PICKED UP ADRIFT.
Two days passed since the steamer left Naples, and they were now far
on their way. On the morning of the third Windham came on deck at an
early hour. No one was up. The man at the wheel was the only one
visible. Windham looked around upon the glorious scene which the wide
sea unfolds at such a time. The sun had not yet risen, but all the
eastern sky was tinged with red; and the wide waste of waters between
the ship and that eastern horizon was colored with the ruddy hues
which the sky cast downward. But it was not this scene, magnificent
though it was, which attracted the thoughts of Windham as he stood on
the quarter-deck. His face was turned in that direction; but it was
with an abstracted gaze which took in nothing of the glories of
visible nature. That deep-seated melancholy of his, which was always
visible in his face and manner, was never more visible than now. He
stood by the taffrail in a dejected attitude and with a dejected
face--brooding over his own secret cares, finding nothing in this but
fresh anxieties, and yet unable to turn his thoughts to any thing
else. The steamer sped through the waters, the rumble of her
machinery was in the air, the early hour made the solitude more
complete. This man, whoever he was, did not look as though he were
going to England on any joyous errand, but rather like one who was
going home to the performance of some mournful duty which was never
absent from his thoughts.
Standing thus with his eyes wandering abstractedly over the water, he
became aware of an object upon its surface, which attracted his
attention and roused him from his meditations. It struck him as very
singular. It was at some considerable distance off, and the steamer
was rapidly passing it. It was not yet sufficiently light to
distinguish it well, but he took the ship's glass and looked
carefully at it. He could now distinguish it more plainly. It was a
schooner with its sails down, which by its general position seemed to
be drifting. It was very low in the water, as though it were either
very heavily laden or else water-logged. But there was one thing
there which drew all his thoughts. By the foremast, as he looked, he
saw a figure standing, which was distinctly waving something as if to
attract the attention of the passing steamer. The figure looked like
a woman. A longer glance convinced him that it was so in very deed,
and that this lonely figure was some woman in distress. It seemed to
appeal to himself and to himself alone, with that mute yet eloquent
signal, and those despairing gestures. A strange pang shot through
his heart--a pang sharp and unaccountable--something more than that
which might be caused by any common scene of misery; it was a pang of
deep pity and profound sympathy with this lonely sufferer, from whom
the steamer's course was turned away, and whom the steersman had not
regarded. He only had seen the sight, and the woman seemed to call to
him out of her despair. The deep sea lay between; her presence was a
mystery; but there seemed a sort of connection between him and her
as though invisible yet resistless Fate had shown them to one
another, and brought him here to help and to save. It needed but an
instant for all these thoughts to flash through his mind. In an
instant he flew below and roused the captain, to whom in a few
hurried words he explained what had occurred.
The captain, who was dressed, hurried up and looked for himself. But
by this time the steamer had moved away much further, and the captain
could not see very distinctly any thing more than the outline of a
boat.
"Oh, it's only a fishing-boat," said he, with an air of indifference.
"Fishing-boat! I tell you it is an English yacht," said Windham,
fiercely. "I saw it plainly. The sails were down. It was
water-logged. A woman was standing by the foremast."
The captain looked annoyed.
"It looks to me," said he, "simply like some heavily laden schooner."
"But I tell you she is sinking, and there is a woman on board," said
Windham, more vehemently than ever.
"Oh, it's only some Neapolitan fish-wife."
"You must turn the steamer, and save her," said Windham, with savage
emphasis.
"I can not. We shall be behind time."
"Damn time!" roared Windham, thoroughly roused. "Do you talk of time
in comparison with the life of a human being? If you don't turn the
steamer's head, _I_ will."
"You!" cried the captain, angrily. "Damn it! if it comes to that, I'd
like to see you try it. It's mutiny."
Windham's face grew white with suppressed indignation.
"Turn the steamer's head," said he, in stern cold tones, from which
every trace of passion had vanished. "If you don't, I'll do it
myself. If you interfere, I'll blow your brains out. As it is, you'll
rue the day you ever refused. Do you know who I am?"
He stepped forward, and whispered in the captain's ear some words
which sent a look of awe or fear into the captain's face. Whether
Windham was the president of the company, or some British embassador,
or one of the Lords of the Admiralty, or any one else in high
authority, need not be disclosed here. Enough to say that the captain
hurried aft, and instantly the steamer's head was turned.
As for Windham, he took no further notice of the captain, but all his
attention was absorbed by the boat. It seemed water-logged, yet still
it was certainly not sinking, for as the steamer drew nearer, the
light had increased, and he could see plainly through the glass that
the boat was still about the same distance out of the water.
Meanwhile Obed Chute made his appearance, and Windham, catching sight
of him, briefly explained every thing to him. At once all Obed's most
generous sympathies were roused. He took the glass, and eagerly
scrutinized the vessel. He recognized it at once, as Windham had, to
be an English yacht; he saw also that it was waterlogged, and he saw
the figure at the mast. But the figure was no longer standing erect,
or waving hands, or making despairing signals. It had fallen, and lay
now crouched in a heap at the foot of the mast. This Windham also
saw. He conjectured what the cause of this might be. He thought that
this poor creature had kept up her signals while the steamer was
passing, until at last it had gone beyond, and seemed to be leaving
her. Then hope and strength failed, and she sank down senseless. It
was easy to understand all this, and nothing could be conceived of
more touching in its mute eloquence than this prostrate figure, whose
distant attitudes had told so tragical a story. Now all this excited
Windham still more, for he felt more than ever that he was the savior
of this woman's life. Fate had sent her across his path--had given
her life to him. He only had been the cause why she should not perish
unseen and unknown. This part which he had been called on to play of
savior and rescuer--this sudden vision of woe and despair appealing
to his mercy for aid--had chased away all customary thoughts, so that
now his one idea was to complete his work, and save this poor
castaway.
But meanwhile he had not been idle. The captain, who had been so
strangely changed by a few words, had called up the sailors, and in
an instant the fact was known to the whole ship's company that they
were going to save a woman in distress. The gallant fellows, like
true sailors, entered into the spirit of the time with the greatest
ardor. A boat was got ready to be lowered, Windham jumped in, Chute
followed, and half a dozen sailors took the oars. In a short time the
steamer had come up to the place. She stopped; the boat was lowered;
down went the oars into the water; and away sped the boat toward the
schooner. Obed Chute steered. Windham was in the bow, looking eagerly
at the schooner, which lay there in the same condition as before. The
sun was now just rising, and throwing its radiant beams over the sea.
The prostrate figure lay at the foot of the mast.
Rapidly the distance between the boat and the schooner was lessened
by the vigorous strokes of the seamen. They themselves felt an
interest in the result only less than that of Windham. Nearer and
nearer they came. At length the boat touched the schooner, and
Windham, who was in the bow, leaped on board. He hurried to the
prostrate figure. He stooped down, and with a strange unaccountable
tenderness and reverence he took her in his arms and raised her up.
Perhaps it was only the reverence which any great calamity may excite
toward the one that experiences such calamity; perhaps it was
something more profound, more inexplicable--the outgoing of the
soul--which may sometimes have a forecast of more than may be
indicated to the material senses. This may seem like mysticism, but
it is not intended as such. It is merely a statement of the
well-known fact that sometimes, under certain circumstances, there
arise within us unaccountable presentiments and forebodings, which
seem to anticipate the actual future.
Windham then stooped down, and thus tenderly and reverently raised up
the figure of the woman. The sun was still rising and gleaming over
the waters, and gleaming thus, it threw its full rays into the face
of the one whom he held supported in his arms, whose head was thrown
back as it lay on his breast, and was upturned so that he could see
it plainly.
And never, in all his dreams, had any face appeared before him which
bore so rare and radiant a beauty as this one of the mysterious
stranger whom he had rescued. The complexion was of a rich olive, and
still kept its hue where another would have been changed to the
pallor of death; the closed eyes were fringed with long heavy lashes;
the eyebrows were thin, and loftily arched; the hair was full of
waves and undulations, black as night, gleaming with its jetty gloss
in the sun's rays, and in its disorder falling in rich luxuriant
masses over the arms and the shoulder of him who supported her. The
features were exquisitely beautiful; her nose a slight departure from
the Grecian; her lips small and exquisitely shapen; her chin rounded
faultlessly. The face was thinner than it might have been, like the
face of youth and beauty in the midst of sorrow; but the thinness was
not emaciation; it had but refined and spiritualized those matchless
outlines, giving to them not the voluptuous beauty of the Greek
ideal, but rather the angelic or saintly beauty of the medieval. She
was young too, and the bloom and freshness of youth were there
beneath all the sorrow and the grief. More than this, the refined
grace of that face, the nobility of those features, the stamp of high
breeding which was visible in every lineament, showed at once that
she could be no common person. This was no fisherman's wife--no
peasant girl, but some one of high rank and breeding--some one whose
dress proclaimed her station, even if her features had told him
nothing.
"My God!" exclaimed Windham, in bewilderment. "Who is she? How came
she here? What is the meaning of it?"
But there was no time to be lost in wonder or in vague conjectures.
The girl was senseless. It was necessary at once to put her under
careful treatment. For a moment Windham lingered, gazing upon that
sad and exquisite face; and then raising her in his arms, he went
back to the boat. "Give way, lads!" he cried; and the sailors, who
saw it all, pulled with a will. They were soon back again. The
senseless one was lifted into the steamer. Windham carried her in his
own arms to the cabin, and placed her tenderly in a berth, and
committed her to the care of the stewardess. Then he waited
impatiently for news of her recovery.
Obed Chute, however, insisted on going back to the schooner for the
sake of making a general investigation of the vessel. On going on
board he found that she was water-logged. She seemed to have been
kept afloat either by her cargo, or else by some peculiarity in her
construction, which rendered her incapable of sinking. He tore open
the hatchway, and pushing an oar down, he saw that there was no
cargo, so that it must have been the construction of the vessel which
kept her afloat. What that was, he could not then find out. He was
compelled, therefore, to leave the question unsettled for the
present, and he took refuge in the thought that the one who was
rescued might be able to solve the mystery. This allayed for a time
his eager curiosity. But he determined to save the schooner, so as to
examine it afterward at his leisure. A hasty survey of the cabins,
into which he plunged, showed nothing whatever, and so he was
compelled to postpone this for the present. But he had a line made
fast between the steamer and the schooner, and the latter was thus
towed all the way to Marseilles. It showed no signs of sinking, but
kept afloat bravely, and reached the port of destination in about the
same condition in which it had been first found.
The stewardess treated the stranger with the utmost kindness and the
tenderest solicitude, and, at length, the one who had thus been so
strangely rescued came out of that senselessness into which she had
been thrown by the loss of the hope of rescue. On reviving she told a
brief story. She said that she was English, that her name was Lorton,
and that she had been traveling to Marseilles in her own yacht. That
the day before, on awaking, she found the yacht full of water and
abandoned. She had been a day and a night alone in the vessel,
without either food or shelter. She had suffered much, and was in
extreme prostration, both of mind and body. But her strongest desire
was to get to Naples, for her sister was there in ill health, and she
had been making the journey to visit her.
[Illustration: Windham Tenderly And Reverently Raised Her.]
Windham and Obed Chnte heard this very strange narrative from the
stewardess, and talked it over between themselves, considering it in
all its bearings. The opinion of each of them was that there had been
foul play somewhere. But then the question arose: why should there
have been foul play upon an innocent young girl like this? She was an
English lady, evidently of the higher classes; her look was certainly
foreign, but her English accent was perfect. In her simple story she
seemed to have concealed nothing. The exquisite beauty of the young
girl had filled the minds of both of these men with a strong desire
to find out the cause of her wrongs, and to avenge her. But how to do
so was the difficulty. Windham had important business in England
which demanded immediate attention, and would hardly allow him to
delay more than a few days. Obed Chute, on the contrary, had plenty
of time, but did not feel like trying to intrude himself on her
confidence. Yet her distress and desolation had an eloquence which
swayed both of these men from their common purposes, and each
determined to postpone other designs, and do all that was possible
for her.
In spite of an hour's delay in rescuing Miss Lorton, the steamer
arrived at Marseilles at nearly the usual time, and the question
arose, what was to be done with the one that they had rescued?
Windham could do nothing; but Obed Chute could do something, and did
do it. The young lady was able now to sit up in the saloon, and here
it was that Obed Chute waited upon her.
"Have you any friends in Marseilles?" he asked, in a voice full of
kindly sympathy.
"No," said Zillah, in a mournful voice; "none nearer than Naples."
"I have my family here, ma'am," said Obed. "I am an American and a
gentleman. If you have no friends, would you feel any objection to
stay with us while you are here? My family consists of my sister, two
children, and some servants. We are going to Italy as soon as
possible, and if you have no objection we can take you there with
us--to Naples--to your sister."
Zillah looked up at the large honest face, whose kindly eyes beamed
down upon her with parental pity, and she read in that face the
expression of a noble and loyal nature.
"You are very--very kind," said she, in a faltering voice. "You will
lay me under very great obligations. Yes, Sir, I accept your kind
offer. I shall be only too happy to put myself under your protection.
I will go with you, and may Heaven bless you!"
She held out her hand toward him. Obed Chute took that little hand in
his, but restrained his great strength, and only pressed it lightly.
Meanwhile Windham had come in to congratulate the beautiful girl,
whose face had been haunting him ever since that time when the sun
lighted it up, as it lay amidst its glory of ebon hair upon his
breast. He heard these last words, and stood apart, modestly awaiting
some chance to speak.
Zillah raised her face.
Their eyes met in a long earnest gaze.
Zillah was the first to speak. "You saved me from a fearful fate,"
she said, in low and tremulous tones. "I heard all about it."
Windham said nothing, but bowed in silence.
Zillah rose from her chair, and advanced toward him, her face
expressing strong emotion. Now he saw, for the first time, her
wondrous eyes, in all their magnificence of beauty, with their deep
unfathomable meaning, and their burning intensity of gaze. On the
schooner, while her head lay on his breast, those eyes were closed
in senselessness--now they were fixed on his.
"Will you let me thank you, Sir," she said, in a voice which thrilled
through him in musical vibrations, "for my _life_, which you snatched
from a death of horror? To thank you, is but a cold act. Believe me,
you have my everlasting gratitude."
She held out her hand to Windham. He took it in both of his, and
reverentially raised it to his lips. A heavy sigh burst from him, and
he let it fall.
"Miss Lorton," said he, in his deep musical voice, which now trembled
with an agitation to which he was unused, "if I have been the means
of saving you from any evil, my own joy is so great that no thanks
are needed from you: or, rather, all thankfulness ought to belong to
me."
A deep flush overspread Zillah's face. Her large dark eyes for a
moment seemed to read his inmost soul. Then she looked down in
silence.
As for Windham, he turned away with something like abruptness, and
left her with Obed Chute.