"You don't mean the Experiance, bound for Sydney?" asked the man. "One of Paget Brothers' big ships?"
"Yes, yes; do you know her? Point her out to me."
"Ay, I know her. I was helping to lade her till twelve last night."
"Just show her to me. I am in a frightful hurry. She is here – this is the right dock."
"Ay, the Albert and Victoria. The Experiance sailing for Sydney, noon, on the 25th."
"Well, where is she? I will go and look for her by myself."
"You can't, lady, she's gone."
"What – what do you mean? It isn't twelve o'clock. Suzanne, it isn't twelve o'clock."
"No, lady."
The old sailor looked compassionate enough.
"Poor young thing," he soliloquized under his breath, "some one has gone and done her. The Experiance was to sail at noon," he continued, "and she's a bunny tidy ship, too. I was lading her up till midnight; for last night there came an order, and the captain – Captain Jellyby's is his name – he was all flustered and in a taking, and he said we was to finish and lade up, and she was to go out of port sharp at eight this morning. She did, too, sharp to the minute. I seen her weigh anchor. That's her, lady – look out there – level with the horizon – she's a fast going ship and she's making good way. Let me hold you up, lady – now, can you see her now? That's the Experiance."
CHAPTER XXIX
The Esperance was a well-made boat; she was about four thousand tons, with improved engines which went at great speed. She was a trading ship, one of the largest and most important of those belonging to Paget Brothers, but she sometimes took out emigrants, and had room for a few saloon passengers; old travellers, who knew what comfort was, sometimes preferred to go in such ships as the Esperance to the more conventional lines of steamers. There was less crowding, less fuss; there was also more room and more comfort. The meals were good and abundant, and the few passengers, provided they were in any sense of the word congenial spirits, became quickly friends.
Gerald, as one of the members of the firm, was of course accommodated with the very best the Esperance could offer. He had a large state room, well furnished, to himself; he was treated with every possible respect, and even consulted with regard to trivial matters. Only, however, with regard to very trivial matters.
When he arrived at Southampton on the evening of the 24th, he went at once on board the Esperance.
"We shall sail at noon to-morrow," he said to the captain.
Captain Jellyby was a pleasant old salt, with a genial, open, sunburnt face, and those bright peculiar blue eyes which men who spend most of their lives on the sea often have, as though the reflection of some of its blue had got into them.
"At noon to-morrow," replied the captain. "Yes, and that is somewhat late; but we shan't have finished coaling before."
"But we stop at Plymouth surely?"
"Well, perhaps. I cannot positively say. We may be able to go straight on to Teneriffe."
Gerald did not make any further comments. He retired to his cabin and unpacked one or two things, then he went into the saloon, and taking up a book appeared to be absorbed with its contents.
In reality he was not reading. He had written a desperate letter that morning, and he was upheld even now in this moment of bitterness by a desperate hope.
Suppose Valentine suddenly found her slumbering heart awake? Suppose his words, his wild, weak and foolish words, stung it into action? Suppose the wife cried out for her husband, the awakened heart for its mate. Suppose she threw all prudence to the winds, and came to him? She could reach him in time.
He could not help thinking of this as he sat with his hand shading his eyes, pretending to read in the state saloon of the Esperance, the vessel which was to carry him away to a living death.
If Valentine came, oh yes, if Valentine came, there would be no death. There might be exile, there might be poverty, there might be dishonor, but no death. It would be all life then – life, and the flush of a stained victory.
He owned to himself that if the temptation came he would take it. If his wife loved him enough to come to him he would tell her all. He would tell her of the cruel promise wrung from him, and ask her if he must keep it.
The hours flew by; he raised his head and looked at the clock. Nine, it was striking nine. He heard a sound on board, and his pulses quickened. It passed – it was nothing. The clock struck ten, it was a beautiful starlight night. All the other passengers who had already come on board were amusing themselves on deck.
Gerald was alone in the saloon. Again there was a sound a little different from the constant cries of the sailors.
Captain Jellyby's name was shouted, and there was a rush, followed by renewed activity. Gerald rose slowly, shut his book, and went on deck. It was a dark night although the sky was clear and full of stars. A man in an overcoat and collar turned well up over his ears brushed past Wyndham, made for the gangway and disappeared.
"Good heavens – how like that man was to old Helps," soliloquized Gerald.
He stayed on deck a little longer; he thought his imagination had played him a trick, for what could bring Helps on board the Esperance. Presently the captain joined him.
CHAPTER XXX
"I am sorry, Mr. Wyndham," said Captain Jellyby, "to have to offer you on your very first night on board my good ship very broken slumbers. We shall be lading with coals all night. Are you easily disturbed by noise! But I need scarcely ask, for that noise would almost rouse the dead."
Gerald smiled.
"A broken night is nothing," he said; "at least to me. I suppose there always is a great commotion the last night before a vessel sails on a long voyage."
"Not as a rule – at least that isn't my way. We meant to break off and have a quiet time at midnight, and start operations again at six o'clock in the morning. But I've had directions from head quarters which oblige me to quicken my movements. Doocid inconvenient, too!"
"What do you mean?" said Gerald, the pulses round his heart suddenly quickening. "We sail at noon to-morrow."
"We sail at eight in the morning, my good sir, and I, for one, call it doocid inconvenient. (Yes, Cadgers, what do you want? Get all hands possible on board.) I beg your pardon, Mr. Wyndham. (Yes, Cadgers.) Back with you presently, sir."
The captain disappeared, and Wyndham went down to his cabin.
What did this sudden change mean? Who had given the order? Was that really Helps who had been on board? Well, Wyndham was in a manner master on this vessel. It was his own, part of his property; he had been told over and over again by his father-in-law that on this voyage, this pleasant voyage, he could give his own orders, and short of anything which would jeopardize the safety of the boat, the captain would humor his wishes. He would countermand an order which was putting everybody out; he did not choose to leave his native shore before the time specified – noon on the following day. In such a short life as his even four hours were of moment. He would not lose the four hours of hope, of the possibility of hope yet left to him.
He went on deck, sought out the captain where he was standing, shouting out hoarse directions to gangs of energetic looking sailors.
"A word with you, Captain Jellyby," he said. "There is some mistake in the order which you have received. I mean that I am in a position to cancel it. I do not wish the Esperance to sail before noon to-morrow."
His voice was very distinct and penetrating, and the sailors stopped work and looked at him. Astonishment was written legibly on their faces.
"Lade away boys, work with a will," said the captain. Then he put his hand on Gerald's shoulder, turned him round, and walked a pace or two away.
"I quite understand your position, Mr. Wyndham," he said. "And in all possible matters I shall yield you due deference. But – "
"Yes," said Wyndham.
"But – we sail at eight to-morrow morning, sharp."
"What do you mean? Who has given you the order?"
"I am not prepared to say. My orders are explicit. Another time, when Captain Jellyby can meet the wishes of Mr. Wyndham with a clear conscience, his orders shall also be explicit."
The captain bowed, laid his hand across his heart and turned away.
Wyndham went back to his own cabin, and was tortured all night by a desire, sane or otherwise, he could not tell which, to leave the Esperance and return to London and Valentine.
The lading of the vessel went on ceaselessly, and sharp at eight the following morning she weighed anchor and steamed away. Wyndham had lain awake all night, but at seven in the morning he fell into a doze. The doze deepened into quietness, into peaceful and refreshing slumber: the lines departed from his young face; he had not undressed, but flung himself as he was on his berth. When the Esperance was flying merrily through the water, Captain Jellyby had time to give Wyndham a thought.
"That is a nice lad," he said to himself. "He has a nice face, young too. I don't suppose he has seen five-and-twenty, but he knows what trouble means. My name is not Jack Jellyby if that young man does not know what pretty sharp trouble means. Odd, too, for he's rich and has married the chief's daughter, and what a fuss the chief made about his reception here. No expense to be spared; every comfort given, every attention shown, and his orders to be obeyed within reason. Ay, my pretty lad, there's the rub – within reason. You looked keen and vexed enough last night when I had to hasten the hour for the departure of the Esperance. I wonder what the chief meant by that. Well, I'll go and have a look at young Wyndham; he may as well come with me and see the last of his native shore. As the morning is fine it will be a pretty sight."
The captain went and begged for admission to Wyndham's cabin. There was no answer, so he opened the door and poked his red smiling face round.
"Bless me, the boy's asleep," he said; and he came up and took a good look at his new passenger.
Gerald was dreaming now, and a smile played about his lips. Suddenly he opened his eyes and said: —
"Yes, Valentine, yes, I'm coming!" and sprang to his feet.
The captain was standing with his legs a little apart, looking at him. The vessel gave a lurch, and Wyndham staggered.
"Are we off?" he said. "Good God, are we really off?"
"We were off an hour ago, young sir. Come up on deck and see what a pretty coast line we have just here."
Wyndham put his hand to his forehead.
"I have been cheated," he said suddenly. "Yes. I've been cheated. I can't speak about it; things weren't clear to me last night, but I had a dream, and I know now what it all means. I woke with some words on my lips. What did I say, captain?"
"You called to some fellow of the name of Valentine – your brother, perhaps."
"I haven't a brother. The person to whom I called was a woman – my wife. She was coming on board. She would have sailed with me if we had waited. Now it is too late."
The captain raised his shaggy brows the tenth of an inch.
"They must be sending him on this voyage on account of his health," he mentally soliloquized. "Now I see daylight. A little touched, poor fellow. Pity – nice fellow. Well, the chief might have trusted me. Of course I must humor him, poor lad. Come on deck," he said aloud. "It's beastly close down here. You should have the porthole open, the sea is like glass. Come on deck and get a breath of fresh air. Isn't Valentine a rather uncommon name for a woman? Yes, of course, I heard you were married. Well, well, you'll be home again in six months. Now come on deck and look around you."
"Look here, captain," said Gerald suddenly. "I can't explain matters. I daresay you think me queer, but you're mistaken."
"They all go on that tack," muttered the captain. "Another symptom. Well, I must humor him. I don't think you queer," he said, aloud. "You're finely mistaken. You had a dream, and you called on your wife, whom you have just parted from. What more natural? Bless you. I know all about it. I was married myself."
"And you left your wife?"
"I left her, and what is worse she left me. She went up to the angels. Bless her memory, she was a young thing. I see her yet, as she bade me good-bye. Come on deck, lad."
"Yes; come on deck," said Gerald hoarsely.
All that day he was silent, sitting mostly apart and by himself.
But the captain had his eye on him. In the evening he came again to Captain Jellyby.
"You touch at Plymouth, don't you?"
"Sometimes."
"This voyage, I mean."
"No."
"I wish you to stop at Plymouth."
"Look here, my lad. 'No' is the only word I can give you. We don't touch land till we get to Teneriffe. Go and lie down and have a sleep. We shall have a calm sea to-night, and you look fagged out."
"Are you a man to be bribed?" began Wyndham.
"I am ashamed of you. I am not."
The captain turned his back on him. Wyndham caught him by his shoulder.
"Are you a man to be moved to pity?"
"Look here, my lad, I can pity to any extent; but if you think any amount of compassion will turn me from my duty, you're in the wrong box. It's my duty, clear as the sky above, to go straight on to Teneriffe, and on I shall go. You understand?"
"Yes," said Gerald, "I understand. Thank you, captain. I won't bother you further."
His voice had altered, his brow had cleared. He walked away to the further end of the deck, whistling a light air. The captain saw him stop to pay some small attention to a lady passenger.
"Bless me, if I understand the fellow!" he muttered.
CHAPTER XXXI
When a die has been cast – cast irrevocably – as a rule there follows a calm. It is sometimes the calm of peace, sometimes that of despair; but there is always a stillness, effort is over, words don't avail, actions are paralyzed.
Gerald Wyndham sat on deck most of that evening. There was a married lady, a certain Mrs. Harvey, on board, she was going to Australia with her husband and one little girl. She was about thirty, and very delicate. Gerald's face took her fancy, and they struck up an acquaintance.
The evening was so calm, so mild, the water so still, the sky above so clear that the passengers brought wraps and lingered long on deck. Mrs. Harvey talked all the time to Gerald. He answered her not only politely but with interest. She was an interesting woman, she could talk well, she had great sympathy, and she wanted to draw Wyndham out. In this she failed, although she imagined she succeeded. He learned much of her history, for she was very communicative, but when she joined her husband downstairs later that evening she could not tell him a single thing about their fellow-passenger.
"He has a nice face," they both remarked, and they wondered who he was.
It did not occur to them to speak of him as sad-looking. On the contrary, Mrs. Harvey spoke of his cheerful smile and of his strong appreciation of humor.
"It is delightful to meet a man who can see a joke," she said. "Most of them are so dense."
"I wonder which family of Wyndhams he belongs to," remarked the husband.
"I wonder if he is married," added the wife.
Then they both resolved that they would find out to-morrow. But they did not, for the next day Wyndham did not come on deck at all. He stayed in his own cabin, and had one or two interviews with the captain.
"You know very little about me, Captain Jellyby," he said, once.
"I know that you are married to Miss Paget," replied the captain, "and I am given to understand that she is a very charming young lady."
"I want you to keep the fact of my marriage to yourself."
The captain looked a little surprised.
"Certainly, if you wish it," he said.
"I do wish it. I am knocked over to-day, for the fact is. I – I have gone through some trouble, but I don't mean to inflict my troubles on you or my fellow-passengers. I hope I shall prove an acquisition rather than otherwise on board the Esperance. But what I do not want, what would be particularly repellant to me, is that the other saloon passengers should gossip about me. When they find that I don't talk about myself, or my people, or my wife, they will become curious, and ply you with questions. Will you be mum on the subject?"
"Mum as the grave," said the captain rising and stretching himself. "Lord, we'll have some fun over this. If there are a deadly curious, gossiping, wrangling, hole-picking set in this wide world, it's the saloon passengers on board a boat of this kind. I'll make up a beautiful mystery about you, my fine fellow. Won't they enjoy it! Why, it will be the saving of them."
"Make up any mystery you like," replied Wyndham, "only don't tell them the truth. That is, I mean, what you know of the truth."
"And that's nothing," muttered the captain to himself as he went away. "Bless me, he is a queer fellow. Touched – he must be touched."
Gerald spent twenty-four hours in God only knows what deep waters of mental agony. The other passengers thought he was suffering from an attack of sea-sickness, for they were just now meeting the heavy channel sea, and the captain did not undeceive them. They passed Plymouth before Gerald again appeared on deck, and when he once more joined his fellow-passengers they were outside the Bay of Biscay.
Gerald had not suffered from any bodily discomfort, but others on board the Esperance were less fortunate, and when he once more took his place in the saloon, and went up on deck, he found that work, which all his life long seemed to fall to his share, once more waiting for him. It was the work of making other people comfortable. The Harveys' little girl was very weak and fretful. She had gone through a bad time, but when Wyndham lifted her in his arms, sat down with her in a sheltered part of the deck, and told her some funny fairy tales, his influence worked like the wand of a good magician. She smiled, told Mr. Wyndham he was a very nice man, gave him a kiss, and ran downstairs presently to eat her supper with appetite.
Little Cecily Harvey was not the only person who came under Wyndham's soothing influence. During this first evening he found himself more or less in the position of a sort of general sick-nurse. But the next day people were better, and then he appeared in another rôle. He could entertain, with stories, with music, with song. He could recite; above all things he could organize, and had a knack of showing off other people to the best advantage. Long before a week had passed, Wyndham was the most popular person on board. He was not only popular with saloon passengers, but with the emigrants. There were several on board, and he often spent some hours with them, playing with the children, and talking with the mothers, or, rather, getting the mothers to talk to him.
They were flying south now, and every day the air grew more balmy and the sea smoother. The emigrants, boys and girls, fathers and mothers, used to lie out on the deck in the sun, and a very pretty picture they made; the children rolling about laughing and playing, and the mothers, most of them were young mothers, looking on and regarding them with pride.
There was scarcely an emigrant mother on board that ship who had not confided her story, her hopes and her fears to Wyndham, before the voyage was over.
Soon that thing happened which had happened long ago at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, which had happened in the small house in Park-lane, which had happened even with the odds against him to his wife – everybody loved Wyndham. Hearts warmed as he came near, eyes brightened when they looked at him. He was in the position of a universal favorite. That sometimes is a dangerous position. But not in his case, for he was too unselfish to make enemies.
All this time, while his life was apparently drifting, while the hours were apparently gliding on to no definite or especial goal, to a landing at Melbourne – to a journey across a new Continent – while his days were going by to all intents and purposes like anybody else's days, he knew that between him and them lay an immeasurable gulf. He knew that he was not drifting, but going very rapidly down a hill. The fact is, Wyndham knew that the end, as far as he was concerned, was near.
His father-in-law had planned one thing, but he had planned another. He told no one of this, he never whispered this to a living creature, but his own mind was inexorably made up. He knew it when he bade his father good-bye that last Sunday; when he looked at Lilias and Marjory, and the other children, he knew it; he knew it when he kissed his wife's cheek that last morning when she slept. In his own way he could be a man of iron will. His will was as iron in this special matter. Only once had his determination been shaken, and that was when he pleaded with Valentine, and when he hoped against hope that she would listen to his prayer. The last lingering sparks of that hope died away when the captain refused to touch at Plymouth. After that moment his own fixed will never wavered.
His father-in-law had asked him for half a death; he should have a whole one. That was all. Many another man had done what he meant to do before. Still it was the End – the great End. No one could go beyond it.
He made his plans very carefully; he knew to effect his object he must be extremely careful. He would die, but it must never be supposed, never breathed by mortal soul that he had passed out of this world except by accident. He knew perfectly what the captain thought of him during the first couple of days of his residence on board the Esperance.
"Captain Jellyby is positive that I am touched in the head," thought Wyndham. "I must undo that suspicion."
He took pains, and he succeeded admirably. Wyndham was not only a favorite on board, but he was cheerful, he was gay. People remarked not on his high but on his good spirits.
"Such a merry, light-hearted fellow," they said of him.
Wyndham overheard these remarks now and then. The captain openly delighted in him.
"The ship will never be lucky again when you leave her," he said. "You're worth a free passage to any captain. Why you keep us all in good humor. Passengers, emigrants, sailors and all. Here, come along. I thought you rather a gloomy young chap when first I set eyes on you; but now – ah, well, you were homesick. Quite accountable. Here, I have a request from the second mate, and one or two more of the jack tars down there. They want you to sing them a song after supper. They say it isn't fair that we should have you to ourselves in the saloon."
Gerald laughed, said he would be happy to oblige the sailors, and walked away.
"As jolly a chap as ever I laid eyes on," muttered the captain. "I liked him from the first, but I was mistaken in him. I thought him gloomy. Not a bit. I wonder his wife could bear to let him out of her sight. I wouldn't if I were a lass. There, hark to him now! Bless me, we are having a pleasant voyage this time."
So they were. No one was ill; the amount of rough weather was decidedly below the average, and cheerfulness and contentment reigned on board.
The ship touched at Teneriffe, but only for a few hours, and then sped on her way to the Cape. It was now getting very hot, and an awning was spread over the deck. Under this the saloon passengers sat, and smoked and read. No one suspected, no one had the faintest shadow of a suspicion that black care lurked anywhere on board that happy ship, least of all in the breast of the merriest of its crew. Gerald Wyndham.
The Esperance reached the Cape in safety, there some of the passengers, Gerald amongst them, landed, for the captain intended to lie at anchor for twenty-four hours. Then again they were away, and now they were told they must expect colder weather for they were entering the Southern Ocean, and were approaching high latitudes of polar cold. They would have to go through the rough sea of the "Roaring Forties," and then again they would emerge into tropical sunshine.
Soon after they left the Cape, little Cecily Harvey fell ill. She caught a chill and was feverish, and the doctor and her mother forbade her to go on deck. She was only eight years old, a pretty, winsome child. Gerald felt a special tenderness for her, for she reminded him of his own little sister Joan. During this illness she often lay for hours in his arms, with her little feverish cheek pressed against his, and her tiny hot hand comforted by his firm cool clasp.
"Mr. Wyndham," she said on one of these occasions. "I wish you wouldn't do it."
"Do what, Cecily?"
"Run up the rigging as you do. I heard one of the sailors talking to Mrs. Meyrich the other day, and he said you were too daring, and some day you'd have a slip, and be overboard, if you did not look sharp."
"Oh, I'll take care of myself, Cecily. At one time I thought of being a sailor, and I was always climbing, always climbing at home. There isn't the least fear. I'm not rash. I'm a very careful fellow."
"Are you? I'm glad of that. Had you tall trees at your home?"
Gerald gave the little hand a squeeze.
"They were like other trees," he said. "Don't let us talk of them."
"Mustn't we? I'm sorry. I wanted to hear all about your home."
"I haven't a home, Cecily. Once I had one, but you can understand that it is painful to speak of what one has lost."
"I'm very sorry for you, dear Mr. Wyndham. Did you lose a little sister, too? Is that why you squeeze me so tight?"
"I have lost many little sisters; we won't talk of them, either. What is the matter, Cecily? Do you feel faint?"
"No, but I hate this rough, choppy sea. I want it to be smooth again as it used to be. Then I can go on deck, and lie under the awning, and you can sit near me, and tell me stories. Will you?"
Gerald did not answer.
"Will you, Mr. Wyndham?"
"I can lie to everyone else but not to the child," muttered Gerald.
He roused himself, and sought to divert her attention.
"We are in the 'Roaring Forties' now," he said. "Isn't that a funny name? The sea is always very choppy and rough here, but it won't last long. You will soon be in pleasant weather and smooth seas again."
Cecily was not satisfied, and Gerald presently left her and went on deck.
The weather was not pleasant just now, it was cold and squally, always veering about and causing a choppy and disagreeable motion with the ship. Some of the ladies took again to their beds, and went through another spell of sea-sickness; the more fortunate ones sat and chatted in the great saloon – not one of them ventured on deck. Gerald, who was not in the least indisposed in body, found plenty to do in his rôle of general cheerer and comforter. When he was not nursing little Cecily he spent some time with the emigrants, amongst whom he was a great favorite.
On this particular day a round-faced young woman of five and twenty, a certain Mrs. Notley, came up to him the moment he appeared on the lower deck.
"They do say it, sir, and I thought I'd speak to you, so that you wouldn't mind. They do say you're over rash in helping the sailors – over rash, and none so sure-footed as you think yourself."
"Folly," said Gerald, laughing good-humoredly. "So I can't run up a rope or tighten a rigging without people imagining that I am putting my precious life in jeopardy. Don't you listen to any foolish tales, Mrs. Notley. I'm a great deal too fond of myself to run any risks. I shan't slip, if that's what you mean – for that matter I have always been climbing, since I was a little chap no bigger than that urchin of yours there."
"Ay, sir, that's all very well, but it's different for all that on board ship; there may come a lurch when you least look for it, and then the surest-footed and the surest-handed is sometimes outwitted. You'll excuse my mentioning of it, sir, but you're a bonny young gentleman, and you has the goodwill of everyone on board."
"Thank you, Mrs. Notley, I like to hear you say so. It is pleasant to be liked."
"Ah, sure you are that, and no mistake, and you'll forgive me mentioning it, sir, but you'll be careful, won't you? You ain't married for sure, for your face is too lightsome for that of a married man. But maybe you has a mother and a sweetheart, and you might think of them, sir, and not be over daring."
Wyndham's face grew suddenly white.
"As it happens I have neither a mother nor sweetheart," he said. Then he turned away somewhat abruptly, and Mrs. Notley feared she had offended him.
The sailors prophesied "dirty weather;" they expected it, for this was the roughest part of the voyage. Gerald was very fond of talking to the sailors and getting their opinions. He strolled over to where a group of them were standing now, and they pointed to some ugly looking clouds, and told him that the storm would be on them by night.
Nothing very bad, or to be alarmed at, they said, still a rough and nasty sea, with a bit of a gale blowing. The women and children wouldn't like it, poor things, and it would be a dark night too, no moon.
Gerald asked a few more questions.
"I have a great anxiety to see a storm," he said. "If it gets really stormy, I'll come up; I can shelter beside the man at the wheel."
"Better not, sir," one or two said. "The vessel is sure to lurch over a good bit, and it takes more sea-weather legs than yours to keep their footing at such a time."
"All the same," remarked a burly-looking sailor, who was to take his place at the wheel for some hours that night, and thought Gerald's company would be a decided acquisition, "I could put the gent into a corner where he'd be safe enough round here, and it's something to see a gale in these parts – something to live for – not that there'll be much to-night, only a bit of a dirty sea; but still – "
"Expect me, Loggan, if it does come," said Wyndham. He laughed and turned away. He walked slowly along the upper deck. Captain Jellyby came up and had a word with him.
"Yes, we're in for a dirty night," he remarked.
Then Wyndham went downstairs. He chatted for a little with the ladies in the saloon. Then he went into his own cabin. He shut the door. The time had arrived – the hour had come.