ON THE SEA.
The Russia was steaming slowly up the harbor to her moorings on the
Jersey side of the Hudson, and her upper deck was crowded with
passengers, some straining their eyes to catch the first sight of
familiar forms among the crowd waiting for them on shore, and others to
whom every thing was strange, looking eagerly from side to side at the
world so new to them. Standing apart from the rest, with her hands
locked tightly together, her head thrown back, and a long blue vail
twisted around her sailor hat, was a young girl with a figure so slight
that at first you might have mistaken her for a child of fourteen, but
when she turned more fully toward you, you would have seen that she was
a girl of twenty summers or more, whose face you would look at once, and
twice, and then comeback to study it again and wonder what there was in
it to fascinate and charm you so. Beautiful in the strict sense of the
word it was not, for if you dissected the features one by one there was
much to find fault with. The forehead was low, the nose was short and
inclined to an upward turn, as was the upper lip, and the complexion was
dark, while the cheeks had lost something of their roundness during the
passage, which, though made in summer, had not been altogether smooth
and free from storm.
During the first three days Reinette had been very sick, and Pierre, her
father’s attendant, had carried her on deck, and wrapped her in blankets
and furs, and watched over and cared for her as if she had been a queen.
Then, when the rain came dashing down and the great green waves broke
over the lower deck, and she refused to return to the close cabin and
said she liked to watch the ocean in a fury, because it made her think
of herself in some of her moods, he staid by her and covered her with
his own rubber cloak and held an umbrella over her head until the wind
took it from him and turning it wrong side out, carried it far out to
sea, where it rode like a feather on the waves, while Reinette laughed
merrily to see it dance up and down until it was lost to sight. Others
than Pierre were interested in and kind to the little French girl, whose
father had kept his berth from the time he came on board at Liverpool.
It was whispered about that he was a millionaire, and that Reinette was
his only child, and heiress of his vast fortune; and as such things go
for a great deal on shipboard as well as elsewhere, this of itself was
sufficient to interest the passengers in Reinette, who, as soon as she
was able, danced about the ship like the merry, lighthearted creature
she was, now jabbering with Pierre in his native tongue, and sometimes
holding fierce altercations with him, now watching the sailors at their
work, and not unfrequently joining her own clear, bird-like voice in the
songs they sung, and again amusing some fretful, restless child, whose
tired mother blessed her for the respite, and thought her the sweetest
type of girlhood she had ever seen. Everybody liked her, and, after a
little, everybody called her beautiful, she was so bright and sparkling,
with the rich, warm color in her cheeks, her pretty little mouth always
breaking out in exclamations of surprise or bursts of laughter, her long
eyelashes and heavy brows, her black, wavy hair, which in some lights
had in it a tinge of golden brown, as if it had been often kissed by the
warm suns of Southern France, and, more than all, her large, dark,
brilliant eyes which flashed upon you so suddenly and so swiftly as
almost to blind and bewilder you with their brightness. Taken as a
whole, Reinette Hetherton was a girl, who, once seen, could never be
forgotten; she was so sunny, and sweet, and willful, and piquant, and
charming every way; and the passengers on the Russia, who were mostly
middle-aged people, petted, and admired, and sympathized with her, too,
when, with the trace of tears in her beautiful eyes, she came from her
father’s bedside and reported him no better.
For months his health had been failing, and he had hoped the sea voyage
would restore him somewhat; but he was growing steadily worse, though as
yet there was no shadow of fear in Reinette’s heart; she was only sad
and sorry for him, and staid with him whenever he would let her.
Generally, however, he would send her away after a few passionate hugs
and kisses, and inquiries as to how he was feeling. She must get all the
sea air she could, he said, for he wanted her to be bright and fresh
when he presented her to his friends in America.
“Not that I have many friends there,” he said, smiling a little
bitterly. “It has been so many years, and so much has happened, since I
left home, that I doubt if any remember or care for me; but they will
forgive me, perhaps, for the sake of you, my daughter,” and he stroked
fondly the long silken curls which Reinette wore bound at the back of
her head, and looked lovingly into the eyes meeting his so tenderly.
Then he sent her away, and turning in his narrow berth, thought again,
as he had thought many times, of all the sin and evil doing he had
heaped up against himself and others since the day he last saw his
native land. Many and terribly bitter were the thoughts crowding his
brain and filling him with remorse, as he lay there day after day, and
knew that with each turn of the noisy screw he was nearing the home
where there was not a friend to welcome him.
“But once there,” he said to himself, “once back in the old place, I’ll
begin life anew. I’ll make friends even of my enemies for the sake of my
darling; oh, Queenie, my child, there is so much I would undo for
you—for you—to whom the greatest wrong of all has been done, and you so
unconscious of it. Would you kiss me as you do? Would you love me as you
do, if you knew all the dark past as I know it? Oh, my child! my child!”
and, covering his face with his hands, the sick man sobbed aloud.
“If I live to get there,” was now the burden of his thoughts; but could
he live he asked himself, as, day by day, he felt he was growing weaker,
and counted the rapid heart-beats and saw the streaks of blood upon the
napkin his faithful Pierre held to his lips after a paroxysm of
coughing.
The desire for life was stronger within him now than it had been in
years; but the candle was burned out; there was only the snuff
remaining, and when at last the scent of the land breeze was borne
through his open window, and Reinette came rushing in to tell him they
were entering the harbor, and she had _seen_ America, he knew the hand
of death was on him, and that the only shore he should ever reach would
be the boundless shore of eternity, which was looming up so black before
him. But he would let Reinette be happy as long as possible, and so he
sent her from him, and then with a low moan, he cried:
“Pity me, oh, God! I have so much need to be forgiven.”
In his gayest, most reckless moods, with his skeptical companions round
him jeering at all that was sacred and holy, he had said there was no
God, that the Bible was only an old woman’s fable, but he had never
quite believed it, and now, with death measuring his life by
heart-beats, he knew there was a God and a hereafter by the stings of
his own conscience, and the first prayer uttered in years fell from his
white lips. Oh, how many and how great were the sins which came back to
him as he thought of his wasted life, remembering his mother dead so
long ago; his father, too, whose last words to him had been a curse; and
the beautiful Margaret, whom for a short period he had loved with a love
so impetuous that in a few short months it had burned itself out and
left only poisonous ashes where the fierce passion had been. How gentle,
and patient, and forgiving she was, and how basely he had requited her
faithfulness and love.
“Oh, Margaret,” he whispered, “I am so sorry, and if I could undo the
past I would.”
Then, as another phantom, darker, more terrible than all the others
flitted before his mind, he shivered as with a chill, while the great
drops of sweat came out upon his forehead, and the palms of his hands
which he clasped so tightly together, were dripping with perspiration.
And while he lay there alone suffering the torments of remorse he could
hear the rapid movements of the sailors and the excited crowd on deck
watching for the shore. And Reinette, he knew, was with them, looking
eagerly upon the new world which recently he had tried to teach her to
love as her future home.
“Home—America,” he murmured; “I must see it again!” and, regardless of
consequences, he got out of his berth, and, tottering to his window,
looked out upon the beautiful bay, and saw in the distance the city,
which had grown so much since he last looked upon it.
But the exertion was too great for him, and, dizzy and faint, he crept
back to his bed, where he lay unconscious for a moment; then rousing
himself, and alarmed by the terrible feeling stealing over him so fast,
he called aloud for Reinette.
The call was heard by Pierre, who was never far away, and who came at
once, greatly alarmed by the pallor in his master’s face and the flecks
of blood upon the lips and chin.
To go for Reinette was the work of an instant, and like a frightened
deer, she bounded down the stairway to her father’s side, and in her
impetuosity almost threw herself upon him. But he motioned her back, and
whispered.
“Not so close; you take my breath away. Pierre,” he added faintly as his
valet started for the physician, “don’t go for him; it’s too late now. I
am dying; nothing can help me, and I must not be disturbed. I must be
alone with Queenie. Stand outside till I call.”
The frightened Pierre obeyed, and then Reinette was alone with her dying
father. She knew he was dying, but the awful suddenness stunned her so
completely that she could only gaze at him in a stupefied kind of way,
as his eyes were fixed so earnestly upon her.
“Little Queenie,” he said, using the pet name he always gave her, “kneel
down beside me and hold my hands in yours while I tell you something I
ought to have told you long ago.”
She obeyed, and, covering his cold hands with kisses, whispered:
“Yes, father, I am waiting.”
But if he heard, he did not answer at once; and when at last he spoke,
it was with difficulty, and like one who labors for breath. His mind,
too, seemed wandering, and he said:
“I can’t tell, but if it ever comes to you, promise you will forgive me.
I have loved you so much, my darling oh, my darling, promise while I can
hear you!”
“Yes, father, I promise,” Reinette replied, knowing nothing to what she
pledged herself, thinking nothing except of the white face on the
pillow, where the sign of death was written.
“Queenie, are you here?” the voice said again, and she replied, “Yes,
father,” while he continued: “I meant to have told you when we reached
New York, but cannot now, I am too weak. It is too late, forever too
late. Oh Queenie—oh, Margaret, forgive!”
“Is it of mother you wish to tell me?” Reinette asked bending forward
eagerly, and fixing her great dark eyes upon him.
“Your mother, child—your mother. Yes—no—don’t speak that name aloud.
We’ve left _her_ way over there, or I thought we had. That’s why I was
going home—to get away from it, and—if——Queenie, where are you? I can’t
see you, child. You are surely here? You are listening?”
“Yes, yes, father, I am here. I am listening,” and the girl’s rigid face
and fixed, wide-open eyes showed how intently she was listening.
“Yes, child, that’s right; listen so close that nobody else can hear. We
are all alone?”
“Yes, father, all alone; only Pierre is outside, and he understands
English so little. What is it, father? What are you going to tell me?”
There was silence for a moment, while Mr. Hetherton regarded his
daughter fixedly, and with an expression in his eyes which made her
uneasy and half afraid of him.
“What is it?” he said, at last. “I don’t know; it comes and goes, as she
did. Ah! now I have it: Queenie, remember how much I love you, and if
you ever meet your mother, remember it was my fault, and do not blame
her too much.”
“Oh, poor father! his mind is wandering,” Reinette thought; but she said
to him, soothingly: “Mother is dead; she died in Rome when I was born.”
Again the eyes regarded her wistfully as the dying man replied:
“Yes, I know; but she’s here, or she was over there in the corner just
now, laughing at my pain. Oh, Queenie! do the torments of the lost begin
before they die? I’m sorry—oh, I am so sorry! It’s too late now—too
late. I can’t think how it was, or tell you if I could.”
He was quiet a moment, and seemed to be himself again, as his hands
caressed the shining hair of the head bowed down so near to him.
“Too late, Queenie. I ought to have told you before, but it’s my nature
to put off; and now when they claim you in Merrivale, accept it; try to
like everybody and be pleased with everything. America is very different
from France. Trust Mr. Beresford; he is my friend. He comes of a good
race. Tell him everything. Go to him for everything necessary, but don’t
trouble any one when you can help yourself. Don’t cry before people; it
bothers and distresses them. Be a woman; learn to care for yourself.
Govern your temper; nobody will bear with it as I have. Be patient with
Pierre—and—and—Queenie, child, where are you? It’s getting so dark. I
can’t see you anywhere, nor feel you either. Have you left me, too? and
Margaret is gone now.”
“No, no; I’m here!” Reinette cried, in an agony of fear; and her father
continued:
“Remember, when it comes to you, as it may, that you promised to
forgive.”
“Yes, father. I don’t know what you mean, but if I ever do, I’ll forgive
everything—everything, and love you just the same, forever and ever,”
Reinette said to him; and the cold, clammy hands upon her head pressed
harder in token that he had heard. But that was the only response for a
moment, when he said again, and this time in a whisper, with heavy,
labored breath:
“One thing more comes to my mind. There will be letters for me—some on
business, and possibly some others, and you must let no one see them if
there is any thing in them the world ought not to know. Promise
Queenie.”
“I promise,” Reinette said, frightened at the strange look in his face
and his evident eagerness for her reply.
“God bless you, darling! Keep your promise and never try to find—”
He did not say what or whom, but lay perfectly quiet while overhead on
deck the trampling of feet was more hurried and noisy, and the ship gave
a little lurch as if hitting against something which resisted its force
and set it to rocking again. The motion threw Reinette backward and when
she gathered herself up and turned toward the white face upon the
pillow, she uttered a wild cry in French:
“Oh Pierre, Pierre, come quickly, father is dead!” and tottering toward
the door she fell heavily against the tall custom-house officer just
entering the state-room.
He had come on board to do his duty; had seen the bustling little
Frenchman speak hurriedly to the young girl on deck; had seen her dart
away, and fancied she cast a frightened look at him. When others came to
declare the contents of their trunks she had not been with them.
“Secreting her goods and chattels, no doubt,” he thought, and made his
way to the state-room, where he stood appalled in the awful presence of
death.
Reinette might have had the wealth of all Paris in her trunks and
carried it safely off, for her boxes were not molested, and both
passengers, ship’s crew, and officers vied with each other in their care
for and attention to this young girl, whose father lay dead in his
berth, and who was all alone in a foreign country. Understanding but
little of the language, and terrified half out of his wits at the sight
of death, Pierre was almost worse than useless, and could do nothing but
crouch at his mistress’ feet, and holding her hands in his, gaze into
her face in dumb despair, as if asking what they were to do next.
“Children, both of them. We must take it in hand ourselves,” the captain
said to his mate, and he did take it in hand, and saw that Reinette was
made comfortable at the Astor, and that the body was made ready for
burial.
When asked if she had friends or relatives expecting her, Reinette
replied:
“No, papa was all I had. There’s only Pierre now, and Mr. Beresford,
papa’s agent. I am to trust him with everything.”
Later, when something was said to her of telegraphing to Mr. Beresford
to come for her, she answered, promptly:
“No, that would make unnecessary trouble, and father said I was not to
do that. Pierre and I can go alone. I have traveled a great deal, and
when papa was sick in Germany and Pierre could not understand, I talked
to the guards and the porters. I know what to do.”
And on the pale face there was a resolute, self-reliant look, which was
in part born of this terrible shock and partly the habit of Reinette’s
life.
“To-morrow morning I will telegraph,” she added. “You see us to the
right train, and I can do the rest, I can find the way. I have been
studying it up.”
And she showed him Appleton’s Railway Guide, to which she had fled as to
a friend.
Since leaving the ship she had not shed a tear in the presence of any
one, but the anguish in her dry bright eyes, and the drawn, set look
about her mouth told how hard it was for her to force back the wild cry
which was constantly forcing itself to her lips. Her father, to whom in
life her slightest wish had been a law had said to her, “Don’t trouble
people, nor cry if you can help it. Be a woman;” and now his wish was a
law to her, which she would obey if she broke her heart in doing it. She
did not seem at all like the airy, merry-hearted, laughing girl she had
been on shipboard, but like a woman with a woman’s will and a woman’s
capacity to act. That she could go to Merrivale alone she was perfectly
sure, and she convinced the captain of it, and then with a voice which
shook a little, she said:
“Mr. Beresford will meet me, of course, at the station, and some others,
perhaps. I don’t quite know the ways of this country. Will they bury him
at once do you think, or take him somewhere first?”
The captain understood her meaning and replied by asking if she had
friends—relatives—in Merrivale.
“None,” she said. “Nobody but Mr. Beresford, father’s friend and
lawyer.”
“But you have a house—a home—to which you are going?”
“Yes, the home where father lived when a boy, and which he was so
anxious to see once more,” Reinette said, and the captain replied:
“Naturally, then, they will take your father there for a day or two, and
then give him a grand funeral, with——”
“They won’t; they sha’n’t,” interrupted Reinette, her eyes blazing with
determination. “I won’t have a grand funeral, with all the peasantry and
their carts joining in it. Neither will I have him carried to the old
home. I could not bear to see him there dead. I should hate the place
always, and see him everywhere. He is my own darling father to do with
as I like. Pierre says I’m my own mistress, and I shall telegraph Mr.
Beresford to-morrow that father must be buried from the station, and I
shall make him do it.”
She was very decided and imperious, and the captain let her have her
way, and sent off for her next morning the long telegram which she had
written, regardless of expense, and which so startled the people in
Merrivale and changed their plans so summarily.