The sweet voice died away in lingering echoes over the waters, the
mandolin ceased its plaintive chords, and Jessie sat down with a low
sigh by her father’s side, and leaned her head against his shoulder in
pathetic silence, while the listeners stole away, leaving Laurier alone
in the seat he had taken, gazing absently over the moonlit waters while
ocean’s tone seemed to echo over and over:
“Love, I will love you ever,
Love, I will leave you never!”
He had sat down very suddenly because he had staggered from emotion
over a shock.
It had come to him all at once why the girl’s face and voice had
seemed so familiar that it had awakened subtle pain blent with keenest
pleasure.
The fair, exquisite face was like one that had been lying long beneath
the coffinlid, the voice was one whose sweet, reproachful tones had
once pierced his heart like an avenging sword. She brought back to him
the irrevocable past.
“So like, so like, she might be Jessie Lyndon’s sister,” he mused. “But
no, that could not be. Mrs. Dalrymple had but one daughter. It is only
a chance likeness.”
He began to wonder what their names could be, the father and daughter,
and when one of his friends came back to his side he whispered the
question:
“What did you say their names were?”
He was astounded when the young man answered calmly:
“His name is Lyndon, and he calls his daughter Jessie.”
“Heavens!” and Laurier started violently.
“What is it?” cried his friend.
“Nothing! Yes, that wretched sickness is coming on again. Will you
assist me to my stateroom?”
He lay wakeful and wretched all night, tortured by a name and a
semblance, thinking that surely she must have been related to the dead
girl by some close tie, and wishing to know her just for the sake of
the past.
The next morning, in spite of his bad night, he was on deck early,
determined, if possible, to make the acquaintance of the new Jessie
Lyndon.
But our heroine had not been on shipboard three days without finding
out the name of this important fellow passenger.
Her father had discovered it early and communicated it briefly, saying:
“Do not recognize him when he comes on deck. If he addresses you,
pretend perfect forgetfulness of him and the past.”
“You may be sure I will do so,” with a lightning gleam of pride in the
soft, dark eyes, and a swift rush of color to the round cheek.
But a moment later she asked, almost inaudibly:
“His wife--does she accompany him?”
“No, he is alone.”
When Laurier saw her in the broad glare of daylight he perceived that
her likeness to the dead Jessie Lyndon was more startling even than
it had seemed last night--it might have been Jessie herself with
the additional charm of eighteen over sixteen added to two years of
cultivation, and all the advantages of a rich and becoming dress.
But when he passed close by her as she lounged in her chair her calm
glance swept over him like the veriest stranger’s, while the color rose
in her cheek at his admiring glance.
It was quite useless for him to seek an introduction. No one dared
penetrate their chill reserve but the captain, and he refused Laurier’s
request regretfully, saying that the Lyndons were very offish and did
not care to know people.
But all day Laurier haunted her vicinity. He could scarcely take his
eyes from the beautiful, luring face with its down-dropped eyes bent
so steadily over her book; he simply forgot his betrothed’s existence,
and kept wishing feverishly that something would happen to make him
acquainted with the fascinating stranger.
How terribly our wild wishes are answered sometimes!
Laurier did not dream that his good or evil fate would soon grant his
prayer.
Jessie sang again on deck that night, and Laurier retired to toss on a
restless pillow, and dream of her all night.
In the dark hour that comes before the dawn a leaping flame shot up
from the steamer into the darkness, irradiating the gloom with awful
light, while panic-stricken voices rang out upon the night, shouting:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”