, and, calling me out, she said that she would ask her to stop, as she did not seem fit to walk back to the village. I offered to go to the inn and fetch her things, but she had a bag in her hand which she said contained sufficient for the night, and she would send for them the next morning. I soon afterwards had to go off to the ship, so I saw no more of the young lady, who had gone to her room with the little boy.
Chapter Three.
What a change it was from the quiet cottage, with my sweet Susan by my side, to the lower-deck of the big ship, crowded with people, not only her own seamen and marines, but some hundreds of visitors, women and children! some of them the honest wives of the men, but others drunken, swearing, loud-talking creatures—a disgrace to their sex. Quarrelling and fighting and the wildest uproar were taking place; and then there were a number of Jews with pinchbeck watches, and all sorts of trumpery wares, which they were eager to exchange for poor Jack’s golden guineas. Some of them went away in the evening, but many more came back the next morning to drive their trade, and would have come as long as coin was to be picked up.