Chapter IV: Part 4

‘Miss Hetherington,’ he answered, strongly emphasising the words. ‘I beg your pardon, but the pretty name so fits you that I made bold to use it. I trust I have not offended you.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, as she averted her gaze from his piercing eyes, for she felt like a bird before the fabled basilisk. She would have rushed away, but was spellbound. The strange man held her in a thrall.

‘How charming you look this morning,’ he remarked. ‘Why, you put even the glory of the sunrise to shame.’

‘Really, Mr. Cornell,’ she exclaimed indignantly, and blushing to the very roots of her hair, ‘you insult me by such extravagant and stupid compliments. I don’t like men who talk nonsense, and think that all a girl wants is to be flattered. Of course plenty of empty headed girls do, but I’m not one of them.’

‘Don’t be angry with me, please; I am sincere. Can the wretched moth that flutters into the flame of the candle help itself? Not a bit of it. You would pity the moth; why not pity me?’

‘This is audacity, Mr. Cornell, and I will complain to the captain about you,’ she exclaimed as she made a movement to go. But ever so lightly, and without any effort, he touched her hand. What was the fearful magic of that touch that she should thrill so? What was the power in his voice that held her in a spell? She did not go, but stood there. Her left hand resting on one of the rattlings of the rigging, her right hanging down by her side, his large powerful fingers touching hers, her head averted, for she felt as if she dare not look at him.

‘It is not in your nature to be cruel, Miss Hetherington’--he spoke low, so that there should be no possibility of the man at the wheel catching his words, though he was so far off there was not much fear of that--‘why, then, should you be cruel with me?’

‘I am not cruel, but you are rude, very rude,’ she answered with a voice that trembled from suppressed emotion.

‘I am _not_ rude, and you _are_ cruel,’ he returned, dwelling deliberately on every word. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am a man. Surely I should be less than a man if I failed to admire you? Do you not admire the beauty of the sky there? why, then, should I do less than you, though in your face I find more to admire than in those glowing colours.’

‘If you do not instantly leave me I will call out for assistance,’ she said. She felt faint and powerless, and as though she would certainly fall down on the deck if she let go her hold of the rigging.

‘No, you must not do that,’ he answered, coolly. ‘How can I possibly help feeling for you what I do feel. I am not a stone statue, but a man with a heart, and though a bolt from heaven should strike me into the sea for speaking the words, I tell you now, though I never utter another syllable to you, _that I love you_.’

He had never taken his fingers from hers, and now he pressed her hand. The sea seemed to be going round and round before her eyes. The wonderful colours in the sky were all blended in one confused mass. The ship appeared to be sinking beneath her feet, and yet she managed to murmur in a low, weak voice:

‘For God’s sake leave me!’

Without another word he walked away, and then she seemed to breathe more freely, and in a few minutes had quite recovered herself. She turned and went towards the companion-way, and as she did so she saw Cornell talking to the captain, who had just come on deck. The captain bade her good-morning, but Cornell was as immovable and impassive as a piece of sculpture.

Oh! what a sense of relief she experienced when she got down to her cabin. The spell seemed to be lifted at last, and, closing the door, she threw herself into the bunk and wept passionately. When the hysterical fit had passed she was relieved, and she determined to tell her mother what had happened, but this determination only lasted for a few minutes, as on reflection she thought that it could but lead to unpleasantness, and in a little floating world such as a ship is the slightest things are looked upon as legitimate food for scandal to batten upon. Therefore, her second thoughts were to keep the matter to herself. Still she was very unhappy, and Dick noticed it. He naturally asked her the cause, but she made an excuse by saying that she was a little out of sorts. She was strongly tempted to tell him all, but was restrained by a fear that it might lead to a quarrel between him and the second mate.

For several days after the unpleasant incident with Cornell she studiously avoided going on deck alone for fear of meeting him, but whenever he had occasion to pass her she would shudder, for his strange eyes seemed to exercise a power over her which was simply marvellous. She felt, in fact, when he was looking at her that she could grovel at his feet at his mere bidding. It was a dreadful feeling, and her health naturally suffered. Her mother and lover were both concerned about her, but she endeavoured to remove any anxiety they might have had by saying that her indisposition was of a very trivial character. One evening she had been sitting on the poop with Fenton. The weather was fine, but a strong breeze was blowing, and the vessel was tearing through the water. The daylight had almost faded out, and it was impossible to distinguish people who were standing or sitting only a few yards away. Fenton left her for a few minutes to go down to his cabin for some cigars, and scarcely had he disappeared when she was startled by the sudden appearance of Cornell. It seemed almost as though he had risen up out of the deck. She was seated on a camp stool, and he bent his head low until she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. He whispered to her in a voice that could not possibly have been heard by anyone else, however near they might have been; but she heard every word, every syllable, as it was poured into her ear, and it seemed to burn into her brain.

‘Lily, you are cruel,’ he said; ‘I love you madly, and yet you avoid me. You must give me some encouragement, or I will drown myself; and if you breathe a word of what I have said to you to any living soul, I tell you in God’s name that I will throw myself overboard, and my death will lie at your door. Remember what I say. I am a determined man, and nothing on earth will stop me carrying out my will.’

Once again his fingers touched her hand; then in a moment he was gone as suddenly as he had appeared. He seemed to fade away into the darkness like a spectre, but almost immediately afterwards she heard him bawling some orders in stentorian tones to the watch.

When Fenton came back she was trembling and faint, and though she struggled hard to conceal from him that she was agitated, he could not fail to observe it, and in a tone of alarm asked the cause.

‘Oh, nothing, dear--nothing,’ she answered; ‘at least, nothing of any consequence. A slight feeling of faintness has come over me; but really it is not worth bothering about.’

Oh, how she longed to tell him all; but the words of the strange man who was exercising such a powerful influence over her were still ringing in her ears, and she was silent.

Fenton did not make any further remark then on the subject, but he felt uneasy. He was convinced that there was some mystery, but what it was he could not for the life of him determine. The thought did flash through his brain that she was deceiving him, but instantly he put it away as unworthy of him. It seemed so preposterous to associate deceit with the Red Lily, who was as pure as the beautiful flower after which she was called.

When he escorted her down to the cabin a little later, he said:

‘Darling, I am uneasy about you. Something is wrong, I am sure, but your gentle heart prompts you to keep it from me for fear of giving me pain. Do be good to yourself for my sake. Why don’t you take your mother into your confidence, and tell her if you have any trouble, since you do not apparently care to confide it to me.’

‘Do not be uneasy,’ she answered. ‘Believe me, oh, do believe me, when I say that my indisposition is of a very trifling character. I have nothing to tell my mother, and you know perfectly well, Dick, you have my full confidence.’

She felt a little guilty as she said this, for she knew that she ought to have told him at once of Cornell’s conduct. But, firstly, the strange fascination he exercised over her kept her silent; and, secondly, she was really afraid of causing a scene between the two men. Besides, she comforted herself with the thought that the voyage would soon be over, and once clear of the ship it would be good-bye to Cornell for ever. She regarded him as a vain, presumptuous fellow, who imagined that every girl he looked at must be in love with him.

As soon as her lover had left her, and she had been to wish her mother good-night, the Red Lily once again gave unrestrained vent to her feelings, and wept passionately. She could not help it. She felt almost as if she would die if she did not weep, and weep she did bitterly until she fretted herself to sleep.

The following morning she was weak and pale, and did not put in an appearance at breakfast. The beautiful pink had faded from her face, and she had the look of one who was jaded and unhappy. Mrs. Hetherington visited her daughter, and naturally felt alarmed. There was a doctor on board, and Mrs. Hetherington expressed a determination to consult him; but Lily pleaded with such earnestness, and at last expressed such a strong determination not to see him, that her mother yielded, and Lily kept in her cabin all that day.

On the following day she was better. Cornell’s influence had passed away, and she had to a considerable extent regained her spirits.

The weather was now very chilly, and unfortunately the wind was unfavourable, so that the ship had to sail on long and short tacks. It was worse than tantalising to those who had looked forward so eagerly to spending Christmas with their friends in the dear old country. The hope of doing that was now past, for the distance was too great to cover in the time that intervened between them and the great Christian Festival. Well wrapped in rugs, Lily was once more seated on deck in company with Dick. She had been doing some fancy needlework, and he had been sketching a large vessel that had been in company with them two or three days. Presently he laid down his sketching block on the deck, and looking up into the fair face of his companion, he said:

‘Lily, pet, do you remember the promise you made to me before we left India?’

‘What was that, Dick?’ she asked.

‘That you would become my wife on Christmas Day.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly, and with some slight agitation; ‘but we shall not be home by that time.’

‘That is true; but it need not affect your promise.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ she answered.

‘You are surely aware, Lily, that a marriage on board of a ship is perfectly legal. Even a captain has the power to marry people; but it fortunately happens, as you know, that we have a Church of England clergyman amongst us, and therefore I claim the fulfilment of your promise.’

‘Oh, Dick, it cannot be.’

‘Cannot be!’ he echoed in some astonishment. ‘Were your words, then, _only_ words after all?’

‘Ah, love, do not be harsh with me. I should so much prefer that our wedding took place in the regular way on shore, and it is to be hoped that we shall arrive in England by the New Year.’

‘I am far from being harsh with you, Lily,’ answered Dick, a little sadly; ‘but you yourself expressed a wish to be married on the Christmas morning, even saying that you were superstitious about it. Although there is every prospect now that we shall be at sea on that day, there is no reason at all why we should not be married on board; and if you like we will go through the ceremony again when we reach England. The mere circumstance of being married in or out of a church cannot possibly affect our union, and I am sure you have too much good sense to be influenced by the stupid idea which possesses some small-brained people--that a marriage performed out of a church cannot be sanctified.’

‘I have no such idea,’ she said. ‘I should be ashamed of myself if I had.’

‘Very well, then, Lily, say that you will be my wife on Christmas morning, even though we are at sea.’

‘How long does it want to Christmas, Dick?’

‘Three weeks exactly.’

‘Then I promise you that if mamma offers no objection I will gratify your wish.’

‘I am perfectly satisfied that your mother will willingly let us have our own way, so on Christmas Day we will become man and wife, if we are both living.’

‘On Christmas Day we will become man and wife if we are both living,’ she repeated solemnly, but the words had scarcely left her lips when she almost uttered a scream, for close beside her stood Cornell. He had his sextant in his hand, and had come up the companion-way (near which Dick and Lily were sitting) with the captain to take the sun.

‘Make eight bells,’ said the captain, ‘we shall get no sun to-day.’

‘Eight bells,’ roared out Cornell.

‘Come, dear, let us go down to luncheon,’ said Dick as he rose, gathered up the wraps, and offered his arm to his _fiancée_.

She had to pass Cornell to reach the companion-way, and she saw his hawk-like eyes fixed upon her, although he pretended to be examining the figures on his sextant. Those eyes burned into her soul, as it were, and the strange hysterical feeling came back again so that she felt as if she must weep, but by a powerful effort she controlled herself, and Dick did not notice how she was affected.

The question of the marriage being put to Mrs. Hetherington, that lady said that she should offer no objection to the wishes of the young people. Consequently it was soon understood that the monotony of the voyage would be relieved by a wedding on Christmas morning. In which case there would be a double occasion for rejoicing and festivities.

Christmas at sea is always a festive time, but this particular one on board the ‘Sirocco’ promised to be unusually lively. The captain gave orders to the steward that he was to reserve a good supply of his best champagne for the occasion, and the cook was ordered to make plenty of cakes and fancy things; while the butcher was instructed to kill the fattest geese of the few that remained, and the last pig was to be slaughtered in order to add to the feast. The lady and gentlemen passengers rummaged amongst their boxes to try and fish out suitable little presents to give to the young couple, and there was much fun and laughter as all sorts of odd suggestions were made; while the ladies further busied themselves in improvising suitable decorations for the saloon. In fact, this coming marriage was looked upon as a blessing almost, for the voyage had been so long and tedious, that the little excitement caused by the prospective union of the Red Lily and Dick Fenton was most welcome.

As the second mate seemed to purposely avoid Lily now, she recovered her spirits; in fact, several days passed without her seeing him, and she began to laugh at her stupidity in allowing him to have such an influence over her. Dick could not fail to notice the change, and, attributing it to the pleasure she anticipated at the near prospect of their union, he was delighted also.

Christmas Day was now anxiously looked forward to by all the passengers, and as it only wanted eight days to the time great preparations were going on, and ladies busied themselves in stoning raisins and performing other incidental necessaries in connection with the concoction of those mysteries--Christmas puddings. The gentlemen found occupation in dressing the saloon with flags, and decorations ingeniously constructed by the fair sex out of the most likely and unlikely things. No one who has not been on a long voyage in a passenger ship can imagine with what avidity every little incident calculated to relieve the monotony of life at sea--if it can truthfully be said to be monotonous--is seized upon. Therefore, Christmas tide and a marriage in the bargain were such important events, that the little floating world which the ‘Sirocco’ represented was agitated to its very centre, and the excitement rose to fever heat.

Life at sea, however, is influenced by laws which do not affect it on land. Changes in the weather; changes from calm to rough weather have a marked effect on a floating community, and a few hours often produce the most extraordinary transformations. An oily sea may become raging mountains of water, and the steadiness of a ship is turned into violent pitching and tossing that renders walking to all but the most experienced a matter of great difficulty. At such times soup plates will perform somersaults into your lap, and joints of meat evince a decided objection to remain in their proper positions. While, as for poultry, wine bottles, &c., they suddenly acquire an agility for flying through the air, so that what with dodging these missiles, and holding on like grim death to the table or the back of the settee, one’s life at meal time on board of a ship in stormy weather is by no means as comfortable as it might be in a well-appointed dining-room on shore.

Within a week of Christmas it became manifest that the ‘Sirocco’ was destined to encounter some bad weather. There had been sullen calms succeeded by fitful bursts of storm, but the good ship had crept on and on until she had reached the verge of the Bay of Biscay. The bay, although it bears such a bad character, is suggestive of nearing home to those who come from afar, and consequently the passengers were high-spirited, notwithstanding that it was pretty certain that a good deal of knocking about was in store for them.

One night during the middle watch a furious squall suddenly burst upon the vessel, and as she had all sail set she heeled over almost on to her beam ends. Several sails were rent to fragments by the force of the wind, and the long strips flying out in the tempest made a tremendous cracking like the cracking of stock whips. ‘All hands’ were called on deck, and there were all the noise, and shouting, and uproar incidental to a sudden squall in the dead of night. To the timid and the inexperienced this is particularly alarming, for as the ship flies along on her side the waters hiss in a strange manner, the shouting and tramp of the sailors, the orders given hastily and in stentorian tones, the cracker-like reports of the torn sails, the groaning and creaking of the rudder chains, the indescribable howling of the wind, and the extreme angle of the vessel, are sufficiently alarming to produce nervousness even in those whose acquaintance with the sea is not of recent date. And this is more particularly the case when such a squall occurs at night; then the sky is inky in its blackness, and nothing can be seen save the spectral-like outlines of the rigging and the masts, and such objects as are immediately near the spectator. When this particular squall struck the ship it happened that the Red Lily’s cabin was on the weather side, and so suddenly did the ship heel over that Lily narrowly escaped being thrown from her bunk. Although this was not her first experience of a squall at night she felt unusually alarmed, for the vessel was lying over at such an unusual angle, and there was so much noise on deck.

Hastily throwing on a few articles of clothing, and covering them with a dressing-gown, she encased her feet in slippers, and rushed over to her mother’s cabin, which was on the lee side. Undisturbed by the shock Mrs. Hetherington was sleeping soundly, and so, not wishing to wake her, the first impression of alarm having passed away, Lily closed the cabin door gently, and then went up the companion-way and peeped out into the darkness. The white waters were flying past, and the vessel was lying over almost to her lee scuppers. Lily stepped on to the deck, holding on to the handle of the companion-way door. There was a babel of mingled sounds, and the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane. She had stood there but a few minutes when suddenly she became aware that Cornell was standing beside her. He was superintending the stowing of the mizzen to’gallant sail. He was evidently surprised to see her there. She was about to descend again, for his presence brought back all her old fears, when he caught her arm, and with gentle force restrained her.

‘This is fortunate,’ he said. ‘The opportunity I have longed for this squall has at last given me.’

‘Let me go,’ she exclaimed, ‘or I will scream.’ She was trembling with fear and excitement, but he still held her.

‘You dare not,’ he answered in a strange tone. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘You have been cruel to me, but you must be so no longer or I shall die. I cannot live without you.’

‘Are you mad?’ she said with a shudder.

‘Perhaps I am. If I am you have made me so.’ He passed his arm round her waist and held her closely.

She struggled to free herself, but she was powerless in his strong grasp. The mysterious influence he exercised over her now kept her tongue tied so that she could not scream, could not cry out. He bent low and pressed his lips to hers, and yet that did not break the spell which bound her.

‘You are to be married on Christmas Day,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I hope before then _he_ or I will be dead. If I live you shall become _my_ wife. Do you hear? my wife. You may think I am talking mere words, but you will see.’

He released her and she found herself in her cabin. How she got down she did not know. She was burning with indignation and shame. His polluting lips had touched hers, and she shivered as she thought of it. She rubbed her lips with her handkerchief as though he had left some stain which she was trying to wipe away. She yearned to go at once to Fenton’s cabin and tell him all, but a deadly fear of Cornell withheld her, the spell of his extraordinary power was upon her, and she felt that she _dare not_ open her mouth to tell aught of what had occurred. The man’s influence, whatever it was, was paramount. She feared and hated him, and yet dare not denounce him. Of course she was weak, but then he was no ordinary man. His strength of will was enormous, and subdued her.

During the rest of the night she could not sleep, and she longed for Christmas Day to come, so that, as Dick’s wife, she might be free from the persecutions of the mysterious Cornell.

When the morning broke the storm had died away, leaving a gentle wind that wafted the ship along at about eight knots an hour.

‘We shall have steady weather now,’ the captain observed at breakfast time, as he examined the barometer that swung over the cabin table.

His prognostication proved correct. The wind increased day by day until it was blowing a strong gale, but as it was favourable a large spread of canvas was carried upon the ship.

The day preceding Christmas Day arrived; the ‘Sirocco’ was in the Bay of Biscay, off the inhospitable Cape Finisterre. By Christmas Eve the wind had increased very much, so that the ship was ‘snugged down.’ Extra lookouts were kept, for a great number of outward and homeward bound vessels were in the Bay. The night promised to be a very ‘dirty one,’ but there was merriment on board, and many a toast to ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ was drunk, both in the cabin and in the forecastle, for a liberal allowance of grog had been served out to the crew.

The preparations for the wedding were all complete. The saloon was gaily decorated, and it was arranged that the marriage ceremony was to be performed at eleven o’clock in the morning. But before eleven o’clock strange things were to happen.

The night waned, and as eight bells sounded Dick Fenton went on deck to smoke a cigar before turning in. The ladies had all retired, and only a single night lamp burned in the saloon. The wind had drawn ahead a good deal, and the vessel could only carry close-reefed main-topsail and fore-topsail, so that she was making very little way, simply ‘forging,’ as sailors say, at the rate of about two knots an hour. A favourite seat with Dick when he went on deck to smoke his cigar was on the rail near the mizzen shrouds. There he was under the shelter of the captain’s gig, which was slung outside on davits, and his feet rested on a hencoop that ran along the poop. Sitting there now pensively dreaming of his Red Lily, and the happiness that awaited him on the morrow when she would become his wife, he had no thought of danger. There was music in the rush of the wild waters and the screaming sweep of the wind. The vessel had that short, jerky motion which a ship has in a rough sea when under reefed topsails.

Suddenly there rose up before Dick’s vision the dark figure of a man.

‘Hallo! is that you, captain?’ exclaimed Dick.

‘No,’ was the answer, and in the gruff voice Dick recognised the second mate.

‘Oh, it’s you, Cornell,’ he said. ‘This is a wild night. Do you think the wind will free at all before the morning?’

‘It may, and may not,’ was the somewhat surly answer, and in the husky tones Cornell betrayed that he was the worse for liquor. ‘I suppose you were thinking of the Red Lily,’ he remarked.

‘Really, Mr. Cornell, you are a little familiar,’ Dick said, not unkindly, for he was willing to make every allowance at such a time.

‘Bah, why am I familiar?’ sneered the second mate. ‘I suppose the night before his marriage every man thinks of the woman who is to be his wife.’

‘I suppose he does,’ Dick answered curtly, for he was not anxious to prolong the conversation seeing the strange humour Cornell was in.

‘You have quite made up your mind that she is to be your wife?’ asked Cornell.

‘Well, please God that nothing happens between now and the morning, Miss Hetherington will certainly become Mrs. Fenton.’

‘But it is destined that _something_ shall happen,’ Cornell exclaimed, ‘and you will never see the morrow.’

The words were spoken rapidly, and with a lightning-like movement he threw the whole weight of his body against Dick, who, unprepared for such an assault, was pressed backwards, and falling between the boat and the side of the vessel was lost in the dark, hissing waters.

‘A man overboard!’ cried the second mate with all the power of his lusty lungs, and instantly the dreadful cry was taken up, and the watch came rushing aft. The captain, who was in his cabin, tore on deck, and in a moment all was confusion.

‘Who is it, who is it?’ exclaimed the captain.

‘Mr. Fenton, I think, for I saw him sitting on the rail a few minutes before,’ said Cornell.

‘Clear away the boat, men, quick!’ cried the captain. Then he and Cornell cut away lifebuoys and cast them into the sea.

‘I will try and save him, sir,’ said Cornell, as he divested himself of his heavy sea boots and his oil skins.

Divining his motives the captain laid hold of his arm and said:

‘Are you mad, man? It is enough that one life should be sacrificed.’ But Cornell, making no reply, shook himself free, mounted the rail, and dived headlong into the black waters.

The excitement was now intense. Everyone on board knew what had happened, but everyone did not know that it was Dick who had gone. The Red Lily was in this state of blissful ignorance, though she with the other ladies crowded up the companion-way, and waited in breathless and painful anxiety.

The boat was manned and lowered. Lamps were brought and held up so as to throw a light as far as possible over the sea. The boat was away about an hour. It was a fearful agony of suspense that hour. The ship was hove to, and everything done that could be done. The searchers returned at last, bringing with them the second mate in an exhausted condition, but not Dick; he had gone, and as nothing more could be done, sail was again set, and the ‘Sirocco’ went upon her way with one soul less.

Christmas morning dawned. The gaiety was changed to sorrow, and the marriage decorations were taken down and signs of mourning appeared.

Tenderly and gently the sad news was broken to the Red Lily, and those who told her did not fail to tell how ‘nobly’ the second mate had risked his life to try and save that of her lover. Tenderly as the news was broken, the shock stunned her, and for days she lay in a state of partial coma. But there were loving hands to tend, and loving voices to soothe, and gradually she came round. All the sunshine, however, seemed to have gone out of her nature, and she was a crushed woman.

For the first time for many days she went on deck, and was propped with pillows in a sofa-chair, and for the first time since that terrible night she saw Cornell. All her feeling of revulsion for him had changed, and, stretching forth her white hand to him, she said in her loving, sweet voice:

‘Mr. Cornell, I have been unjust to you. You must forgive me. You are a brave and generous man.’

He took her hand and answered:

‘I grieve with you, Miss Hetherington. I did my best to save him, but it was not to be. No man can prevent his fate. It is not for me to say why, at such a moment, your lover should have met his doom. It was Destiny; but, though I battled with the waves and the darkness of the night, it was not my destiny to drown.’

Lily shuddered. The man spoke so strangely. There was such a weird appearance about him, and his influence over her was as strong as ever. And yet a fearful thought came to her. Was it not probable that Cornell had hurled her lover into the sea, and then, seized with sudden remorse, had dived after him?

Oh, how that dreadful thought troubled and pained her! She struggled with it for days, and wept and wept and wept again. At one moment she resolved to take her mother into her confidence, and tell her all. But whenever this feeling came upon her the mysterious Cornell seemed to be at her side, and then all her will power went again. She felt that she hated him one moment, but the next she could and would have grovelled at his feet, overcome by a curious fascination, mingled with a sort of admiration, for the daring, reckless, wicked, iron-willed fellow.

* * * * *

A week later the ship was in the London docks.

Lily and her mother went on shore at Gravesend. The poor girl was bowed with sorrow, and she felt as though she would never again hold up her head. Before she left the ship Cornell begged hard to be allowed to call upon her. She wanted to refuse him, but could not, and, with the consent of her mother, she gave him permission to do so, for the mother felt she was indebted to him.

Lily and Mrs. Hetherington went to reside in the west-end of London, and Cornell, availing himself of their permission, was almost a daily visitor. He announced his intention of not going to sea again for some time, and the old fascination he had exercised over Lily was exerted now to a greater degree; and though she was sure she possessed no love for him, she felt drawn towards him in a strange manner. One day, four months after their arrival home, he pressed her to become his wife, and she reluctantly gave her consent. She would have said ‘No’ if she could, but she was powerless; and believing that she had previously misjudged him and done him a wrong, she said:

‘I will be a dutiful and faithful wife to you, but you must never hope to win my love. _That_ is buried in the cruel sea.’

It was arranged that the wedding was to take place in a few months’ time. He objected to the delay, but she was firm on the point, for she felt that it would not be respectful to her dead love to marry so soon after the calamity. Many a girl who knew Lily and her lover envied her. Cornell was so ‘handsome,’ so ‘fascinating,’ so ‘manly,’ ‘such a splendid type of a sailor’; but when her friends congratulated her she only sighed. She felt as if she were sacrificing herself; but then her affianced husband had so nobly risked his life for her lover’s sake, notwithstanding his previous strange conduct, and on that account alone she was going to give him her hand. She little dreamed that his jumping overboard was only part of his diabolical plan, and was meant to avert suspicion--which it did most effectually. So far as the risk to himself was concerned, it was reduced to a minimum, for he was a magnificent and powerful swimmer, and before he took the leap he was careful to see that plenty of lifebuoys had been dropped over, and that the boat was all ready for lowering.

In the course of the next few months Mrs. Hetherington and her daughter removed to the village of Bowness, on the banks of Windermere, as they had friends living there; and it was arranged that the marriage should take place in the parish church of that place.

The wedding day came. It was a glorious summer’s morning, and the air was filled with the music of birds and the scent of flowers. The wedding was to be very quiet, and but few guests had been invited. Those who knew Lily well said that the ‘Red Lily had drooped.’ All the brightness was out of her life, for she felt that her heart was beneath the waves of the Bay of Biscay.

The wedding party had assembled in the church, and the ceremony had commenced. When the grey-haired clergyman asked if anyone knew any just cause or impediment why the man and woman should not be joined together in the bonds of holy matrimony, there rose up a man in the body of the church, and in a loud and steady voice exclaimed:

‘I forbid this marriage.’

Had a thunderbolt fallen through the roof the consternation and confusion could not have been greater. With a great cry the Red Lily threw up her arms, and then fell forward on her face in a swoon. For a few moments Cornell stood as if petrified. His face was ghastly pale. By this time the man had come forward to the altar rails, and then Cornell found tongue.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘is it possible that the dead can come to life?’

‘No; but the living can thwart the machinations of a villain, and I am here to do that,’ said Dick Fenton, for he it was. ‘This man,’ continued Dick, addressing the astonished spectators, ‘attempted to murder me.’

No one moved. They were dumb with amazement, for they naturally thought a madman was amongst them. Dick himself stooped and lifted up the inanimate form of the Lily, and bore her into the vestry. Taking advantage of the confusion--for everyone seemed bewildered--Cornell stole from the church, got clear away, and was never heard of more.

It was some time before Lily recovered consciousness. It is better to leave the reunion of the lovers to the imagination of the reader, for words always fail to convey anything like an adequate notion of such a scene. The news of the affair had rapidly spread over the village; an enormous crowd had gathered about the church, and the uproar was immense. The wedding party had to wait a considerable time before they could get back to their homes; then explanations were given.

On that dreadful night in the Bay of Biscay Dick had escaped death almost by a miracle, as it were. He was a good swimmer, but was a little stunned by striking his head against the side of the vessel in his descent. He had a recollection, however, of making a powerful effort to swim, and in a little while he felt something touch his hand, and found it was a lifebuoy. On this he supported himself for a long time--it seemed to him two or three hours. Then he saw the outlines of a vessel, which he took to be the ‘Sirocco,’ and he shouted with all his might, and presently had the satisfaction to hear the plash of oars. He had only a faint recollection of hearing a human voice, and feeling the grasp of hands about him. Then ensued a blank. When next he opened his eyes he found himself in a comfortable cabin, and he soon learnt that it was not the ‘Sirocco’ that had picked him up, but an outward bound ship, called the ‘Golden Fleece.’ She was bound for the Cape, and so Dick was mortified to find that he must accompany her there, unless a homeward bounder should be fallen in with, and he could get on board. This chance did not occur, and so to the Cape he went, but the vessel made a long voyage. As soon after arrival as possible he took ship for England, and on reaching there he soon discovered to his amazement that the Red Lily was on the eve of being married to Cornell. He hurried down to the Lake district, and was there a whole week determining not to declare himself until the last moment, so that the discomfiture of his enemy might be the more complete.

For some months after this strange and startling incident Lily remained in such delicate health that grave fears were at one time entertained. Sudden joy is almost as bad as great sorrow at times, and the unexpected return of her lost lover had been too great a shock. Care, attention, and change of air, however, gradually restored her, and again she made preparations for her marriage, which was to take place on Christmas Day, twelve months after the terrible scene in the Bay of Biscay, when Dick was hurled into the sea.

The day came at last--cold, crisp, and bright. The earth was wrapped in a robe of spotless white, and the church was decorated with holly and winter flowers. As the bells pealed forth merrily, and the winter sun shone out from the dull sky, Dick Fenton led his bride down the pathway to the carriage that waited them at the gate, and the crowd of villagers that had gathered in the old churchyard declared that no bonnier bride had ever been seen than the Red Lily.

V

THE PIRATE’S TREASURE

A TRUE AND DRAMATIC STORY OF THE SEA

At the time the startling events I am about to relate occurred, I had but recently passed my final examination in medicine, after what I may modestly say was a successful course of study in Glasgow, of which city I am a native. For some time I had been anxiously expecting my diploma, which would give me the right to practice my profession, and I was trying to obtain an appointment as surgeon on board a splendid East Indiaman, known as the ‘Clydesdale.’ Singularly enough, on the very day that I received the intimation that my application had been favourably considered, I was placed in possession of a letter from a dear friend in London, asking me if I would proceed on his behalf with all possible speed to Surinam, on a very delicate and important mission. For an hour or two I was exercised in my mind as to the proper course I ought to pursue in my own interests; that is, whether I should accept the ‘Clydesdale’ appointment, or undertake my friend’s commission. Something prompted me to choose the latter, and I immediately communicated my decision to London. In a post or two I received my instructions, with a bank draft for my expenses, and I was told to secure a berth in a vessel if possible proceeding direct to the place where my business was to be transacted. I therefore lost no time in making inquiries about a ship, and at last heard of one called the ‘Ariadne.’ She had been chartered by a Glasgow company, and was then loading up at the West Quay, and was to sail in a few days. I at once secured a passage in her, and went down to see the vessel for the first time the very day she was to leave. Little did I dream then how strangely my destiny was to be affected by the fact of my having undertaken my friend’s commission. While I stood examining her from the pier, two sailors, who seemed to be roaming idly about, stopped and began to converse by my side.

‘Has the “Ariadne” shipped all her hands, Jack?’ asked the one; ‘I see she has the Blue Peter flying. Somebody told me she has been sold to a Dutch firm now. How would you like to sail in her?’

‘Not me, mate,’ replied the other; ‘I know too much about her. I made a voyage in her four years ago, and a cleaner or livelier craft is not on the sea! But there is a limb of the devil in her as skipper that is enough to cause her to sink to the bottom. It was in my voyage that he did for Bill Burnet with the pump-sounding rod, because the little fellow snivelled a bit, and was not handy to jump when he was ordered aloft to set the fore-royal. It was his first voyage, and the boy was mortal afraid to venture; but the captain swore he would make him, and in his passion hit him a rap with the iron rod and killed him. When he saw what he had done he lifted the body while it was still quivering and hove it over the side; and many a long day the men wondered what had become of little Bill, for they were all below at dinner, and none but myself saw the bloody deed. It was needless for me to complain and get him overhauled, as there were no witnesses; but I left the ship, and berths would be scarce before I would sail with him again or put my foot on the deck of his ship. I tell you, mate, there’s a curse on her, and them as sails in her will come to grief.’

Knowing what tyrants shipmasters are in general, and how much their passengers’ comfort depends on them, I was somewhat startled by this piece of information respecting the temper of the man I purposed to sail with. But necessity has no law! The circumstance was probably much misrepresented, I thought, and, from a simple act of discipline, exaggerated to an act of wanton cruelty. But be that as it might--my affairs were urgent. There was no other vessel for the same port--I must either take my passage or run the risk of being superseded. The thing was not to be thought of, so I went and secured my berth. As my preparations were few and trifling, I had everything arranged and on board just as the vessel was unmooring from the quay. During the night we got down to the Clock Lighthouse, and stood off and on, waiting for the captain, who had remained behind to get the ship cleared out at the Custom House. Soon afterwards he joined us, and, the pilot leaving us in the return-boat, we stood down the Forth under all our canvas. Her beloved Majesty Queen Victoria had not long been on the throne, and piracy on the high seas was still a lucrative pursuit. Every merchantman, therefore, generally carried a fair amount of armament, and our vessel was no exception, although I, for one, certainly never anticipated any adventure.

For four weeks we had a quick and pleasant passage. The ‘Ariadne’ was a good sailer; for, being American-built, and originally intended for a privateer, she sailed uncommonly fast, generally running at the rate of twelve knots an hour in a good wind.

As I expected, Captain Mahone, an Irishman by birth, proved to be, in point of acquirements, not at all above the common run of skippers in command of sailing ships at that period. He was haughty and overbearing, and domineered over the crew with a high hand; in return for which he was evidently feared and detested by them all. He had been many years in the West Indies, and during most of that time had commanded a local trader, and had, between the fervid suns of such high latitudes and the copious use of grog, become of a rich mahogany colour, or something between vermilion and the tint of a sheet of new copper. He was a middle-sized man, square built, with a powerful and muscular frame. His aspect, naturally harsh and forbidding, was rendered more so by the sinister expression of his left eye, which had been nearly forced out by some accident, and the lineaments of his countenance expressed plainly that he was passionate and furious in the extreme. In consequence of this I kept rather distant and aloof; and, except at meals, we seldom exchanged more than ordinary civilities.

By our reckoning, our ship had now got into the latitude of the Bermudas, when one evening at sunset the wind, which had hitherto been favourable, fell at once into a dead calm. The day had been clear and bright; but now huge masses of dark and conical-shaped clouds began to tower over each other in the western horizon, which, being tinged with the rays of the sun, displayed that lurid and deep brassy tint so well known to mariners as the token of an approaching storm. All the sailors were of opinion that we should have a coarse night, and every precaution that good seamanship could suggest was taken to make the vessel snug before the gale came on. The oldest boys were sent up to hand and send down the royal and top-gallant sails and strike the yards, while the topsails and staysails were close-reefed. These preparations were hardly accomplished when the wind shifted, and took us aback with such violence as nearly to capsize the vessel. The ship was put round as soon as possible, and lay to, while all hands remained on deck in case of any emergency. About ten, in the interval of a squall, we heard a gun fired as a signal of distress. The night was as black as pitch, but the flash showed us that the stranger was not far to leeward; so, to avoid drifting on the wreck during the darkness, the main-topsail was braced round and filled, and the ship hauled to windward. In this manner we kept alternately beating or heaving-to as the gale rose or fell till the morning broke, when, through the haze, we perceived a small vessel with her masts carried away. As the wind had dropped, the captain had gone to bed; so it was the mate’s watch on deck. The steersman, an old grey-headed seaman, named James Gemmel, proposed to bear down and save the people, saying he had been twice wrecked himself, and knew what it was to be in such a situation. Owing to the captain being below, the mate was irresolute what to do, being aware that the success of the speculation depended on their getting to Surinam with all possible speed; however, he was at length persuaded--the helm was put up, and the ship bore away.

As we neared the wreck, and were standing by the mizzen shrouds with our glasses, the captain came up from the cabin. He looked up with astonishment to the sails and the direction of the vessel’s head, and in a voice of suppressed passion said, as he turned to the mate, ‘What is the meaning of this, Mr. Wyllie? Who has dared to alter the ship’s course without my leave, when you knew very well that we shall hardly be in time for the market, use what expedition we may?’ The young man was confused by this unexpected challenge, and stammered out something about Gemmel having persuaded him. ‘It was me, sir,’ respectfully answered the old sailor, wishing to avert the storm from the mate; ‘I thought you wouldn’t have the heart to leave the wreck, and these people to perish, without lending a hand to save them! We should be neither Christians nor true seamen to desert her, and----’

‘Damn you and the wreck, you old canting rascal! Do you dare to stand there and preach to me?’ thundered the captain, his fury breaking out. ‘I’ll teach you to disobey my orders! I’ll give you something to think of!’ and seizing a capstan-bar which lay near him he hurled it at the steersman with all his might. The blow was effectual--one end of it struck him across the head with such force as to sweep him in an instant from his station at the wheel, and to dash him with violence against the lee-bulwarks, where he lay bleeding and motionless. ‘Take that, and be damned to you!’ exclaimed the wretch, as he seized the helm and sang out to the men: ‘Stand by sheets and braces--hard a-lee--let go!’ In a twinkling the yards were braced round, and the ship, laid between six points to the wind, was flying through the water.

Meanwhile Gemmel was lying without anyone daring to assist him, for the crew were so confounded that they seemed quite undetermined how to act. I stepped to him, therefore, and the mate following my example, we lifted him up. As there was no appearance of respiration, I placed my hand to his heart, but pulsation had entirely ceased--the old man was dead! The bar had struck him directly on the temporal bone, and had completely fractured that part of the skull.

‘He is a murdered man, Captain Mahone!’ said I, laying down the body, ‘murdered without cause or provocation.’

‘None of your remarks, sir!’ he retorted; ‘what the devil have you to do with it? Do you mean to stir up my men to mutiny? Or do you call disobeying my orders no provocation? I’ll answer it to those who have a right to ask; but till then, let me see the man who dare open his mouth to me in this ship.’

‘I promise you,’ returned I, ‘that though you rule and tyrannise here at present, your power shall have a termination, and you shall be called to account for your conduct in this day’s work. Rest assured that this blood shall be required at your hands, though you have hitherto escaped punishment for what has stained them already.’ This allusion to the murder of little Bill Burnet seemed to stagger him considerably; he stopped short before me, and, while his face grew black with suppressed wrath and fury, whispered:

‘I warn you again, young man, to busy yourself with your own matters. Meddle not with what does not concern you; and belay your slack jaw, or, by----! Rink Mahone will find a way to make it fast for you!’ He then turned round, and walked forward to the forecastle.