Titanic by Ellen Emerson White Page A

remember that, for the most part, people on the ship have been very nice to me indeed. And he had smelled of whisky, so perhaps he was not in his right mind.
    Even so, it hurt my feelings.

Sunday, 14th April 1912
RMS Titanic
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    This morning, we went to a religious service in the dining saloon. I took great solace from this, which suggests that I may be more devout than I would have estimated. At St Abernathy’s, we attended some form of mass every day, and it became part of the fabric of my life. The sight of nuns and priests came to be a comforting one to me. This mass was being called a Divine Service, presumably so that passengers of every faith would feel comfortable attending. Second- and third-class passengers were welcome, but not as many took advantage of this as I would have thought. Many of the ones who did come took unobtrusive seats, or stood, in the back of the crowded room. I was very tempted to join them, but knew that it would upset Mrs Carstairs, and so I just stayed where I was.
    Rather than a clergyman or priest, the service was led by Captain EJ Smith himself. I know he is very busy commanding the ship, but he also mingles in passenger areas sometimes. He has a formidable appearance, with his dense grey beard and solemn eyes, but his voice is soft and almost melodic. Everywhere he goes, people want him to stop and talk to them, and he seems to be unfailingly polite. Mrs Carstairs is somewhat miffed that we have yet to dine at his table, although today we are to have lunch with the Purser, Mr McElroy, and the affable ship’s doctor, Dr O’Loughlin. She feels certain that if her Frederick were here, her social standing would rise considerably.
    At the service, we were each handed a copy of the White Star Line’s Book of Prayer. Many of the prayers and psalms were familiar, while others had a specific nautical theme. The orchestra accompanied us on all of the hymns, which culminated with a rousing chorus of “O God, Our Help in Ages Past”.
    At one o’clock, the bugler called us to luncheon. At St Abernathy’s, bells summoned us throughout the day; now, I respond to a bugle. This may or may not be progress.
    As we are going to be at a more prestigious table than usual, Mrs Carstairs told me to change into my yellow dress and to take extra care with my hair.
    Most of our mealtime conversation concerned an endless stream of questions directed towards Purser McElroy and Dr O’Loughlin. As senior members of the crew, it is expected that they are privy to special snippets of inside information. There was much talk about the ship’s performance, and whether the rumour that we might reach New York on Tuesday night, rather than the following morning, is true. One gentleman at our table – I forget his name – even wanted to know if the tales of icebergs ahead were reliable. Most of these questions were dodged with vague generalities. So my tablemates moved on to compliments, and complaints about many of the ship’s amenities. These, Purser McElroy addressed with more authority.
    I, of course, concentrated on savouring my meal, since I was ravenous. It would not have been appropriate to eat before the Divine Service, so I had declined breakfast this morning. I had been afraid that this would offend Robert, but he said he was only too pleased to respect my wishes. I did sip some tea, and we talked a little about what it had been like for him growing up with five sisters and three brothers in Liverpool. It sounded as though he had been raised in a close and jolly family, even though he said that he and his brothers had got into “many a scrap”. I admitted that while I preferred only to remember the happy times, William and I had been known to have a row or two ourselves. A row or three, William probably would have said.
    During my third course, Dr O’Loughlin smiled across the table at me. He has white hair, and seems terribly kind. “You do