Mrs Falchion | Page 7

one time or another in their lives. It is not a matter of sex; it may be
between an old man and a little child, a great man and a labourer, a
schoolgirl and an old native woman. There is in such companionships
less self-interest than in any other. As I have said, I thought that this
man had a trouble, and I wished to know it; not from curiosity,--though
my mind had a selfish, inquiring strain,--but because I hoped I might be
able to help him in some way. I put my hand on his shoulder, and
replied: "You will never be better unless you get rid of your worry."
He drew in a sharp breath, and said: "I know that. I am afraid I shall
never be better."
There was a silence in which we looked at each other steadily, and then
he added, with an intense but quiet misery: "Never--never!"
At that he moved his hand across his forehead wearily, rose, and turned
toward the door. He swayed as he did so, and would have fallen, but I
caught him as he lost consciousness, and laid him on the cabin sofa. I
chafed his hands, unloosed his collar, and opened the bosom of his shirt.
As the linen dropped away from his throat, a small portrait on ivory
was exposed on his breast. I did not look closely at it then, but it struck
me that the woman's head in the portrait was familiar, though the
artistic work was not recent, and the fashion of the hair was of years
before. When his eyes opened, and he felt his neck bare, he hurriedly
put up his hand and drew the collar close, and at the same time sent a
startled and inquiring look at me. After a few moments I helped him to

his feet, and, thanking me more with a look than with words, he turned
towards the door again.
"Wait," I said, "until I give you some medicine, and then you shall take
my arm to your cabin." With a motion of the hand, signifying the
uselessness of remedies, he sat down again. As I handed him the phial,
I continued: "I know that it is none of my business, but you are
suffering. To help your body, your mind should be helped also. Can't
you tell me your trouble? Perhaps I should be able to serve you. I
would if I could."
It may be that I spoke with a little feeling and an apparent honesty; for
his eyes searched mine in a kind of earnest bewilderment, as if this
could not be true--as if, indeed, life had gone so hard with him that he
had forgotten the way of kindness. Then he stretched out his hand and
said brokenly: "I am grateful, believe me. I cannot tell you just now,
but I will soon, perhaps." His hand was upon the curtain of the door,
when my steward's voice was heard outside, calling my name. The man
himself entered immediately, and said that Mrs. Falchion sent her
compliments, and would I come at once to see her companion, Miss
Caron, who had injured herself.
The Intermediate Passenger turned towards me a strange look; his lips
opened as if about to speak, but he said nothing. At the instant there
came to my mind whom the picture on his breast resembled: it was Mrs.
Falchion.
I think he saw this new intelligence in my face, and a meaning smile
took the place of words, as he slowly left the cabin, mutely refusing
assistance.
I went to Mrs. Falchion's cabin, and met her outside the door. She
looked displeased. "Justine has hurt herself," she said. "Please attend to
her; I am going on deck."
The unfeeling nature of this remark held me to the spot for a moment;
then I entered the cabin. Justine Caron, a delicate but warm-faced girl
of little more than twenty, was sitting on the cabin sofa, her head

supported against the wall, and her hand wound in a handkerchief
soaked in blood. Her dress and the floor were also stained. I undid the
handkerchief and found an ugly wound in the palm of the hand. I called
the steward, and sent him to my dispensary for some necessaries; then I
asked her how it happened. At the moment I saw the cause--a broken
bottle lying on the floor. "The ship rolled," she said. "The bottle fell
from the shelf upon the marble washstand, and, breaking, from there to
the floor. Madame caught at my arm to save herself from falling; but I
slipped, and was cut on the bottle--so."
As she ended there was a knock, but the curtain was not drawn, and
Mrs. Falchion's voice was heard. "My dress is stained, Justine."