Driven to bay, Vol. 3 (of 3)

By Florence Marryat

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Title: Driven to bay, Vol. 3 (of 3)

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: March 27, 2025 [eBook #75728]

Language: English

Original publication: London: F. V. White & Co, 1887

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRIVEN TO BAY, VOL. 3 (OF 3) ***





DRIVEN TO BAY.

VOL. III.




  DRIVEN TO BAY.

  _A NOVEL._

  BY
  FLORENCE MARRYAT,

  AUTHOR OF

  ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’
  ‘THE MASTER PASSION,’ ‘SPIDERS OF SOCIETY,’
  ETC., ETC.

  _IN THREE VOLUMES._

  VOL. III.

  LONDON:
  F. V. WHITE & CO.,
  31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

  1887.

  [_All Rights reserved._]




  EDINBURGH
  COLSTON AND COMPANY
  PRINTERS




[Illustration]

_CONTENTS._


  CHAP.                         PAGE

     I. A PRIVATE FARCE,           1

    II. GRACE AND GODFREY,        20

   III. IRIS AND VERNON,          39

    IV. THE HOUSE AMIDSHIPS,      56

     V. FACE TO FACE,             72

    VI. THE RENDEZVOUS,           88

   VII. THE MURDER,              108

  VIII. MISSING,                 125

    IX. MR FOWLER,               142

     X. DRIFTING BACK,           157

    XI. A CHANGE,                175

   XII. EXPOSURE,                192

  XIII. A LEE SHORE,             209

   XIV. SHIPWRECKED,             224

    XV. FARRELL’S REVENGE,       239




“SELECT” NOVELS.

_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each._

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS.


By FLORENCE MARRYAT.

  THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE.
  THE HEART OF JANE WARNER.
  UNDER THE LILIES AND ROSES.
  MY OWN CHILD.
  HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.
  PEERESS AND PLAYER.
  FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.
  A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
  MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.


By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudlip).

  HER SUCCESS.
  KATE VALLIANT.
  JENIFER.
  ALLERTON TOWERS.
  FRIENDS AND LOVERS.


By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.

  MATED WITH A CLOWN.
  ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN.
  MOLLIE DARLING.
  SWEETHEART AND WIFE.


By MRS HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”

  BARBARA’S WARNING.


By MRS ALEXANDER FRASER.

  THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.
  A FATAL PASSION.
  A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.


By IZA DUFFUS HARDY.

  ONLY A LOVE STORY.
  NOT EASILY JEALOUS.
  LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY.


By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.

  POISONED ARROWS.


By MRS H. LOVETT CAMERON.

  IN A GRASS COUNTRY.
  A DEAD PAST.
  A NORTH COUNTRY MAID.


By DORA RUSSELL.

  OUT OF EDEN.


By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE.

  KEITH’S WIFE.


By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON, Author of “So Runs my Dream.”

  FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE.


By EDMUND LEATHES.

  THE ACTOR’S WIFE.


By HARRIETT JAY.

  A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.


COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.




DRIVEN TO BAY.




[Illustration]

DRIVEN TO BAY.




CHAPTER I.

A PRIVATE FARCE.


Miss Vere was not only a clever woman, and a woman of the world, she
was an excessively warm-hearted and generous woman,--one who, with a
large mind, could take pleasure in little things, and especially if
they gave pleasure to others. All this was plainly typified by the
interest she took in the _Pandora’s_ theatricals, and the trouble she
put herself to concerning them. She gained nothing by the act. She had
reaped her own laurels on the public boards, and wanted no applause
from private individuals. She was busy, moreover, with study for the
New Zealand tour, and had no more time than was necessary for her own
work. Yet she laid it all aside to coach her fellow-passengers in
their parts; to design their dresses; to suggest the rough scenery,
and even to superintend some of the preparations. The sailors had
rigged up a temporary stage in the steerage, where they had been
giving some uncouth performances themselves; and when the ladies and
gentlemen proposed to act, Captain Robarts had given leave for it to
be draped with the ship’s flags to form a proscenium, whilst some of
the men were told off to daub back canvases to serve as scenery for
the different acts. It was difficult to place ‘The Rivals’ on such
a stage with any effect, but the difficulty seemed to enhance the
excitement attendant on the amusement; and what with the ladies’ energy
and Miss Vere’s suggestions, the dresses promised to be marvellous,
considering the drawbacks placed in their way. For a week previous to
the performance, the good-natured actress had always one or more of
the aspirants for histrionic honours closeted with her in her private
cabin, whilst she drilled them in tone and gesture until they were
perfect in their parts. And with no one had she taken more trouble than
with Harold Greenwood. The poor little man had been so palpably ‘sent
to Coventry’ by his fellow-passengers, since the fright he had given
them, that his forlorn condition had excited Miss Vere’s compassion,
and she had shown him all the more kindness in consequence. But she
little knew the damage she was doing. Ever since their first meeting,
Mr Greenwood had secretly worshipped the fascinating actress. She
was just the sort of woman to attract a man of his calibre. Love
invariably loves a contrast. She was big, and he was small. She was
strong and energetic, and he was weak and incapable. She was full of
mirth and humour, and he was romantically and sentimentally inclined.
His nature unconsciously bowed before her strength and ability, and
he mistook the feeling for something different; for magnetism, if it
be not love itself, is quite as powerful, and more binding than the
master passion. Had Mr Greenwood’s fancy stopped there, it would have
done no harm to anybody; but, unfortunately, he mistook Miss Vere’s
good-natured attempts to make him forget the _contretemps_ which every
one else seemed determined he should remember, for a direct interest in
his own puny little person, and plumed his feathers accordingly. His
conceit and self-satisfaction became so offensively apparent, after
the actress had invited him to her cabin, and coached him there, in
some unimportant part for which she had cast him, just as a salve for
his wounded vanity, that Jack Blythe, whom he chose as a _confidant_,
felt inclined to kick him into the sea. The subject alone would have
been a source of irritation to Blythe, without the mode in which Harold
Greenwood conveyed it to him. Poor Jack was not in a humour just then
to receive love confidences from a successful suitor. He was suffering
terribly from the disappointment he had experienced, and it took all
his time to cast the devils of jealousy and envy out of him, and bring
his mind forcibly to bear upon his duty. And the intense conceit of
Harold Greenwood would have been sufficient to stir the wrath of a man
less irritably disposed than Vernon Blythe.

‘Out of the way, there!’ he called sharply, on the morning of the
theatricals, as a coil of rope came whizzing along the deck about the
legs of Mr Greenwood, causing the little man to jump a couple of feet
in the air, to avoid being thrown down by it.

‘Dear me!’ he ejaculated, ‘you might have given me warning, Mr Blythe.
You are all so awfully sudden in your movements on board ship, don’t
you know. One never has a moment to one’s self. And it’s really most
important that I should not be disturbed this morning! I’m studying
my part for this evening, don’t you know? You haven’t forgotten the
theatricals, eh?’

‘We can’t think of theatricals, or any other rubbish, when there’s work
to be done,’ replied Jack, somewhat roughly. ‘If you want to study,
you’d better go below. There’ll be more rope coming along by-and-by.’

‘No, thank you. I’m quite what Miss Vere calls “word perfect,” don’t
you know? A grand woman, Miss Vere, isn’t she now? Dear creature! what
hours of happiness we have had together in her cabin, preparing for
these theatricals. You’d envy me, Mr Blythe, if I told you all that has
passed between us.’

‘Perhaps I might. But I don’t know what right you have, Mr Greenwood,
to speak of any lady in such ambiguous terms. The more you have
received from a woman, the less you should say.’

‘Ah! but this is no secret, don’t you know? Everybody will hear it
soon. It will all be settled this evening.’

Jack looked at the pigmy with unfeigned surprise.

‘What the d--l!’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean to tell me there’s
anything serious in it?’

Mr Greenwood looked quite offended.

‘_Serious_, Mr Blythe. Why don’t you ask me at once if I’m a man of
honour, or not? Do you suppose I’d let any woman get talked about
just for my own amusement? I’ve been brought up different from that,
don’t you know? and whatever gentlemen may be accustomed to do in the
merchant service--’

‘Here! just stow that about the service, will you?’ interrupted Jack
quickly. ‘There are as good men in the merchant service as out of it,
and please to remember, when you speak of it, that I’m one of them.
And, at all events, we sha’n’t go to _you_ to teach us how to treat a
woman.’

‘Oh, dear! Mr Blythe, I meant no offence. I was only speaking at
random, don’t you know? But you seemed to think it strange I should
have any intentions with respect to Miss Vere, eh? Well, of course I
know I shall have trouble with my own family about it, because we’ve
never done anything of the sort before--married an actress, don’t you
know? But I’m of age,’ said Mr Greenwood, drawing himself up to his
full height, ‘and in these affairs I ask leave of no one.’

‘Except the lady, I presume,’ replied Jack dryly.

‘Except the lady, Mr Blythe, as you say. But the women--God bless
them--are not hard to please.’

‘I should think not,’ said the young officer, glancing at Harold
Greenwood critically; ‘and this lady, therefore, I am to presume, has
already succumbed?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mr Greenwood, tittering; ‘she _has_
succumbed--decidedly succumbed. I had not made up my own mind
concerning it until this morning, but she made up hers a fortnight ago.
Oh, I’ve had plenty of encouragement, don’t you know? The only thing
that has kept me back a little, is the fact of her being an actress;
but I shall make it a proviso that she gives up the stage.’

‘I should think she would give up anything for _you_,’ remarked Jack
ironically.

‘Well, I generally find them pretty amenable,’ returned Harold
Greenwood, with the most ineffable conceit. ‘There is a little girl in
England now that is most doosidly gone on me, don’t you know? She would
have followed me to New Zealand if I hadn’t prevented her,--hid in the
hold or the steerage--’pon my soul she would, only to be near me, and
to see me, don’t you know? They’re very faithful creatures, women are,
when they _really_ love. Don’t you think so?’

‘I really cannot boast of your unlimited experience,’ replied Jack. ‘No
one has ever hidden in the hold, or the steerage, I am afraid, just to
catch a glimpse of me.’

‘Really. Well, I suppose it depends very much on a fella himself, don’t
you know? But the women always said I had a way with me.’

‘And when are you going to exercise your “way” on Miss Vere?’

‘This evening. Oh, yes, it’s quite settled between us that I shall
speak this evening. She’s expecting it, don’t you know? But we’ve been
so busy the last fortnight studying our parts, I thought it best not to
unsettle our minds by thinking of other things. But this evening it’ll
be all right. I suppose you’ll be coming down to the theatricals, Mr
Blythe, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, I hope to be there.’

‘Then, when they’re over, I shall have the pleasure of introducing you
to the future Mrs Greenwood. It’ll be all settled by then, don’t you
know? Oh, she’s a glorious creature. Such eyes--such a mouth--such
splendid hair, and such a beautiful figure! I do hope my people won’t
make a jolly row about her being an actress. But if they do, I’ve made
up my mind to go on the stage too, and play her lovers. I don’t think
I should like any other fella to play her lover. It would make me so
horribly jealous, and when I’m jealous, I’m as bad as Othello, don’t
you know?’

‘Dear me!’ said Jack, ‘you must be very dangerous. I shouldn’t like to
be the woman you caught tripping.’

‘By Jove! I’d kill her, don’t you know?’ replied Greenwood; ‘but
don’t let’s talk of anything so horrid. Emily--that’s Miss Vere, you
know--will never give me any cause for jealousy--I’m sure of that. She
loves me too well. If you’d seen her this morning when we went through
our scene together, you’d have been ready to die of envy.’

‘Well, I congratulate you,’ said Jack. ‘She’s a very handsome woman,
and a very clever one, and a mine of gold into the bargain. If you win
her, you’ll be a lucky fellow. But don’t count your chickens before
they’re hatched.’

Harold Greenwood was indignant at the suggestion.

‘Don’t count my chickens before they’re hatched!’ he repeated. ‘But
they _are_ hatched, Mr Blythe, don’t you know?’

‘All the better for you, my boy,’ laughed Jack, as he walked away.

That afternoon at dinner time Mr Coffin was on duty, and Blythe took
his place at the table. As he did so, he glanced with some curiosity at
the upper end, where Miss Vere, the Vansittarts, and the Leytons were
all clustered about the captain. Harold Greenwood was sitting opposite
the actress, devouring her with his eyes, and listening open-mouthed to
every word she said. As his glance met that of Vernon Blythe, he nodded
to him in a self-satisfied manner, and threw a significant look across
the table, as much as to say, ‘Now, you will see, don’t you know?’ and
Vernon, in consequence, kept his ears open for all that went on between
them. Miss Vere appeared to be in excellent spirits, and quite looking
forward to the evening’s amusement.

‘My little “Julia” here, is simply perfect,’ she said to Captain
Lovell, as she laid a kindly hand on Alice Leyton’s shoulder, ‘and
when you see her in her short-waisted frock, I expect you all to lose
your hearts.’

‘Oh, Miss Vere! how can you talk so?’ exclaimed Alice. ‘When I hear you
speak, I shall be ashamed to open my mouth.’

‘That’s nonsense, dear,’ replied the actress. ‘If you could play as
well as I do, who have been so many years on the stage, my time and
labour would have been completely wasted. But you are an excellent
little actress, for an amateur, and if you had had my training, you
would play quite as well.’

‘You say that to encourage me,’ said Alice.

‘And why shouldn’t I encourage you? I assure you I am very proud of my
“scratch” company, and feel sure we are going to have a most enjoyable
evening. Mr Greenwood will distinguish himself for one, I know.’

‘I shall do my best to please you, Miss Vere, in every way, before
the evening’s over, don’t you know?’ replied Harold Greenwood, with a
knowing glance, which almost amounted to a wink, at Vernon Blythe.

‘That’s right,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Captain Robarts, I hope _you_
mean to honour us by your attendance?’

‘Certainly, Miss Vere, unless the ship claims my attention elsewhere.
But you’ll have a good audience without me. Everybody is looking
forward to it with the greatest expectation. The steward told me there
was quite a disturbance amongst the steerage passengers when they heard
that they were all invited to attend.’

‘Poor dears!’ sighed Miss Vere softly. ‘I remember once when my husband
and I were--’

But here she was interrupted by Alice Leyton.

‘Miss Vere,’ she exclaimed, loud enough for all the table to hear, ‘do
you know what you said?’

‘_What_ did I say?’ asked the actress, smiling.

‘_Your husband!_ Are you really _married_?’

At that question, the curiosity of all the passengers was aroused, and
none more so than that of Vernon Blythe. The actress glanced up and
down the table at the expectant faces, in amused surprise.

‘_Married!_’ she echoed, laughing merrily. ‘I thought all the world
knew as much as that. Why, _of course_ I’m married. Do I look like an
old maid? What horrible suspicions have attached themselves to me! I’ve
been married for the last ten years. I have five children,’ she added,
in a faltering voice, ‘at home.’

‘_Five children!_’ repeated Alice. ‘Oh, Miss Vere, do tell me about
them. What are their names, and are they boys or girls?’

‘Not now, dear,’ said her friend, as she dashed her hand across her
eyes. ‘Come to my cabin to-morrow, and you shall see all their
photographs. But if I talk of them now--well, not to put too fine a
point upon it, I shall begin to cry, and spoil my looks for to-night.’

‘How can you make up your mind to leave them?’ said Alice stupidly.

‘I am obliged to make up my mind to it. I leave them for their sakes
as well as for my own. But my heart is very much divided, you know.
It is half in England, and half in New Zealand. My husband is my
business manager, and preceded me there by three months. I shall meet
him when we arrive at Canterbury, and that thought is quite enough to
counterbalance the pain of parting with my children.’

Poor Harold Greenwood had been fidgeting so dreadfully on his seat
during this conversation, that he attracted the actress’s attention.

‘You mustn’t be offended, Mr Greenwood,’ she continued, smiling with
her beautiful eyes still wet with unshed tears, ‘if I tell you that
why I took a fancy to you is because there is something in your
face, and the colour of your hair, that reminds me of my eldest boy.
Dear little fellow! he went to school for the first time when I left
England, and I thought we should both have broken our hearts. If Mr
Perkins were only with me--’

‘Is Mr Perkins your husband?’ inquired Alice.

Miss Vere burst out laughing.

‘Yes, my dear! It is really true; but for Heaven’s sake don’t pursue
the subject. _I am Mrs Perkins._ But I keep it a secret of blood
and death. Please never call me anything but Emily Vere, or I shall
not answer to the name. And now it must be time to go and see after
our dresses. Mr Greenwood! didn’t I promise to be your lady’s-maid
to-night? If you find any difficulty in arranging your costume, come to
my cabin, and I will try and imagine you are my little boy, and play
“nurse” to you--’

‘No, no, thank you!’ stammered Harold Greenwood, as he tried to make
his escape from table. ‘I shall be all right, don’t you know?’

But Jack Blythe was not sufficiently magnanimous to let the humiliated
wretch pass him, without standing a jest at his own expense.

‘I say, old fellow,’ he called out, as Greenwood tried to slink by his
chair, ‘don’t you forget your promise to me of this morning. You’ll
be sure to introduce me to the future Mrs Greenwood as soon as the
theatricals are over, won’t you? For the chickens are all hatched, you
know, and the business is as good as settled already.’

But the unhappy Mr Greenwood would not even attempt to say a word in
his own defence. Wrenching his coat-sleeve from the grasp of Vernon
Blythe, he rushed to his berth, and was seen no more till he appeared
upon the stage.




[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

GRACE AND GODFREY.


Godfrey Harland and Grace Vansittart were neither of them included
in the amateur company that was to perform that evening on board the
_Pandora_. Parts had been allotted to both of them at first, but Miss
Vansittart, who had no idea of acting, found so much difficulty in
learning her lines and taking up her positions, that she had voted the
whole concern a bore, and thrown up her engagement in consequence. Upon
which Mr Harland had thought it politic to follow suit. He knew that
Grace would not like to sit out and watch him making mimic love to
another woman, so he told her that he preferred sitting out as well;
and she was only too delighted at his apparent devotion to refuse to
accept it. It was an old story between them. The woman was so deeply
in love as to be blind to the arts by which the man led her to believe
that he shared her feelings. And it was Godfrey Harland’s policy to be
more than usually attentive to Miss Vansittart at this period. He saw
plainly that something had gone wrong with the older folks. They were
still polite; but all the cordiality with which they had first greeted
him had died away. Mr Vansittart’s manner had become distant and cool,
whilst the old lady avoided him on every possible occasion. He began
seriously to fear that they were only keeping up appearances until they
arrived at Tabbakooloo, and that some disagreeable surprise awaited
him there. It therefore behoved him to make all the running he could
with the daughter before they reached their destination, so that there
might be no chance of her acquiescing in the decision of her parents,
if that decision proved to be against him. He was quite unprincipled
enough (as Will Farrell had suggested) to get the girl into his power,
so that there should be no turning back for her.

The little stage on which the comedy was to be represented, consisted
of a few planks raised in the steerage, with a row of footlights before
them, which, to do honour to this grand occasion, had been surmounted
above and around with the Union Jack and other flags, in the form of
a proscenium. The auditorium, which was filled with chairs, benches,
chests, barrels, and any other articles capable of being used as seats,
was left in complete darkness, the only light being an oil lamp hung
in the entry to guide the feet of the audience. A rope tied across
the upper end distinguished the ‘stalls,’ reserved for the saloon
passengers, from the ‘pit,’ which was given over indiscriminately to
the rest of the ship’s company. All had been cordially invited to
attend, and the place was crammed for some time before the hour of
commencement; but Will Farrell had been before everybody else, and
secured seats for Iris and Maggie and himself on the benches that stood
nearest to the reserved portion of the arena. Iris had, of course,
informed Maggie of the confidence that had taken place between herself
and Mr Farrell, and the women were equally anxious to see what the
evening would reveal to them. No one who was not expecting to see
her would have recognised Iris Harland. She had pleaded an attack of
toothache as an excuse for wrapping up her head in a black woollen
shawl, and had so enveloped her features that they would have scarcely
been visible, even had there been light enough to distinguish them. A
few minutes before the representation commenced, the captain appeared,
followed by the saloon passengers, who, with a good deal of laughing
and talking, took their seats, and Iris shrank back as she saw her
husband conduct Miss Vansittart to the chairs just in front of her, so
that there were but a couple of feet between them. He threw a careless
glance behind him as he took his seat; but seeing only a couple of
dowdy-looking steerage passengers, as he imagined, did not give them
a second thought throughout the evening. Grace Vansittart was looking
flushed and handsome, though dressed in an extravagant fashion for a
performance on board ship, and Godfrey Harland was most attentive in
folding her crimson shawl about her shoulders, and seeing that she had
something to rest her feet upon.

‘Do keep it on, my darling,’ Iris heard him say in French, as Grace
threw the wrap rather impatiently from her. ‘There is a horrid draught
in this place, and you know you have a slight cold. For _my_ sake keep
it on.’

‘I was _sure_ he’d bring her here,’ whispered Farrell to Iris. ‘All
the old people, you see, get as close as they can to the stage, so
that they may see and hear the better. But _his_ object is neither to
be seen nor heard. Can you understand the lingo they’re talking, Miss
Douglas?’

Iris nodded her head.

‘Oh! well, then, it’s all right. But I was afraid he was going to trick
us. He _is_ a deep ’un, and no mistake.’

‘Hush, Will,’ said Maggie, ‘the play’s going to begin.’

At that juncture all eyes turned to the stage, and divers were the
opinions as to whether Miss Vere’s short-waisted dress of sunflower
hue, tied with a sash under her arms, or Miss Leyton’s soft white
muslin, became her best. The acting went smoothly, and the majority of
the audience were intensely interested in the comedy and its exponents.
But for some there, a more thrilling drama, the incidents of which were
interwoven with their very lives, was being enacted in the auditorium.

Will Farrell had no personal interest in Godfrey Harland’s infidelity
to his wife, but he hated the man as he hated hell, and longed to see
him exposed on every point. Maggie, too, had her reasons for wishing to
be revenged on him; and Iris felt intuitively that in some unknown way
the happiness or misery of her whole future life lay in the discovery
of that evening. As she listened to her husband’s conversation with
Miss Vansittart, she was convinced of one thing--that she loved him
no longer. Not a particle of jealousy or regret assailed her as she
heard him pouring his tale of love into another woman’s ear. All she
felt was an intense surprise that she should ever have believed in,
or fancied she cared for, him. He seemed to appear before her for the
first time in his true colours. Had she seen him long ago, she thought,
as she did then, she never could have married him.

And while Iris thought thus, another face rose up before her--the
pleading, earnest eyes of Vernon Blythe gazed into hers, and she
felt the tears of regret rise to dim her sight. But she brushed them
hurriedly away. She would not have had Farrell and Maggie think she was
weeping at what she saw before her, for all the world. Besides, she
wanted to keep her mind clear, in order not to lose a word of what was
passing between her husband and Miss Vansittart. And as she listened
she knew that all that had been told her was true, and Godfrey designed
to ruin another life as he had done hers.

‘In a few more weeks,’ he whispered, when the curtain, amidst much
applause, had descended on the first act of the ‘Rivals,’ ‘we shall be
in New Zealand, Grace. Shall you be glad or sorry when our voyage is at
an end?’

He still spoke in French, which he had acquired fluently whilst
knocking about in the Southern States of America, and Grace, fresh from
her boarding-school, retained sufficient knowledge of the language to
understand and answer him.

‘Why should I be sorry?’ she replied to his question. ‘We shall be as
much together then as we are now, shall we not?’

‘Ah, that is the doubt that worries me,’ said Harland; ‘will your
parents permit a free intercourse between us? You know how few
opportunities for meeting occur on land to what they do on board ship;
and unless I am received as your accepted suitor--’

‘But you _must_ be received as my accepted suitor! I will have no one
else,’ interrupted Grace determinately.

‘My dearest, if it depended only on _you_, I know what my happy fate
would be. But it is this horrid £ _s._ _d._, Grace! I am so poor. Your
father is certain to look for money, in exchange for his daughter’s
hand.’

‘Well, I don’t know that, Godfrey! Papa has often told me he is rich
enough to be able to afford to let me choose for myself. And I _have_
chosen! If he doesn’t like it, it can’t be helped! But I have chosen
_you_.’

‘My sweet girl! You will not be persuaded to give me up, then, Grace?’

‘Not for worlds! How _could_ I?’

‘But if, on arriving at Tabbakooloo, your father should absolutely
refuse to consent to our engagement, what then?’

‘I shall marry you without his consent! Godfrey, you _will_ marry me?’
she added, with a quick look of alarm.

He laid his hand on hers, with a soothing gesture.

‘Do you doubt me, my darling? Have we not sworn to belong to each
other? If you are determined to stick to me, through thick and thin, I
want nothing more--’

She turned her head towards him then, and whispered in his ear, and
Iris could just see the glistening tear in her eye, as one of the
lights fell across her face.

‘I understand,’ he answered, ‘and your assurance was all I needed to
make me perfectly happy. It is an agreement, then? Whatever any one may
say or think, you are to be my wife as soon as I can make you so?’

‘Whenever you like,’ she said, slipping her hand into his under cover
of her shawl.

They spoke without reserve, because they quite believed that it was
safe to do so. The rest of the saloon passengers were well in front
of them. As to the inmates of the second cabin and steerage, who
sat behind, they did not suppose for a moment that any of them could
understand, even if they overheard, their words. How little they
imagined _who_ sat just behind them.

‘Godfrey,’ said Grace, after a pause, ‘I cannot believe I am really the
first girl to whom you have said such sweet things! Tell me the truth
now. Have you often been in love before?’

‘_Never!_ That is, _really_ in love, Grace. I have had my flirtations
and _amourettes_--what man of my age has not?--but I never felt what it
was to be _in earnest_ until now.’

‘Have you never thought of marrying any other woman?’

At this point-blank question, Iris could see, even through the gloom,
that Godfrey winced.

‘Now, don’t call me to book for my thoughts, you little tyrant!’ he
answered, with affected gaiety. ‘The fact remains that--that--I am
going to marry _you_. Is not that sufficient?’

‘Yes, more than sufficient. It makes me so happy,’ said the girl
earnestly, ‘to think that I shall belong to you only, and that you will
belong only to me! The world will seem like fairyland when we share it
together.’

‘Still, my darling, the truth remains that, since they have seen that
we love each other, your parents have not been so cordial to me as they
were. You never hear your father ask me to take a hand at whist in
the evenings now; and as for your mother, she scuttles out of the way
whenever she sees me coming. It makes things very unpleasant for me,
especially as I am in Mr Vansittart’s employment. Has he ever warned
you against me?’

‘Never mind,’ replied Grace soothingly; ‘it can make no difference to
us if he _has_. We are going to marry each other, whatever they may
say; and when it is once over, they will not hold out long against
their only child. Why, who have they but me? It will all come right,
Godfrey, never fear. And, meanwhile, we love each other, and nothing on
earth can alter that.’

As Iris listened to the words of this girl, whom love, however
misdirected, was transforming from a pert boarding-school miss to
a thoughtful woman, the tears ran down her cheeks with pity and
compassion. It was terrible to her to sit there, the lawful wife of
Godfrey Harland, and hear another woman express her implicit faith
and trust in him; whilst she knew that, before long, she herself must
inevitably be the instrument to open that woman’s eyes, and expose the
treachery and falsehood of which she had been made the victim. The
idea turned Iris sick and faint, and she rose from her seat with the
intention of leaving the theatre.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Farrell; ‘are you ill?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered back to him; ‘I have heard enough! Let me go to my
berth.’

They both wanted to accompany her, but she over-ruled their request,
and begged them not to make a commotion that might attract attention
to their party. So they let her have her own way, and as soon as she
could do so without disturbing the audience, she crept away. She was
trembling all over, however, as she did so; and when she reached the
entrance of the auditorium, and felt the fresh air blowing on her face,
she leant against the side for a moment to recover herself, and pulled
the wrap off her face.

‘Are you not well?’ said a voice by her side.

She looked up and encountered Vernon Blythe. The sight of him set her
tears flowing in earnest.

‘Oh, yes! thank you. Only the place is too hot for me, and I am going
on deck instead.’

‘Let me go with you.’

‘No! no! Why should I take you away from your amusement? I am perfectly
well able to go by myself.’

‘Have I made you afraid of me, Iris?’ he asked gently. ‘You need not
be. You must know that if I offended you, it was done in ignorance of
your position, and I shall never repeat it. Show me that I am forgiven
by letting me attend you now.’

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she faltered, placing her hand upon his
for a moment; ‘and I was only sorry that circumstances had misled you.
But why have you never spoken to me since? Am I to lose your friendship
as well as--as--everything?’

‘I have been too unhappy to be able to trust myself to speak to you,’
said Vernon frankly, as he led her on to the quarter-deck. ‘The shock
of your intelligence was greater to me than you may think. I had been
living on my hope ever since I met you again, and believed you to be
free, and when you dashed it from me, it knocked me over--that’s all.
Don’t be angry with me. A woman can’t understand a man’s feelings in
such matters. We can’t drink milk after brandy. And so I have kept out
of your sight, that I might dream of you as little as possible. And I
didn’t think that you would miss me.’

‘Oh, yes, I have,’ replied Iris simply. ‘All my pleasure seemed gone
with you. Perhaps, as you say, I cannot enter into your feelings; but I
think I would rather have “milk” than nothing at all.’

‘Let us have some “milk” now, then,’ replied Jack, almost cheerfully,
as he placed her under the shelter of the long-boat, and established
himself by her side. ‘Let us be friends, since we can be nothing more.
And now, what is the fresh trouble, for I can see there is something
fresh by your face? Treat me like a friend, and tell me everything.’

‘Yes! indeed I will,’ said Iris, ‘for I feel that it will be a great
comfort, and perhaps a help to me. I will tell you everything, and you
shall advise me what is best to be done. And in the first place, Mr
Blythe--’

‘That’s a bad beginning,’ interrupted Jack, ‘for in the first place,
you must not call me “_Mr Blythe_.”’

‘What am I to call you then?’

‘What _used_ you to call me when we walked and talked together at
Dunmow?’

‘Ah! that was such a long time ago, and you were such a boy!’

‘Well, some people say I’m not much more than a boy now, and, at all
events, it is not so long ago as to be forgotten. I think you used to
call me “Vernie” then. Won’t you call me by that name now?’

‘If it will please you--’ commenced Iris hesitatingly.

‘It will give me about as much pleasure as I am capable of, Iris. If I
may not be your lover, let me fancy myself your friend.’

‘There is no fancy about _that_,’ she answered warmly; ‘and I will call
you whatever you like. Come nearer to me then, Vernie, and let me tell
you all.’

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

IRIS AND VERNON.


He drew nearer to her, on that invitation, and took her hand in his.
Iris trembled slightly, but she did not withdraw it.

‘The worst thing I have to accuse myself of, with regard to you,
Vernie, is that I deceived you on our first meeting, by letting you
believe I was a widow. But I was frightened into the deception. I did
not know what else to say. You asked me why I was masquerading on board
the _Pandora_ under the name of Douglas, and it was impossible for me
to tell you _then_. Now, things have gone so far, that I feel I must
confide in some one, and I know you will respect my confidence.’

‘I will respect as much as I shall value it, Iris. But tell me all that
has happened to you since we parted. You can’t think how ignorant I am.
After that never-to-be-forgotten day, when I rushed half mad from your
presence--but there, we won’t say another word about _my_ troubles--but
since that time I have never heard anything of you except the bare fact
of your marriage. I do not even know your husband’s name, unless it is
Douglas. I don’t know where you have been living, or if you have been
happy or miserable. Tell me your whole story--that is, if it will not
give you pain.’

‘I mean to tell it you, Vernie. I wish you to hear it. Until you do,
you cannot give me the counsel of which I stand so much in need.
You know that when we met, I was already engaged to be married. My
poor old father, who was very weak and easily taken in, had made
the acquaintance of a good-looking young Englishman, fresh home
from America, who seemed to have plenty of money, and to have been
everywhere, and seen everything,--a man with a pleasant, free manner
and a glib tongue, and no objection to tell an untruth, though, of
course, I didn’t know that at the time. Well, he brought him to our
house, and he fell in love with me, and--and--’

‘And you fell in love with him, Iris.’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘Why do you say “_suppose_”?’

‘Because I have my doubts now as to whether I ever _did_ love him.
However, I was only eighteen, and I thought I did. He seemed everything
that was delightful to me, and _you_ looked such a boy by his side.’

‘Ah! poor me. Leave _me_ out of the story altogether.’

‘No; I don’t want to do so. I am proud to remember that you cared for
me, and feel honoured by your preference, and still more, Vernie, that
it should have lasted all this time.’

He squeezed her hand, but made no answer.

‘Well, we were married not two months after I had sent you away, and he
took me to Liverpool.’

‘What _was_ his name, Iris?’

‘Wait a minute, and I will tell you. I was too young at first to
understand what the mode of my husband’s life could mean. I thought it
very strange that it altered so constantly; that sometimes we lived
in big hotels, and sometimes in squalid lodgings; that at one time he
would appear to have his pockets full of money, and at others we had
nothing but bread and cheese to eat, and creditors were clamouring all
day to have their bills paid. My husband, too, spent all his evenings
and most of his nights away, and I was very friendless and solitary in
consequence. One thing I did very soon understand, and that was, that
he was addicted to intemperance. He was seldom quite sober, and his
violence when intoxicated kept me in constant dread of him.’

‘My poor darling,’ cried Jack impetuously, and then correcting himself,
‘I beg your pardon, Iris,’ he continued; ‘but why didn’t you go back to
your father?’

‘Oh, Vernie, how could I? Don’t you remember how poor my father,
Captain Hetherley, was? He had nothing but his half-pay to live on, and
he was getting old, and needed a few comforts. How could I have thrown
myself on him for support? Besides, he died in the first year of my
marriage. His home could not have provided me with shelter for long.’

‘Well, dear, go on. What next?’

‘There were other things for me to bear beside the shame of debt, and
the fear of my husband’s cruelty. I discovered, only too soon, that his
love for me had been but a passing fancy, and that his fancy altered
like the wind. Had I cared for him, I might have broken my heart from
jealousy of others.’

‘Oh, Iris. What man could have the baseness to treat you in such a
manner. _You_, who had been so delicately nurtured and trained, and
so much indulged. Why _I_ could have given you a happier and more
respectable lot than this.’

‘I have often thought so too,’ she whispered.

‘Have you really?’ exclaimed Vernon joyfully. ‘Is it possible that in
the midst of so much misery you had time to think of _me_?’

‘Oh, often, often. When I have been most unhappy and most disappointed,
the remembrance of you has come back to me most clearly, and I have
longed to be able to tell you that I was sorry I had caused you so much
pain.’

‘Never mind, my dearest. You are making it up to me now a thousand
fold. Let me hear the rest of your story.’

‘It was not long before my husband took me away from Liverpool, and
then we lived in all sorts of places, but it was always the same life
of solitude and discomfort for me, until Maggie came to live with us,
and be my friend. He never dared to treat me so unkindly after she
came. She seemed to hold some sort of power over him--in fact, I often
thought he was half afraid of her. Well, this went on until about a
year ago, when we came to live in London. And there I found out that my
husband made his money entirely by gambling. He hadn’t a penny of his
own, and he was constantly getting into scrapes, and having to run away
and keep in hiding for weeks together, and Maggie and I used nearly
to starve whilst he was gone. But he made some rich friends in London
nevertheless, during some of his lucky moments, and spent half his time
with them. And one day he told me he should be obliged to run over to
France for a few weeks, as his creditors were pressing him very hard,
and I believed him, until I picked up a letter he left behind him by
accident, and found that he had accepted an appointment in New Zealand
instead, and was going out in this very ship.’

‘In the _Pandora_!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘You don’t mean to tell me your
husband is on board this vessel?’

‘I do mean to tell you so. I am the wife of Godfrey Harland.’

‘_Of Mr Harland._ Good heavens!’ said Jack; ‘but, Iris--’

‘Don’t interrupt me, Vernie. I have nearly reached the end of my
story. You can understand now why Maggie and I are here, hiding in the
second cabin. Mr Harland intended to leave us in England to beg--to
steal--or to starve. He knew we had no other means of subsistence. But
I determined to circumvent him. If he was to draw a good salary as
Mr Vansittart’s agent, I did not see why he should not support me as
I have a right to be supported. So Maggie and I sold all our little
belongings, and came after him, with the intention of not revealing our
identity until we landed in New Zealand. But now I hardly know what to
do.’

‘You are _Godfrey Harland’s wife_?’ mused Vernon Blythe. ‘It seems
incredible to me. And yet how intuitively that man and I have disliked
each other from the moment we met. But, Iris, do you know that he is
passing himself off as an unmarried man, and that all the ship says he
is engaged to Miss Vansittart?’

‘I know more, Vernie. I sat just behind them this evening at the
theatricals, and heard their conversation. They spoke in French, and
thought, therefore, they could do so unreservedly. She considers
herself undoubtedly engaged to him. They discussed their marriage
prospects together, and agreed that if, on landing. Mr and Mrs
Vansittart refused their consent, they were to be married at once
without waiting for it. And now I have told you all this, that you may
be able to advise me. What ought I to do? What is my duty to do in this
matter?’

‘To stop it at once, Iris. What has this poor girl Miss Vansittart
been guilty of that you should let her suffer one jot more than is
necessary? Were I you, I should go this evening to Mr Vansittart, and
tell him the whole story.’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Iris, shrinking from the idea; ‘not till I have
spoken to Godfrey, Vernie, and given him the opportunity to return to
his duty. Would it not seem like malice, or jealousy, to go to the
Vansittarts first? They don’t like him, you know, and they look coldly
on his attentions to their daughter--Miss Vansittart acknowledged as
much to-night--and so they would not blame him for withdrawing from
them. And with her, of course, he must make his own peace.’

‘And what is to follow the disclosure of your proximity?’ demanded
Jack, somewhat sarcastically. ‘Tears, kisses, repentance, forgiveness,
blue-fire, and general rejoicings.’

Iris was silent.

‘Tell me, Iris, are you going to tumble into your husband’s arms as
soon as you meet him, and take him back again if he promises to be a
good boy and never do it again?’

‘You don’t _know_ me,’ was all she answered.

‘I know what women are, as a rule, stupid, soft-hearted creatures, that
believe every word that is said to them, and are always ready to think
themselves in the wrong.’

‘Up to a certain point, Vernie, perhaps we do. But there comes a day
for most of us, when we feel that we can forgive no longer. And I have
reached that day and passed it. Were I of a revengeful nature, I
should think there was no motive but revenge in what I am going to do
now.’

‘It would be a solemn duty left undone were you to ignore it, Iris.
Whatever might happen to that poor girl hereafter, would lie at your
door. Were I to follow my own wishes, I should say,--let the brute
commit bigamy, and free yourself from him. Why should you be linked
all your life to a man who is less than a husband to you? It is not
_he_ who deserves our pity. But for the woman who is innocently walking
into the trap he has laid for her, we cannot feel too much. I think you
should inform the Vansittarts, and deprive Harland of the appointment
they have promised him, at once. Why should such a scoundrel be placed
in a position of trust and emolument?’

Iris’s hazel eyes dilated with horror.

‘But, Vernon, you don’t know him. What should _I_ do under such
circumstances--left at his mercy in a strange land? Why, he would
_kill_ me, in revenge for his loss. Oh, no; _I dare not_! I shall not
even threaten him with the disclosure that I am his wife. I don’t want
to live with him again. I detest the thought of it. All I meant to tell
him was that I am here, and as long as he sends me enough money to live
on, I promise to remain quiet.’

‘But, Iris, that looks like collusion to me. Under such circumstances,
you will leave him free to work what villainy he chooses, so long as
you get your remittances. Is that just?’

The girl bent her head upon her knees and rocked herself backwards and
forwards, moaning.

‘Oh, dearest, don’t do that!’ cried Vernon; ‘you distress me beyond
measure. Is it possible this brute inspires you with so much fear?’

‘_Fear!_’ she repeated, with a shudder, ‘I am so much afraid of him
that I feel, when the moment comes, I shall be too cowardly to speak
at all! Oh, Vernie! let him go on. What does it signify to me? Miss
Vansittart is as well able to take care of herself as I was; and if she
suffers--well, we _all_ suffer! I think we are born for nothing else.
But I _cannot_ go back to him. I would rather throw myself overboard at
once!’

‘Iris,’ said Vernon, and his voice shook audibly as he spoke, ‘don’t
be angry with me for what I am going to say. I should not have dared
to speak my mind, had not your distress emboldened me. But--if I am
not utterly distasteful to you, darling--let me save you from all this
misery. Let me take you away from it! You shall never say then that you
need love or protection. My heart has been yours since we first met,
and my arm shall be at your service till death parts us! Will you come,
Iris? will you be _my_ wife--in deed if not in name--and let me try
and make up to you for the wretched failure of your married life?’

She looked up into his brave, kind young face with surprise, but
without any horror.

‘Oh, how _good_ you are!’ she exclaimed gratefully; ‘and how you must
love me to make such a proposal. To offer to cloud all your life
and prospects with the burden of a disappointed and broken-hearted
woman,--a woman who would bring shame on your name and your mother’s,
and be but a sorry pleasure to you after all, so that you may patch
up her ruined life, and make her feel at ease once more. Do you think
I would accept your offer, Vernie?--that I would be so selfish as to
do it? Some women might forget to be grateful, in prating to you of
the wrong of such an action. But I can’t. I can only see the love that
prompted it, and thank you from the bottom of my heart. But I don’t
mean to avail myself of it all the same.’

‘You could never be a burden to me, Iris,’ he answered simply; ‘for I
have loved you so long. And as for my mother--you don’t know what a
good, generous, warm-hearted creature she is. She would brave anything
for the sake of the woman who loved _me_.’

‘But I have never said I loved you,’ returned Iris, with a faint smile.

‘Will you say it now? It would make me so very happy! Will you say
that--if you were free--you would be my wife?’

‘Oh, yes! yes! A thousand times over!’ she answered, weeping. ‘_I do
love you_, Vernie; I love you as much as you love me. But don’t talk of
it; it will never, _never_ be! Such things don’t happen in this world.
I have forged my own chains, and I must wear them, however hardly they
may press upon me; but I shall never forget what you have said to me
to-night, and the remembrance will make me happier to the last day of
my life.’

‘Then I won’t wish my words unsaid, Iris. But with respect to Harland,
what do you intend to do?’

‘I will think it over to-night. I have resolved to speak to him. The
only thing is, how shall I do it? Perhaps I will write a letter, and
you shall give it to him. I would not like to trust _anybody_; or, as
he has a deck cabin to himself, I may go and speak to him after he
has retired for the night. It little matters _how_ it is done, but it
_will_ be done before this time to-morrow.’

‘That is a brave girl,’ said Blythe, ‘and, remember, there is no cause
for fear. _I_ am here to protect you, dearest, and not a hair of your
head shall be harmed on land or at sea, so long as I stand by to
prevent it!’

‘You make me feel so safe,’ replied Iris, with a grateful sigh. ‘I will
go below now, Vernie, and dream that I have one friend left to defend
me against my enemy.’




[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

THE HOUSE AMIDSHIPS.


The next morning the weather was damp and squally, the air close and
depressing. There was a faint breeze from the westward, but the clouds,
which at times obscured the sun and poured down torrents of cold rain,
were making a northerly course.

The day was by no means an enjoyable one, and the spirits of the
passengers--which were suffering a reaction after the excitement
attendant on the theatricals--would have fallen considerably with the
state of the atmosphere, had they not been kept up by the welcome
news, that should the vessel be lucky enough to get a fair wind, they
would actually sight land in less than a week. In a week’s time,
perhaps, they would step ashore, and those fond meetings, of which
they had dreamt throughout the voyage, would be realised. Under such
thoughts and anticipations, they were mostly flurried and restless,
given to talking excitedly and laughing at untoward moments, and
appearing on deck after every squall to look out for the longed-for
gale that should blow them to their destination, only, however, to be
driven below again by a remorseless storm that enveloped the _Pandora_
in a drenching shower.

There was one portion of the vessel which played an important part upon
the voyage, but has not yet been mentioned. This was the forward house
amidships. There were two houses built upon the maindeck, one abaft the
mainmast on the quarter-deck, the other abaft the foremast. The former
was the smoke-room, the latter was divided into five separate sections,
and to make their respective positions clear, it is necessary to give a
full description of them.

In the after-part of the house amidships, on the morning in question,
Billy Banks, the West Indian cook, was busily employed in peeling
potatoes. Seated on a kid in solemn majesty, with his rolled-up sleeves
displaying two coal-black arms, he disengaged the spuds from their
jackets, and tossed them into a bucket of water to rinse, previous to
putting them in the copper. Occasionally he would turn towards the
stove, and lift the cover of a saucepan, lest the contents should boil
over; and the sailors came and went meanwhile, but Billy never answered
their coarse jests except by a movement of the head.

The after-door, which faced the main-hatch, was partly hidden by the
donkey winch, and under this convenient shelter, Billy, surrounded by
his pots and pans, was able to roast and boil at his ease.

Now and then a lazy shellback would stretch himself out before the
galley fire, and spin him a long yarn, and Billy would reward him
for his trouble with a savoury ‘flap-jacks’ (the sailor’s name for a
pancake), or the remains of a dish that had left the saloon table; for
the black cook seldom left the galley, and the steward, whose business
it was to look after him, always found him at his post. In truth, Billy
had nowhere else to go. He disliked the rough horse-play of the seamen,
and could not stand ‘chaff’ well enough to associate happily with them;
the carpenter and boatswain seldom invited him to their berths, and
his own was far from agreeable, even to a black man’s nostrils. It
was situated on the right side of the house, built fore and aft, and
was certified to hold four men, therefore he had ample room. But the
odour pervading the place was more than any one could be expected to
endure. In the top bunk Billy slept. His bedding consisted of an old
straw mattress and pillow, two red blankets, and a stained and faded
monkey jacket, which he used as a coverlet. Across the room, suspended
on a line, hung sundry dilapidated and discoloured articles of linen,
supposed to be clean; and in the corner, lashed to the deck, was a
sea-chest, adorned with the brightest colours, like a Runcorn flat.

In the lower bunks, tin pannikins, new brooms, chopping-boards,
and kids were securely stowed, so that the rolling of the vessel
might not set them clattering against each other; and in the after
corner four mysterious casks were made fast to the stanchions. These
casks contained ‘slush,’ which is always recognised as part of the
cook’s perquisites at sea. And Billy, who was either too lazy or too
frightened to stow it, like a rational being, in the forepeak, kept the
unsavoury, nauseous matter in his berth. Few, perhaps, may, luckily
for themselves, be acquainted with the stuff. It is the skimming of
all the greasy liquids, the odds and ends which may be left upon the
dinner plates, the scrapings of the frying-pans, the searchings of the
‘kids’--in fact, every conceivable kind of oily substance which may
fall into the cook’s hands, and which is carefully collected and stowed
away, to be sold on landing at a high price for the manufacture of
different kinds of machinery oil.

When the ‘menavellins’ have been kept for a month, the sickly stench
from their decomposition may be well imagined, and no living creature
but a negro could have slept in the fœtid air which exhaled from them.
It is very certain that coloured noses can stand much more than white
ones. It only needs the introduction of an European to Cow Yard, which
is the ‘nigger’ locality of Port of Spain, or to the back slums of
China Chowk, Calcutta, or to Twenty-Seventh Street, in Rangoon, to
demonstrate the truth of the assertion. The cleansing of the mythical
Augean stables would be a simple task compared to the purification of
any one of the above-mentioned localities. In such squalid filth and
rank odours can both the East and West Indians live and thrive.

But enough of Billy Banks. On the other side there slept, in a berth of
the same dimensions, two more wholesome personages--Alexander M’Donald,
the carpenter, commonly called ‘Chips,’ and William Hanlin, boatswain.
Their little domicile was ship-shape, and displayed an air of comfort.
The upper bunks were used for sleeping berths, and the lower served as
lockers for different stores.

Iron bolts, nuts, sheaves, and screws were kept in different
compartments, besides spun yarn, mallets, small blocks, and
marlinspikes.

There were three sea-chests that were used as seats, and a small table
(that could be shipped for meals, and lowered when room was required)
was hinged to the bulkhead.

Under the swinging lamp above the table a neat pipe rack, filled with
‘clays,’ had been fixed by the carpenter, and his shipmate had added to
their homely comforts by making a fancy lashing for the water-beaker,
which was resting on chocks at the further end.

As for their beds, a patchwork quilt, like Joseph’s coat of many
colours--a parting present from his wife--distinguished Hanlin’s
resting-place from that of ‘Chips,’ which was covered by a traveling
rug, representing a furious orange and red tiger, in the act of
springing on a defenceless green and yellow woman, cowering under a
blue and purple garment.

The boatswain, like his commanding officer, was a man of few words.
His voice was gruff, and his hard life had made him reserved and
unpolished, but he was good hearted, and often passed over the
faults that came under his notice. The men in his watch were engaged
upon various duties that did not require his supervision, so, after
satisfying himself that they were steadily at work, and the mate was
nowhere in sight, he stepped over the weatherboard of his berth, and
lighting a pipe, sat down to refresh himself with a few unlicensed
puffs.

Shortly afterwards he was joined by ‘Chips,’ who entered ostensibly to
fetch, a new cold chisel, but when he discovered that his friend was
drawing the calumet of peace, he chopped up a pipeful of plug, which he
produced from under his mattress, and came to an anchor by his side.

The carpenter (as his name denoted) hailed from Scotland, and was a
loquacious fellow, often amusing himself whilst at work by singing
snatches of his favourite Burns, extoling the virtues and beauties of
his native land.

‘Dirty weather!’ he remarked, as he took his seat beside Hanlin.

‘We shall get a spell of this wind in the wrong quarter, if I’m not
mistook,’ said the boatswain, with an ominous ‘_Humph_,’ as he filled
the berth with clouds of smoke, sucking at his pipe as if he had not
enjoyed such a treat for weeks past.

‘Ay, ay, laddie; but it’s unsteady’ replied Chips, ‘and maybe it will
shift round to the right quarter before midnight. Them lassies aft
are near piping their eyes because she’s made so little headway, but
they’ll see their men before a week’s over their heads for all that.’

‘What’s for dinner?’ demanded the unsentimental boatswain.

‘Peasoup and pork,’ replied ‘Chips.’ ‘I can eat the salt meat this
weather; it gives me a twist; but I shall be glad when we gets
alongside the New Zealand mutton--not the tinned stuff, you ken, but
the real article.’

‘Hand me a pannikin’ said the boatswain, who detected the approach of
the first officer, and stooping down, he drew a mug of water, and drank
it off. Then, without a look at his colleague, he put the pannikin in
the lower bunk, and stepped out upon the deck.

‘Look here, boatswain,’ said Mr Coffin, ‘send a couple of hands up to
shift that royal; and, carpenter,’ he continued to M’Donald, ‘I want
you to see about the steps of that side ladder’; and with an ‘Ay, ay,
sir,’ the petty officers prepared to carry out his orders.

Between the two berths was a large air-shaft which was used as a
ventilator to the ’tween decks, and separated the cosy little place
just described, and which was pervaded by a healthy smell of Stockholm
tar, from the inodorous hovel of Billy Banks.

The fifth division of the house formed a room which was called the
spare galley. An iron partition alone separated it from the kitchen,
which rendered it so hot that it would have been impossible for any one
to live, or sleep there; and as it was considered a dangerous locker
in which to keep the spare suit of sails, it was thrown open for the
public use. It was but a small compartment, built athwart-ships, with a
teak-wood door, and dead-lights at either side.

The jolly-boats were kept, bottoms upward, on the skids which rested
upon the house, and served as shelter from the squalls, and a welcome
haven for the sailors on watch on rainy nights.

During the morning in question, a purple curtain rose and shut out the
faint gleam of the sun, and then burst suddenly upon the _Pandora_ in a
pitiless storm of rain, mingled with large hailstones.

Iris Harland, who had been walking up and down the deck, trying in
vain to decide how she should disclose her identity to her husband,
without encountering danger from the vials of his wrath, was caught by
the shower, and obliged to run for shelter under the boats until the
violence of the gale should have somewhat passed over.

‘Look ’ere, missy, step inside there,’ said one of the sailors, opening
the door of the spare galley; ‘it’ll be nice and warm for ye.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Iris, whose slight clothing was already wet
through; and as she took advantage of his offer, the sailor (whose
watch below it was) firmly closed the weather door, leaving the one to
leeward open.

‘Ye’ll soon be ashore now, missy,’ he said, wishing to open a
conversation; ‘we’re a’most there by this time.’

‘Yes; I’m very glad,’ replied Iris vaguely, looking dreamily before
her; ‘we have had a capital voyage, have we not?’

‘Nought to growl on,’ answered the man; ‘fine weather--a good ship--no
deaths--and a doctor ready to give us a clean bill of health. I ’spose
now, missy, as you’re goin’ out to meet your friends,--your sweetheart,
may be--if I may make so bold. Ah, it won’t be long before _you’ll_ get
a husband, _I_ know.’

But Iris did not answer him. Her frame was trembling like an aspen
leaf--her cheeks were blanched--her breath had almost stopped. For
another passenger had rushed suddenly in to take refuge from the
storm, and stood beside her, and that other was Godfrey Harland, her
husband. The moment for discovery had come, and notwithstanding all the
encouragement that Vernon Blythe had tried to give her, Iris felt like
a criminal tied to the stake.

‘You are not well, missy,’ said the sailor, noticing her perturbation;
‘shall I fetch you some water?’

She motioned him away with her hand, afraid to trust herself to speak,
and Harland’s attention was attracted by her very silence.

‘Can _I_ be of any assistance?’ he asked, coming forward; and in her
desperation Iris pulled her hood off her face, and turned to confront
him. She never thought of the sailor’s presence, or that it would
be better to delay speaking to Godfrey until they should be alone
together. She was like a patient, forced sooner or later to undergo a
cruel operation, who puts it off and off, until at some critical moment
he rushes blindly at his fences, lest his courage should again fail him
by delay. As Harland caught sight of her face, he staggered backwards.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed; ‘_you_ here? What farce is this, and why have
I been kept in the dark all this while?’

‘Yes,’ Iris answered slowly, but with teeth that chattered with
apprehension, ‘_I_ am here, _I, your wife_. And by what right do you
claim to have been told _where_ I was, or for what purpose?’

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

FACE TO FACE.


At this juncture the sailor, seeing breakers ahead, began to feel
awkward, which he evinced by passing his cap from one hand to the
other, and shuffling his feet about.

‘Well, missy, as ye’re better now,’ he said, breaking in upon their
conference, ‘I think I’ll make bold to leave ye. Good-morning.’

‘No, no!’ cried Iris, with quick alarm, ‘don’t go.’ And then, ashamed
of the inference of her words, she added,--‘Oh, yes! of course, you
have your work to do. I am all right, thank you, and I will stay
with--with--this _gentleman_.’

She spoke with so bitter a sarcasm, that as soon as the sailor had
departed, Godfrey Harland seized her arm.

‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘what do you mean by speaking like that?
Do you want the whole ship to guess our history?’

Iris shook off his grasp as though he had been a viper.

‘Don’t dare to touch me,’ she said defiantly, ‘or the whole ship
_shall_ hear our history. _You_ know which of us would suffer most in
that case. And don’t imagine I am friendless here. Heaven has sent
protectors to me in my need. I have but to raise my voice, to be
defended against your violence.’

‘Another lover, I presume. Who is the happy man?’ asked Harland
sarcastically.

Iris’s cheeks glowed scarlet.

‘How _mean_ you are,’ she answered. ‘Your prospective good fortune has
not altered your nature one whit. You still try to find a cover for
your own faults, by the pretence of laying the same blame on others.
You _know_ that I have never encouraged the attentions of any man since
I had the misfortune to receive yours. It would be well if you could
say as much for yourself.’

‘I do not understand you,’ said Harland, with affected unconcern.

‘I can easily make my meaning plain to you,’ replied Iris, as she
looked him steadily in the face.

Now that the supreme moment had actually arrived, her timidity vanished
as if by magic. She appeared to be inches taller, as she stood before
him, with her feet planted on the deck--every muscle in her body
strained, and her lips firmly pressed upon her teeth. She looked like
some mother about to do battle for her child,--like a martyr ready to
die for her religion. The delicate, fragile girl had become majestic
under the influence of her righteous wrath, and as Harland tried to
meet her flashing eyes, he cowered before their gaze.

And Iris felt as dauntless as she looked. All the misery of her married
life came back to her in that moment--her husband’s violence and
cruelty--his cowardly attacks upon her honour--the mean way in which he
had intended to desert her--to give her courage. She had the strength
of twenty women as she stood before him, and had he attempted to lay
a hand upon her, she would have struck him across the face. The tones
of his sarcastic voice, ringing with the old insults, had raised her
blood to boiling pitch, and few would have recognised Iris Harland,
sitting in judgment on her recreant husband, with the Miss Douglas
who had looked like a drooping lily in the second cabin, or even with
the tearful Iris who had sat with her hand in Jack Blythe’s the night
before, and told him of the suffering she had passed through.

Godfrey Harland hardly recognised her himself. He trembled with fear.
All his vaunted courage fled before the woman whom he had wronged, and
left nothing but a sullen brutality behind it. How should he answer the
questions she would put to him? In what possible way excuse himself? He
felt there was nothing to be done, but to try and make peace with her.
‘Peace at any price,’ must be his motto, at all events for the present,
and the future must take care of itself. And so all he answered to her
assertion was,--

‘I really don’t know why you should meet me in this extraordinary
manner, as if I had committed some crime in leaving England. You know
that I was _forced_ to leave it. I told you so plainly. What I want to
know is, why _you_ have left it also?’

‘I left it to follow your fortunes, as I have a right to do,’ replied
Iris. ‘You thought to evade me,--to leave me to starve in London. You
knew that my pride would not have permitted me to appeal to any of my
friends, but, so long as I was off your hands, you did not care what
became of me.’

‘Oh, no, no; come, childie, it was not so bad as that,’ replied
Harland, trying to soothe her. ‘I am going out to New Zealand for your
good, as well as my own, and always intended to send you half of all
that I may be able to earn there.’

‘_It is a lie_,’ replied Iris; ‘and don’t you dare to call me by that
name, for I will not stand it. What you intended by going out to New
Zealand was to marry Grace Vansittart, and ignore me altogether. Don’t
take the trouble to deny it, for I know everything. I sat behind you
last night at the theatricals, and heard every word you said to each
other. And now Godfrey Harland, who holds the trump card--you or I?’

He did not attempt to answer her, but turned his face towards the open
door, and stood gnawing his moustaches, and wondering how he should
extricate himself from the morass of perplexity in which he was sinking.

‘You did not give one thought to _me_--left to struggle with poverty as
best I could. Had I remained behind, I might have become anything--a
lost, abandoned woman--God knows! But I have followed you, as you see,
and I am here to claim you as my husband.’

‘How did you find out I was travelling by the _Pandora_?’ he asked.
‘Who has been playing the spy upon me?’

‘No one but yourself! You are supposed to be a clever man, but cleverer
men than you have been foiled before now by a woman. Did you think I
believed all you told me about your flight to Harfleur, when you bid
me good-bye, and left your Judas kisses on my lips. Why, I had Mr
Vansittart’s letter in my pocket at that very moment, and knew that you
had accepted the offer contained in it.’

‘_Mr Vansittart’s letter_,’ stammered Harland.

‘Yes; the letter which you left behind you when you went to keep the
appointment which sealed your fate and mine. Godfrey, I have followed
you across the Atlantic, not from feelings of affection, but revenge. I
have a right to claim support and recognition at your hands, and if you
refuse to give them me, you must take the consequences.’

‘What will you do?’ gasped Harland.

‘I will expose you before the whole ship’s company. I will let Captain
Robarts, and the Vansittarts, and everybody know _what_ you are, and
_who_ you are--not Mr Godfrey Harland, the gentleman who is not too
proud to work for his living, in order that he may aspire to the hand
of his employer’s daughter; but Godfrey Harland, the married man who
deserted his wife--Godfrey Harland, the gambler and bettor, who had
to fly from his creditors--nay, more than that,’ continued Iris,
waxing louder in her excitement, ‘Godfrey Harland, who is not “Godfrey
Harland” any more than they are, but _Horace Cain, the forger_, who--’

‘Stop, stop, for God’s sake!’ he cried, in a hoarse voice, as he
extended a trembling hand towards her mouth. ‘_Stop_, and let me think
for a moment what is best to be done.’

‘Ah, Godfrey, _you_ are the one to plead for mercy now!’ she exclaimed
triumphantly, as she watched him wipe away the beads of perspiration
that had started to his brow.

The violence of the squall still prevented the sailors that were below
from leaving their retreat, and the passengers from coming on deck.
Had it been fine weather, this conspicuous place of meeting, and the
high words that were passing between Harland and his wife, would
certainly have attracted notice; but the howling of the wind, and the
raging of the turbulent sea, were more than sufficient to drown their
conversation.

‘I suppose that brute Farrell has been talking to you,’ said Godfrey,
when he had somewhat recovered his equanimity; ‘and I have to thank him
for the information you are so ready to believe. But I can tell you,
you have been made a dupe of. The man is a confirmed liar. I met him
before we came on board ship, and gave him a bit of my mind, and he
is trying to revenge himself on me for it now. However, that is _my_
concern. You can safely leave me to deal with Mr Will Farrell, and
his unauthorised libels. But what am I to do with regard to yourself.
You have chosen to follow me out of England against my wishes, and to
put in your claim to be considered my wife. Suppose,’ he continued,
significantly lashing his legs with an end of rope he had picked up
from the deck, whilst he eyed her with his sinister glance, ‘_suppose_
I choose to accept the position, and treat you as a husband has a
right to treat a rebellious wife--what then?’

‘You _dare_ not,’ she panted. ‘If you attempt to raise your hand
against me in the slightest degree, I will carry out my threats at
once, and appeal to the passengers for help.’

‘And what if I wait to punish you for your cursed impudence till we get
on shore.’

‘I will have you placed in arrest,’ she answered, ‘as a suspected
forger. Don’t think I have no proofs against you. Farrell has them all
ready, in case of need. If you begin to bluster and bully in your old
fashion, you will find that I have the upper hand, and I mean to keep
it. Remember that in another week we shall be in harbour, and I shall
only have to summon the police to see you carried back to England in
irons.’

‘That’s a nice thing for a wife to say to her husband,’ commenced
Harland angrily, and then changing his tone, he continued, ‘Come, you
would never go as far as that, I’m sure. Whatever you may think of me
now, you loved me once, and for the sake of the old times, let us try
and talk reasonably together. Tell me what it is you want, and if I can
agree to your terms, I will.’

‘I am your wife,’ replied Iris firmly, ‘and I want my rights--that is,
I want a home kept over my head, and for you to remember that you are
not free to court or marry another woman.’

‘But yet you do not care for me yourself,’ he said.

‘_Care for you!_’ she echoed scornfully. ‘_How_ can I care for a man
who has shown himself to me in so utterly contemptible a light? No,
Godfrey Harland, I hate and despise you. But you shall not ignore what
you are to me for all that. I will not permit you to commit a crime at
my expense.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ he said, in his old _nonchalant_ manner. ‘A
crime is no crime unless it injures somebody. Now what is the use
of you and me keeping together? You say you hate me, and although I
would not be so rude as to use so harsh a term as that to a lady, I
certainly must confess that I am somewhat tired of you. Now, look
here, Iris,’ he continued, drawing closer to her, ‘why shouldn’t we
play into each other’s hands? You can’t have any real jealousy of
me, and I daresay (if the truth were told) there is some nice young
fellow in the background whom you like much better. Promise to leave
me alone, and I’ll make it worth your while to do so. Let me settle
you at Canterbury, and go on quietly with the Vansittarts to their
destination, and carry out my little plans with regard to Grace, and
I’ll engage to remit you a certain sum quarterly, as long as you leave
us in peace. And then you know, my dear, my misconduct will set you
free--morally, if not legally--to marry again yourself, and we shall
both be much the better for the arrangement; and in a new country, no
one need ever be the wiser. What do you say? Is it a bargain?’

But Iris’s hazel eyes, wide open with horror and indignation, flashed
fire on him.

‘Oh, Godfrey,’ she cried, ‘you must be a devil in the shape of man, to
tempt me to such a crime!--to bargain with me for so much a quarter,
not only to keep silence with regard to yourself, but to follow your
example, and sin too. Do you know what it means? Do you know that
you will be a bigamist,--a criminal within the pale of the law,--and
liable to transportation for your offence. Oh, isn’t the other terrible
misdeed bad enough, without your wishing to add to it like this?’

‘Don’t whine, or preach,’ he said impatiently. ‘You know how I hate
sermonising and cant. Will you do it, or will you not? That is all I
want to hear from you.’

‘No, no, no, a thousand times over. Do you think I am as degraded as
yourself? I will not do it, nor countenance it. I will go straight to
the Vansittarts (as I ought to have done at the beginning) and warn
them against you, as a bad man and a deceiver. You shall not ruin
another woman’s life as you have done mine.’

‘I defy you to do it!’ exclaimed Harland, grasping her tightly by the
arm; ‘I will throw you into the water first!’

‘Leave go of me at once, or I will call for help. Ah! you do not
frighten me with your threats, you coward! You can wage war with
helpless women, but your face would tell a different tale if a man
rushed in to my assistance. And I tell you that I am determined. I
have made up my mind. If you do not abandon at once and for ever your
infamous intentions with respect to Miss Vansittart, I shall inform
her parents who I am, and why I am here. But I will give you one more
chance. I cannot believe but that, when you have time to think more
calmly, you will see the utter folly of the course you are pursuing.
So I will say nothing until to-morrow. Give me your written word by
then, that you will live as you should do for the future, and my tongue
is silent. And now you know my mind, and can make up your own.’

And with that Iris stepped out from the house amidships, and left
Godfrey Harland by himself.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

THE RENDEZVOUS.


He did not stir for some moments after she had disappeared. He was
fearful lest the sailors on deck should suspect there was some
connection between them if they quitted the place together. And his
reflections as he paced to and fro the berth, were anything but
pleasant ones.

‘How _dared_ she follow me?’ he soliloquised, with rage and anger
gnawing at his heart. ‘She has blighted my last chance, frustrated all
my plans, and now defies me to save myself! Farrell, of course, has
blurted out all that infernal business to her. I suppose that was the
revenge he threatened me with the other night; and she will use it as a
weapon against me. But I will put a stop to her tongue, curse her! She
shall not stand in my way to fortune.’

He thought he might venture to leave the spare galley by this time, and
making his way over the wet deck, he walked straight aft to the saloon,
and throwing himself on one of the lounges, called the steward to fetch
him a brandy-and-soda.

He had never felt so upset in his life as he did from this annoying
interview. It had half maddened him! What on earth could he do or say
to stop the chattering tongue of a jealous and spiteful woman? It would
be as easy, he thought, to dam the falls of Niagara! And it took more
than one brandy to quiet in any degree his shaken and agitated nerves.

Then he rose and walked, trembling in every limb, to his own cabin,
and, locking the door, threw himself down upon the bed and tried to
think what was best to be done. One thing only seemed clear to him.
If he allowed Iris and Farrell to have their own way, he stood a very
good chance of ending his days as a felon! She had said that Farrell
held the _proofs_ of his forgery! What proofs? Where had he procured
them? What did he retain them for, except to work his ruin? _If_ he
could only get rid of those proofs, he would be safe. But then there
was Iris--his bane and his curse--always ready to reappear and spoil
his chances with Grace Vansittart. She was too virtuous to consent to
go halves with him in obtaining their mutual freedom; but she would
not prove too virtuous, he would bet, to drag him from the quiet and
respectable life he intended to lead, back to poverty, and shame, and
public disgrace! What if he could get rid of them _both_ together! If
he could only induce Iris, on the pretence of following her wishes in
the matter, to bring him the proofs that Farrell held against him, by
night, and then--

‘But no,’ he thought, with a visible shudder, as his hands twitched
nervously, ‘I couldn’t--_I couldn’t_! I am in her devilish
clutches,--actually in her power, and there is no way out of it but
one. I must give up Grace, and all my future prospects, and return to
my old life of hopeless impecuniosity. Oh, it is _too_ hard! Why on
earth was I such a fool as to let her discover my intentions? I ought
to be hung, for such a piece of senseless imbecility.’

Here he lay for some time in silence, thinking deeply. After a while,
a cold, cruel smile crept over his hard features, as though his
perplexity were solved.

‘Of course, _the surgery_. Nothing can be easier; and I’ll have those
proofs, if nothing else. I’ll send Iris a model letter, asking her
to meet me to-night in the spare galley, to settle what is best to
be done in the matter; and if I can persuade her to bring the proofs
with her, I’ll take good care she doesn’t take them back again. I’ll
put one witness against me out of the way, at all events, until I have
determined what to do with the other.’

After this fashion Godfrey Harland talked to himself, whilst locked up
in his berth; and by the time the dinner-bell rang, he felt too nervous
and excited to trust himself to join the other passengers.

It was a bleak, cold evening. The sky was blue, and spangled with
bright stars, and every now and then the moon shot forth white darts of
light; but they were frequently obscured by heavy squalls which covered
the heavens, whilst they lasted, with a heavy drapery.

In the rare intervals, the white sails and masts of the _Pandora_ stood
out in bold relief against the sky, and the crested swells were lit up
with rays of silver. The ultra-marine blue above, with its thousands of
little lamps, contrasted strangely with the sage-green waters; and a
wicked-looking cloud that was rising astern served as a most becoming
background for the sea and air.

The deck was cast well in shadow when the figure of a man, who had
been standing about for some time in feverish suspense, emerged from
the shade of the companion-ladder, and stole towards the surgery door,
which was between the long saloon passage and the berth of the second
officer. Glancing around more than once, to make sure that no one was
at hand, he pushed back the lock with his clasp-knife, and with a
sudden wrench turning the handle, disappeared from sight, and closed
the door behind him.

The saloon passengers, as they finished their dinner, rose from table
and donned their overcoats and wraps, with a view to going on deck.

‘Now, that’s a bargain, doctor!’ laughed Alice Leyton; ‘six pairs of
gloves if the _Pandora_ gets in under three days?’

‘Yes, Miss Leyton; and from the very best glover in Canterbury.’

‘I take sixes, remember, and never wear less than eight buttons,’ said
Alice.

‘Don’t count your buttons before we reach the goal,’ replied the doctor
merrily. ‘I think (luckily for me) they are still looming a long way
in the distance; for if we do not get a strong breeze by to-morrow at
latest, Mr Coffin tells me we cannot possibly drop anchor till Sunday.
But if you will excuse me, I will run and get the paregoric lozenges I
promised Miss Vere.’

And Dr Lennard disappeared into the passage.

‘Very strange,’ he muttered to himself, as he turned the handle of the
surgery door. ‘I thought I locked it before dinner. Hullo! hullo! Who’s
that? What are you doing in here?’

‘It’s all right, doctor,’ replied Harland, confronting him with rather
a confused countenance; ‘don’t be alarmed. I was sitting smoking on the
weatherboard, and dropped the end of my cigar inside, so I came after
it, in case it might be dangerous.’

‘There’s nothing to catch alight here, though, of course, you should
be cautious,’ said the doctor, half suspiciously. ‘By the way, did you
find the door open?’

‘Well, _rather_,’ rejoined Harland. ‘You don’t suspect me of keeping
skeleton keys, do you?’

‘I don’t suspect anything, but I certainly thought that I had locked
the door when I put the key in my pocket. I must be more careful in
future, or some one will be after my case of medical port.’

‘By Jove! yes,’ acquiesced Harland. ‘If any of these thirsty dogs of
shellbacks were knocking about, they’d make short work of a dozen of
port--wouldn’t they? The brutes drink like fishes.’

‘They’re not the only people aboard that know how to drink,’ answered
the doctor dryly, with a meaning glance at his companion, who laughed
awkwardly, and turned away to the lee side of the vessel.

At the same moment, Iris was reading over a letter which she had
received from her husband, to Maggie and Farrell.

‘Don’t you go,’ pleaded the former; ‘don’t go nigh him, my pretty. He
only wants to try and talk you over; and you’re so soft-hearted, I’m
not sure but what you’ll give in to him.’

‘Surely you will not keep this appointment, Miss Douglas,’ urged
Farrell. ‘We have only a few more days to spend on board now, and
during that time, you should avoid him as much as possible. He only
wants, as Maggie says, to persuade you to alter your mind. Write and
tell him that it is made up, and you have nothing more to say to him on
the subject.’

‘You both seem to think me terribly weak,’ said Iris, almost irritably.
‘Do you suppose I can’t take care of myself? I told Mr Harland my
intentions plainly, and he quite understands there is no alternative.
All he wishes is to see me again, in order that we may arrange together
how best to carry out our plans. I think that is only reasonable. Did
you listen attentively to his letter? Let me read it to you again:--

  ‘MY DEAR IRIS,--I have been thinking deeply over what you said to
  me this afternoon, and I see you are right, and I must have been
  crazy to dream of doing anything else. Can you forgive me? If you
  can, it will help me to do my duty for the future, and I promise
  you to act on the square. You say that Farrell holds proofs against
  me. Were I convinced of this, it would materially alter my plans
  for our well-doing. Are they accessible? I should much like to see
  them. Try and persuade him to let you have the custody of them for
  half-an-hour. I pledge you my word of honour not even to touch them.
  How could I do anything repugnant to your wishes, in so public a
  place as the spare galley? If you will meet me there to-night at ten
  o’clock, when the passengers are at supper, I will tell you what
  arrangements I have made for you on landing. It is possible we may be
  at Canterbury sooner than you anticipate, and it is best (in order to
  save gossip) that we should not leave the ship together. Do not fail
  to meet me to-night.--Yours,
                                                                  G. H.’

‘Cant! Humbug!’ exclaimed Farrell. ‘There is some deep scheme hidden
under this pretended repentance. You will be a fool, Miss Douglas, if
you comply with his request.’

‘You are both against him,’ said Iris. ‘I know he has a hundred faults,
but he _may_ be sincere in wishing to amend his life. And _I_ am not
the one who should refuse to help him.’

And as she spoke, she twisted up the note, and held it in the flame of
the swinging lamp.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Farrell quickly, as he attempted to rescue
it.

‘Burning my letter. Have I not a right to burn it?’ returned Iris, in a
tone of annoyance.

‘Certainly; but I do not consider it a judicious act. It is evidence
against him. Chicanery is written in every line. What should he want to
see those proofs for, except to destroy them?’

‘You all suspect him. Because he has sinned _once_, he can do nothing
right in your eyes now,’ said Iris impetuously. ‘And I suppose, Mr
Farrell, if I asked you for those proofs, you would refuse to trust
them to me?’

‘I should, indeed; for _your_ sake more than my own. It is of little
consequence to me whether he suffers the penalty of the law or not; but
it is of the utmost importance that he should be kept in fear of it, to
protect your interests.’

‘Then I shall go and see him without them, and tell him that you have
no pity,’ replied Iris, as she rose and went to her own cabin.

‘Will she _really_ go?’ demanded Farrell of Maggie.

‘I’m much afraid she will, unless I stop her. Ah, Will, she’ll be a
deal too good to him. Them few soft words have melted her like fire
does snow. Sometimes I think I’ll tell her all, and let her see what
a double-dyed rascal he is; but then I couldn’t bear for her to look
coldly on _me_. Lord! how the wind howls. It’s an awful night, ain’t
it? A reg’lar storm. And what’s that? The mistress cryin’! Ah, I must
go to her, poor dear. This business has upset her altogether.’

‘Try all you can to persuade her not to see that man again, Maggie.’

‘I’ll do my best; but if she’s set on it, she will. But, there, let me
go to her. I’ve a notion in my head I’ll find a way out of it yet.’

She rushed to Iris, and found her (as she had anticipated) in
hysterics. The excitement had overtaxed her strength, and Harland’s
apparently repentant note had finished the work. She sobbed and cried
for a long time without control, and then was so exhausted she was
obliged to lie down in her berth.

‘Now! you’re better,’ said Maggie soothingly; ‘and if you’ll promise to
lie quiet till I come back, I’ll run and get something for you from the
doctor.’

‘Oh, no, Maggie! I must get up. It is time to go and meet Godfrey,’
replied Iris, trying to rise.

‘I am sure it isn’t. It has only just gone nine. You have a whole hour
yet. Rest a bit, my pretty, and let me get you some camphor, or you
won’t be able to speak to him.’

Iris closed her eyes in acquiescence, and Maggie ran off in search of
Dr Lennard.

‘Doctor,’ she said persuasively, ‘my lady, Miss Douglas, has had the
high-strikes, and I want to get her to sleep at once. Will you mix her
a sleeping-draught, in some camphor, that she can take straight off.’

After a few questions, the doctor compounded the soporific, and Maggie
took it back to the cabin and made Iris swallow it. In a few minutes
her sobs relaxed, her eyes closed, her hands folded themselves over her
heaving breast, and she was asleep. Maggie drew the blankets closely
over her, and sat by her side until she was fairly off.

‘_That’s_ right,’ she thought, chuckling to herself; ‘that was very
neatly done. She’ll sleep sound, poor dear, till it’s ten o’clock
to-morrow morning. And now, shall I tell Will what I am going to do? I
think not. He’ll want to interfere, and spoil everything. I can manage
matters much better by myself. I will go and meet Mr Harland, and find
out what he really means to do; and I can pretend I’ve got the papers,
until he’s told me all his mind, and then I can discover I’ve left ’em
below stairs after all. But I mustn’t let him guess as it’s me until
I know his plans for the mistress, or he won’t tell ’em. Let me see!
How can I disguise myself?’ looking round the cabin. ‘Ah! there’s my
pretty’s cloak, and the black worsted wrap; and I can put a veil over
my face, and say I was afraid of being recognised by the saloon people.
And now I must hoodwink Will. Lord, what a trouble all these men are!
You can’t do nothing with them without lying all round.’

A moment later she was in the general cabin.

‘She’s gone off nicely,’ she whispered to Farrell. ‘I got a draught for
her from the doctor, mixed up in camphor, and she took it like a lamb
and was asleep in five minutes. And I guess Mr Harland will have to
wait a long time in the spare galley before he bullies her to-night,
poor dear.’

‘Well, you _are_ a clever girl,’ said Will admiringly; ‘you’ll be the
smartest wife for miles round when you and I are married, Maggie.’

‘Well, mind you make me a husband to match, then,’ she answered,
laughing. ‘But I’ll go to bed myself now, Will, for I’m reg’lar tired.
I think the wind makes one sleepy.’

‘All right! I’m just off for a game at cards with Perry. Good-night, my
dear!’

Maggie whisked away, with the cloak and shawl thrown over her arm, and
at ten o’clock she issued from the steerage so completely enveloped
in them that no casual observer could have said if it were she or her
mistress. The night was pitchy dark. Nothing could be seen all round
the vessel but the boiling foam, flashing with sparkling diamonds
of spray, that rushed in seething suds from the vessel’s bows. To
watch the _Pandora_ at this moment from her topgallant forecastle
was a glorious sight. The bank of snowy lather that was dispersed
on either side to make way for her keel, tossed and rolled over in
impotent fury; the plunges of the ship’s cutwater, that often dipped
her harpoon-shaped martingale deep into the sea; the angry waves
that dashed against her figurehead, and the breakers that leaped
fitfully against her sides, as if they panted to drag her down to the
unfathomable deep, composed a scene of majesty and awe. The sailors
knew that they might expect a stiff gale. Mr Coffin had stowed all her
smaller sails, shortening her down to topsails, and clad in his long
weather coat awaited the coming storm.

The freshening wind hummed in the rigging, and made the loose ropes
beat against the backstays. With a long stretch the _Pandora_ careened
over on her side, and set off at a swinging pace on her course.

The sailors on watch, considering they had done enough work for that
evening, and knowing there would be plenty for them by-and-by, had
turned into the forecastle to put on their oilskins. Only the ‘wheel’
and the ‘look-out’ were on deck, and the darkness made even them
invisible, as Maggie Greet, disguised in Iris’s long mantle, entered
the open door on the leeward of the spare galley. Godfrey Harland was
already there, and moved a few steps towards her.

‘I felt sure you would see the wisdom of meeting me,’ he said; ‘we will
soon set this matter right now. Come from the open door and stand
nearer this way; there will be the less chance of what we say to each
other being overheard.’

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

THE MURDER.


Maggie did as he desired her, in silence, and the two stood close
together in the seclusion of the spare galley. The wind roared and
howled outside, and lashed the waves into a murderous fury against the
proud ship that dared to plough her way through them, but Harland spoke
in low, incisive tones, and every word he uttered was audible to his
companion.

‘I have been thinking over what you said to me this morning,’ he
commenced, ‘and I felt it was quite necessary we should see each other
again. The fact is, you took me so completely aback by your unexpected
appearance and your vehement accusations, that I really did not know
what to say to you. But you are utterly mistaken in thinking I have
any _real_ intention to marry Miss Vansittart. How _can_ I have, when
I am married to you? The thing is too silly to be refuted. You say you
overheard me talking a lot of nonsense to her last night. I acknowledge
I did. The girl has taken an inordinate fancy for me, and I don’t quite
see my way out of it; and so--well you know what we men are,--bad hats,
the very best of us, when there is no one by to keep us straight,--but
I never meant anything serious by it, upon my word of honour. Don’t you
believe me?’

‘Yes,’ replied Maggie, in the lowest of whispers.

‘You needn’t be in the least afraid of our being overheard. It would
take a speaking-trumpet to make one’s self understood through this
gale. However, what I want to explain to you, Iris, is, that my
worst fault has been in concealing the fact of your existence from
the Vansittarts. _He_ made it a proviso that his agent should be an
unmarried man, and as I did not intend to take you out with me, I
thought there was no harm in holding my tongue on the subject, at all
events until I had made myself indispensable to him. And the deception
has entangled me in a dilemma, as deceptions generally do. But the
idea of my marrying Miss Vansittart is too utterly ridiculous. I have
let her talk as she pleased about it, and I have “chaffed” her back in
return, but she knows, as well as I do, that it can never be. Do you
understand?’

‘Yes,’ repeated Maggie, in the same tone.

‘Well, as that affair is settled, I’ll tell you what I think will be
best to do for both of us. I can’t afford to give up this appointment
(it’s six hundred a year, and will be raised by-and-by), and I should
not be able to support you if I did. So you must let me settle you
quietly at Canterbury in some respectable boarding-house, where you
will have society, and I will send you remittances monthly until it
is safe for you to join me again. It won’t be long first. Of course,
since you are in the country, it will be to my advantage to have you
with me, and I shall seize the very first opportunity to confess the
truth to Mr Vansittart, and ask his pardon for not having informed him
of my marriage from the first. I don’t think he will be hard upon me,
especially as he sees his daughter has taken a fancy to me, and is
anxious to put a stop to it. For, of course, I should never have been a
suitable match for her, even if I had been free. He will require money
with any suitor for her hand. Are you quite satisfied now?’

Again Maggie answered only by a monosyllable, and her reticence aroused
Harland’s suspicions.

‘What the deuce is the matter with you, that you can’t speak?’ he said,
irritably. ‘Are you trying some game on me? I warn you not, for I won’t
stand it. Now, look here. I can’t do as I have told you, unless I feel
that I am free from that brute Farrell. It’s of no use my trying to
make a position for myself in a new world, if he has the power to come
forward whenever it pleases him, and denounce me as a criminal. You say
he holds certain written proofs against me. Is this really the case?
Have you spoken to him about them? Have you got them with you?’

‘Yes,’ she said again.

‘Let me see them,’ replied Harland quickly; and as he spoke he struck
a match against the heel of his boot, and held it on a level with her
face.

The sickly blue flame flared up for a moment, and revealed the
features of Maggie Greet.

‘_Maggie!_ by all that’s holy!’ exclaimed Harland, starting backwards.
‘What do you mean by playing this trick upon me? Why was I not told of
this before?’

‘Told of _what_ before?’

‘That you were on board ship, in company with my wife. That I had been
tracked by a couple of you--confound you both!’

‘Oh, yes! I daresay you’d like to confound us both, very much. You’ve
tried your best to do it already, Mr Harland, but you ain’t clever
enough. That’s where the fault lies, you see!’ cried Maggie unabashed.
‘And now, what may you have to say to Mrs Harland, as you can’t say to
me?’

‘Be quiet, you baggage!’ returned Godfrey angrily, ‘and go back to your
berth. My business lies with your mistress, and not with you.’

‘Oh! well, then, you won’t see my mistress, and so you may do as best
you can without her. She has friends on board as won’t consent to her
being handed over, without protection, to the clutches of a brute like
you; and so if you have any message for her, you can send it through
me.’

‘Go to the d--l!’ cried Harland, turning on his heel. ‘I shall not stay
here a minute longer.’

‘Not even to get them papers?’

‘What do _you_ know about the papers?’

‘As much as yourself, I fancy, and p’r’aps more. You asked me just now
if I’d got ’em, and I said “_yes_;” but if they’re no use to you, I may
as well carry them back again.’

‘From whom did you get them?’ demanded Harland, retracing his steps.
‘From that brute Farrell?’

‘Don’t you call better men than yourself names,’ retorted Maggie
sharply. ‘Farrell’s worth fifty of you, any day. Yes, I did get them
from him. Who else?’

‘Your mistress showed you my letter, then?’

‘Yes, she did, and a pack of lies it was, into the bargain.’

‘Take care how you insult me!’ cried Harland.

‘Look here, Godfrey Harland,’ said Maggie, ‘don’t you try any nonsense
on me, for I’ll soon bring you to your marrow-bones. Will Farrell’s
papers is _my_ papers. Do you understand now? He is going to marry me
as soon as we land in New Zealand, and there’ll be _two_ against you
then, instead of one. What do you say to that?’

‘He’s welcome to my leavings: they’re good enough for him,’ returned
the man ironically.

Maggie’s hot blood rose to fever heat.

‘Oh, you blackguard,--you black-hearted villain!’ she exclaimed.
‘_This_ is the reward a woman gets for letting herself be trampled on
by men. You _know_ I was innocent enough when I first came to you. I
was a poor, ignorant, country girl, as hardly knew right from wrong,
and you left your sweet young wife, who’d never done you an unkindness,
to stoop to teach me how to sin. Lord forgive me!’ cried poor Maggie,
with a choking sob in her throat, ‘for I’ve never forgiven myself. Many
and many’s the time I’d have run away and drowned myself, for I didn’t
feel fit to live, except for _her_. But she wanted me, and I hadn’t
the heart to leave her alone with you. _I_ knew how cruel and wicked
you could be, when the first fancy had died out of you, and that you
weren’t fit to have the care of any woman. Oh, how cruel and false you
have been to her, and made me be too! Oh, my poor mistress! If I could
die to make her happy, I would. But nobody can be happy as has to do
with _you_.’

‘You’re pleased to be complimentary,’ sneered Harland.

‘I speak the truth, master, and you know it. You know you’ve been
her ruin, as well as mine. I’m only a poor girl, and don’t signify
p’r’aps so much. But _her_, so delicate and high-bred--sich a lady as
she is, from head to foot. You ought to be hung for what you’ve done
to _her_. Do you think _I_ believe all your palaver about not marrying
Miss Vansittart? Not I. _She_ might have, poor dear, but _I_ know you
better. It was all put on to deceive her, and get hold of the papers.
You’d have settled her in Canterbury, yes! and then she’d never have
heard of you, or your money, again. Don’t I know the liar you are?’

‘Have you got those papers?’ demanded Harland fiercely. ‘I suppose
they’re for sale. What’s their price?’

‘Oh, yes, they’re for sale--never fear; but I doubt if _you_ can buy
them. They’re going in exchange for my mistress being acknowledged
openly as your wife, and placed in her proper position, and treated
with kindness for the future, and _then_, p’r’aps, Will and I may talk
about letting you have the papers.’

‘D--n Will and you!’ exclaimed Harland, as his eyes gleamed with hate
and fury on her.

‘Will and I are much more likely to do that for _you_, Mr Harland. We
have neither of us much cause to love you. You have ruined both our
lives,--robbed us of our good names, and left a nasty stain behind you
which nothing will wipe out. I don’t think we owe you much--unless it
is revenge. And we’ll have our revenge, never fear, unless you buy us
off. Do your duty by the mistress, plain and above-board, or we’ll take
good care you don’t work mischief to any one else. It wouldn’t take
many words from us to get you locked up, and that’s what we mean to do,
both on us, as sure as your name’s Godfrey Harland.’

‘You _do_--do you?’ replied Harland, with clenched hands and teeth.

He had made up his mind how to act whilst she was speaking. The dose
he had obtained for Iris would do just as well for Maggie, and he
pressed closer to her with it in his hand. She, foreseeing meditated
violence in his action, raised her fist and struck him in the face,
then turned and rushed out of the spare galley on to the darkness of
the quarter-deck. It was still deserted, the passengers were in the
saloon, the seamen in the forecastle, and the howling of the gale
permitted only itself to be heard. As Maggie tried to stem her way
against the driving wind, which seemed to push her backwards with every
step, she stumbled against the steam-winch, and in another moment
Harland had caught and held her from behind.

A murderous hand was placed upon her throat, a handkerchief, which
exhaled a sickly, sweet, intoxicating fume, was pressed tightly over
her mouth and nostrils, and her body was held by his against the main
rail. She could not move; she could not scream; she could not even
think. For a moment she struggled feebly, and clutched with her dying
grasp at Harland’s garment. But the next, all things seemed growing
dim--the memory of her wrongs--the fear for her safety--even the
knowledge of the presence of Death faded from her as the fumes of the
chloroform mounted to her very brain, and her breath came in gasps,
which grew shorter and shorter until they ceased altogether. Then her
body was lifted quickly in strong arms from the deck, and thrust over
the mainrail, and it hit the bumpkin with a dull thud, as it dropped
silently into the seething deep.

It plunged beneath the surface and rose again, and the _Pandora_ passed
ahead of it, scattering banks of white foam in her wake, like a sea
shroud for the dying. For in that moment Maggie Greet’s senses had
returned to her. She felt the icy water flowing over her head, and into
her ears and mouth.

Oh, what was this? What had happened to her?

‘Is it some awful dream? Where am I? Who put me here? Oh, Will, Will,
save me!’ But the wind roared to prevent all chance of her feeble cry
being overheard, and the merciless waves flowed over her head again,
and sucked her body down. ‘Oh, to die like this! My poor mistress! God
in heaven! forgive me.’

Again her body disappeared, and after an agonising struggle for life,
poor Maggie rose once more, feebly murmuring, ‘I forgive--forgive,’ and
then sunk beneath the waves for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, Godfrey Harland leant against the mainrail, sick and dizzy
with horror at the deed which he had done, and staring with blank eyes
at the boiling sea, in which the girl he had ruined had disappeared.
The handkerchief he had pressed against her nose and mouth, reeking
with chloroform, was still held in his hand. In his confusion, he did
not even know that it was there. He had never meant to go so far as
this. He had prepared the chloroform to use in case of his experiencing
any trouble in getting the papers into his possession, but when he saw
Maggie so completely unconscious, and realised the danger of being
caught in the act of searching her body, it seemed so much easier to
throw her overboard, and get rid of her dangerous tongue and the proofs
of his forgery at the same time. And now it was over, and there was
no help for it. He gazed at the boiling foam as it dashed past the
vessel, in a vacant manner, as though he half expected Maggie’s face
to rise from it and confront him, Maggie who was already miles away,
drifting without sense or motion in the under-current of the sea. And
as he gazed, strange to say, Godfrey Harland did not think of her as he
had seen her last, but as she had been when they first met--a pretty
country girl, all faith in him and eagerness to obey his will--and his
limbs shook under him as he remembered it.

‘Hullo! Harland! what are you doing here? It’s a rough night for
musing,’ shouted a voice behind him. ‘We’re going to the smoke-room!
Come along and spin us a yarn! The ladies have beat a retreat, and
there’s not much to be done below.’

Godfrey Harland turned round to confront Captain Lovell and the doctor.

‘All right,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I’ll go with you. It’s the beastliest
night we’ve had for a long time.’

As the three men ensconced themselves in the smoke-room, and took their
seats, Dr Lennard snuffed the air.

‘Who’s got chloroform?’ he asked curiously. Lovell looked amused, and
Harland started. ‘Why, it’s _you_!’ continued the doctor. ‘It’s on your
handkerchief.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he stammered; ‘chloroform, of course. I’ve been using it
for a toothache. It generally does me good.’

‘Have you a toothache now?’

‘No, it’s gone!’ replied Harland, with an unquiet look round the cabin.

‘Well! stow your handkerchief away, for goodness’ sake, for it’s too
strong to be agreeable. I hate the smell of chloroform. It recalls
unpleasant operations to me. You must have a sound heart, to be able to
inhale it at that rate. I should think you must have had enough to kill
two people on that handkerchief.’

And with a ghastly grin, that was intended for a smile, Harland thrust
it deep into the pocket of his coat.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

MISSING.


The threatening aspect which the heavens had assumed, turned out to
be nothing more after all than a violent squall, which caused the
_Pandora_ to fly along at her topmost speed for a few hours, and then
died away as quickly as it had sprung up, leaving a calm behind it.
The wet sails beat with loud flaps against the masts in time to the
roll of the vessel; the sheets and tacks were limp and slack; and the
weather shrouds, which had made their lanyards and dead-eyes creak and
groan, could be shaken with the hand--whilst the fine old ship, which
had behaved so gallantly under her widespread canvas, lay like a log on
the ocean, and refused even to steer. The wheel was jammed hard down,
sheets flattened, and everything done to help her, but it was of no
avail. All the coaxing of her officers would not induce her to behave
like a lady, and she drifted along idly, with her nose heading every
point except the one she was wanted to follow. The _Pandora_ was a true
woman that night--wilful and headstrong, and refusing all assistance.
She declined to answer her rudder--even the head-sails had no control
over her--and her mizen had to be hauled up, since it only made her
the more perverse and cantankerous. When all the sailors’ efforts had
failed, and they had given her up--at all events, for the present--as
a hopeless job, a massive sheet of cloud appeared in the eastward. It
was like its predecessor in shape and consistency, but of a brighter
shade--a greyish, half-mourning hue--and as it crept slowly towards
them, like the mighty simoom of the Desert of Sahara, it shut out the
surrounding scene from view. The moon and stars that were reflected on
the still waters were soon enveloped in its dingy mantle, and before
daybreak, the _Pandora_ was hidden by a raw, penetrating mist.

It was a wintry fog, that carried on its breath the seeds of sickness
and mortality; that made itself felt through the thickest garments,
and attacked the joints with stiffness and cramp; that made the night
humid, close, and unhealthy, and the day dark and cheerless; that
compelled the stewards to screw down the port-holes, lest the vapour
should fill their only refuge with its disease-inspiring breath; that
mildewed the dry provisions, and rotted the vegetables that hung in the
long-boat, and transformed the warm grasp of the friend of your bosom
into a cold and clammy touch. When the passengers essayed to make
their toilets, they had to light their lamps, and discovered that their
glasses were dim, and their clothes damp with moisture; nor could the
pleasures of the breakfast-table send a glow through their benumbed
bodies, nor restore the geniality of their tempers.

Captain Robarts, who has not as yet figured prominently in this
history, simply because he never sought the society of his passengers,
or concerned himself about their comforts, was that day more bearish
and blunt (if possible) than usual. He was anxious about their safety.
He was not quite certain as to their exact position on the chart, and
he saw that he would have to work the vessel out by dead reckoning,
instead of the surer method of ascertaining his longitude by the
meridian altitude. He felt sure that he was not many miles from the
coast, but if he had been able to shoot the sun, his mind would have
been more at ease, and he would not have retreated to his private
cabin, and, after irritably slamming the door, have solaced himself
with so many ‘nips’ from a mysterious flask which he kept in a cupboard
at the head of his bunk.

‘A gentleman from the second cabin wishes to speak to you, sir,’ said
the steward, after knocking several times for admittance.

Captain Robarts opened his cabin door and beckoned the man to enter,
much to the disappointment of several curious listeners, who had hoped
to hear all about the wants of the gentleman from the second cabin. A
few minutes afterwards the chief steward left the saloon, and returned,
accompanied by Will Farrell, who was ushered in to the presence of the
captain.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Captain Robarts. ‘I understand you have a
communication to make to me. I am ready to hear it.’

Will Farrell stood before him, white and trembling, hardly knowing how
to begin. At last he stammered out that it was ‘very serious.’

‘Well, well, sir! I can’t afford to waste my time over you. Let me know
it, if you please,’ replied the captain impatiently.

‘One of the steerage passengers--a woman--is missing, sir!’ said
Farrell, in a trembling voice.

‘Indeed; and how did you find it out?’

‘She--she--was my friend, sir--we were to have married each other, and
she was quite safe last night at nine o’clock, because I spoke to her,
and bid her “good-night.” But this morning she’s missing. No one’s seen
her, and the steward says she didn’t sleep in her bunk last night.’

‘And why did not the steward, whose duty it is, inform me of this
himself?’

This question took poor Will Farrell completely aback. He had come in
his grief and trouble to consult the chief person in the ship, but the
terrible news he conveyed did not seem to move the hard, unfeeling
heart of the man before him one whit. The steerage steward was an
uncouth being, working his passage out to New Zealand, and Farrell had
begged leave of him to go and inform the skipper that Maggie Greet was
missing. But he had not expected so cold a reception. He had thought
the captain would immediately employ every available means to discover
the whereabouts of his passenger,--that the ship would be thoroughly
searched from hold to galley, and that if the mystery were not solved
by it, a meeting would be at once convened to inquire into the cause of
Maggie’s disappearance.

When Captain Robarts saw that Farrell preserved silence, he continued,--

‘What is the woman’s name?’

‘Greet, sir, Maggie Greet,’ was the answer, given in a choking voice.

‘Very good! That’ll do! The matter shall be investigated,’ and rising
from his seat, the old sea-dog opened the door, and showed his visitor
the way out.

It was not long after that Mr Sparkes was sent for, and ordered to
report, as quickly as possible, on the particulars of the case, and
enter a full description of the woman, with that of her friends, and
when and where she was last seen, with all _et ceteras_ in his day-book
for the benefit of the skipper, who would have to jot it down in his
official log. That Maggie Greet had been only a steerage passenger,
rendered her disappearance of far less consequence than if she had
belonged to the saloon; still Captain Robarts thought it worth while
to consult Mr Fowler on the subject, and that worthy was consequently
summoned to a private interview in his cabin.

‘What is it all about?’ cried the passengers _en masse_, as Sparkes
delivered the skipper’s message.

‘Only a steerage female passenger missing,’ replied the young officer
airily.

‘_Only_,’ repeated Mr Fowler; ‘only the chance of death for somebody.’

‘But does nobody know where she has gone?’ asked Alice Leyton stupidly.

‘No! or we shouldn’t be looking for her. Stumbled overboard, perhaps,
in the squall. It was a roughish night. Mr Fowler, the captain would
like to speak to you about it at once.’

‘All right; I will go to him,’ and he went.

The captain had soon repeated all he had been able to gather of the
case.

‘You’d better leave it to me,’ said Fowler; ‘it’s either an accident or
foul play, and in either case I’ll keep my eyes open, and see what I
can make of it.’

‘There’s no suspicion whatever of foul play. The young man Farrell, who
was to marry the girl, says she was safe at nine last night, and left
him to go to her berth, but has not been seen since.’

‘And how does he account for himself since that time?’

‘Why, you don’t suspect _him_, surely,’ said the captain; ‘he is simply
overcome with grief.’

‘Yes; I have seen them overcome with grief before. Never mind,
captain. I have my suspicions of more than one person aboard this
vessel, and perhaps this little accident may be the wind-up of it all.
I’ll make things clear, if possible, before we touch port.’

‘How will you set to work?’

‘By putting two and two together. This young woman was rather strange
in her ways, you know, captain.’

‘Was she? I didn’t know her, even by sight.’

‘There were two of them, and they were always with this man Farrell,
and always wrapped up in shawls, so that their faces couldn’t be seen.
They never came out till the evening, either, and then they’d slink
away towards the forecastle. All they seemed to wish was to avoid their
fellow-creatures.’

‘Perhaps it was some family trouble.’

‘Perhaps it was, and it’ll prove a case of _felo de se_. Though she was
as sturdy a damsel (this one that’s missing) as ever I saw, and not at
all like a romantic suicide. But one never knows what they’ll do, if
there’s a man in the case. I remember an affair something like this one
taking place in the _Wangarrie_, bound for Auckland. There was a lady
of title on board, who had been confined to her berth for some days.
Well, the stewardess had not left her above five minutes one afternoon
when she was gone. She crawled out of one of the square stern windows
in her _robe de nuit_, and dropped into the briny.’

‘But this woman could not have gone out of the ports.’

‘No, I suppose they’re too small in the ’tween decks. I’ll go down
there in the dog watch, and take a look round. But she may have jumped
overboard during the squall, and no one have been the wiser; or she may
have been _pushed_ over.’

‘You can’t get the idea that it was intentional out of your head, Mr
Fowler.’

‘No, sir; and sha’n’t, either, until I prove it to have been otherwise.
For, as I said before, I haven’t been sleeping on the voyage, and I
have my suspicions. But I’ll clear out now, captain; I see you are
busy with your chart,’ and with a curt nod, Mr Fowler went about his
business.

Before noon every soul on board the _Pandora_ had heard and discussed
the terrible news, but all were equally at a loss to account for it.
Some agreed with Mr Fowler that poor Maggie must have been a little
insane. Others suspected (though they dared not say so) the unfortunate
Farrell, who (with Iris Harland) was overcome with grief for Maggie’s
loss, and believed his tears were only shed to avert suspicion from
himself. Godfrey Harland was forced to mix with his fellow-passengers,
and hear all their comments on the subject, for he dreaded doing
anything unusual so as to attract the general notice. He was very
active, therefore, in arguing the point, and suggesting possible
solutions of the mystery, though he stuck faithfully himself to one
opinion, that _if_ the unhappy girl had had a lover, _he_ was the
person who should know most about it.

In every part of the vessel the unfortunate accident was commented on.
In the forecastle, the galley, and the house amidships; in the second
cabin, the smoke-room, and on the poop deck it formed the sole topic of
conversation.

The wretched Farrell, with eyes bleared and swollen from weeping, was
bowed down under a sense of his loss. It was in vain that Iris implored
him to take courage, to bear his trouble like a man, to remember how
brave poor dear Maggie was, and how she would have been the first to
condemn his utter prostration of mind and body. There was a deeper
grief than the loss of his promised wife underlying his condition. Both
his suspicions, and those of Iris, pointed to Godfrey Harland, though
they feared to say so, even to each other. Maggie had purposely sent
Iris to sleep, and Farrell remembered afterwards that she had carried
her mistress’s missing cloak and shawl upon her arm. What had she taken
them for, unless she intended to go on deck, and why should she go on
deck but to meet Harland, instead of his wife? The case seemed clear to
both of them, and yet they were so helpless to take their revenge. They
did not even know where she had gone to, or if Harland had kept the
appointment he made with his wife. Farrell would neither eat nor drink.
His dinner and tea were carried away untouched, while he sat in his
berth with his face buried in his hands, trying to find some solution
to the awful mystery.

As the night watches were set, he was roused from the stupor into which
he had fallen, by the advent of Mr Fowler, who, having tapped at his
door, entered without further ceremony.

‘Come, come, Farrell!’ he commenced kindly, as he laid his hand upon
the young man’s shoulder, ‘you mustn’t give way like this. Let me
send for some liquor for you. Here, steward! bring Mr Farrell a
brandy-and-soda,’ and when it came he forced Will to drink it.

‘It is very kind of you, Mr Fowler, to take the trouble to come and
visit me,’ Will said, as he tried to stop his gasping sobs. ‘Few have
done it, except Miss Douglas. I daresay you are surprised at my being
so overcome by this loss; but it was so sudden--so unexpected--we were
so full of hope and anticipation that--’

‘Yes, yes, my boy! I quite understand,’ replied Fowler. ‘It was very
dreadful--very dreadful, indeed. But have you any idea how it happened?’

‘Not the slightest--at least, no certainty. The last time I saw her I
was sitting down here, playing cards with my friend Perry, and she told
me the wind had made her sleepy, and she should go to bed. I wished her
good-night, and that was the last of it.’

‘She was a steerage passenger, I understand. How came she to be in the
second cabin?’

‘Well, sir, there’s a lady here, Miss Douglas, who was a friend of
hers. Maggie was--well, I don’t know why I should mind saying it--but
my poor girl was in her service in England, and followed her across
the sea, and used to come in here and look after her sometimes. Miss
Douglas was ill last night, and Maggie had given her a sleeping-draught
and put her to bed.’

‘Pardon the digression, Mr Farrell, but what made Miss Douglas ill?’

Will Farrell’s eyes flashed. He would have blurted out the whole truth
concerning Godfrey Harland to all the ship at that moment. Only one
motive restrained him--the thought of Iris. But he clenched his fist as
he answered,--

‘A scoundrel had been talking to her and upsetting the poor thing. She
isn’t strong.’

‘And this scoundrel--excuse me--is also an enemy of yours, Mr Farrell?’

‘I didn’t say so, Mr Fowler.’

‘No, but I guessed it from the clenching of your hand as you mentioned
him. And now let me tell you that I strongly suspect there is foul play
somewhere, and I want you to assist me in clearing it up.’

‘I suspect it too, sir--more, I _believe_ it, only I can’t give a
reason why. But if I tell you my suspicions, _how_ can you clear the
matter up?’

‘Because my name of Fowler is assumed for professional purposes only.
My real title is Mark Rendle, of Scotland Yard, and if things are not
all square here, and _you_ will help me, I will bring the murderer to
justice.’

‘I’m your man!’ cried Farrell, as he stretched out his hand.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

MR FOWLER.


‘I suppose you are a detective?’ continued Farrell, after a pause.

‘You are right. I am a private detective, but no one knows the secret
but Captain Robarts and yourself, and I should not have confided it to
you, except I feel that, for your own sake, you will keep it sacred.
And now look here, my boy. I am a man old enough to be your father,
and I have had much experience in these cases, with which I have been
mixed up all my life. If we are to work together, you must tell me _the
truth_. You must hide nothing from me; and you must give me your word
of honour not to disclose a single thing that I may say to you.’

‘I swear to you that I will not. But first tell me, Mr Fowler, have you
come out to track any one aboard this vessel?’

‘No. I am travelling in the interests of Messrs Stern & Stales,
whose New Zealand firm has suffered lately from extensive robberies,
instigated, it is believed, by the _employés_. The company sent me over
in the _Pandora_ to avoid suspicion. If I crossed in a steamer, certain
business people, who are always going backwards and forwards through
the Canal to Australia and New Zealand, might recognise me, and the
news of my arrival would be spread through the island, and warn the
thieves to be on their guard. Now let me hear all you have to tell me.’

Will Farrell then related in detail all that he knew of Horace Cain
_alias_ Godfrey Harland. He gave the whole history of the forged
cheque, and the clever way in which the suspicion had been cast upon
himself. He told how he had made the acquaintance of Maggie Greet on
board ship, and learned through her that her mistress, Miss Douglas,
was in reality Harland’s wife, and how Godfrey’s open courtship of
Miss Vansittart had induced Iris to reveal her identity to him, and to
threaten to expose him. And he concluded with the incident of Harland’s
letter to his wife, demanding another interview at ten o’clock that
night in the spare galley, and entreating her to bring the proofs that
Farrell held against him, for him to see.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Fowler impatiently; ‘that is a dirty story
enough, but what has it to do with Maggie Greet? I want to hear about
_her_, and not Mr and Mrs Harland.’

There was one thing which Farrell had concealed, and that was the fact
of Maggie’s seduction by her master. He felt as if death itself could
not drag it from him,--as if it would be an insult to the dead woman
he had loved even to allude to it. But he had a detective to deal with.

‘She was in their service when in England--I have mentioned that,’
replied Farrell confusedly; ‘and she was very much attached to Miss
Douglas. It was all Maggie’s doing that she didn’t go to that interview
with her husband. She meant to do so, but Maggie was afraid of mischief
(she told me so), so she procured a draught from Dr Lennard, and sent
Miss Douglas straight off to sleep, under pretence of soothing her
hysterical condition.’

‘Very good. What did Miss Greet do then?’

‘She came up to my side in the second cabin, and said, after telling me
about Miss Douglas, “I’ll go to bed now, Will, for I’m regular tired. I
think the wind makes one sleepy.”’

‘And did she go to bed?’

‘How can I tell, sir? I never saw her again. But the steerage steward
says she didn’t.’

‘Now, just think, Mr Farrell. Did you remark anything strange about her
manner when she bade you good-night?’

‘Not at the time, or I should have spoken of it. But after she was
missing, Miss Douglas told me that her big cloak that she always wore,
and woollen wrap, were also gone from her cabin, and then I seemed to
remember, like a flash of lightning, that Maggie had a bundle of cloaks
or something over her arm when she spoke to me.’

‘And you think she took them on purpose?’

‘Yes. I think now she took them that she might look like her mistress,
and that she went on deck to take her place, and keep that appointment
with Godfrey Harland--_curse him_!’ said Farrell, between his teeth.

‘This becomes interesting,’ remarked the detective coolly. ‘But now,
Mr Farrell, the question arises, What reason Miss Greet should have
had to wish to prevent her mistress meeting Mr Harland?’

‘She believed harm would come of it. He had treated his wife cruelly
before.’

‘She had not a good opinion of her master, then? She did not like him?’

Farrell answered curtly in the negative.

‘Do you know if Miss Greet had any cause to mistrust him?’

‘She knew he was a brute, and I had told her about the forgery.’

‘But _personally_, I mean? Was there any feeling like jealousy or
revenge at work in the matter?’

‘Not jealousy, certainly,’ answered Will. ‘She was going to marry
me--she was fond of me.’

‘But formerly--before you met the girl--had there ever been any
love-passages between her and this Godfrey Harland?’

Farrell opened his eyes in amazement.

‘Are you a wizard?’ he asked.

‘No, my boy, only a detective! But that means a close observer of
human nature, and an aptitude for hitting on the right cause for every
effect.’

Will was silent.

‘Come, now! I appreciate your reticence, but this is no time for false
modesty. Doubtless Miss Greet told you all her secrets. Had she any
reason to wish to be revenged on Harland, or he for getting rid of her?
If you won’t tell me the whole truth, I can do nothing for you.’

‘All right, sir! I _will_ trust you, for it can’t do _her_ any harm
now, and it may be the means of avenging this cruel loss. She _had_
good cause to hate him, poor thing, and he, perhaps, to be afraid of
her! He had seduced her years before, when she first went to live in
his wife’s service, and Maggie despised him for it,--as well she might,
and all the more because she had grown to be so fond of Miss Douglas.
That’s the truth, Mr Fowler, and I hope you’ll keep it sacred.’

‘You may depend upon me, Farrell, and it’s a valuable clue. We have
arrived at this conclusion, therefore: At the time that Mr Harland was
waiting to see his wife in the spare galley, she was asleep in her
berth, and Maggie Greet, with her mistress’s cloak and wraps over her
arm, walked out of the cabin, and was never seen again. She was a woman
also who mistrusted her master, and had an old grudge against him, and
whose desire for revenge, too, might prove very awkward to himself.
That is true, is it not?’

‘It is so, Mr Fowler; and every moment the case seems to become clearer
to me.’

‘Now, Mr Farrell, do you really hold the proofs you have mentioned
against Mr Harland?’

‘Yes; I have certain letters written, and copies of statements made, at
the time of the forgery, which would go very hardly against him were I
to produce them.’

‘And did you lend them to Miss Greet?’

‘Oh, dear, no! She never asked me for them.’

‘You are _sure_ you have them still?’

‘Quite sure! I was looking at them this afternoon.’

‘Then she could not have taken them, as desired, for him to see?

‘No; but I think she may have _pretended_ to have them, sir, just to
gain time to say what she wished to say to him, and then, when he
found he had been deceived, the brute may have revenged himself on her
by--ah, it is too horrible to think of!’ cried Farrell, breaking off in
another burst of grief.

‘Or she may have fallen overboard by accident, don’t forget that,
Farrell. It was a terrible night, and the sailors say they couldn’t
have heard any cries through such a squall. It doesn’t lessen the loss
to think so, but it is as well not to accuse anybody of a crime, even
in our thoughts, until we are sure of it.’

‘That villain is capable of anything,’ said Farrell doggedly.

‘And now about this Miss Douglas, as you call her? Is there any one on
board who knows her to be the wife of Harland beside yourself?’

‘I think not, and I have no proofs. She and Maggie Greet both told me
so. That is all I know.’

‘That is unfortunate. At present, it seems to me that all we can do is
to watch and wait. Even if Mrs Harland comes forward to tell what she
knows, we have no evidence that this Miss Greet ever went up on deck
at all. The case seems pretty clear to you and me, but we have to make
it clear to others. So I can do nothing more at present, and you must
not mention a word of our conversation to any one on board, not even to
Miss Douglas. You must try and be patient. I know you are burning to
charge Mr Harland with the deed--you feel so positive he is the guilty
party that you almost wonder I do not clap on the “darbies” at once.
But that is not our way of working. Supposing he were able to prove
that he was all the time in the company of friends, we should at once
lose the case, which, if properly worked, is bound to be cleared up one
way or the other. Do you go with me?’

‘Yes, yes. I suppose it signifies little either way. Nothing will bring
my poor girl to life again.’

To this sentiment Mr Fowler had naturally no refutation, and so he
withdrew noiselessly, and left Will Farrell to himself.

Nothing occurred during the following day of any interest. Iris Harland
kept entirely to the second cabin. She hardly dared to _think_ of how
poor Maggie may have come by her death, and she dreaded, with a sickly
loathing, the idea of meeting her husband again. She even shrunk from
seeing Vernon Blythe. She knew that he would question her so closely,
and sympathise with her so deeply, that she was afraid of what she
might say or do before him; and in answer to more than one kind note
full of affectionate anxiety, she only begged him to leave her alone
until she had somewhat recovered from the shock of losing her poor
friend.

So the day passed on, gloomy and uneventful. The passengers conversed
in undertones on the marvellous disappearance of Maggie Greet, and the
captain peered anxiously into the fog, which still forbade him the use
of his sextant, and made him morose and irritable.

The _Pandora_ remained motionless upon the water. The mist was so dense
that it was impossible to see farther than seven yards from her side.
It was a very perilous position, for at any moment she might have
been cut down by a steamer. The patent Aurora foghorn was constantly
sounded, and every few seconds a long, deep-toned roar, like the lowing
of a monster bull, echoed over the deep, and denoted the whereabouts of
the helpless mariners and their living freight.

The sea resembled a sheet of boiling metal, throwing off vast clouds
of steam, which, gathering in huge volumes in the air, hung suspended
until some mighty wind should arise to drive them away. The mist clung
about the rigging, and fell thence in large drops like rain. The decks
were sodden and slippery. The brass-work of the bridge railings, the
binnacles, and the gratings, which usually shone like gold, had turned
to a sickly greenish hue, and red and orange rust oozed from the
bulwarks and combings of the masts and stanchions, as if the vessel had
been punctured with a hundred lancets, and was slowly bleeding to death.

The wretched cooped-up fowls, standing upon one leg, with their heads
buried beneath their wings, uttered now and then a croupy remonstrance;
the ducks huddled close together to try and keep out the damp chill,
which even their natural oil could not withstand; and the three
surviving sheep filled up the intervals between the lowing of the
fog-blast, with a series of monotonous bleats.

In the forecastle, the seamen ‘yarned’ together by the dim light of a
miserable, smelling, paraffin-oil lamp, which filled the place with
exudations of black smoke, which, combined with the strong flavour of
cavendish, and the dank feeling of the mist, was anything but agreeable.

Now and again the foghorn of the _Pandora_ would be answered faintly
by a distant echo, which grew louder and louder, till all on board
wondered what course the stranger could be making, till suddenly a
tall, dark spectre would shoot rapidly past them in the gloom (like the
celebrated Phantom Ship), making their hearts beat with excitement,
and vanish again as quickly in the fog, leaving only the disturbed
water as a sign that they had been passed by an ocean-liner.

And so the day closed, and morning broke on the same blank prospect.
The officers grumbled, the passengers fretted, and the shellbacks
growled and swore like so many surly bears. Captain Robarts was still
more uneasy than on the previous day. He had noticed that the barometer
was falling, and he expected nothing short of a strong gust of wind
to clear the horizon. He spoke to no one except his officers, and
with them his consultations were short, hurried, and uncommunicative.
Every one on board was in the dumps. It seemed as if the disappearance
of Maggie Greet had cast the shadow of death over the vessel and all
concerned in her.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

DRIFTING BACK.


But of every one on board the _Pandora_ Godfrey Harland was in reality
the most nervous and uncomfortable. He longed to be able to shut
himself up in his own berth, and refuse sustenance, but he could not
afford to do it. He felt it was indispensable for him to appear at
meals, and pretend to have a good appetite, and to talk and laugh
loudly, as he had been wont to do, but he was obliged to pay for it
afterwards by drowning his thoughts and dulling his conscience with
copious draughts of brandy. And notwithstanding all his efforts to
appear jolly and at his ease, he could see that his fellow-passengers
were not quite the same to him as they had been before. Although
Will Farrell and Mr Fowler had kept their own counsel, hints _would_
leak out--a word was dropped here and there, or a look given--and Mr
Harland’s companions began to glance shyly at him. His jests were not
responded to; his offers of assistance were rejected; and conversation
was hushed as he drew near. Even Grace Vansittart seemed to avoid him,
and drop her big brown eyes confusedly when they met his. Harland
perceived the general feeling, though no one was brave enough to
express it openly, and it drove him to drink. For two nights he drank
to intoxication; and after some hours of torpid sleep he ascended the
poop deck, where, with bleared eyes and flushed and feverish face, he
leaned upon the taffrail. The nervous twitching of the fingers that
clawed the buttons of his coat, his startled glances and trembling
tongue, showed what havoc the drink had made with him. But the state
of the weather was in his favour. Had not the thoughts of the ship’s
company been occupied with the fog and its possible danger, his conduct
would have been far more noticeable than it was; but all minds were too
much wrapped up in their own welfare to have time to concern themselves
about the doings of others.

As Godfrey Harland left the saloon, little Winnie Leyton escaped from
her mother’s side, and, disobeying orders, clambered step by step up
the ladder, and landed herself on the poop deck. Dodging the officer
on watch, who happened to be Vernon Blythe (who, she knew well, would
soon re-consign her to her mother’s care), the mischievous little imp
concealed her tiny person behind the mizenmast, waiting until the
young sailor had turned his back, and then pattered aft along the
wet deck to Harland’s side. He hated children, and this one beyond
others, because both her mother and sister had always displayed a
marked aversion to him. So, to her innocent questions and remarks,
he made no reply; and, tired of his silence, Winnie ran off to find
a more congenial companion, and commenced to play ‘peep-bo!’ with
the quarter-master on the lee side of the wheel-house, much to the
amusement of that jolly tar. But children soon weary of any employment;
so, after standing on the bench and shaking her arch little head, with
its golden curls, at him through the window for the space of five
minutes, she kissed the helmsman through the pane of glass, and jumped
on the deck again.

‘Tum here, tum here!’ she cried presently, tugging at Harland’s
coat-tail; ‘tum and see dis tunny ting.’

‘Go along, you little beast! Go down to your mother, and don’t bother
me!’ he said angrily, as he shook off the dimpled hand.

Winnie made a wry face, and puckered up her rosebud mouth for a cry.
She was not used to be called by such ugly names, and she did not
understand them. But she summoned up courage to remark, before she did
so--determined, like the majority of her sex, to have the last word,--

‘_Not_ boddering! Dere _is_ a tunny ting--in de water. _Dere!_’

‘It’s only a fish. Run away! I’m busy!’

‘I tink it sark. Do tum and see,’ persisted the child.

‘Where is it then?’ inquired Harland. ‘I suppose you’ll give me no
peace till I _have_ looked at it.’

Winnie pulled him along gleefully, delighted at having gained her own
way.

‘Dere! _dere!_’ she exclaimed, pointing with her little finger to some
object in the water.

But one look was enough for Godfrey Harland. With his eyes starting
from their sockets with horror, he covered his face with his hands.

‘My God! my God!’ he exclaimed, in a voice of agony, as he rushed away
and left the child by herself.

Winnie was terribly frightened. She couldn’t think what she had said,
or done, to make the ‘cross man’ so angry with her; and bursting into
a loud howl, she attracted the notice of ‘Brother Jack’ (as she still
called him), who ran forward, and took her in his arms.

‘Why, what’s the matter, baby? Have you hurt yourself?’ he inquired
tenderly, as he kissed the wet face.

At the same moment he was joined by Alice, who had been sent by Mrs
Leyton to bring the truant back.

‘How naughty of you, baby, to run away directly mother left the cabin,’
she began reprovingly, but stopped on seeing her little sister’s tears.
‘Why, who has made you cry, darling? Not Jack?’

‘As if “Jack” _would_,’ replied Vernon, with mock reproach. ‘It’s _you_
who make _Jack_ cry, Miss Alice.’

‘Much you’ve cried for me,’ she answered, in the same tone. ‘Why,
you’ve looked twice as young and handsome since I set you free. But
what has happened to Winnie?’

‘Man make faces at me,’ sobbed the child.

‘_Man!_ What man?’ demanded Vernon.

‘Dere,’ said Winnie, pointing to the wheel-house.

But when Jack searched in that direction, he found no one. Harland,
trembling with terror, had already hidden himself below.

‘I expect it was Mr Harland,’ said Jack. ‘He was the only person on
deck a few minutes ago. What did you do to make him angry, Winnie?’

‘Sowed him a fis. I specks it’s dere now.’

‘Well, come along, and show it to Alice and me,’ he said, walking aft
with the little child clinging to his hand. ‘We’ll look at Winnie’s
“fis,” and see if we can catch it, and cook it for mammy’s dinner.’

‘Oh, Jack, how _sweet_ you are!’ cried Alice enthusiastically.

She was of a romantic disposition, and occasionally given to these
little outbursts of sudden regret for the lover whom she had
voluntarily relinquished in favour of Captain Lovell. Jack looked at
her with a world of merriment in his soft grey eyes.

‘Don’t be a fool, Alice,’ he said, laughing.

‘Oh! but you _are_,’ persisted the girl, with a suspicious mist
obscuring her sight; ‘you are so kind to everybody. It seems to me as
if you only lived to make other people happy.’

‘You’re very much mistaken then, for I can make myself deucedly
disagreeable when I feel inclined. But let’s look out for Winnie’s
“fis.” By Jove! Alice, that’s no fish! Wait till I get the glasses.’

‘What is it, Jack?’ asked Alice impatiently, as he took a long survey
of the object in question. ‘Can’t you make it out?’

‘It looks like a black log from here; but these glasses are not very
clear. But stay! there is something white on it. Good heavens! it is a
body! It must be the woman who jumped overboard the other night.’

‘Oh, Jack! how _can_ it be?’

‘I can swear it is the body of a woman, and with a black dress on.
Here, Alice, you had better take Winnie below. This is no sight for
either of you. And I must go at once and report it to the captain.’

Vernon Blythe was correct. Strange as it may seem, it was the body of
poor Maggie Greet, which had risen to the surface on the third day.

The _Pandora_ had gone far ahead in the squall; but since then she had
been slowly but surely drifting back again, and was now on the very
spot where she had been three nights before, and the murdered woman
floated on the waters within a hundred yards of her stern.[A]

A boat was lowered at once, and paddled to the quarter, and the corpse
was reverently lifted into it, and carried to the surgery.

There was tremendous excitement throughout the vessel whilst the
doctor’s and captain’s examination of the body--at which they invited
Fowler and Farrell to be present--was going on; but it resulted in no
discovery that could afford a clue to the manner of her death. Her long
dark hair had fallen about her face, having been washed down by the
action of the waves, and her face and figure were much swollen, and
beginning to show signs of discoloration. But there were no marks of
violence to be seen, nor any evidence of a struggle having taken place,
nor the slightest proof that she had been in any way even acquainted
with Godfrey Harland. She still wore Iris’s long cloak, tied round her
throat, but the woollen wrap had fallen from her head. The poor dead
girl formed a sad and solemn spectacle, and Will Farrell’s grief at the
sight of her was profound. After a rigid and careful examination, Mr
Fowler led the poor fellow away to his own berth, fearful lest in his
pain he should say or do something to cast suspicion on the man they
both had in their mind’s eye.

In the dog watch, the body, sewed in a canvas shroud, and heavily
weighted at the feet, was laid on a grating covered with the Union
Jack, and the bell was tolled to announce that the funeral was about to
take place.

The passengers, with serious faces, clustered about the captain and
his officers, who stood close to the grating, and the seamen, dressed
in their Sunday clothes, clean shorn, and holding their caps in their
hands, filled up the background. A burial at sea is one of the most
solemn and impressive services imaginable.

The skipper, officiating in the place of a priest, with prayer-book in
hand--the silent corpse that lies under the flag, ready to be committed
to the deep--the infinite surroundings of water and space--the
unfathomable grave--the words which are pronounced as the grating is
withdrawn, ‘We therefore commit this body to the deep, to be turned
into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the
sea shall give up her dead’--the hollow splash--and the sobs that
often break upon the succeeding silence, form a scene that cannot be
wiped from the memory in a lifetime. There were many things to render
it more solemn than usual on this occasion. The mystery surrounding
the sad fate of the young woman who had been their fellow-passenger
affected most of the spectators strangely; and Will Farrell, although
he had promised Iris to control himself, and his hated enemy, Godfrey
Harland, stood with dry eyes within a few yards of him, broke down so
completely, as the body disappeared from view, that his sobs seemed
to penetrate every part of the vessel. Iris, though scarcely less
affected, made no scene. She trembled like an aspen leaf when she saw
her husband take his place amongst the mourners, and grew so deadly
white that Vernon Blythe (who never took his eyes off her) thought she
was going to faint. But she made a strong effort to recover herself,
and stood silent throughout the ceremony. When it was over, indeed,
and the passengers were dispersing, she walked to the gangway and took
a long look at the water, whilst her tears dropped into it, and she
wished her poor faithful Maggie farewell until the light of another
world should break upon them. And then she turned, and laid her hand
upon Will Farrell’s arm.

‘Come, Mr Farrell,’ she said gently, ‘and _leave the rest to God_!’

As she spoke the words, she raised her eyes, and encountered those of
Godfrey Harland, and in that glance the wretched murderer read that his
crime was known to her.

When the burial was over, and the sailors had resumed their duties, the
bell rang for dinner, but few sat down to it. The women were overcome
by the scene they had witnessed, and even the men were not inclined to
be jolly or conversational after so solemn a ceremony.

‘Farrell,’ said Mr Fowler, as he entered the former’s berth, and
fastened the door securely behind him, ‘I am afraid the examination of
to-day will lead to no results. There was absolutely nothing to guide
us as to the manner of her death. If it did not occur by accident, we
shall have to use other means by which to arrive at the truth.’

‘I feel _sure_ it did not occur by accident,’ returned Farrell. ‘Have
you been able to speak to Harland yet?’

‘I have not. He has been drinking very hard the last few days, and
kept to his cabin, which is in itself a suspicious circumstance. But I
have ascertained from the second officer, young Blythe, that there was
something very strange about his conduct when the body was discovered
to-day. He did or said something that nearly frightened Mrs Leyton’s
youngster into fits. But if he is guilty of the murder, he must be a
very hardened villain, for I watched him narrowly during the burial
service, and I could not detect the least signs of emotion. One thing
only have I ascertained for _certain_, and that is, that he did not
attend dinner on the evening of Miss Greet’s disappearance, neither
did anybody see him afterwards, until Dr Lennard and Captain Lovell
went on deck about eleven o’clock for a smoke, and found him leaning
over the mainrail, and apparently gazing at the water. Of this there
is no doubt. They are both ready to swear to it. Also, that he had so
much chloroform on his handkerchief that the doctor turned quite sick,
and begged him to put it away. Harland said he used the chloroform for
toothache, and so he may have done. But the doctor has an ugly little
story to tell about finding Mr Harland in his surgery on the afternoon
of the same day, without his being able to give a good account of
himself, and also of one of his bottles of chloroform being missing
since.’

‘But what can be clearer?’ exclaimed Farrell.

‘My dear fellow! it may be clear that Mr Harland took the doctor’s
chloroform without his authority, but there is no proof he did not use
it (as he affirmed) for toothache. We can do nothing in this matter
without hard, undeniable proofs.’

‘We shall never do anything!’ cried Farrell despairingly. ‘The brute
will go scot-free. It is always so in the world.’

‘Not always, sir; in fact, _my_ experience is that very few criminals
escape in the long run; and this business won’t be forgotten against Mr
Harland--you may take your oath of that!’

‘I should think I might,’ returned Farrell. ‘_I_ sha’n’t forget it, Mr
Fowler, and if the law doesn’t punish him for it, _I will_. I shall
live for nothing henceforward, but to see that man die as he killed
her. He robbed me of the first half of my life, and just as I hoped I
might live to forget all I had gone through on his account, and find
some comfort in the love of a true-hearted woman, he robs me of her
too, and in the cruellest and most dastardly manner! But he shall
answer for it! I swear before God, he shall live to suffer as she
suffered,--to die hopeless, as she died! If the hangman refuses the
job, I’ll twist the rope round his dirty neck myself!’

‘Hush! hush! you must not speak like that,’ said Mr Fowler; ‘you are
excited, and don’t know what you are saying. Go to bed now, my good
fellow, and try to sleep. You will be worn out if you keep this sort of
thing up much longer!’

‘Yes; I’ll take your advice, and get into my berth. I may as well sleep
now; she’s sleeping under the water, and I can never do her any more
good in this world. And I shall want all my strength, too, Mr Fowler; I
shall want it _for what’s coming_!’

He scrambled into his berth as he spoke, and the kind-hearted detective
having administered a sleeping-draught to him, under the guise of a
stiff glass of whisky toddy, left him to forget his troubles as best he
might.

  FOOTNOTE:

  [A] A fact.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

A CHANGE.


During that night a gentle breeze rippled the bosom of the ocean, and
the unhealthy mist, like a death-shroud hung over the face of the
living, was slowly lifted, and passed away. By morning, when long
white shafts of light were appearing in the eastward, there was a
clear horizon, and, better still, a fair wind. Then the clouds assumed
fantastic shapes, and drifted towards the west, and a rosy hue tinted
the white sky, which turned to a deep scarlet, and finally resolved
itself to a rich orange, until a majestic ball of fire shot up into
the heavens, and lit the day with golden beams.

The _Pandora_ was making her eight knots an hour with flowing sheets.
All her sails were spread to the wind, and the sun soon dried
and warmed her decks. Several other vessels were in sight--small
coasters--that were making northerly courses, and occasionally a black
pillar of smoke from the funnel of a steamer could be distinguished
right ahead. The passengers, recovered from their despondency, had
assembled with smiling faces on the poop deck.

Mr and Mrs Vansittart were present, delighted at the idea of so
soon reaching _terra firma_, and resuming their life in the bush,
and not less so at the prospect of getting rid of their troublesome
companion. For Mr Vansittart fully coincided now with his wife’s
opinion concerning Godfrey Harland, and had quite made up his mind to
dismiss him as soon as ever they reached New Zealand. He would not
be ungenerous, or unkind. That was not in his nature. He would recoup
him liberally for his trouble and loss of time, but he would not take
him up to Tabbakooloo. His behaviour with Grace, and her evident
infatuation for him, would have been sufficient reason to prevent it,
without the very serious suspicions that had lately attached themselves
to his name. So that matter was settled, eminently to the satisfaction
of Mrs Vansittart, although her husband was not equally delighted at
the prospect of the task that lay before him.

Mrs Leyton, keeping one eye upon her baby and the other upon Alice and
Captain Lovell, was smiling serenely at the prospect of meeting her
husband, and having some one to look after her again, and Miss Vere was
in the same state of joyful anticipation.

The actress had made good use of her time.

The long monotonous voyage had afforded her ample leisure for studying
her new _rôles_, and she was looking forward with the keenest pleasure
to making her _débût_ and her name in a new country, and with a new
people.

Her parts suited her to perfection, her wardrobe was safe in the hold,
her husband was waiting to receive her with open arms in Canterbury.
What on earth could any woman want more. She looked radiant with health
and happiness, as she sat in her deck chair, talking with Harold
Greenwood, who generally played shadow to her substance. This young
gentleman had not been so stricken by his disappointment as some people
might imagine, neither had the unexpected revelation that his divinity
was married had any effect in making him alter his pre-conceived
determination to follow her through the New World. She could still be
worshipped, even if she _were_ Mrs Perkins! In fact, Mr Greenwood had
not quite made up his mind whether he might not yet cut Mr Perkins
out. And Miss Vere’s manner to him may have favoured the idea. She
delighted in her little ‘masher,’ and never lost an opportunity of
letting him make a fool of himself. He was her fetcher and carrier,
and general ‘walking-stick,’ and she so often avowed that she did not
know what she should have done on the voyage without him, that he quite
believed himself to be indispensable to her comfort.

‘Oh, _I_ travel with “the company,”’ he would reply to any one who
asked him what were his plans on reaching New Zealand. ‘You see Miss
Vere couldn’t very well do without me. I’m her “factotum,” as she is
pleased to call it. In fact,’ he would continue, lowering his voice,
‘I ran a very good chance once of becoming a near connection of Mr
Perkins’. No, that’s not it exactly,’ he would say, correcting himself,
with a puzzled look upon his flabby face; ‘but I _ought_ to have been
Mr Perkins, or I _should_ have been, if there had been no Mr Perkins at
all. You understand, I’m sure. It’s the way of the world, but it’s the
sort of thing one can’t talk about.’

So half the passengers thought Mr Greenwood was a very wicked and
immoral young man, and the other half thought--well, they thought, and
justly, that he was an ass, with something spelt with a big _D_ before
it. But he was none the less amusing on that account to Miss Vere, who
declared that he was the sole thing that had kept her in health during
the voyage.

Alice Leyton, leaning on the arm of Captain Lovell, whose engagement to
her was known to the whole ship’s company, walked blithely up and down
the deck, bandying jests with her old lover whenever she came across
him; and Mr Fowler strutted in company with Dr Lennard. Their colloquy,
indeed, appeared to be of more importance than that of the others,
which was the reason, perhaps, that they conversed with lowered voices,
and stopped every now and then and leaned over the side of the vessel,
whilst they peered with solemn looks into each other’s faces.

Godfrey Harland, who was seated upon the skylight benches, apparently
shunned by everybody, did not seem to like the way in which Mr Fowler
and the doctor were talking to each other, for he watched their
movements and grimaces attentively, though he was very careful not be
caught doing so.

Captain Robarts, who was also on deck, seemed to have shaken off ‘the
black dog’ that had clung to him so much of late, and actually greeted
the ladies with the nearest approach he could manufacture to a smile.
The wind and the weather had had a marvellous effect upon him. Three
or four times during the morning he had rushed into the pilot-house
and examined his precious sextant, and brightened up its silver arc
with his silk bandana. He was in exuberant spirits _for him_,--thankful
beyond measure that the voyage had terminated with so few mishaps, and
that his barque was within a day’s sail of the land. He forgot his
petty annoyances, and chatted to his first officer in quite a lively
manner. He regarded his vessel with a complacent, self-satisfied
air, as if she owed everything she was, or had done, to him alone.
He sometimes indulged in a low chuckle to himself; and had he not
considered that he might have fallen thereby in the estimation of his
passengers and crew, he might even have committed the impropriety of
bursting out into song. But from this indiscretion his utter want of
voice or musical ability mercifully preserved him.

But the crowning bliss was yet to come. Mr Coffin, obeying the
instructions of his superior officer, officially proclaimed to the
ladies and gentlemen on deck, that the following day would bring them
to the end of their voyage, and in two days’ time (providing there was
no quarantine) they would all be on shore.

This news was received with the greatest excitement and applause. Miss
Vere set the example of clapping her hands, which was taken up by all
present, and the second-class passengers, who had been listening to the
first officer’s harangue from the quarter-deck, burst forth, on its
conclusion, into a loud cheer.

Godfrey Harland joined in it. The intelligence was, perhaps, more
welcome to him than to any one there. In a day more he would be
free--free from these long faces and suspicious looks--free also,
he hoped, from his wife, and the scrutiny of Farrell. As he thought
of Iris, he glanced down at the quarter-deck, and saw her standing
there by the side of Perry, with her serious eyes strained in the
direction in which they had told her the land lay. The idea flashed
across Harland’s mind that it would be as well, perhaps, to speak to
her as soon as he could do so without attracting notice. He had had
no communication with her since _that night_. Would she not think it
strange if he did not ask the reason of her not complying with his
request? He waited until most of the saloon passengers had disappeared,
joyfully bent on packing their boxes, and writing letters with the news
of their arrival, to be despatched to the old country which they had
left thousands of miles astern, as soon as they touched land. And then,
with a quick look around, to see if he was observed, Godfrey Harland
descended the companion, and made his way to the side of his wife. Will
Farrell was below at the time, and Perry had walked away before Harland
appeared. There was no one near enough to overhear their conversation.

‘Iris,’ he commenced (but do what he would, he could not help his voice
shaking), ‘did you receive my letter the other night?’

‘I did,’ she answered, without looking at him.

‘Why did you not meet me then, as I asked you to do, in the spare
galley?’

‘You know the reason well. Poor Maggie came to meet you, instead of me.’

‘_Maggie!_’ exclaimed Godfrey, with a well-feigned start of surprise,
‘_Maggie!_ Was it in coming after _me_ that the poor girl met her
death? This is terrible news! It was a great shock to me when I heard
_who_ was missing. Why did you not tell me she was on board?’

‘I did not see the necessity.’

‘Of course I could have no idea she would cross the sea with you: it
was so unlikely. What could have been her motive in doing so?’

‘I do not suppose it is any concern of yours.’

‘You are very cold and hard to me. One would think I had been doing
something wrong. What is the matter? I came down with the kindliest
feelings, to make some arrangement with you about landing to-morrow. We
cannot go together, but I must not lose sight of you. I cannot quite
decide what is best to be done.’

‘Spare yourself the trouble, Godfrey; I do not intend to go with you.’

‘Who do you go with, then?’

‘That is _my_ business. But I will never live with _you_ again, rest
assured of that.’

This determination, so different from what Iris had expressed before,
when she had threatened to compel him to acknowledge and support her,
filled Harland with terror. There was evidently some deep feeling at
work, to have made her alter her mind so soon, and speak so boldly to
him. Was it possible she _knew_ how Maggie Greet had come by her death,
and was resolved to expose him? What else could imbue her with this
sudden independence and hardihood? As he thought of it, his knees
knocked together with fright. But he tried to brave it out.

‘I can’t understand your tactics, Iris. Last time we met, you told
me that if I would give you my written word to live soberly for the
future, everything should be right between us. Well, I am ready to give
you my promise to that effect. I wrote you that letter with the idea
of making up our quarrel, and I have hardly spoken to Miss Vansittart
since. Indeed she is quite angry with me for my want of courtesy. And
now you appear to have changed your mind. What is the reason?’

‘I don’t see that there is any need to give it you, and I am quite sure
you would not like to hear it if I did. But I am quite resolved not to
owe anything to you for the future. I will neither live with you, nor
take any maintenance from you. I would rather starve, a great deal. And
now you know my determination, please not to speak to me again, or you
may drive me to do something for which we may both be sorry.’

Godfrey Harland understood her now. He saw plainly that she
_suspected_, though it was impossible that she should _know_. Still--if
he aggravated her into giving vent to her suspicions--it might be very
awkward for him. Conciliation all round was the only card left for him
to play.

‘You have got some fancied grudge against me, Iris, I suppose, though I
can’t for the life of me imagine _what_.’

‘If _I_ imagine it, it is sufficient for my purpose.’

‘True. But I am sorry. I had dreamt we might turn over a new leaf in
the new country, and become a model married couple.’

‘No. That will never be--_now_,’ she said significantly.

‘You understand plainly that my little flirtation with Miss Vansittart
is completely over, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that my income is to commence at six hundred a year.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I am willing to remit you half of it, until I can disclose our
marriage to Mr Vansittart?’

‘Yes.’

‘And yet you refuse to live with me,--you give me up altogether, at the
very moment when I have the opportunity to keep you in a comfortable
home.’

‘I do. I refuse to have anything whatever to do with you, from this
hour to the last day of my life.’

‘Have you confided your intention to any one else?’

‘To no one.’

He drew closer to her, and whispered nervously,--

‘Iris--if--if--you have taken any absurd notions into your head, which
have not the slightest foundation--you--you won’t ruin me, will you?
You won’t go and make them public property, so as to cast an unmerited
stigma upon me, and spoil all my future prospects?’

Then she turned her pale face towards him, and he read the truth in her
eyes.

‘You have no cause to fear me,’ she answered contemptuously. ‘You will
never be betrayed by _me_. But--it must depend on the condition that
you never claim me as your wife, nor try to marry another woman. If you
attempt to interfere with me, or to force me to live with you again,
I shall adopt what means I can to prevent you. Understand me plainly,
Godfrey Harland. You and I are parted _for ever_. I would not even
stoop to take your hand, that is stained with--’

‘Hush, hush! for God’s sake!’ he entreated; ‘it is a mistake; it is not
true. I had nothing whatever to do with it.’

‘Say no more,’ she interposed, with a quick look of horror. ‘Every word
you utter is a fresh condemnation. If you want me to be silent--if you
want me to keep my promise and my senses, you will leave me to myself,
and never attempt to see me again.’

She turned from him, and by the convulsive twitching of her face he saw
how difficult she found it to control herself. He made one more effort
to speak, but Iris waved him from her, and feeling very uncomfortable,
conscience-stricken, and alarmed, Godfrey Harland retreated to his own
cabin, to consider what steps it would be wisest to take in the matter.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

EXPOSURE.


At four bells in the early watch at the break of the ensuing day,
Captain Robarts was to be seen walking in company with his chief
officer. The wind had continued to blow steadily during the night,
freshening a little at eight bells, and the _Pandora_ had, at that
time, but one hundred miles to traverse. Should the elements continue
to favour them, the skipper expected to be anchored in the Bay before
midnight. But the appearance of the sun, which just peeped from a
curtain of bright red clouds, bordered with dull orange, formed the
subject of a grave discussion between the two officers.

‘I don’t like the looks of it, sir,’ said Mr Coffin, who had summoned
his commander to join him in an inspection of the offending luminary;
‘and my opinion is, that we shall get it before night falls.’

‘We ought to be at anchor by the second dog watch,’ observed the
captain; ‘have you noticed the barometer?’

‘Yes; and it’s falling, sir,’ replied the mate gravely. ‘Look at the
lumpy sea, too. The wind is not shifting about. There is no reason why
those waves should toss about in that fashion.’

‘I don’t mind the water so much,’ said Captain Robarts; ‘but those
blood-red streaks about that washed-out sun look dirty. What’s she
making?’

‘Eight and a-quarter when I hove the log at eight bells, sir,’ answered
Mr Coffin.

‘Let me see, then. We ought to sight the land by two. I shall go below
now, and get my coffee. Don’t alter her course, but call me if there is
any change. And, by-the-way, Mr Coffin, tell Mr Blythe that if he has
time to do it this morning, I want the booms put into the foremast.’

And with another glance towards the east, Captain Robarts retreated to
his berth.

Before the decks were washed, several of the male passengers had
ascended the poop. It was the usual custom with them aboard to be
called at five bells, and when six bells struck, and the decks had been
well scrubbed and ‘squeegeed’ down, to make their appearance above.

On the morning in question, however, the shellbacks had not yet
shipped their pumps and hose when Captain Lovell, Harold Greenwood,
Mr Vansittart, and others climbed up the ladder, and beset the mate
with questions. But when the nozzle commenced to play a stream of water
over their trousers, these gentlemen, whose shore rig-out (unlike the
sea-boots of the ship’s company) could not withstand the briny, took
refuge in the little pilot-house, and, lighting their cheroots, waited
till they might find a dry resting-place outside.

‘What did Mr Coffin say?’ asked Captain Lovell.

‘I couldn’t succeed in getting anything out of him,’ laughed Mr
Vansittart. ‘He only muttered something about sighting land this
afternoon.’

‘These sailors always like to be so confoundedly mysterious,’ remarked
another. ‘Why the deuce can’t the fellow satisfy our curiosity, instead
of talking in riddles? He must know perfectly well when the ship is
due.’

‘Wait till Blythe comes along. _He’ll_ tell us.’

‘Yes; he’s a very different build from these uncouth bears. Vernon
Blythe is a gentleman,’ said Lovell; ‘but Captain Robarts doesn’t know
how to answer a civil question, and Mr Coffin thinks it funny to slap
you in the face (metaphorically speaking) for asking it.’

‘Any room inside there for a little one?’ inquired Mr Fowler, looking
in at the doorway. ‘These fellows seem to enjoy throwing the water over
one.’

‘Yes; come in. Good-morning. How are you?’ said Lovell.

‘Jolly, thanks. Had a capital night’s rest. What’s the betting on the
passage now?’

‘Well, I’m afraid the odds will be longer, since the sun and barometer
have conspired to damp our hopes.’

‘What; are we going to have a blow?’ demanded Fowler.

‘So the mate thinks. The skipper has been on deck too, which is unusual
for him, I think. He does not, as a rule, leave his blankets so early.’

‘I noticed something queer about the sun when I was on the
quarter-deck,’ said Mr Fowler. ‘I am not much of a judge of such
matters, but it looked uncanny to me. By Jove! do you hear those gulls?
They are uttering the most discordant screams. I expect there is
something in that too.’

The voice of the first officer here broke in upon their conjectures.

‘Clew up the mizen royal,’ he shouted suddenly.

‘Hullo! it has begun already!’ exclaimed Captain Lovell; ‘let us go out
on deck. They can’t haul on the ropes and drench our trousers through
at the same time.’

The sun had risen clear of the horizon now, and was lighting up the
seething ocean, with its watery rays. The red clouds still hung about,
but their colour did not appear to be so vivid. In the westward, on the
starboard bow, a dusty-looking vapour obscured everything from view. As
the wind increased, the _Pandora_, with flowing sheets, quickened her
speed. The log then told nine and a half.

On all sides, the sea, instead of rolling in long swells, rose in the
air in chops, often breaking suddenly and dispersing in rivers of white
foam. The water gurgled through the crevices in the ports, and flowed
back through the scuppers. After much flapping, the royals were secured
and made fast to the yards, and then, the mizen-topgallant sail was
stowed, which made spits bounce aboard over the after mainrail.

Several vessels were passed.

A lively little coaster, under reefed topsails and storm staysail, and
a big smoke-jack, breasting the sea, steaming in the very teeth of the
wind, dipping her bows frequently, and ladling up large seas upon her
topgallant forecastle, that made the ‘look-out’ hastily lay aft, and
take up his responsible position on the bridge.

But the _Pandora_ had the best of it.

She was before the wind, and all her square canvas was drawing to
advantage. Little was eaten at the breakfast-table that day. Excitement
chased away hunger, and the ladies emerged from their berths, warmly
wrapped in hats and cloaks, and after swallowing a few hasty morsels,
went on deck to aid in keeping a good look-out. A hundred times the
binoculars and spy-glasses were levelled towards the land, and on each
occasion the eager questioners received an answer in the negative.

Two people alone on board ship appeared indifferent to their
whereabouts, and refused to sympathise with the animal spirits and glad
anticipations of the passengers. These were the captain of the vessel,
and his chief officer, who regarded the signs of the weather as far
more important and interesting than the proximity of land. At noon, the
main-topgallant sail was taken off her, and she then rolled heavily.
Large seas thumped over by the main chains, making the gangway
exceedingly difficult to traverse without receiving a shower bath.

The increased violence of the wind did not hasten the speed of the
_Pandora_, and it was not till four o’clock in the afternoon, when the
passengers had become weary of looking out for it, that a dark line in
the horizon, looming through the surrounding mist, intimated that they
were at last in sight of land.

‘That’s it, sure enough, sir,’ remarked Mr Coffin. ‘Those ugly crags
mark the entrance to the bay. But I don’t think we shall get anchorage
to-night.’

‘Nonsense! we are not thirty miles off,’ replied the captain.

‘But the wind is increasing, sir,’ argued the mate, ‘and we sha’n’t get
a pilot. So how about anchorage?’

‘Plenty of good anchorage there, Mr Coffin. I shall run in this evening
and bring up under the cliffs. We shall be under the hills by ten
o’clock.

‘Yes, sir; but I’ve known it to blow stiffer when it comes down
between those hills than when outside.’

To this remark Captain Robarts gave no answer but a grunt.

‘Are the anchors over the bows?’ he asked presently.

‘Yes, sir; we got them over in yesterday’s dog watch.’

‘See your cable ranged on deck clear for running, and tell the
carpenter to look to his windlass,’ and turning aft, the captain went
to alter her course.

‘Land, ho!’ shouted the man on the look-out, which made the passengers
jump from their seats, and rush to the side.

‘Ay, ay,’ replied Captain Robarts indifferently.

‘Let her go off a point,’ he continued, speaking to the helmsman, and
having satisfied himself that the vessel was on her right road, he
turned away to avoid any questions that might be put to him.

As soon as that longed-for cry had been sung out, everybody was
naturally eager to discern the promised land.

‘But I can’t see _anything_!’ exclaimed Alice Leyton. ‘I wish Jack was
here; I am sure there must be something wrong with these glasses.’

‘I expect it requires a practised eye,’ said Captain Lovell. ‘By Jove!
though, I can make out a headland over there. Can’t you see a grey
peak?’

‘I _think_ I can,’ replied Alice, but her tone was too doubtful to be
relied on.

But in the course of another hour, when two bells had been sounded in
the dog watch, the tall rugged form was distinctly visible, with its
rough beetling crags majestically facing the ocean, but the foot was
not apparent. There was a thick pearly mist on the face of the water,
that hid the breakers that dashed with such fury against the rocks from
view, and allowed only the summit of the land to be seen.

Will Farrell paced the quarter-deck, burning with thoughts of revenge.
He longed to confront his enemy Harland, and prove him to be the
murderer of the woman he had loved, and yet he dared not disobey the
orders of the detective.

‘Yet what if he should escape?’ he thought to himself, as his hands
nervously grasped the lappels of his coat. ‘Here we are within sight
of land, and the villain is cunning enough for anything. Once let him
get on shore, and neither Mark Rendle nor I will ever see him again.
He will hide like a fox. Surely the passengers ought to share our
knowledge and suspicions, that there may be the less chance of his
getting off scot free. He has done it once. Why should he not do it
again? Yet, if I should ruin all my chances of revenge! What _shall_ I
do?’

Almost as he thought thus, Godfrey Harland appeared before him. He had
been considerably upset by Iris’s reception of him the day before. Her
look and manner and speech had so palpably conveyed to him the truth
that _she_ suspected him of having had a share in the death of Maggie
Greet. And if she suspected it, perhaps Farrell did so too. And yet of
what avail were their suspicions, when they could not possibly have any
proofs, and would not dare to speak without them? Even the doctor’s
careful examination of the body had resulted (as Harland had taken
good care to ascertain) in his being unable to detect any signs of
violence. And now she was hidden from sight for evermore--buried in the
unfathomable depths of the sea, and no one had the right to call her
accidental death by any other name. At the same time, he had decided it
would be advisable to conciliate Farrell, if possible, before going on
shore, so as to prevent his tongue wagging more than was agreeable when
he got there. And to that intent Harland now approached his enemy,
with a pleasant smile and an outstretched palm. He could not have
chosen a more unfavourable moment for making his overtures of peace.

‘How are you, old man?’ he commenced airily, as he proffered his hand.
‘Here we are, you see, at the end of our journey, and to-morrow we
shall part, perhaps for ever.’

‘What do you mean by speaking to me?’ demanded Farrell, glaring at him.

‘_Mean!_ Why, that I want to part friends with you. Come along, and
have a drink.’

‘_Have a drink!_’ replied Farrell, dashing the offered hand to the
ground. ‘Do you imagine that _I_ would drink with _you_?’

‘And why not?’ said Harland, determined to brave it out. ‘What harm
have _I_ done you? Surely you are not going to harbour that old grudge
against me for ever. Come, man, try to forget and forgive. If ever it
is in my power, I’ll make it up to you--upon my soul I will; but just
at present I expect I’m as poor as yourself.’

‘_Make it up to me!_’ cried Farrell fiercely. ‘Can you give me back the
character you took away, or restore the woman who was to have been my
wife?’

At that allusion Harland grew ashy pale; for Farrell spoke so loud that
the whole ship might have heard him.

‘Hold your tongue, you young fool!’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t know what
you’re talking about. I had no more to do with the girl’s death than
you had yourself. What’s the use of talking such nonsense, just because
we had a bit of a tiff over our play? Make it up like a sensible man,
and have a drink over it.’

‘Stand off!’ thundered Farrell; ‘don’t dare to approach me, or it will
be the worse for you.’

‘What do you mean? Are you drunk, or mad?’

‘Whichever you please; but if you don’t go at once it will be the worse
for you.’

Harland would have gone as desired, had not Bob Perry appeared at that
moment upon the scene.

‘Hullo, Farrell!’ he cried, ‘what’s up?’

‘This scoundrel dares to ask me to drink with him,’ replied Will hotly.

‘And, pray, what harm is there in that?’ asked Harland _nonchalantly_.

His manner irritated Farrell beyond endurance.

‘Do you presume to ask me?’ he cried. ‘Do you wish me to carry out my
threat, and expose you to the whole ship?’

‘You _dare_ not!’ hissed Harland in his ear; ‘you have not a single
proof to bring forward to support your lies; whilst _I_ should ask you
before them all how much you know of the disappearance of your leman
over the ship’s side the other night.’

‘_Liar!_’ exclaimed Will Farrell, flying at his throat, and in another
minute the two men were rolling on the deck together, locked in a
furious embrace. Perry called for help, and every one on deck was soon
witnessing the struggle. Again and again did the combatants spring up
and fly afresh at each other, but at last the screams of the women and
the expostulations of the men seemed to rouse them to some sense of
their disgraceful position, and, bruised and bleeding, they allowed
themselves to be separated. Harland was much the more severely punished
of the two, and seemed almost fainting, as he was supported between Dr
Lennard and Captain Lovell; but Farrell, pinioned in the strong arms of
Vernon Blythe, was quite ready to go on with the fight, and it demanded
all the strength of the young officer to prevent his flying at his
enemy again.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

A LEE SHORE.


‘This is disgraceful, gentlemen!’ exclaimed Dr Lennard; ‘and I am
surprised at your so forgetting yourselves. If you do not cease
fighting at once, you will compel me to call in the authority of the
captain.’

‘Let me go,’ panted Farrell, as he struggled in the detaining grasp of
Jack Blythe; ‘let me finish the brute whilst I can! He is a forger and
a murderer. He is not fit to live.’

‘_He lies_,’ murmured Harland, faint with loss of blood. ‘He is mad;
don’t listen to him.’

But every one was listening. The saloon passengers hung over the
fiferail, the stewards appeared in the cabin passage, the shellbacks
gathered in a group at the main rigging, and the rest were clustered
upon every side.

‘It is the truth!’ gasped Farrell. ‘He has defied and insulted me, and
I will expose him.’

‘Don’t let him speak,’ said Harland, shaking with fear.

‘Yes, yes! let us hear him,’ interposed the second-class passengers.

‘Ay, ay, let the lad have fair play!’ exclaimed a veteran shellback.

‘I will tell you about the murder,’ continued Farrell, choking with
excitement and fury.

‘_The murder!_’ echoed a dozen voices. But at that moment Mr Fowler
pushed his way through the crowd, and caught hold of Will Farrell.

‘Stop, man, for Heaven’s sake!’ he cried.

‘No, no; you shall not stop me,’ replied Farrell, wrenching himself out
of his grasp. ‘My blood is up, and everybody shall know the truth of
it.’

‘I warn you--’ continued the detective.

‘The time is past for warning,’ said the unhappy Farrell; ‘all I want
is my revenge.’

‘Let us hear him. It’s only fair that he should be allowed to speak!’
exclaimed the crowd.

‘That man, who calls himself Godfrey Harland, is Horace Cain, the
forger of Starling’s cheque, who escaped to America, and came back
under an assumed name.’

Harland’s white lips moved to refute the assertion, but no sound came
from them.

‘He is the husband of the lady who calls herself Miss Douglas, and whom
he deserted and left (as he thought) in England; and the girl--the poor
girl,’ continued Farrell, in a choking voice, ‘as came by her death
the other night, and as was to have been my wife, went up at that
very hour to meet him, and show him the proofs I hold against him for
forgery. What do you say to that?’

‘_Where_ are your proofs?’ gasped Harland, to whom terror seemed to
have restored his speech. ‘I don’t know Miss Douglas, or the other
woman. I never spoke to either of them. You must mistake me for some
other man.’

‘No, he don’t,’ interposed a sailor, ‘for you met Miss Douglas when
she was in the spare galley along with me, sir, and you knew her, and
called her by her name as soon as you clapped eyes on her!’

‘Can you swear to that?’ asked the detective.

‘_I_ can swear to it,’ replied Iris, suddenly appearing in their midst,
‘for I am his wife, Iris Harland.’

At this announcement, Grace Vansittart gave a slight scream, and fell
into the arms of her mother.

‘It is for _her_ sake, not my own, that I have said this,’ continued
Iris; ‘and of all the rest, _I know nothing_.’

She swayed forward here, as though she were about to fall, and Vernon
Blythe flew to her side and threw his arm around her.

‘Courage,’ he said, in a low voice, and as he spoke she seemed to
revive, like a flower when the skies are opened.

‘But who can speak to Mr Harland’s having met Miss Greet on the evening
she fell overboard?’ demanded a voice from the crowd.

‘_I_ know that when she was found she wore Miss Douglas’s cloak, which
she had taken from her cabin after she was asleep,’ said a steward.

‘And I--’ interposed Dr Lennard, ‘that on that evening, as I left the
dinner-table, I found Mr Harland in my surgery, who told me he had
dropped the end of a cigar there. The same night, at about eleven
o’clock, Captain Lovell and I found him alone by the mainrail, and
asked him to accompany us to the smoke-room, which was immediately
pervaded by a strong smell of chloroform, proceeding from his
pocket-handkerchief. The next morning I discovered one of my bottles of
chloroform was missing.

‘I--I--told you--I had the toothache,’ said Harland, with chattering
teeth.

‘So you are the hero of the Starling forgery case, Mr Harland. You
made a plucky bolt of it, and though I have been on the look-out for
you several times since, I little thought to find you so many miles
from home. Without a warrant, my power is at present useless, but
I must detain you from going on shore, on the charges of forgery
and--suspected murder!’

‘Can I--can I--go to my cabin?’ gasped Harland, who felt that every
eye--that of Miss Vansittart included--was on him.

‘Certainly; it is better you should do so,’ replied Mr Fowler; ‘and I
will see you are not disturbed nor molested in any way.’

The unhappy man shambled off, eager only to hide himself from the
scrutiny of his companions, and the company on the quarter-deck broke
up.

‘So you are a detective?’ said Captain Lovell to Mr Fowler.

‘Yes, sir. It is useless to keep up the deception any longer. As soon
as I arrive at Lyttleton, I shall return by the first mail to London.
You little suspected you had an official on board, but as matters have
turned out, it is as well that I was here.’

‘And why are you going to New Zealand?’

‘That I must not tell you, but you may be sure it is not for pleasure.
Allow me to hand you my card.’

‘_Mark Rendle!_’ exclaimed Captain Lovell; ‘the hero of the
International forgeries! I am proud to know you,’ extending his hand.
‘Had you only thrown off your disguise, how you might have amused us
during the voyage.’

‘Possibly; but I had my duty to think of, and had I permitted
pleasure to interfere with it, this little game, for one, would have
been spoiled. But as it is blowing hard, I will go below and get
my overcoat. The one I feel for most in this business is poor Miss
Vansittart. There is no doubt this rascal has been passing himself off
on her as a single man. How will she bear the shock?’

‘Better than you think, I imagine,’ replied Captain Lovell. ‘She is not
a young woman of very deep feelings, and her vanity will be more hurt
than anything else. Will you join me in a glass of whisky?’

And Mr Mark Rendle having assented, the two men strolled together to
the bar.

It was then past seven o’clock, and the shades of night had hidden the
land. The fog also made it very thick ahead, so that the entrance to
the bay could not be distinguished.

The wind howled and wailed with piercing accents through the rigging,
the sea was very high, and boiling torrents of foam hissed around the
_Pandora_. The mainsail and crossjack were both safely rolled up, and
the vessel began to labour heavily in the turbulent sea.

Long, grey clouds sailed across the sky, making the moon appear as
though she were travelling at an enormous speed.

For two hours more the good ship stood on, and then the wind was
blowing a strong gale. Captain Robarts was getting very uneasy. He was
not certain if he was steering straight for the mouth of the bay, and
it was too late for him to turn back.

The truth is, he was close to a very dangerous lee shore. Mr Coffin
and Mr Blythe stood together by the rigging trying to peer through
the mist, whilst Mr Sparkes, with two seamen, was on the look-out.
Half-an-hour afterwards, a voice sung out ‘Land ho! on the port beam,
sir!’ The _Pandora_ had entered the bay.

‘Lower away the topsail halliards,’ ordered the captain. ‘Stand by your
port anchor, Mr Coffin.’

‘Land right ahead!’ shouted the voice from the forecastle.

‘What’s that?’ yelled the skipper. ‘Hard a-port with your helm,
man!--over with it!’

There was a sudden movement made by a few of the passengers toward the
wheel, the vessel answered her helm, and paid off; but Captain Robarts
had miscalculated his position. A moment afterwards there was an ugly,
grating noise, that seemed to scrape the ship’s keel fore and aft,--a
sudden lurch,--a tremendous crash, and the _Pandora_, with her fore and
main-topgallant masts and jiboom carried away--a pitiful, miserable
wreck--heeled over, with the sharp-pointed, cruel rocks deeply
imbedded in her side.

Before any one on board was fully aware of their perilous situation,
a monstrous sea washed over her deck, carrying the first officer,
Mr Coffin, and several sailors away before it, and half-filling the
cabin, followed by others that leapt over at the fore and main chains.
In a moment all was confusion. Vernon Blythe was witness to the
disappearance of the mate, and immediately took command in his stead.

‘Man the starboard lifeboat!’ he ordered, in a firm, loud voice.

All realised the meaning of those terrible words. The women shrieked
and clung to each other, whilst their faces blanched with mortal
fear. With clenched teeth, and eyes staring into vacancy, they tried
to pray, but only succeeded in wringing their hands in despair. The
furious seas that were clearing the ship’s maindeck--the wild confusion
on board--the warring of the elements as they thrashed and battled
against the precipitous cliffs--resounding in the chasms with the noise
of thunder, and retreating only to charge again; the hoarse cries of
the sea birds, and the thought of their close proximity to Death,
appalled them beyond description.

The men stood bewildered, clutching at the rails, and watching the
agonised frenzy of the weaker sex without offering them any comfort or
assistance. They were unnerved themselves, and showed their terror by
their scared and expressionless faces, trembling limbs, and speechless
tongues.

Vernon Blythe was busily employed on the skids, cheering on the
sailors, and superintending the lowering of the lifeboat. His face was
very white and strained, but his hands were steady; and of all there,
young or old, he was the most courageous and self-possessed. He had
no leisure to think of the sad fate of his chief officer, poor Abel
Coffin, who, with five sturdy shellbacks, had been swept from his side
into the boiling deep. He dared not even think of Iris Harland, though
every effort he made seemed to be done for her, and her alone. He was
conscious of only one thing,--that, in that fearful hour, he stood
alone, responsible for the actions of the sailors, and the safety of
their living freight. He stood there, calm and collected, taking no
heed of the confusion by which he was surrounded. His lip quivered a
little, and a drop of blood, which he had drawn with his closed teeth,
trickled slowly on to his chin. But his orders were given in a clear,
authoritative voice--slowly and deliberately, and without the least
sign of fear. The seamen noticed his cool courage, and it urged them on
to redouble their efforts, and fight against the raging storm. Vernon
Blythe, young as he was, to assume such a command, taught them a lesson
that night which those who survived it never forgot. He showed them
the value of self-control in a time of danger, and what a pitiable
creature the man without it can prove himself to be.

That man, strange to say, was the very one who should have been to the
front in everything--the commander of the vessel, Captain Robarts.
There he stood, next to Jack Blythe, with a face of ashen paleness, a
trembling frame, chattering teeth, that rattled like castanets against
each other, wild, haggard looks, and a total inability to supply his
young officer’s place. When the man was most wanted to show an example
of courage and trust in God--when he should have taken the sole command
of his ship’s company, and lived or died with them--his despicable
cowardice completely unsexed him, and he might have been the smallest
cabin-boy on board, for the picture of abject terror he displayed.

When the tempest arose, and the wrath of Heaven seemed poured out upon
them, and that beautiful axiom of George Herbert’s--‘He that will
learn to pray, let him go to sea’--appeared most applicable, then
Captain Robarts forgot his Creator, his position, and his duty.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

SHIPWRECKED.


In the midst of this terrible confusion, the starboard lifeboat of the
_Pandora_ was taken from her chocks, and swung into the davit tackles.
Six sailors jumped quickly into her, and took their places on the
thwarts, and the third officer, Mr Sparkes, grasped the tiller in the
stern sheets. Then the women, with tear-stained faces and dishevelled
hair, were handed down, some moaning piteously with fright, others
murmuring prayers to Heaven for help, and clinging to their companions
in their distress. The first to enter the boat was Grace Vansittart,
wailing louder than the rest, and covering her face with her hands to
shut out the terrifying scene around her. Her usually blooming face
was white as marble, and her large brown eyes seemed to be starting
from their sockets. But her grief was all for herself. No thought,
in that awful hour, of the wretched man to whom she had been vowing
protestations of fidelity throughout the voyage occupied her mind.
She was too much alarmed on her own account to remember anybody else.
Father, mother, and lover had alike sunk into insignificance beside the
danger that threatened herself. There was no doubt but that, should
Miss Vansittart survive the wreck, she would soon enough be comforted
for the loss of Godfrey Harland. Mr and Mrs Vansittart were the next to
follow.

The old man had wished to remain behind, but his wife had clung to
him with so tenacious a grasp, that Vernon Blythe pushed them both in
together.

‘John! John!’ the poor woman had exclaimed; ‘we have lived together for
thirty years! Don’t let us die apart!’

And after all, as Vernon in the pride of his young manhood thought,
what was an old man but a woman!

Mrs Leyton followed with Alice, but not before they had both turned
round and given him a farewell kiss.

‘God bless you, dear boy,’ sobbed the mother, ‘for all you have done
for me and mine.’

‘Oh! Jack, Jack!’ cried Alice, ‘I have never left off loving you! How I
wish--’

‘All right, dear Mrs Leyton. All right, Alice,’ he replied cheerily.
‘Keep up your spirits! We shall meet again before long,’ and so passed
them into the boat.

‘Oh, Jack! come with me!’ screamed Alice, as she found herself rocking
on the deep, but the wind prevented her voice from reaching his ear, as
he busied himself with handing the baby into the arms of the shellbacks.

Poor little Winnie was as sorely frightened as the rest, and loud in
her lamentations. Then came Miss Vere, pale as a piece of Parian, but
calm and collected; and when her full complement was made up, the
lugger-rigged craft was pushed off, and headed for the harbour.

The remaining hands then cut away the lashings of the forward
jolly-boat, while others shipped the stanchions and rigged tackles. The
male passengers had partly recovered from their scare by this time, and
followed the good example of Vernon Blythe and the seamen, in trying
to launch the second boat. It was a very dangerous task. The seas
had smashed up the smoke-room as if it had been so much match-wood,
ripped up the main fiferail, and torn away the after end of the house
amidships. The after companion-ladder had also been swept away, and the
cabin could not be entered from the quarter-deck.

The port boats were stove in, and innumerable planks, sea-chests,
buckets, and blocks, were washing about the deck, making an incessant
clatter that was audible even above the howling of the gale.

Captain Robarts stood upon the poop, his agonised and distorted face
the very picture of despair. One cannot judge of a sailor’s qualities
until he is seen under circumstances of difficulty or danger. Then his
noblest or his weakest points alike stand out in bold relief. A sailor
may traverse the ocean for years, and never fall in with a mishap.
It is easy sailing to steer a craft in fine weather, with plenty of
sea room. But a heavy blow in the Channel, with land on either side,
and a forest of shipping to keep clear of,--or a stiff breeze and a
lee shore, with an untrustworthy vessel--these are the dangers which
the mariner has to look out for, and which will prove him a man to be
either esteemed or despised.

Standing by Captain Robarts’ side, with an excited look in her eye,
but no fear upon her face, was Iris Harland--the only woman left upon
the sinking ship. She had watched all the others depart, she had even
made a feint of following them, but, after all, had kept intentionally
in the background, and let the lifeboat go without her. But few knew
that she remained behind. Vernon Blythe fully believed she was on her
way to land. His first thought and inquiry had been for her, and one
of the sailors had told him she was lowered into the boat. And so he
had returned to his duty, with his mind at ease as far as Iris was
concerned. Yet she stood by the skipper’s side, watching his gallant
efforts to save the remainder of the passengers and crew--proud to
think that (after a fashion) he belonged to her, and resolved to stay
by his side to the very last, and die with him, if it was ordained that
he should die.

These two standing together--the old experienced man, and the young
untried woman--were the exponents of a rule which has but few
exceptions,--that love is strong as death. _She_, who was regarded as
the weaker vessel, made strong by reason of her love, stood calm and
courageous in the midst of danger and the sight of dissolution; whilst
_he_, who had but himself and his own credit to consider, caved in like
a coward under a responsibility too heavy for him.

The jolly-boat was launched, and a dozen passengers essayed to enter
her at once, pushing each other down in their effort to be first,
thinking only of their own safety, and not caring a rush for that of
their neighbours.

One man, however, looked round before he jumped into the boat, and
catching sight of Iris Harland on the poop, elbowed his way towards her
with an exclamation of horror. It was Will Farrell.

‘Miss Douglas!’ he cried excitedly, ‘why are you still here? Come!
come! before it is too late.’

But Iris did not stir.

‘Save yourself, Mr Farrell,’ she replied; ‘I shall remain behind
until--until the last.’

‘What! to court death? Don’t you know that before long the vessel must
be broken up,--that every moment may be your last? Miss Douglas, for my
sake--for Maggie’s sake--come with me.’

‘Do you think I have so much to live for that I should fear death?’ she
answered, smiling. ‘Pray, Mr Farrell, don’t waste time over me. I do
not intend to leave until the last boat goes.’

‘But there may not be another. Every minute renders it more difficult
to launch a boat.’

‘Then I shall die here,’ said Iris, with her soft eyes following every
movement of Vernon’s form.

‘You have lost your senses. Do you realise what you are saying? Mr
Blythe,’ shouted Farrell lustily, ‘_make_ Miss Douglas come in the boat
with us.’

In a moment he was by her side, trembling for her safety, when he had
never trembled for his own.

‘Oh, Iris, how is this? I thought you were in the lifeboat. How came
you to be left behind?’

‘I stayed of my own free will, Vernie,’ she said sweetly; ‘I stayed
to be _with you_. Don’t deny me this poor privilege. We cannot live
together, but if we are to die, oh! let me die by your side.’

‘_My darling!_’ he exclaimed; ‘I will guard your life with my own!’

‘Oh, Mr Blythe,’ said Farrell, ‘don’t let her throw that life away.
Persuade her--command her, to leave the vessel. You _know_ it cannot
live much longer in this sea.’

‘I know that our lives are in the hands of God,’ returned the young
sailor simply, ‘and that there is as good a chance for the next boat as
for this. If Mrs Harland prefers to remain with me, I shall not prevent
her from doing so.’

‘Then God help you both. I must go, or they will start without me;’
and without another word Will Farrell ran off to take his place in the
jolly-boat. As it pushed off, he found himself sitting next to Godfrey
Harland. The men glared at one another like savage beasts, but fear for
themselves had swallowed up for the time being even their desire for
revenge. Only one boat now remained that could be called seaworthy, and
that was the cutter--for the captain’s gig could not have lived in such
a storm--and all hands rushed towards the mainmast, and climbed up by
the crossjack braces, and along the mizen stay, towards the frail craft.

By the aid of the bridge, Vernon Blythe clambered again upon the poop,
where Iris was now standing alone, the captain having staggered to the
other side of the vessel, so paralysed by the scene before him as to be
unable apparently either to act or think.

‘Iris,’ exclaimed Vernon, as he took her in his arms for one mad
moment, ‘Iris, my own darling! you have risked your life to stay with
me.’

But words failed him. His heart beat high with joy, although the
murderous waves were leaping around them, as though they longed to
lick them both down together to a cruel death. The warm tears filled
his yearning eyes, and a strange choking sensation assailed his powers
of speech. After an effort at self-control, he resumed, hastily and
authoritatively,--

‘Come, dearest! this is the last boat, and you must be the first to
enter her. Hold your shawl closely over you, and I will see you lowered
into it.’

‘But, Vernie, _you_ will come, too?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I will come too. I will follow you. _I promise it_,’ he said.

Then he clasped her closely to him, and pressed a passionate kiss upon
her quivering lips, before he turned to superintend the lowering of the
cutter. With hatchets and sheath-knives the lashings were soon hacked
through, and with the main-topmast staysail halliards, they swung her
from her beds, and rove the patent lowering gear.

When Iris and the few men left on the fast-sinking _Pandora_ were
safely aboard, Vernon Blythe went to find the captain, and entreat him
to accompany them. Nothing more could be done for the ill-fated vessel,
and it was folly to throw away life without reason. But on reaching the
hatch, he was startled by hearing the report of a pistol, followed by
a heavy fall, and running to the foot of the mizenmast, he discovered
the body of his unfortunate commander, shot through the heart. The
wretched man, not daring to meet his employers, with the brand of shame
and failure on his brow, knowing well that all the blame for the loss
of the _Pandora_ would be laid upon his shoulders, that his certificate
would be suspended, and he would stand before the authorities a guilty
man, had put an end to his existence. The fact is, Captain Robarts’
whole soul had been wrapped up in his profession. His ship had been
his wife, his children, and his home, and without her he felt he had
nothing left to live for. This unexpected fatal calamity, which had
dashed his brightest hopes to the ground, in the very hour of their
fulfilment, had unsettled his mind, and transformed him at once into
an embittered, broken-down man, who saw no refuge before him except in
death.

Vernon Blythe knelt down by the side of his expiring commander, and,
raising his head upon his arm, caught his last faint orders.

‘_Here--here_--in _her_.’

What did he mean? Did he wish to be buried with his ship?

‘In the _Pandora_, sir?’ he asked. ‘Am I to leave you here?’

The dying man’s eyes opened with a last gleam of intelligence, and then
closed for ever.

There was no time to lose.

Dragging the now lifeless form to the pilot-house, Vernon Blythe laid
it on the spare bunk, and murmuring the prayer, ‘God have mercy on
him,’ covered the corpse with the house flag of the vessel, which he
took from the locker, and hastily closing the door, left the dead
sailor in his desired resting-place.

As he jumped into the cutter, the men, weary and dispirited as they had
become, received their gallant young officer with a cheer. But Vernon
only thought of one thing--that Iris was safe, and, for the time being,
they were _together_.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

FARRELL’S REVENGE.


Once clear of the sinking vessel, and the spars that floated about her
stern, the cutter went prosperously on her way, but the jolly-boat had
not been so fortunate. Overladen by the rush of excited passengers
who crowded into her, she had but small chance in such a gale, and
when she was some little distance from the _Pandora_, a huge wave
took her suddenly on the wrong quarter, and she capsized with all her
living freight into the sea. In the dark, with the boisterous water
knocking the breath out of their bodies, what chance had the unhappy
passengers of saving themselves. Indeed, the immersion was so sudden
and unexpected, and they had been so thoroughly unnerved before it
occurred, that the majority of them were sucked under, almost before
they knew that they were drowning.

But when the _Pandora_ ran upon the scarp of rocks at the north-east
side of the bay, her fore-topgallant mast had gone over the side. The
sea had soon carried it away from the vessel, and when the luckless
jolly-boat capsized, it proved a harbour of refuge for three men. After
a brief struggle, one of them, a sailor, by name Jack Andy, managed
to grasp a rope, and pull himself towards the spar, which he hugged
with a grip of iron till he had recovered his breath, then perceiving
a shipmate in distress, who was attempting to reach it also, he tossed
him a line, and dragged Will Farrell from a watery grave.

Slowly the mast drifted towards the land, sometimes immersing the men
under the huge rollers, then bringing them up again, only to prepare
for another breathless dive.

‘God help the rest of ’em,’ observed Jack Andy, in one of these short
intervals, ‘for if ever _we_ get to shore, _they_ won’t, that’s
certain. They’re all in kingdom come by this time.’

‘They’re just as well there as here,’ replied Farrell, with teeth
chattering from the cold. ‘Hullo! here’s one of them, though.’

The moon had just beamed upon the water, and by her white light, he
could discern the features of a man who, though greatly exhausted, was
clinging to the heel end of the spar.

It was Godfrey Harland.

As Farrell recognised him, the anxiety for his own preservation seemed
entirely to disappear, and a cruel, vindictive spirit pervaded his
countenance. With the utmost difficulty, he sidled along the mast until
he faced his enemy.

‘Now, _Horace Cain_!’ he exclaimed loudly, ‘we meet face to face, and
my time has come at last.’

‘What would you do to me?’ cried Harland, in a voice of terror.

‘Do to you? _Kill you!_ as you killed my love. Make you taste the same
death you meted out to her. We have no weapons but our fast-failing
strength, but we stand on fair ground.’

Like all bullies, Harland was a coward, and his last remnant of courage
forsook him now.

‘Oh, God!’ he howled, ‘spare me--spare me! You are mad!’

‘I _am_ mad,’ replied Farrell, ‘mad for my revenge. You have wrested
from me all I cared for in this world, and laughed at the pain
you caused me. You have taken away my good name,--trampled on my
reputation,--killed the only woman for whom I cared. Yes, Godfrey
Harland, I could not _probe_ it perhaps in open court, but I _know_
you to be the murderer of Maggie Greet, and if the hangman is to be
cheated of his due, the sea shall do his work for him. You have wounded
my heart till the last drop of human blood has oozed from it, and
changed me from a man into a devil. Life is worth nothing to me now,
and I have sworn not to die until I have avenged _her_ death.’

As he spoke, Farrell crept nearer and nearer to his victim, and Harland
could see his long, lean fingers curling themselves in readiness to
clutch his throat as he approached.

‘Oh, mercy! mercy!’ whined the cowering wretch. ‘Farrell, I repent. I
will make amends. Have mercy on me, for Heaven’s sake!’

‘What mercy did you show to her?’ yelled Farrell. ‘Doubtless my poor
girl cried to you in her terror, as you cry to me, and how did you
reply? You cast her into the arms of the murderous sea, as may God give
me strength to cast you now. No, no! the fight is a fair one, and let
the best man win.’

And throwing out his arm to grasp his enemy, Farrell let go of the
spar, and the two men fell into the water together.

Jack Andy looked on from the other end of the floating mast in sheer
amazement at the scene that passed before him. The wind was too strong
to permit him to hear what they said to one another; but as the timber
to which he clung was carried each moment farther into the bay, the
water became calmer, and he was enabled to keep his head clear of the
rolling billows, and to watch everything that took place between his
companions.

‘Why, how’s this mates!’ he exclaimed, as he saw them relinquish their
grasp of the spar; ‘hold on, whatever you do! for we’ve the chance of
life afore us now for the first time.’

But they were deaf to every voice but that of their own evil passions.
Directly Jack Andy perceived their murderous intentions, he edged
towards them, with the idea of calling them to reason, or saving them
by main force. But he was too late. Godfrey Harland was the stronger of
the two, although he had been taken somewhat unawares, and as soon as
he realised that Farrell was about to strangle him, he prepared with
all his force to throw off his assailant.

But the younger man had fixed his nails so firmly in his throat that he
prevented his using his arms with any effect, and they both disappeared
beneath a heavy roller. When they rose up to the surface, they were
beyond Jack Andy’s reach. Harland’s face had turned purple, and the
whites of his eyes were staring upwards at the moon.

‘_Die!_’ hissed Farrell, in his own death struggle, ‘die, as _she_
died, and be cursed--_for ever!_’

Down they went again beneath the remorseless sea, who opened her arms
so willingly to receive them, locked together in a fierce embrace of
hate and revenge; and when Jack Andy looked back for the last time, he
saw the two men, gripped together in death, sink down to the bottom of
the deep.

       *       *       *       *       *

The lifeboat and the cutter both got safe to land, and Mr Blythe and Mr
Sparkes, as the only two surviving officers of the ill-fated _Pandora_,
were bound to return to England by the first steamer, to report the
particulars of the wreck to their employers, and to stand their own
trial for the loss of the vessel--a trial which resulted in so much
credit to them both, for their promptitude, coolness, and courage, that
they were immediately re-appointed as first and second officers of the
_Hebe_, one of the finest ships in the possession of Messrs Stern &
Stales.

And when Vernon Blythe was forced to leave England again, which
(luckily for himself) did not take place for some months afterwards, he
had to say good-bye to his wife as well as his mother. For after that
time of trial and distress, he had felt that it was equally impossible
to leave Iris friendless and alone in New Zealand, or to bring her home
with him, unless she were his wife. And so they had been privately
married within a few days of landing, and the girl had felt as if she
had exchanged earth for heaven ever since.

‘Do you know, Vernie,’ she said, as she stood by the side of her
handsome young husband in the window of the Southsea cottage, on the
very day he brought home the news of his appointment to the _Hebe_--‘do
you know that I sometimes think I _must_ have died in the wreck of the
_Pandora_, and this is quite another woman who stands beside you now.’

‘I am very glad it is _not_ another woman, Iris,’ he answered, as he
stooped to kiss her.

‘But the world is all so changed for me. I feel as if I had passed
beyond every trouble, and landed in a haven of peace. Even my sorrow
at parting with you, darling,’ said Iris, with her bright eyes filled
with tears, ‘is tempered by knowing that your dear mother loves me, and
that it is a comfort both to you and her that I should be her daughter
whilst you are away. But, oh, you will come back to me, Vernie!’ she
added, in a sudden burst of grief, ‘you _will_ come back to me!’

‘I _will_ come back to you,’ he said, sweetly and solemnly, as he
folded her in his arms. ‘We are each other’s, dearest, for life or
death. Whether it be in this world or the next must be decided by a
wiser love than ours, but so long as my soul exists, _I will come back
to you_.’


THE END.


COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.





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