Chapter XXXII: The Wreck and the Disclosure

“Storm that, like a demon,
Howls with horrid note
Round the toiling seamen
In the tossing boat—
Drive her out to sea!

“Sleet, and hail, and thunder—
And ye winds that rave
Till the sands thereunder
Tinge the sullen wave—
Drive her out to sea!”

The little vessel sailed onward over the blue sea. She was bound for a small and distant port on the coast of France, but she made slow way against a wind almost dead ahead.

Leaving Eudora sleeping in the cabin-berth, Malcolm went on deck to get a little fresh air. While standing in the forward part of the vessel, he observed a man with his back turned and his head bowed upon his breast, in an attitude of deep dejection, leaning against the mast. Something in the general form and air of this man seemed half familiar and half alarming to Montrose. Unable to analyze his instincts in regard to this stranger, he beckoned the captain to approach, and inquired, in a tone of displeasure:

“Who is that man? How is it that you have taken another passenger, when I bargained for the sole use of the vessel?”

“Why, sir, he is not a passenger, but a hand I picked up at Abbeyport, to replace one of my men who is too ill for this trip,” answered the captain.

“What is his name?”

“Antony More.”

“Antony More!” repeated Malcolm to himself, as he walked up to the stranger, and confronted—Antonio Morio, the _soi-disant_ seneschal of the Princess Pezzilini!

“Self-preservation is the first law of nature. What have you to say why I should not forthwith pitch you into the sea, Signor Antonio?” inquired Malcolm, sternly.

“This, Mr. Montrose!—that, so help me Heaven, I will not betray you, nor that sweet young lady in the cabin,” answered the man, not in broken English, but in such good vernacular that it might have been his mother tongue.

“Why are you here?”

“That is my secret! Torture should not wring it from me. Pitch me into the sea if you like, Mr. Montrose! I’d quite as lief, you would! I shall say no more.”

Full of thought, Malcolm walked away from this man, whom he observed was as pale as death, and looked as if recently recovered from some nearly fatal illness.

“The wind is rising,” said the captain; “I fear we shall have a gale.”

Malcolm hoped not, and went below to carry such refreshments as the vessel afforded to Eudora. After she had partaken of them, she expressed a wish to go up on deck, and Malcolm assisted her to ascend.

“Oh, dear friend! if you could conceive the rapture of moving in wide space, breathing free air, and looking upon the boundless sea and sky once more!” exclaimed Eudora, sinking upon the couch of rugs and cushions that Malcolm had prepared for her upon the deck.

He sat down at her feet, and began to tell her of their destination, and that immediately upon their arrival it would be necessary for them to be united in marriage, and that then they would sail for America, and commence life together.

Eudora listened with calm delight.

But while they talked the wind was rising rapidly and lashing the waves into fury. The little vessel began to roll so heavily that Eudora was driven below for safety. Malcolm guided her down into the cabin.

The wind was now so high that they were compelled to take in the sails, and the voice of the captain was heard shouting at the head of the cabin stairs:

“For God’s sake, Mr. Montrose, come up and help us, or we are lost.”

Malcolm secured Eudora as well as he could, and hurried up on deck to render assistance.

The storm came on apace. The sky was now as dark as night. The froth-capped waves rushed like foaming steeds before the lashing of the wind.

The little vessel, driven back on her course, was forced to tack and scud under bare poles before the gale, and towards the coast from whence she had sailed but a few hours ago. All the afternoon the little craft, struggling bravely for her life, was driven furiously before the winds and waves.

As evening deepened, the sky darkened to a blacker hue, and the gale increased in violence. The captain and his mate never left the deck for an instant. Malcolm gave all the aid he could, but went below occasionally to reassure Eudora.

“I am not afraid, dear Malcolm. How could any one who has passed through what I have, be afraid of anything else that could happen in this world? Go on deck and help to save the vessel, and think no more of me,” was her constant answer.

Ah! she did not know that they were being driven swiftly back upon the coast of England, to which they were already fearfully near.

The night was now dark as the grave. Not a ray of light was to be seen, except the phosphorescent sparkling of the leaping waves. On—on—the little vessel plunged through the black fury of the tempest. The men had lost all control over her, and merely waited for death, while she was whirled, tossing and pitching, now whelming in the black waves, now lifted towards the sky, and ever carried onward towards the lee shore. While fate was thus imminent, Malcolm had brought Eudora from the cabin, and bound her firmly to himself, so as to leave his limbs free for struggling with the waves. And thus they awaited their doom. At length it came. The vessel was slowly lifted on a mighty wave, and dashed with a stupendous shock upon the sands; and in the same instant all were struggling for life in the black and furious waves.

Malcolm was a strong swimmer; but he never could explain, because he never knew, how he and his companion reached the shore that terrible night.

He only knew that while the black chaos still roared around him, he found himself high on the beach, stunned and exhausted, with the dripping and drowned form of Eudora in his arms.

Fishermen from the cliffs above were hurrying down with lanterns to render assistance to the shipwrecked mariners.

Two of these came towards him and with homely words of sympathy, took charge of him and his drowned Eudora, and bore them off to a cottage on the cliff.

“She is dead! quite dead!” moaned Malcolm, in a voice of despair that sounded like content, as he gazed upon the cold, still form that the fisherman’s wife had laid upon the rude cottage bed.

“Not she, sir; we’ll bring her to presently, if you’ll go in t’other room and leave her to us,” said the kind dame.

Malcolm turned into the kitchen, where the fisherman supplied him with a suit of dry clothes and a glass of brandy that had never lost its flavor by passing through the custom-house.

And then, while Malcolm sat before the kitchen fire, waiting anxiously to hear some report of Eudora’s state, the fisherman relighted his lantern and went out to see what further aid he could render to the sufferers. After an absence of half an hour he returned, and seating himself beside his guest, inquired:

“How many on you might ha’ been aboard that craft, master?”

Malcolm informed him.

“Well, then they’re all landed alive.”

“Thank God!”

“Aye; but whether they are all saved, that is another matter, master. Some on ’em are badly hurt; and one on ’em mos’ particular badly hurt, poor fellow! nigh upon killed, I should think. He’s lying in the next cottage.”

Malcolm uttered some few words of sympathy, but his whole heart was with Eudora. He could think of no one else. At length the fisherman’s wife appeared to relieve his anxiety. “The young lady had come round,” she said, “and had inquired after the gentleman, and being told that he was safe and well, she had taken a quieting drink and gone to sleep. And now could the gentleman do better than to follow her example? There was a good bed in the room up-stairs that was heartily at his honor’s service.”

Malcolm thanked the woman, and followed the man, who led him up-stairs, to a humble attic, where he stretched himself upon a hard bed. But notwithstanding the weariness and exhaustion of his body, the excitement and anxiety of his mind kept him from sleep until near morning, when he was aroused by a loud knocking at his door. It was the fisherman, who entered, deprecatingly saying:

“Excuse _me_, master, but _might_ your name be Mr. Montrose?”

“Yes; what is the matter?” demanded the young man, in a voice so startled as to seem angry, for he dreaded some evil to Eudora.

“Why, then, master, the poor man as were so badly hurt last night, which we think he is dying, is very particular anxious to see you, sir.”

“Which of them is he? What is his name?”

“Antony More, sir.”

“Antonio Morio!” exclaimed Malcolm, springing from the bed, and quickly preparing to visit the dying man, whom ten minutes after he found lying upon a poor cot in the next hut.

“What can I do for you?” inquired Malcolm, seating himself beside the man.

“First send all these people from the room, as our interview must be a private one,” answered Morio, or More, as we shall hereafter call him.

Malcolm made a sign to the fisherman’s family, who withdrew from sight only to plant themselves at convenient listening-posts without.

“They say the poor young lady is saved from the wreck. Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to be sure about it; for if she had escaped to France, or if she had perished in the waves, I should have died and made no sign. I should have been faithful to the friend who has ruined me, even though she would have consummated that ruin in death, and offered me up the last of the holocaust of victims sacrificed to her evil passions. But now that that poor girl is thrown again upon these shores, to suffer for another’s crimes, and that I am dying, I dare not carry to the grave the secret that might save her; or face my Judge with her innocent blood on my soul!”

Malcolm bent over the dying man, and listened with suspended breath, fearing to ask a question, or to make an observation, lest he should arrest the confession that was trembling on his lips.

“The theologians are all wrong in supposing the great principal evil to be a male—it is a female. Satan is a woman—I am sure of it, and many another man must know it also. An evil woman gains a spell over a man’s senses, and then a power over his soul, that is like diabolical magic. The man may know her, scorn her, hate her, but he cannot escape from her. Sometimes he goes mad and kills her, and gets himself hanged for it, and finds freedom, purchased even at that price, an infinite relief. Such an ascendancy one fatal woman gained over me. For years I have been her dupe, her slave, her tool. She has been my god, for at her command I have broken all the laws of the Divine One—all, all! At her command I would have

“‘Marched to death as to a festival!’”

The man paused from exhaustion; but after a few moments of silence, continued:

“Why she wished to destroy the house of Leaton I do not know, but I became her blind tool in that work of destruction——”

“Name this woman!” exclaimed Malcolm, under his breath.

“I cannot; I know neither her name nor her country. She bears half a dozen aliases, and speaks with equal facility half a dozen modern languages—”

“You mean the Italian Princess Pezzilini?”

“I mean the mysterious woman who has successfully imposed herself upon a few guileless country families as that illustrious lady. I first met her many years ago at Rome, where I was in the suite of the English Ambassador, and she in the household of the Princess Gentilescha Pezzilini. When the Palazza Pezzilini was burned by the mob, she purloined the family jewels and papers, and fled with me to Paris, where, with the aid of her documents, she succeeded in passing herself upon Lord Leaton’s retired circle as the illustrious lady who had really perished in the burning palace. She accompanied them to England, bringing me in her train. You know what followed. Why she wished to exterminate the whole race of her benefactors from the face of the earth, I never knew. She used me without trusting me, or confided in me only so far as was absolutely needful. And when she had no further use for me, she turned her death-dealing powers against me to get me out of the way. Death was dealt to me insidiously, slowly, and cautiously; but still I knew that it _was_ death, and that it came from her hand. Even then I was too much under her spell to denounce her; but I escaped from her, and fled for my life when I embarked in the vessel. Judge how glad I was that the poor innocent girl was escaping too!”

“But to do that young lady justice, you are aware that this confession must be made on oath before a magistrate, in the presence of witnesses, with every circumstantial detail, and reduced to writing.”

“I know that, and have already sent to summon the proper persons,” moaned the man, who now seemed thoroughly exhausted.

Malcolm gave him drink. And in a few minutes afterwards a justice of the peace, attended by his clerk, arrived at the hut. A magistrate in a populous district is inured to startling revelations. Therefore this worthy justice sat calmly through the terrible statement made upon oath by the dying man, and reduced to writing by the clerk. The document was signed by Antony More, and witnessed by Malcolm Montrose and another.

The necessary warrants were then issued, and the magistrate departed, leaving a constable in charge of the dying witness, whom the doctors pronounced unfit for removal.

Malcolm Montrose hurried to the cottage where Eudora lay concealed, to comfort her with news of the revelation that would completely vindicate her fair fame.