IN STORM AND DARKNESS.
Lesbia found Lady Kirkbank prostrate on a low divan in the saloon,
sleepless, and very cross. The atmosphere reeked with red lavender,
sal-volatile, eau de Cologne, and brandy, which latter remedy poor
Georgie had taken freely in her agonies. Kibble, the faithful Grasmere
girl, sat by the divan, fanning the sufferer with a large Japanese fan.
Rilboche had naturally, as a Frenchwoman, succumbed utterly to her own
feelings, and was moaning in her berth, wailing out every now and then
that she would never have taken service with Miladi had she suspected
her to be capable of such cruelty as to take her to live for weeks upon
the sea.
If this was the state of affairs now while the ocean was only gently
stirred, what would it be by-and-by if the tempest should really come?
'What can you be thinking of, staying on deck all night with those men?'
exclaimed Lady Kirkbank, peevishly. 'It is hardly respectable.'
She would have been still more inclined to object had she known that
Lesbia's companion had been 'that man' rather than 'those men.'
'What do you mean by all night?' Lesbia retorted, contemptuously; 'it is
only just twelve.'
'Only twelve. I thought we were close upon daylight. I have suffered an
eternity of agony.'
'I am very sorry you should be ill; but really the sea has been so
deliciously calm.'
'I believe I should have suffered less if it had been diabolically
rough. Oh, that monotonous flip-flap of the water, that slow heaving of
the boat! Nothing could be worse.'
'I am glad to hear you say that, for Don Gomez says we are likely to
have a tempest.'
'A tempest!' shrieked Georgie. 'Then let him stop the boat this instant
and put me on shore. Tell him to land me anywhere--on the Needles even.
I could stop at the lighthouse till morning. A storm at sea will be
simply my death.'
'Dear Lady Kirkbank, I was only joking,' said Lesbia, who did not want
to be worried by her chaperon's nervous apprehensions: 'so far the night
is lovely.'
'Give me a spoonful more brandy, my good creature,'--to Kibble. 'Lesbia,
you ought never to have brought me into this miserable state. I
consented to staying on board the yacht; but I never consented to
sailing on her.'
'You will soon be well, dear Lady Kirkbank; and you will have such an
appetite for breakfast to-morrow morning.'
'Where shall we be at breakfast time?'
'Off St. Catherine's Point, I believe--just half way round the island.'
'If we are not at the bottom of the sea,' groaned Georgie.
They were now in the open Channel, and the boat dipped and rose to
larger billows than had encountered her course before. Lady Kirkbank lay
in a state of collapse, in which life seemed only sustainable by
occasional teaspoonfuls of cognac gently tilted down her throat by the
patient Kibble.
Lesbia went to her cabin, but with no intention of remaining there. She
was firmly convinced that the storm would come, and she meant to be on
deck while it was raging. What harm could thunder or lightning, hail or
rain, do to her while he was by to protect her? He would be busy sailing
the boat, perhaps, but still he would have a moment now and then in
which to think of her and care for her.
Yes, the storm was coming. There was a livid look upon the waters, and
the atmosphere was heavy with heat; the sky to windward black as a
funeral pall. Lesbia was almost fearless, yet she felt a thrill of awe
as she looked into that dense blackness. To leeward the stars were still
visible; but that gigantic mass of cloud came creeping slowly, solemnly
over the sky, while the shadow flitted fast across the water, swallowing
up that ghastly electric glare.
Lesbia wrapped herself in a white cashmere _sortie de bal_ and stole up
the companion. Montesma was working at the ropes with his own hands,
calling directions to the sailors to shorten and take in the canvas,
urging them to increased efforts by working at the ropes with his own
hands, springing up the rigging and on deck, flashing backwards and
forwards amidst the rigging like a being of supernatural power. He had
taken off his jacket, and was clad from top to toe in white, save for
that streak of scarlet which tightly girdled his waist. His tall
flexible form, perfect in line as a Greek statue of Hermes, stood out
against the background of black night. His voice, with its tones of
brief imperious command, the proud carriage of his head, the easy grace
of his rapid movements, all proclaimed the man born to rule over his
fellow-men. And it is these master spirits, these born rulers, whom
women instinctively recognise as their sovereign lords, and for whom
women count no sacrifice too costly.
In the midst of his activity Montesma suddenly saw that white-robed
figure standing at the top of the companion, and flew to her side. The
boat was pitching heavily, dipping into the trough of the sea at an
angle of forty-five degrees, as it seemed to Lesbia.
'You ought not to be here,' said Montesma; 'it is much rougher than I
expected.'
'I am not afraid,' she answered; 'but I will go back to my cabin if I am
in your way.'
'In my way' (with deepest tenderness): 'yes, you are in my way, for I
shall think of nothing else now you are here. But I believe we have done
all that need be done to the yacht, and I can take care of you till the
storm is over.'
He put his arm round her as the stem dipped, and led her towards the
stern, guiding her footsteps, supporting her as her light figure swayed
against him with the motion of the boat. A vivid flash of lightning
showed him her face as they stood for an instant leaning against each
other, his arm encircling her. Ah, what deep feeling in that
countenance, once so passionless; what a new light in those eyes. It was
like the awakening of a long dormant soul.
He took the helm from the captain and stood steering the vessel, and
calling out his orders, with Lesbia close beside him, holding her with
his disengaged arm, drawing her near him as the vessel pitched
violently, drawing her nearer still when they shipped a sea, and a great
fountain of spray enfolded them both in a dense cloud of salt water.
The thunder roared and rattled, as if it began and ended close beside
them. Forked lightnings zigzagged amidst the rigging. Sheet lightning
enwrapped those two in a luminous atmosphere, revealing faces that were
pale with passion, lips that trembled with emotion. There were but scant
opportunity for speech, and neither of these two felt the need of words.
To be together, bound nearer to each other than they had ever been yet,
than they might ever be again, in the midst of thunder and lightning and
dense clouds of spray. This was enough. Once when the _Cayman_ pitched
with exceptional fury, when the thunder crashed and roared loudest,
Lesbia found her head lying on Montesma's breast and his arms round her,
his lips upon her face. She did not wrench herself from that forbidden
embrace. She let those lips kiss hers as never mortal man had kissed her
before. But an instant later, when Montesma's attention was distracted
by his duties as steersman, and he let her go, she slipped away in the
darkness, and melted from his sight and touch like a modern Undine. He
dared not leave the helm and follow her then. He sent one of the sailors
below a little later, to make sure that she was safe in her cabin; but
he saw her no more that night.
The storm abated soon after daybreak, and the morning was lovely; but
Don Gomez and Lady Lesbia did not meet again till the church bells on
the island were ringing for morning service, and then the lady was safe
under the wing of her chaperon, with her affianced husband in
attendance upon her at the breakfast table in the saloon.
She received Montesma with the faintest inclination of the head, and she
carefully avoided all occasion of speech with him during the leisurely,
long spun-out meal. She was as white as her muslin gown, and her eyes
told of a sleepless night. She talked a little, very little to Lady
Kirkbank and Mr. Smithson; to the Spaniard not at all. And yet Montesma
was in no manner dashed by this appearance of deep offence. So might
Francesca have looked the morning after that little scene over the book;
yet she sacrificed her salvation for her lover all the same. It was a
familiar stage upon the journey which Montesma knew by heart. Here the
inclination of the road was so many degrees more or less; for this hill
you are commanded to put on an extra horse; at this stage it is
forbidden to go more than eight miles an hour, and so on, and so on.
Montesma knew every inch of the ground. He put on a melancholy look, and
talked very little. He had been on deck all night, and so there was an
excuse for his being quiet.
Lady Kirkbank related her impressions of the storm, and talked enough
for four. She had suffered the pangs of purgatory, but her natural
cheeriness asserted itself, and she made no moaning about past agonies
which had exercised a really delightful influence on her appetite. Mr.
Smithson also was cheerful. He had paid his annual tribute to Neptune,
and might hope to go scot-free for the rest of the season.
'If I had stayed on deck I must have had my finger in the pie; so I
thought it better to go below and get a good night's rest in the
steward's cabin,' he said, not caring to confess his sufferings as
frankly as Lady Kirkbank admitted hers.
After breakfast, which was prolonged till noon, Montesma asked Smithson
to smoke a cigarette on deck with him.
'I want to talk to you on a rather serious matter,' he said.
Lesbia heard the words, and looked up with a frightened glance. Could he
mean to attempt anything desperate? Was he going to confess the fatal
truth to Horace Smithson, to tell her affianced lover that she was
untrue to her bond, that she loved him, Montesma, as fondly as he loved
her, that their two souls had mingled like two flames fanned by the same
current, and thence had risen to a conflagration which must end in ruin,
if she were not set free to follow where her heart had gone, free to
belong to that man whom her spirit chose for lord and master. Her heart
leapt at the hope that Montesma was going to do this, that he was strong
enough to break her bonds for her, powerful and rich enough to secure
her a brilliant future. Yet this last consideration, which hitherto had
been paramount, seemed now of but little moment. To be with _him_, to
belong to _him_, would be enough for bliss. Albeit that in such a
choice she forfeited all that she had ever possessed or hoped for of
earthly prosperity. Adventurer, beggar, whatever he might be, she chose
him, and loved him with all the strength of a weak soul newly awakened
to passionate feeling.
Unhappily for Lesbia Haselden, Montesma was not at all the kind of man
to take so direct and open a course as that which she imagined possible.
His business with Mr. Smithson was of quite a different kind.
'Smithson, do you know that you have an utterly incompetent crew?' he
said, gravely, when they two were standing aft, lighting their
cigarettes.
'Indeed I do not. The men are all experienced sailors, and the captain
ranks high among yachtsmen.'
'English yachtsmen are not particularly good judges of sailors. I tell
you your skipper is no sailor, and his men are fools. If it had not been
for me the _Cayman_ would have gone to pieces on the rocks last night,
and if you are to cross to St. Malo, as you talked of doing, for the
regatta there, you had better sack these men and let me get you a South
American crew. I know of a fellow who is in London just now--the captain
of a Rio steamer, who'll send you a crew of picked men, if you give me
authority to telegraph to him.'
'I don't like foreign sailors,' said Smithson, looking perplexed and
worried; 'and I have perfect confidence in Wilkinson.'
'Which is as much as to say that you consider me a liar! Go to the
bottom your own way, _mon ami: ce n'est pas mon affaire,_' said
Montesma, turning on his heel, and leaving his friend to his own
devices.
Had he pressed the point, Smithson would have suspected him of some evil
motive, and would have been resolute in his resistance; but as he said
no more about it, Smithson began to feel uncomfortable.
He was no sailor himself, knew absolutely nothing about the navigation
of his yacht, though he sometimes pretended to sail her; and he had no
power to judge of his skipper's capacity or his men's seamanship. He had
engaged the captain wholly on the strength of the man's reputation,
guaranteed by certain certificates which seemed to mean a great deal.
But after all such certificates might mean very little--such a
reputation might be no real guarantee. The sailors had been engaged by
the captain, and their ruddy faces and thoroughly British appearence,
the exquisite cleanliness which they maintained in every detail of the
yacht, had seemed to Mr. Smithson the perfection of seamanship.
But it was not the less true that the cleanest of yachts, with deck of
spotless whiteness, sails of unsullied purity, brasses shining and
sparkling like gold fresh from the goldsmith's, might be spiked upon a
rock, or might founder on a sand-bank, or heel over under too much
canvas. Mr. Smithson was inclined to suspect any proposition of
Montesma's; yet he was not the less disturbed in mind by the assertion.
The day wore on, and the yacht sailed merrily over a summer sea. Mr.
Smithson fidgeted about the deck uneasily, watching every movement of
the sailors. No boat could be sailing better, as it seemed to him; but
in such weather and over such waters any boat must needs go easily. It
was in the blackness of night, amidst the fury of the storm, that
Montesma's opinion had been formed. Smithson began to think that his
friend was right. The sailors had honest countenances, but they looked
horribly stupid. Could men with such vacuous grins, such an air of
imbecile good-nature, be capable of acting wisely in any terrible
crisis?--could they have nerve and readiness, quickness, decision, all
those grand qualites which are needed by the seaman who has to contend
with the fury of the elements?
Mr. Smithson and his guests had breakfasted too late for the possibility
of luncheon. They were in Cowes Roads by one o'clock. A fleet of yachts
had arrived during their absence, and the scene was full of life and
gaiety. Lady Lesbia held a _levée_ at the afternoon tea, and had a crowd
of her old admirers around her--adorers whose presence in no wise
disturbed Horace Smithson's peace. He would have been content that his
wife should go through life with a herd of such worshippers following in
her footsteps. He knew the aimless innocence, the almost infantine
simplicity of the typical Johnnie, Chappie, _Muscadin, Petit Creve,
Gommeux_--call him by what name you will. From these he feared no evil.
But in that one follower who gave no outward token of his worship he
dreaded peril. It was Montesma he watched, while dragoons with
close-cropped hair, and imbecile youths with heads rigid in four-inch
collars, were hanging about Lady Lesbia's low bamboo chair, and
administering obsequiously to the small necessities of the tea-table.
It was while this tea-table business was going on that Mr. Smithson took
the opportunity of setting his mind at rest, were it possible, as to the
merits of Captain Wilkinson. Among his visitors this afternoon there was
the owner of three or four racing yachts--a man renowned for his
victories, at home and abroad.
'I think you knew something of my captain, Wilkinson, before I engaged
him,' said Smithson, with assumed carelessness.
'I know every skipper on board every boat in the squadron,' answered his
friend. 'A good fellow, Wilkinson--thoroughly honest fellow.'
'Honest; oh yes, I know all about that. But how about his seamanship?
His certificates were wonderfully good, but they are not everything.
'Everything, my dear fellow,' cried the other; 'they are next to
nothing. But I believe Wilkinson is a tolerable sailor.'
This was not encouraging.
'He has never been unlucky, I believe.'
'My dear Smithson, you are a great authority in the City, but you are
not very well up in the records of the yachting world, or you would know
that your Captain Wilkinson was skipper on the _Orinoco_ when she ran
aground on the Chesil Bank, coming home from Cherbourg Regatta, fifteen
lives lost, and the yacht, in less than half an hour, ground to powder.
That was rather a bad case, I remember; for though it was a tempestuous
night, the accident would never have happened if Wilkinson had not
mistaken the lights. So you see his Trinity House papers didn't prevent
his going wrong.'
Good heavens! This was the strongest confirmation of Montesma's charge.
The man was a stupid man, an incapable man, a man to whose intelligence
and care human life should never be trusted. A fig for his honesty! What
would honesty be worth in a hurricane off the Chesil Beach? What would
honesty serve a ship spitted on the Jailors off Jersey? Montesma was
right. If the _Cayman_ was to make a trip to St. Malo she must be
navigated by competent men. Horace Smithson hated foreign sailors,
copper-faced ruffians, with flashing black eyes which seemed to threaten
murder, did you but say a rough word to them; sleek, raven-haired
scoundrels, with bowie-knives in their girdles, ready for mutiny. But,
after all, life is worth too much to be risked for a prejudice, a
sentiment.
Perhaps that St. Malo business might be avoided; and then there need be
no change in captain or crew. The yacht must be safe enough lying at
anchor in the roadstead. By-and-by, when the visitors had departed, and
Mr. Smithson was reposefully enjoying his tea by Lady Lesbia's side, he
approached the subject.
'Do you really care about crossing to St. Malo after this--really prefer
the idea to Ryde?'
'Infinitely,' exclaimed Lesbia, quickly. 'Ryde would only be Cowes ever
again--a lesser Cowes; and I thought when you first proposed it that the
plan was rather stupid, though I did not want to be uncivil and say so.
But I was delighted with Don Gomez de Montesma's amendment, substituting
St. Malo for Ryde. In the first place the trip across will be
delicious'--Lady Kirkbank gave a faint groan--'and in the second place I
am dying to see Brittany.'
'I doubt if you will highly appreciate St. Malo. It is a town of many
and various smells.'
'But I want to smell those foreign smells of which one hears much. At
least it is an experience. We need not be on shore any longer than we
like. And I want to see that fine rocky coast, and Chateaubriand's tomb
on the what's-its-name. So nice to be buried in that way.'
'Then you have set your heart on going to St. Malo, and would not like
any change in our plan?'
'Any change will be simply detestable,' answered Lesbia, all the more
decidedly since she suspected a desire for change on the part of Mr.
Smithson.
She was in no amiable humour this afternoon. All her nerves seemed
strained to their utmost tension. She was irritated, tremulous with
nervous excitement, inclined to hate everybody, Horace Smithson most of
all. In her cabin a little later on, when she was changing her gown for
dinner, and Kibble was somewhat slow and clumsy in the lacing of the
bodice, she wrenched herself from the girl's hands, flung herself into a
chair, and burst into a flood of passionate tears.
'O God! that I were on one of those islands in the Caribbean Sea--an
island where Europeans never come--where I might lie down among the
poisonous tropical flowers, and sleep the rest of my days away. I am
sick to death of my life here; of the yacht, the people--everything.'
'This air is too relaxing, Lady Lesbia,' the girl murmured, soothingly;
'and you didn't have your natural rest last night. Shall I get you a
nice strong cup of tea?'
'Tea! no. I have been living upon tea for the last twenty-four hours. I
have eaten nothing. My mouth is parched and burning. Oh, Kibble!'
flinging her head upon the girl's buxom arm, and letting it rest there,
'what a happy creature you are--not a care--not a care.'
'I'm sure you can't have any cares, Lady Lesbia,' said Kibble, with an
incredulous smile, trying to smooth the disordered hair, anxious to make
haste with the unfinished toilet, for it was within a few minutes of
eight.
'I am full of care. I am in debt--horribly in debt--getting deeper and
deeper every day--and I am going to sell myself to the only man who can
pay my debts and give me fine houses, and finery like this,' plucking at
the _crêpe de chine_ gown, with its flossy fringe, its delicate lace, a
marvel of artistic expenditure; a garment which looked simplicity
itself, and yet was so cleverly contrived as to cost five-and-thirty
guineas. The greatest effects in it required to be studied with a
microscope.
'But surely, dear Lady Lesbia, you won't marry Mr. Smithson, if you
don't love him?'
'Do you suppose love has anything to do with marriages in society?'
'Oh, Lady Lesbia, it would be so unkind to him, so cruel to yourself.'
'Cruel to myself. Yes, I am cruel to myself. I had the chance of
happiness a year ago, and I lost it. I have the chance of happiness
now--yes, of consummate bliss--and haven't the courage to snatch at it.
Take off this horrid gown, Kibble; my head is splitting: I shan't go to
dinner.'
'Oh, Lady Lesbia, you are treading on the pearl embroidery,'
remonstrated poor Kibble, as Lesbia kicked the new gown from under her
feet.
'What does it matter!' she exclaimed with a bitter little laugh. 'It has
not been paid for--perhaps it never will be.'
The dinner was silent and gloomy. It was as if a star had been suddenly
blotted out of the sky. Smithson, ordinarily so hospitable, had been too
much disturbed in mind to ask any of his friends to stay to dinner; so
there were only Lady Kirkbank, who was too tired to be lively, and
Montesma, who was inclined to be thoughtful. Lesbia's absence, and the
idea that she was ill, gave the feast almost a funereal air.
After dinner Smithson and Montesma sat on deck, smoking their cigars,
and lazily watching the lights on sea, and the lights on shore; these
brilliant in the foreground, those dim in the distance.
'You can telegraph to your Rio Janeiro friend to-morrow morning, if you
like,' said Smithson, presently, 'and tell him to send a first-rate
skipper and crew. Lady Lesbia has made up her mind to see St. Malo
Regatta, and with such a sacred charge I can't be too careful.'
'I'll wire before eight o'clock to-morrow,' answered Montesma, 'You have
decided wisely. Your respectable English Wilkinson is an excellent
man--but nothing would surprise me less than his reducing your _Cayman_
to matchwood in the next gale.'