THE SHIP THAT NEVER RETURNED.
"If he had known that when her hand lay still,
Pulseless, so near his own,
It was because pain's bitter, bitter chill
Changed her to very stone.
"If he had known that she had borne so much
For sake of the sweet past,
That mere despair said, 'This cold look and tone
Must be the cruel last.'"
--FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
The news of Lord Chester's loss of title and wealth spread very
quickly, and in the shallow circles of society, where money and
position rate higher than brains and worth, much commiseration was felt
for brilliant Ethel Winans, who had hoped so soon to be Lady Chester.
There were sneers, too, for of course envious people were delighted at
Ethel's disappointment.
But the cards for the marriage were out, the arrangements made for
a grand reception, after which the bridal pair were to leave for
Europe. The plans remained unchanged still, and nobody was to be
disappointed in the grand show to which they looked forward with such
eager interest. The Winans family monopolized public interest now, for
in addition to Ethel's affair there was Earle's elopement with that
lovely fairy, Ladybird Conway. Some pretty society belles were bitterly
disappointed over his marriage, as well as Aura Stanley, but they had
to smile and bear it. And when they saw the lovely bride they could not
blame him for his choice. She was the most piquant little beauty that
ever wiled a man's heart away.
But a cruel pang came to the young bride's heart on the very day after
her marriage, for the uncertainty that hung like a dark cloud over her
father's fate became at last absolute conviction of his death.
On that day there came to Mrs. Winans from the captain of a newly
arrived steamer in New York a letter and a package.
The package contained a thick glass bottle and within it was a
closely written letter addressed to Senator Winans and his wife. The
sea-captain's letter informed Mrs. Winans that the bottle had been
picked up at sea during his voyage. It had been securely sealed and on
opening, was found to contain a letter from the missing Mamaroneck, and
gave tidings of her almost certain fate.
With a shaking hand Mrs. Winans held the letter whose writing was so
familiar, and read above Bruce Conway's signature the words he had
penned to his dearest friends on earth, as he fondly called them.
"ON BOARD THE MAMARONECK, }
July 20th, 189--. }
"MY DEAREST FRIENDS:--On the eve of a calamity that means nothing
less than death, I write to you and commend to your care my beloved
daughter Lulu.
"In my will, made some time ago, I left the remainder of a much
depleted fortune to my daughter, and made my lawyer, Mr. Stanley, of
Rosemont, her guardian. But latterly I have questioned the wisdom
of my action in this matter. I am not certain of the man's probity.
What if he prove unjust to my daughter, faithless to my charge? In
the light of these doubts and fears I revoke that will, and hereby
declare this my last will and testament.
"To you, Paul Winans, whom I admire as the soul of honor and
rectitude, and to your wife, the noblest of living women, I leave
in trust my daughter and her fortune, the former a priceless jewel,
the latter less than it should be, for I have lost heavily in
speculations; but there still remains the splendid estate at Ocean
View, inherited from my aunt, my wife's jewels, worth twenty thousand
dollars, and some United States bonds to the value of fifteen
thousand dollars. All these are unincumbered by any debts, and are in
the Rosemont Bank, unless removed ere this by Mr. Stanley, who, in
case he has done so, will place them in your charge for my daughter.
Until she marries let her home be with you, and let her share, I pray
you, in the tender love you lavish on your own dear children. Once
I dreamed that the attachment between her and Earle might culminate
in a union that would bring both of them great happiness. Ladybird's
own folly wrecked my hopes. Tell Earle to forgive her. She was but a
willful child then, but she had a heart of gold.
"But time presses, for danger looms immediately before the doomed
passengers of the Mamaroneck. For two weeks we have been sailing
among a floe of icebergs, fifty in number, and our destruction is
inevitable. It is a ghastly fleet of death. We have no chance of
escape, for the berg nearest to us now will prove our destruction.
It is estimated at fifteen miles in length and seven hundred feet in
height. We have resigned ourselves to death with brave hearts.
"I shall commit this letter to the sea in a sealed bottle, praying
Heaven that it may reach your hands. To all your lovely family, and
to my beloved daughter, I leave all my heart, and hope to meet you
all hereafter in that better land where I shall rest after being
hurled violently from earth-life by the approaching horror.
"BRUCE CONWAY."
To the letter were appended as witnesses the names of the Mamaroneck's
captain and several passengers, well-known New Yorkers. There could be
no doubt of its authenticity, and all hope was at an end. Since the
writing of that letter months had elapsed, and there remained no longer
a doubt of Ladybird's orphanage.
Lawyer Stanley, who was preparing to make a great bluster over the
abduction of his ward, was speedily cowed when confronted with this
unexpected testimony from the dead. He was only too glad to make
terms with Senator Winans for silence as to his villainy by making
restitution of the fortune he had stolen from Ladybird, including the
jewels in which Aura had strutted her little day on the social stage.
The schemer was foiled and had to turn her attention to other plans for
making a rich marriage.
And what of Ethel?--beautiful Ethel, who had dreamed of wearing a
coronet on her haughty brow, but who after all would only be the bride
of an English gentleman of small fortune and high birth!
Only God and Ethel knew of the night in which she did battle with her
own heart, going over and over in her mind Arthur's words, half-gay,
half-earnest:
"You have only three days in which to decide whether it was the man or
the title you wished to marry."
The words rang in her ears all night, and his look was always before
her eyes.
It did not take three days for her to decide. Twelve hours were long
enough.
When he came for his usual morning call next day, Ethel met him alone
in a pretty little room where they often sat together.
She had never looked more beautiful, but she was very, very pale, so
much so that as he touched her slender hand he exclaimed anxiously:
"How pale you look, Ethel, and your dear hand is icy-cold. Are you ill,
dear?"
"I did not rest well last night," she replied evasively.
He stood still, with her hand still carelessly clasped in his, studying
her face with anxious eyes, and with a half-sigh, he exclaimed:
"You were grieving perhaps over my loss of rank and fortune!"
"Yes," she replied frankly, and drew her hand away so gently that he
scarcely noticed it.
Ethel's dark head drooped a little as if in shame, and she murmured
hoarsely:
"Arthur, you will despise me when you learn the truth. I--I--am very
ambitious. I valued your rank and fortune highly. I had set my heart
on having a title. But I loved you, too, or--thought I did. But now I
find----"
She paused, unable to continue for a moment, and Arthur, looking
steadily at her, began to comprehend her drift.
He began to despise her, but he would not help her out by one poor word.
He saw the white hands writhing in and out of each other, saw her look
at him quickly, then drop her eyes again, but he did not dream what was
in that swift look, the momentary hope, the succeeding despair.
She found her voice and continued:
"All is altered now, and I--oh, Arthur, forgive me, but--I cannot marry
you now!"
It was a frightened gasp, and she grew pale as her snowy morning gown,
as she stole another glance at his face.
It was cold, proud, angry. She had given his self-esteem a cruel blow,
and stricken down his faith in her at one fell stroke.
"You despise me!" she faltered, and he answered icily:
"Do you not deserve it?"
"Yes," she murmured deeply. "My love was a poor thing, Arthur. It could
not stand the test of your loss of rank and fortune. But you will not
grieve for me. It was a lucky escape to lose a bride who lived only for
ambition as I do. But--there is another with a truer heart than mine.
Go to her, Arthur--to Precious--you can win her love, and she will make
you happy."
He turned from her with scorn.
"Take your freedom, Miss Winans--you are welcome to it," he said
bitterly, and hurried from the room; his heart swelling with wounded
pride. He had never really loved her, but he had admired and respected
her so much that he recoiled in pain from the knowledge that she had
never really loved him at all and that she was at heart cold, scheming,
and ambitious--a woman to throw aside a lover like a worn-out glove!