DRIVEN TO BAY.
VOL. II.
DRIVEN TO BAY.
_A NOVEL._
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’
‘THE MASTER PASSION,’ ‘SPIDERS OF SOCIETY,’
ETC., ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1887.
[_All Rights reserved._]
EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COMPANY
PRINTERS
[Illustration]
_CONTENTS._
CHAP. PAGE
I. MAGGIE, 1
II. IN THE DOLDRUMS, 19
III. THE WIDOW, 35
IV. ON THE POOP DECK, 52
V. THE GLASS FALLS, 69
VI. TO THE RESCUE, 82
VII. FREE, 99
VIII. CONFIDENCES, 114
IX. THE WHALER, 131
X. DANGER, 141
XI. SHIPPING SEAS, 161
XII. A GAME OF DOMINOES, 177
XIII. IN THE SMOKE-ROOM, 192
XIV. SETTLED, 209
XV. THE LETTER, 224
“SELECT” NOVELS.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each._
AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS.
By FLORENCE MARRYAT.
THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE.
THE HEART OF JANE WARNER.
UNDER THE LILIES AND ROSES.
MY OWN CHILD.
HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.
PEERESS AND PLAYER.
FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.
A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.
By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudlip).
HER SUCCESS.
KATE VALLIANT.
JENIFER.
ALLERTON TOWERS.
FRIENDS AND LOVERS.
By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.
MATED WITH A CLOWN.
ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN.
MOLLIE DARLING.
SWEETHEART AND WIFE.
By MRS HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”
BARBARA’S WARNING.
By MRS ALEXANDER FRASER.
THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.
A FATAL PASSION.
A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.
By IZA DUFFUS HARDY.
ONLY A LOVE STORY.
NOT EASILY JEALOUS.
LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY.
By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
POISONED ARROWS.
By MRS H. LOVETT CAMERON.
IN A GRASS COUNTRY.
A DEAD PAST.
A NORTH COUNTRY MAID.
By DORA RUSSELL.
OUT OF EDEN.
By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE.
KEITH’S WIFE.
By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON, Author of “So Runs my Dream.”
FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE.
By EDMUND LEATHES.
THE ACTOR’S WIFE.
By HARRIETT JAY.
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.
COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
DRIVEN TO BAY.
[Illustration]
DRIVEN TO BAY.
CHAPTER I.
MAGGIE.
A large passenger vessel like the _Pandora_, that makes voyages of two
and three months’ duration, without stopping on the way, is a hotbed
of flirtation. When the first excitement of a ‘life on the ocean wave’
has toned down, and the novels are exhausted, and everybody knows
everybody, then scandal and courtship become the order of the day.
And what glorious opportunities such a life presents for ripening
friendship into love. As in a ballroom the young couples frequent the
conservatories, the stairs, the lobbies, and hall, anywhere where they
can talk and listen unobserved, so on board-ship they may be found
sneaking about the after-part of the poop, the cabin passages, and
the lounges in the saloon. They make appointments on the side of the
quarter-deck in the dog-watch, or the first night-watch, and there
remain gazing at the moon and the stars, or in each other’s eyes,
discussing astronomy, or marine aquaria, or the Lord knows what, until
the young lady is summarily ordered below. A chaperon cannot possibly
follow her charge into every corner of a large ship, for eighty
consecutive days. She might be able to keep a strict eye over her in a
ballroom, but it would be a herculean task to accomplish the same feat
at sea. And so a lengthened propinquity on board-ship often brings
about marriages and scandals that never would have taken place on
shore. It is also a great vehicle for gossip. What have the passengers
to whom no one makes love to do but scandalise the rest. From the
Captain to the Jemmy Ducks, from the noble lord who is travelling in
the state-room for his pleasure, to the humble emigrant whose whole
property consists of the bundle he carries about with him, all who
are unwary enough to tell any tales about themselves, or conspicuous
enough to have tales told of them, supply food for discussion over the
afternoon cups of tea, and learn with astonishment a few weeks after
how much more their companions know of their lives and actions than
they do themselves. The _Pandora_ had found the north-east trade winds
by this time, and making a south-westerly course, was fast diminishing
the distance between her and the line. Though it was the autumn of the
year, it might well have been mistaken for the spring, for the birds
seemed to be pairing in all directions. Mr Harland and Miss Vansittart
were seldom apart. Captain Lovell was paying all the attention in his
power to Alice Leyton, whilst Vernon Blythe was eating his heart out
for the love of Iris Hetherley, and cursing his fate for being an
officer of the ship instead of a passenger. Mr Fowler, the mysterious,
flew like a humming-bird from flower to flower, enlivening the married
ladies with morsels of scandal, and complimenting the girls on their
beauty and their wit. Every one liked him, but no one had succeeded in
discovering who he was, or what he was doing on board the _Pandora_.
He had a wonderful knack of changing the conversation directly it
veered in his own direction, which made it appear impertinent to pursue
a curiosity which he so boldly evaded. In the second cabin, Will
Farrell had made himself a general favourite, and more than one lone
she creature, unattached, tried hard to induce him to take her in tow.
But though he was sociable with all, he was only intimate with one, and
that one was Maggie Greet. He had formed quite an attachment for this
girl. Had he possessed the means he would have transferred her from the
steerage to the second cabin, but he promised himself to make up for
that, to her, by-and-by. Meanwhile he spent every spare moment by her
side, and on deck they were always together. But Maggie would not be
persuaded to go on deck until nightfall, and then she wrapped herself
up in what appeared an absurd fashion, considering the warmth of the
weather.
‘What are you afraid of?’ asked Farrell of her one evening. ‘You
couldn’t catch cold if you tried, in these latitudes.’
‘Toothache,’ replied Maggie mendaciously, ‘I have it dreadful
sometimes at night.’
‘That’s because you stop in the cabin too much. You stew down there
all day, and then when you come on deck, you feel the difference. You
should stop in the open air, like the others do, from morning till
night.’
‘And what would my poor lady do all by herself, whilst I was taking my
pleasure on deck?’
‘I know you’re very good to Miss Douglas, Maggie. It’s _that_ that
first made me feel I should like to have you for a friend. You’re a
staunch one, I’m sure. But why not persuade her to come, too? She’ll
kill herself if she mopes in her berth all the voyage. What’s the
matter with her? Is she sick?’
‘No! she isn’t sick.’
‘Why doesn’t she come on deck then?’
‘That’s _her_ business and not yours, Mr Farrell.’
‘True; but I should like to know a little more about you both.
Sometimes you call Miss Douglas your “_lady_,” and sometimes your
“_friend_.” Now, I can guess that you have lived together in England as
mistress and servant. But why don’t you say so?’
‘Have you got any more questions to ask me, Mr Farrell?’ said Maggie
coolly.
They were sitting on the afterdeck together, and it was nearly dark,
except for an oil lamp in the forecastle, that threw an occasional
light on the girl’s face. Maggie was looking very pretty and pleasant
that evening. Her dark eyes were bright and merry; her curly hair was
blowing about in the sea breeze; over her head she had twisted a shawl
of scarlet and green. Her pertness became her roguish face, and Farrell
gazed at her admiringly as he answered,--
‘You’ll provoke me to ask you something that will make you angry, if
you look at me in that fashion, Maggie.’
‘And what may that be?’
‘A kiss?’
‘Well, asking and having is two different things, so I advise you to
spare your breath to cool your porridge.’
‘Now, you wouldn’t be so unkind as that, Maggie. But, seriously, can’t
you understand _why_ I want to know more about you. It isn’t idle
curiosity. It’s because--well, it’s because we seem to be rowing pretty
much in the same boat. We’re going to a new country together, where
we’ve got no friends; so why shouldn’t we be friends to each other?’
‘We _are_, aren’t we? anyway, there’s no need for _you_ to be more
friendly than you are, and I don’t quite see how you _could_ be.’
‘_I_ do. I would like to be the closest friend you had,--your friend
for life, Maggie. Do you understand me?’
‘No,’ replied Maggie stoutly, ‘I don’t.’
‘Then I’ll make it plainer to you. Will you marry me? I want a wife
to make a home for me in the new world, and you suit me down to the
ground. If you’ll say the word, I’ll marry you as soon as we touch
land. Is it a bargain?’
‘Lor’, Mr Farrell, are you poking fun at me?’
‘Indeed I am in earnest. I was never more so in my life.’
‘But you’re a gentleman born, and I’m only a servant. It’s right you
should know the truth now.’
‘Well, I’m not a gentleman by birth, Maggie, though I may look like
one to you. I was in the position of a gentleman once, but I lost it
through my own folly, and I shall never regain it. I got into sore
trouble through the rascality of another; and though I wasn’t really
guilty, appearances were against me, and I had to give up my place, and
take to earning my bread by the labour of my hands. So you see we’re
pretty equal; and a girl that can cook my dinner, and keep my house
clean, is just the sort of wife I shall want in my new home.’
‘What has become of the fellow as got you into trouble?’ asked Maggie,
without noticing his last remark.
‘Curse him!’ exclaimed Farrell vehemently. ‘Don’t talk of him, Maggie,
or I shall forget myself, and where we are. For I’ll tell you a secret,
my dear. He’s on board this very ship!’
‘Lor’! and does he know that you’re here too?’
‘Yes. I hadn’t met him for years until I knocked up against him in the
shipping-office. He was taken aback at meeting me, I can tell you, and
hearing we were to sail in the same vessel. He tried to square me at
first, and then he tried to insult me. But I’ll have my revenge on him
yet. Wait till I meet him on the other side, and we’ll stand up, man
to man, till one of us drops--’
‘Don’t talk in that way, Mr Farrell--_don’t_!’ cried Maggie, as she
seized his clenched hand. ‘You make my blood run cold. What good will
it be to lose your life for a man like that? It won’t undo the wrong.’
‘You’re right there, Maggie. But it drives me mad to know _what he is_,
and then to see him carrying on as if he was a lord, and owned the
whole vessel. And all the girls fawning on him, and letting him do as
he likes with them. Lord, if they only knew his real character!’
‘What is his name, Mr Farrell?’
‘His right name is Horace Cain, but he’s hiding himself under a false
one.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Maggie, because it might leak out, and it
involves us both. He’s been my ruin in the old country, d--n him! I
don’t want him to spoil all my chances in the new.’
‘Well, then, I’d try and forget it, if I was you, and never speak to
him again. That’s more sensible than thinking of revenge.’
‘I _will_ try and forget it--more, I will promise you never to mention
it again--if you will be my wife, Maggie.’
Maggie shook her head.
‘No, Mr Farrell--_that_ I can’t never be.’
‘But why? Don’t you like me?’
She did not answer, and he took her hand.
‘Don’t say _no_ in such a hurry, my dear girl. I’ll work for you as
long as I have a pair of hands, and I’ll make you as happy as I can;
and it’ll be much more comfortable to come to a home of your own than
to serve in that of a stranger. Just think, now. I really like you very
much--in fact, I love you, or I wouldn’t propose such a thing. Am I
disagreeable to you, or can’t you love me a little in return?’
But all the answer Maggie gave was conveyed by her throwing her shawl
over her face and bursting into a storm of tears.
‘Why! what is this? Have I said anything to vex you? Oh, don’t, _don’t_
cry so!’ exclaimed Farrell anxiously.
But Maggie sobbed on for a few minutes without intermission. Then,
suddenly stopping, she uncovered her face again, and turned to confront
him.
‘Look here, Mr Farrell,’ she said, ‘don’t you never talk to me about
marriage again. I ain’t a marrying woman. I shall never marry you, nor
no one. Do you understand? I shall remain as I am to the last day of my
life.’
‘But why? Are you married already?’
The girl laughed harshly.
‘No! I ain’t, nor likely to be. There’s no other man in the way. You
needn’t fear that.’
‘Then I shall go on asking you till you say yes.’
‘Mr Farrell! I tell you ’tain’t no use. I ain’t fit to be your wife. I
ain’t a good girl. Now, you’ve got it, straight from the shoulder, and
I hope you like it.’
For a moment Farrell was silent. It wasn’t a pleasant piece of news to
hear, as he interpreted it. But he loved the woman sincerely, and he
wouldn’t give her up just yet.
‘No one is good. I daresay you’re no worse than others,’ he answered
presently.
‘Yes I am,’ said Maggie, ‘I’m downright bad.’
‘What do you call “downright bad?”’
‘I don’t know why I should tell you,’ whimpered Maggie, wiping away a
fresh relay of tears; ‘but you’ve been very kind and good to me and my
dear mistress, and I wouldn’t like you to think that I’m ungrateful.
And I’m sure you won’t tell on me.’
‘God forbid!’ exclaimed Farrell solemnly.
‘Well, then, I had a misfortune, and I went wrong,’ whispered Maggie,
in a very low voice.
‘Poor child! Was it long ago?’
‘Better than two years. I was only seventeen.’
‘And where’s the brute that wronged you?’ exclaimed Farrell fiercely.
‘Hush,’ cried Maggie, looking round her nervously. ‘Don’t speak so
loud. It’s all over now. It _has_ been ever since. I thought him good
and true at that time, but when I found out what a villain he was (and
much worse to others than he’d been to me), my love turned to hate, and
I could have killed him--except for others.’
‘And who are the others?’
‘I can’t tell you. ’Tisn’t my secret. It’s theirs. But you know all
now. And that’s the reason I can’t be your wife. You wouldn’t have
asked me if you’d known.’
‘Does Miss Douglas know your secret, Maggie?’
‘No, no,’ cried the girl excitedly, ‘and don’t you never hint it
to her, or I’ll kill you. Oh, my dear, sweet mistress! I’ve tried
sometimes to make her understand, but I haven’t dared tell her the
truth. I should die if I saw her sweet eyes look angry at me. Oh,
promise me, Mr Farrell, on your sacred honour, that you’ll never let
her guess I’ve been so wicked. For I’m her only comfort. There’s no one
else to love and care for her, and if she made me leave her, she’d be
all alone. And she’s in such dreadful trouble you can’t think. If it’s
wrong to stay by her--so pure and good as she is--I can’t help it, for
I’d lay down my life for her sake.’
She turned her face, all blurred and swollen with her tears, towards
him, as she spoke, and he bent down and kissed it tenderly.
‘Poor child! I will carry your secret for ever in the depths of my
heart. And now, answer my question--Will you be my wife?’
‘Lor’! Mr Farrell, you can’t have listened to a word I said.’
‘I heard you perfectly, and I understand you have been wronged and
betrayed by a villain. So have I! and I am the worst of the two. We
have each yielded to the temptation that assailed us. We are equally
guilty, and I believe equally penitent. We have no right to reproach
each other. If your past is as entirely buried as mine, Maggie, let us
try to console each other in the future.’
‘Oh, sir! you are too good to me! I don’t deserve it. I didn’t think
any honest man would ever think of me now.’
‘You must call me “_Will_,” Maggie.’
‘When I’m accustomed to the idea a bit, I may. But I can’t believe it’s
true.’
‘It rests with you to make it so.’
‘_To be your wife!_’ said Maggie musingly--‘to be your lawful, married
wife, and have a home of my own in New Zealand. Oh, Mr Farrell,’ she
continued suddenly, as the conviction burst upon her, ‘I shall never
_never_ forget your goodness to the last hour of my life, and I’ll be
as true as steel to you, if only in gratitude for what you’ve said
to-day.’
[Illustration]
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