Midway between Nyon and Rolle, the steamer _Mont Blanc_ was shearing her
arrowy course through the blue waters of Lake Leman, heading for the
latter place.
Her decks were covered with passengers, mostly of French nationality--
light-hearted, chattering, cheerful souls, talking volubly and all at
once--talking the harder apparently in inverse ratio to the interest of
the topic under consideration.
Right in the stern of the boat, beneath the upper deck, his back against
the end of the saloon, sat a solitary Englishman. He was smoking a
cigar and pretending to read, but it was patent to the most casual
observer that the book before him occupied very little of his attention
indeed, for he was gazing out upon the sapphire surface of the lake and
its green and gold setting of engirdling mountains, with an expression
of settled sadness upon his extremely attractive countenance, which had
no business to be seen upon the face of one so young.
Suddenly there was a rush of feet, and a hat came skimming along the
lower deck, a broad-brimmed straw hat--a feminine hat. Springing from
his seat he caught it, just in time to save it from going overboard, and
turned to hand it to its pursuer and owner.
"Thanks so much," said a sweet voice. Then the speaker stopped short in
amazement and changed colour. "Why, it's Mr Orlebar--pardon me--Sir
Philip, I should have said."
"It used to be `Philip' at one time, Alma," was the reply, with the
ghost of a sad smile. And then these two stood looking into each
other's eyes in silence. Neither seemed able to say a word.
It was as she had implied. Sir Francis Orlebar was no more. Never
recovering from the prostration into which he had been thrown by
Fordham's revelation, he had sunk into a decline and had succumbed three
months later, tended by his son devotedly to the last. Then Philip,
reserving enough for his modest wants, had apportioned the remainder
between his stepmother and that other who had a legal claim upon him.
This done, he had left Claxby Court and had started upon his travels
again.
She who was his wife, in the eye of the law, he had never set eyes on
since that fateful night. He had tried by every means in his power to
find some channel through which the mystery might be cleared up, but in
vain. The only person who could have done so was dead, and her last
words, her last look, her last behaviour, conclusively confirmed him in
his very darkest conjectures. The bare recollection of the subject was
unutterably nauseous and repulsive to him now.
Old Glover had in due course served him with a writ in the threatened
breach of promise action. Nothing could be more repellent than to be
dragged forth into notoriety thus, yet what could he do? He was too
poor to offer any compromise, even if it were not the persistently
rancorous intention of that estimable British merchant to exact his
pound of flesh in spite of everything, and that pound of flesh the
dragging of him--Philip--into notoriety and a court of law. But at the
last moment chance had befriended him. For the beauteous Edith had
succumbed to the prismatic attractions of a ritualistic parson of fine
presence and ample means, and this cleric had, under pain of cancelling
his own engagement, laid a stern embargo on his future bride making an
exhibition of herself in a public court. So, whereas it is manifestly
impossible to bring an action for breach of promise failing the consent
of the interesting plaintiff, old Glover was obliged to deny himself the
gratification of his rancour, and to console himself characteristically
with the sound commercial reflection that, after all, they had got much
the better bargain of the two. For the parson was well off, and would
very likely be a bishop one day, or, at any rate an archdeacon, whereas
Philip Orlebar, though now a baronet, would always have been as poor as
Job, and would never have done any good for himself or anybody else. In
which conjecture he was probably right.
"It's an odd thing I should not have seen you all this time," said
Philip at last, realising that it was necessary to say something. "Yet
you must have come on board at Geneva."
"No--at Nyon."
"_At_ Nyon! That would account for it. I have been sitting here almost
ever since we left Geneva, and, of course, I can't see the gangway from
here, or who lands, or who embarks. Have you been staying there?"
"Only a few days. The people I am with were there to see some friends
of theirs. But--between ourselves--it was rather slow."
"You are not with the General then?"
"Oh no! Don't I wish I was!" she added, with an eager lowering of her
voice. "But there, I ought not to say that. These are a very kind sort
of people, but a trifle `heavy.' I am only travelling _with_ them, not
their guest."
Now what the deuce did Philip care about the estimability or other
idiosyncrasies of the people she was travelling with? He saw only her--
her as he remembered her in times past--her as he had seen her many a
time since, waking and in his dreams--her as he had seen her the first
time of all, here on the deck of this very ship. He detected the
sympathetic softening of the great grey eyes, the saddened inflection of
that voice, the first note of which had thrilled his whole being, and
his heart tightened. For, after all, he was young, and, in spite of the
blow which had fallen upon his life, all possibilities for him were not
dead.
And she? Knowing something of his history since they parted--though not
the exact nature of the grim skeleton so carefully kept locked up--
knowing something of his history, we say, for the world is small and
tongues are long, she felt her heart go out to him as it had never done
before, as she never thought possible that it could have done. The
sunny laugh had gone out of his face for ever; leaving an expression, a
stamp of hopelessness, which to her was infinitely pathetic. It was all
that she could do to keep down the rush of tears which welled to her
eyes as they looked up into his sad ones. What, we say, did he, did
either of them, care about the heaviness or otherwise of the people she
was travelling with? Yet of such trivialities will the lips force
themselves to chatter while the heart is bursting.
"Where and how is the dear old General now?" he went on. "And your
aunt?"
"They have gone to live at a place in the country--a few miles from
Rushtonborough. That is near your home, is it not?"
"Yes," he said eagerly, and the possibilities began to stir around and
quicken into life. Then his tone relapsed again. "Do you ever go down
there yourself?"
"I haven't yet. They have only just gone there. And now"--
hesitatingly, "I think I must go back to my people. They will be
wondering what has become of me."
"Not yet--Alma."
The pleading tone melted her not very strongly formed resolution. She
paused. The end of the saloon hid them effectually, though, of course,
they only held this snug corner to themselves on the precarious tenure
of chance.
"Tell me a little more about yourself," he went on. "Are you still
living at that place you hated so--Surbiton?"
"N-no," as if the topic was distasteful. "By the way, I saw you there
once."
"But--I have never been there in my life," he answered, very mystified.
"Not on land, perhaps--but by water. You were in a boat--and the one I
was in as nearly as possible ran you down. I was steering--or rather,
ought to have been," she added with a little smile. "You didn't see me,
but I recognised you."
"I remember now," he said. "And was that you? Yes, I remember
perfectly. Oh, Alma--if only I _had_ seen you!"
It seemed to escape him in spite of himself, and it conveyed volumes.
There had been just a spice of bitterness in the motive that had urged
her to let him know she had seen him and with whom, but now she would
have given worlds to withdraw the remark--such a turning of the knife in
the wound did it seem. And now she realised plainer than words could
tell, that if he had seen her on the occasion in question, it would have
made all the difference in the world to her life and his.
"What is this place we are coming to?" he said, as the steamer's bell
begun to ring to the accompaniment of a sensible slackening of the
paddles.
"Rolle. The next is Morges, and then Ouchy, where we land. We are
going to stay a few days in Lausanne."
"What, at this time of year? Why you will be roasted?"
"So we shall. But the Sitgreaves want to get some things there before
going on to the mountains."
"Are you going on to the mountains? Where? Perhaps we may meet again?"
And once more the possibilities were all astir.
"Philip, I think we had better not," she answered, with her eyes full
upon his. "It would not be fair to--you."
"Oh, I can keep myself in hand all right," he replied, with a hard laugh
from which he could not altogether eliminate the suspicion of a tremor.
"Don't be afraid. I've learnt a thing or two since we last had the
pleasure of meeting."
The steamer was under way again, skimming merrily over the sapphire
surface. The chit-chat and laughter of the other passengers rose
gleefully upon the air, and in the saloon the pop of corks, the clink of
knives and forks. There is solitude in a crowd--stillness in noise.
"Where are you going to now, Philip?" she said.
"Oh, I don't quite know! I've booked to Territet. Perhaps I'll walk up
and put in a few days at the old shop--perhaps I'll go on to Saas or the
Bel Alp and do some climbing. Can't tell till I get there."
She made no answer. This was not the easy, light-hearted talk of the
old times. There was a bitter, reckless ring about it that was
unmistakable. The speaker literally did not care where he went or what
he did. Still she did not leave him.
"I wonder if it has ever occurred to you all this time Alma," he went on
in a softer tone, "that it was here--on board this very ship--we first
met? Not exactly that perhaps, but first saw each other, which amounts
to the same thing."
"Yes, it has."
"It has? Well, it seems a strange chance, a strange stroke of Fate,
that we should meet here again--here of all places. How long ago was
it? Ten years--twenty?"
"No; only three."
"Well, it is like twenty to me. I tell you I feel as if I had come to
the end of my life."
"You must not say that--believe me you must not. Time will do wonders
for you. You have a long life before you yet, and great opportunities."
But although she spoke bravely she could hardly succeed in steadying her
voice. All the old feeling, all the feeling which had lain dormant
within her since that stray glimpse on the river, was surging into
activity. Philip Orlebar, crushed, saddened, all the elasticity burned
out of his young life by the searing irons of sorrow, reigned king in
her heart, as Philip Orlebar, sanguine, buoyant, light-hearted, could
never have done. And the change, sad, infinitely deplorable as it was,
had solidified and stamped his character, not altogether to the
disadvantage of that possession. But for that one tremendous
impediment, in all human probability lifelong, Alma would have needed no
pressure to have returned love for love in full and abundant measure.
"Great opportunities?" he echoed. "Yes, I may have had once--before you
condemned me unheard. Great Heaven! you had no pity--no consideration
for me then, and now it is too late."
It was cruel. The tears which she had striven so heroically to repress
brimmed, overflowed. They fell, each shining drop burning into the
heart of the spectator as a drop of molten lead. And upon the blue
radiant lake the measured paddle-stroke of the steamer beat strong and
joyous, the laughter and chat of the holiday-seekers rang out light and
cheery.
"Darling love--love of my life--my only love!" he uttered, in
heartbroken tones, "what am I to say? Why--why were you so hasty? And
now it is too late."
"Yes, I was hasty; I know it now," she replied. "But I tried to make
amends. Oh, Philip! why did you not answer--take some notice of my
letter?"
"Your--what?"
His face had turned deathly white. Already he saw that some horrible
_contretemps_ had served to divert from him a life's happiness.
"My letter? I wrote to you at Zermatt directly I heard of your
accident. You took no notice, so I concluded you did not want to hear
of me any more."
"Alma, as sure as I stand here a living man, I have never received a
line of your writing in my life."
It was her turn to grow pale now.
"But I did write. I directed to your hotel at Zermatt. What can it
mean? You never received it?"
He burst into a harsh laugh--a laugh infinitely more moving than tears.
"What can it mean?" he repeated. "It means this: it is part of the
whole hellish plot. That letter was intercepted by the hand that for
its owner's vile purposes lured me to my ruin. But that hand is
_burning_ now for that act of wickedness--that one act alone--that act
which ruined my life. It is burning in another world--if there be
another world--for the woman, its owner, is dead."
"I begin to see," she said, her eyes brimming with love and pity. "Yes,
I can see it all now."
The bell rang again, and the paddles slackened. The _Mont Blanc_ was
sweeping up to the _debarcadere_ at Morges. The next stoppage would be
Ouchy, and there they must part.
"Do you remember that day we were crossing over to Bouveret on this very
boat?" he went on. "Do you remember our conversation as we passed
Chillon Castle? You remarked then, _a propos_ of all its mediaeval
horrors, instruments of torture, and so forth--that there seemed a time
when the world must have been under Satanic rule instead of under that
of a good Providence. Do you remember that?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, the same thing holds good now. What have I done that those whom
I have never harmed should lay themselves out to ruin my life--to render
my days a hell and a curse to me? For it is a curse--a lifelong curse."
"Not that--not that, God grant. Philip, be brave; you are young yet.
Better days will dawn, dear."
"But they will not bring me--you. No, something tells me it is not so--
it never will be so. Nothing better will dawn for me but the grave. I
told you before; I tell you again. I feel as if I had come to the end
of my life."
"Hush--hush," she said, soothingly. "Your life is still your own; you
are your own master. You must make an object in life for yourself.
That is the only remedy."
But he shook his head.
"No, no. The Satanic influence is everywhere. Was it not abroad that
day on the river when one glimpse of you would have saved me? Had your
parasol been held but a few inches higher I should have seen you, and
the sight of you would have brought me back to you, back to myself, in
time. Yet it was not to be."
Again the bell rang, again the paddles slowed down. The massive
red-tiled tower of Ouchy drew nearer and nearer. The _Mont Blanc_
glided proudly up to the pier.
"Alma, darling--my lost love--we may never meet again. Something tells
me we shall not. Give me--one kiss."
His hands were holding hers. His sad eyes were full upon hers. And she
loved him. What could she do?
"Would it be right?" she said, hesitatingly.
"Right or wrong, give it me. You will never regret it."
Her lips met his, in one sweet, warm, clinging kiss. Then with a
murmured, "God bless you, Philip, dear!" she had torn herself away, and
was gone.
There was the usual stir and bustle of landing. Then as they were
wending their way from the _debarcadere_ in the wake of their luggage,
which an hotel porter was hauling before them on a truck, one of Alma's
friends said--
"Who was the other party to the _tete-a-tete_, Alma? I declare your
behaviour is positively scandalous, my dear girl. Do you know you were
rather more than a whole hour hobnobbing with him? Come, who was he?"
"An old friend of mine," she answered, trying to do so lightly, but of
course failing abjectly.
"Why don't you say a _dear_ friend?" said another of the girls,
maliciously. "Why, he was standing there on the lower deck as we
landed, simply devouring the last of you with his eyes. And they _were_
eyes, too. Come, now, his name? You are not going to get out of that,
don't think it. Who was he?"
"Sir Philip Orlebar."
"Sir Philip Orlebar?" repeated the last who had spoken and who was by
way of being the wag of the party. "And you did not bring him up and
introduce him. A whole, real, live baronet--and such a good-looking
one, too! Oh, Alma, I should never have thought it of--Gracious
goodness!"
The last words were little better than a shriek. For a frightful sound
had drowned the speaker's utterance--a loud, vibrating, strident roar,
and a crash as of a heavy missile tearing through planks and rafters.
Turning towards it, the faces of the girls blanched with terror and
their knees trembled under them, so that they could hardly stand. Those
around behaved variously, but all were in a state of the wildest
consternation and dismay.
"_Mais il eclate--le bateau-a-vapeur_!" cried one of the bystanders.
The _Mont Blanc_ was still at the jetty. At first it was difficult to
make out what had happened. Then dense masses of steam were seen to be
issuing from the centre of the ship, and from the whole outside of the
saloon spurted white, hissing jets.
The upper deck was the scene of a wild and frenzied panic. A mob of
terror-stricken passengers surged to the gangway, fighting, shouting,
swarming over each other and everything, at imminent peril of being
precipitated into the water. And over and above this chaos, this rout
and tumult, there arose a succession of the most appalling screams that
ever human ear was condemned to listen to, for they issued from the
throats of so many human beings shut up within the death-trap below--so
many human beings, for whom all escape was cut off, and who were being
literally parboiled alive.
This is what had happened. The steam reservoir had exploded, and the
mass of iron covering it had been hurled along the lower deck, sweeping
the saloon from end to end, and crashing through the stern of the vessel
like the projectile from a piece of ordnance. And then an enormous
volume of scalding steam had filled the apartment, and in a moment the
light-hearted holiday-seekers, with which it was crowded, wrapped in
that hell-blast from which there was no escape, were writhing in the
throes of the most horrible, the most agonising of deaths.
Alma, recovering her presence of mind, left her friends, and hurried
back to the scene of the catastrophe. But the gathering crowd barred
her way; it in its turn being kept back by the arm and voice of
Authority. Yet she got near enough to see the outside of the wrecked
saloon, the twisted girders supporting the upper deck, the jagged breach
in the stern where the iron plate had gone through. She saw the
panic-stricken crowd swaying and surging. She saw one scalded wretch
rush to the side and leap overboard, in the frenzy of his intolerable
agony. What she did not see was him whom she sought. She did not see
Philip Orlebar.
Not in the terrified, struggling crowd upon the upper deck did her eyes
seek him; even at that moment she knew it was not thus he would be found
in the hour of peril and alarm. Her anguished gaze, straining upon the
spot where she had last seen him, met with no reward. He was not there.
Oh, merciful Heavens! Could he have gone back to his seat in the stern
of the boat, to that spot where they had stood together talking for a
full hour.
For that spot was now enveloped in a cloud of white steam, which was
pouring out through the hole knocked in the end of the saloon by the
iron cover of the cistern. Had Philip returned to his seat his back
would have rested against that very part of the panelling which was
blown away.
It was long before the work of rescue could be begun, long before the
fiery breath of that hell-blast had sufficiently abated its fury to
admit of search. Still Alma stood there, and as each agonising minute
of suspense went by she realised more certainly that there was no hope.
She saw body after body--in life or in death--brought away from the
fatal ship. She heard the heartrending groans of the sufferers, and the
appalling yells of some tortured wretch imploring the boon of death as a
termination to his agony. These dreadful sights and sounds which at any
other time would well-nigh have killed her with horror, seemed to be
something outside her life now. He whom she sought was not among them--
not yet.
She pressed forward. The crowd elbowed her backward. The voice of
Authority warned her backward. To Authority she appealed.
Now Authority, even in a blue uniform and a sword, may still possess a
heart, and Authority as there embodied, was young and presumably
susceptible. The white eager face was passingly beautiful--the piteous
glance and appealing voice correspondingly entrancing. Authority's
heart melted. In the result the crowd elbowed her backward no more.
"Mademoiselle had a friend on board? A lady? No? A gentleman--an
English gentleman? Good. He should be sought for."
Accordingly Alma learned the worst without undue delay. There was an
English gentleman among the injured--a tall, good-looking gentleman with
a blonde moustache. "He was hurt--very badly hurt," declared Authority,
humanely mendacious, adding, "But he is not burned--oh, no--certainly he
is not burned. Wait. They will disembark him in one little moment. Is
he dead? Well, Mademoiselle must not give way. He is not burned--
certainly--not in the least burned."
And the force of even that little crumb of well-meant comfort came home
to Alma as, a few minutes later, she bent down over what had so recently
contained the soul of Philip Orlebar, and regardless of the glances of
three pairs of eyes or of three hundred, kissed the calm and placid
face, so still and composed in death--kissed those lips hardly cold
yet--the warmth of whose parting kiss in life seemed to glow upon hers--
the sad, hopeless echo of whose parting words still seemed to linger in
her ears. "_Alma, darling. My lost love. We may never meet again.
Something tells me we shall not_." Well, they had not--in life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the _douanier_ had said, Philip Orlebar was not burned, for he had
met his death in the open air. He had, as Alma had first conjectured,
resumed his seat in the stern of the boat--was on the point of doing so
rather, when the explosion occurred, and the iron plate, bursting
through the end of the saloon, had struck him on the spine and shattered
it, killing him instantaneously--painlessly.
"_I feel as if I had come to the end of my life_," had been his words,
twice used during that last sad conversation. Poor Philip! Had he
uttered them in sheer bitterness of heart or under the influence of a
strange unerring presentiment? Verily it may have been a little of
both.