Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. 3 (of 3)

Small is the world of ship board, yet at sea there often happen contrasts in life not less violent and remarkable than those which one meets with in the crowded world ashore. This same day, after my conversation with Alice Lee, I quitted her cabin shortly before the luncheon hour, as she seemed drowsy, and sleep was all important to her whose slumbers were cruelly broken and short throughout the night. Mrs. Lee stole in upon her child, and finding her asleep came to her place by my side at the luncheon table.

The passengers understood that Alice was resting, and the conversation was subdued along the whole line of the table. I said nothing to Mrs. Lee as to what had passed between her daughter and myself. Though the mother knew that her daughter’s condition was hopeless, she could not bear any reference to the girl’s dying state. That is to say, she would speak of it herself, but with eyes that wistfully sought a contradiction of her fears.

Now, whilst I sat at table I observed that Mr. Harris regarded me with more than usual attention. There was an expression of speculation in his face, as though I were some singular problem which he was wearying his brains to solve. His air was also one of abstraction, and direct questions put to him by passengers sitting near were unheeded.

Shortly before lunch was over Mrs. Lee withdrew to her berth. I remained at table, having for the moment nothing else or better to do. Mrs. Webber, remarking that I was alone, left her seat and took Mrs. Lee’s chair at my side.

‘It is really too bad,’ said she, ‘that those wretched men’--referring to Mr. Clack and Mr. Wedmold--‘should be arguing on their eternal subject of literature when they know that poor Alice Lee is sleeping, and that their voices might awaken her.’

‘I have not been listening,’ said I. ‘They have not been talking very loudly, I think.’

I looked towards the two gentlemen, and my attention being directed to them, I discovered that they were arguing, and, as usual, on literary matters. But their voices were somewhat sunk, as though they recognised the obligation of speaking low.

‘My simple contention is,’ said Mr. Wedmold, ‘that criticism as we now have it is absolutely worthless. If I were a publisher I would not send a book of mine to the press. I would content myself with making it known to the public by advertisements. A man writes a review and it is published in a newspaper. Just before he sat down to write the review he was disturbed by a double knock, and his servant handed him a manuscript which he sent six weeks before to a firm of publishers. The manuscript is declined with thanks. What sort of a review will that man write? Or he may dislike the author of the book he is to review because he thinks him too successful; or he may personally know him and have reason to hate him; or he may not know him and yet have a literary prejudice against him; or, before he writes the review the tax-collector may call; or he may have had a quarrel with his wife over the weekly bills. But by the publication of his review he commits the aggregate intellect of the paper in which it appears to his opinion. For reviews are not quoted as the opinions of Jones or Smith, but as the verdict of the journal in which they write. On the other hand, there may be reasons why the reviewer should extravagantly praise a book which, were it written by you, Clack, or by me, he would probably dismiss in a couple of lines of contempt. Nevertheless, the aggregate intellect of the journal is as much committed to this gross lie of approval as it was to the equally gross lie of depreciation. The name of a newspaper should never be quoted in a publisher’s advertisement, unless it be understood that everybody connected with the newspaper sat in judgment upon the book. A book should be served as a defendant is served. The paper that reviews a book should convert itself into a jury. If one juror alone is to decide the question, then his name should be given. My argument is, why should publishers go on subjecting their wares to twopenny individual caprice?’

‘You will never get rid of criticism,’ said Mr. Clack, ‘until authors lose their desire of hearing people’s opinions on their books. Every man who produces his poor little novel, every woman who produces her poor little volume of poems, pesters his or her friends for their candid opinion. Now if that candid opinion is published in a newspaper and it happens to be rather opposed to the author’s own judgment of his book, the natural thirst of the author is for the extinction of all criticism.’

‘Did you ever hear two men talk such utter bosh in all your life?’ said Mrs. Webber.

‘I will go on deck for a turn,’ said I, observing that the saloon was fast emptying.

‘Those two men,’ continued she, looking at Mr. Clack somewhat spitefully, ‘remind me of a very old story. A Frenchman and an American made a bet that one would out-talk the other. In the morning they were found in bed, the American dead and the Frenchman feebly whispering in his ear.’

‘If you please, ma’m,’ said the captain’s servant, coming up to me, ‘Captain Ladmore’s compliments, and he will be glad to see you in his cabin if you can spare him five minutes.’

I arose and nervously followed the man to the captain’s cabin, wondering what could be the object of this message. Captain Ladmore made me a grave bow, placed a chair for me, and seated himself at the table at which I had found him reading.

‘I hope,’ said he, ‘you will not think me troublesome in desiring these visits. I have, not had an opportunity of conversing with you lately. You are very much taken up with poor Miss Lee. How does she do?’

‘She is very poorly,’ said I. ‘The malady seems to have rapidly gained upon her within the last few days.’

‘It is too often so,’ he exclaimed. ‘These poor consumptive people embark when it is too late. Mr. McEwan gives me no hope. I fear we shall lose the poor young lady--and lose her soon, too.’ He directed his eyes at the deck and his face grew unusually thoughtful and grave. ‘And how are you feeling?’ said he, after a pause. ‘Does this heat try you?’

‘No, Captain Ladmore; I feel very well, a different being, indeed, since I came into your kind hands.’

‘Your memory is still dormant?’

‘I am unable to remember anything previous to my awaking to consciousness on board the French vessel.’

‘It is truly wonderful,’ said he. ‘Had I not witnessed such a thing I should not have believed it. That is to say, I could understand total failure of memory, for I have heard of instances of that sort of affliction; but I should not have credited that recollection can lie dead down to a certain point and be bright and active afterwards, as it is in you. I have been talking to Mr. McEwan about you, and though we need lay no emphasis upon his opinion, it is right I should tell you that he fears your condition may continue for a considerable time.’

‘For a considerable time!’ I cried; ‘what can he mean by a considerable time, Captain Ladmore?’

‘Do not be agitated. I mention this merely for a reason you will presently understand. McEwan’s judgment may signify nothing. Doctors are a very fallible lot, and they talk blindfolded when they speak of the mind. But that my meaning in inviting you to visit me may be clear, I wish you to suppose that McEwan is right. In that case, what is your future to be?’

I gazed at his grave, earnest face, but made him no answer.

‘Let me repeat,’ said he, ‘that you are very welcome to the hospitality of this ship whilst she keeps the sea; but on our arrival in the Thames it will be necessary for you to find another asylum. What can be done for you, madam, shall be done for you, always supposing that your memory continues to prevent you from directing us. But it is a cold world----’ He paused abruptly.

‘Oh, Captain Ladmore! I hope my memory will have returned to me before we arrive in England--before we arrive in Australia.’

‘I hope so too, indeed,’ said he, ‘but if it should not---- You appear to have found a very warm friend in Mrs. Lee. Yet, from my experiences as a shipmaster, I would counsel you not to lodge too much hope in friends and acquaintances made upon the ocean. People are warm-hearted at sea; they are always full of good intentions; but a change comes when they step ashore.’

‘Captain Ladmore,’ I exclaimed, ‘if I am not to find a friend when I leave your ship, then indeed I shall not know what to do.’

‘That brings me,’ said he, ‘to my motive for inviting you to my cabin; and I will say at once that you appear to have found a very warm friend on board this ship.’ I imagined that he would name Mrs. Webber, but the notion vanished at his next utterance. ‘He appears to entertain a very great admiration for you. It is not,’ continued he, with a slow smile, ‘usual for men occupying our relative positions to confer on such a matter as he has in his mind, but I consider that he exhibited a proper delicacy of feeling in approaching me first. You are temporarily my ward, so to speak, and there are other considerations which induced him to confer with me on the subject.’

‘Of whom are you speaking?’ I asked.

‘I am speaking of Mr. Harris, my chief officer,’ he replied.

‘And what does Mr. Harris want?’ said I, feeling the blood forsake my cheeks.

‘Well, madam,’ said he gravely, ‘he desired me to sound you as regards your feelings towards him. It is his urgent request alone that makes me interfere, nor should I venture to move in the matter but for your present lonely, and I may say helpless, condition. You necessarily need a friend and an adviser, and it certainly is my duty as a master of this ship to befriend and counsel you. Mr. Harris is a man who, in the course of a year or two, ought certainly to obtain command. In the profession of the sea a man must be a prawn before he can become a lobster. His pay at present is comparatively small, yet it should suffice, with great care, to maintain a home. Long before I rose to be a captain I contrived to support a home out of my wages. Mr. Harris is a very respectable, honest man, and a good officer, and I believe his connections are rather superior to the average relatives of merchant mates.’

I listened whilst I stared at him; indeed, the confusion of my mind was so great that I scarcely grasped his meaning. He observed my bewilderment, and said, ‘The matter may be thus simply put: Mr. Harris is willing to offer you his hand in marriage. He is capable of supporting you, and will, I am convinced, prove an excellent husband. By making you his wife he secures you against that future which looks at present dark and hopeless. He is willing to waive all considerations of your antecedents. In that, Miss C., he tells me he hopes for the best.’ He added, after a pause, after viewing me steadfastly, ‘I have fulfilled my promise, and desire to do no more. In Mr. Harris you have met with a man who is willing and anxious in the most honourable way to provide for your future.’

‘I will not marry Mr. Harris,’ said I.

‘It is a question for your own decision alone,’ he answered.