Dawn broke, gray and wet. Although the storm had spent its fury and the
wind had quieted down to a gentle breeze, the sea still ran mountains
high and a fine rain was falling. But there was promise of clearing
weather. Low on the eastern horizon a fringe of fiery red broke through
the leaden clouds, putting in relief the water-line and heralding the
near approach of sunrise. Away out yonder, far beyond the towering,
white-capped breakers, protruded the jagged points of the treacherous
sunken reef on which the ill-fated _Atlanta_ had crashed to her doom.
Armitage strained his eyes in every direction until they ached. With the
coming of daylight he had expected to get a glimpse of the wreck;
possibly he would see people still on board, signaling for help. But as
the darkness paled and he was able to distinguish water and sky through
the receding gloom, he saw, to his amazement, that the steamer had
completely disappeared. He perceived pieces of wreckage, and, near the
reef, he thought he spied an upturned boat, but of the big steamer and
the other life-boats which got away before the boilers exploded, there
was not a sign. Nothing but a desolate waste of tossing gray water met
his eyes everywhere.
As far as he could make out they were on an island. He had no idea how
large it was, or if it was deserted or inhabited. He had heard his
shipmates talk of islands in the Indian Ocean that were a peril to
navigation, and he supposed this was one of them. When it got lighter he
would be better able to take his bearings.
He was exhausted and weak after his long struggle with the waves, and
his brine-soaked clothes hung heavily on him. Yet he no longer looked
the same man he had been on the ship. The transformation in his
appearance was startling; the long swim had effected a wonderful change.
All trace of coal-dust had disappeared from his face and neck; once more
he was a white man. His hands were cut and bleeding from the sharp
rocks, and his body was bruised from head to foot, but nothing could
conceal the fact that his bearing had distinction, that his head was
well shaped, his features clean cut, that he had a strong mouth and a
clear eye.
But he was supremely unconscious of how he looked. He was desperately
hungry. His throat was dry and parched. His brine-soaked clothes hung
heavily on him. His senses and consciousness seemed numbed. In truth, he
marveled to find himself alive. Why had he exhausted and bruised himself
struggling with the waves, fighting death, when he had no desire to
live? Yes, he remembered now. It was the girl's fault. She had cried out
to him, and somehow, in spite of himself, he had clutched at her and
saved her from drowning.
He clenched his fists and muttered an oath as he turned to look at her.
She was still lying, apparently unconscious, in the spot where he had
carried her after they both staggered out of the jaws of death, and
fell, exhausted, on the wild, storm-swept beach. His first instinct on
gaining a foothold safe from the deadly suck of the thundering breakers
had been to find for his helpless companion some kind of shelter from
the wind and rain, and as he was assisting her over the slippery stones,
green with slimy sea grass, they accidentally stumbled across a wide
opening in the face of the precipitous cliff. Nearer inspection showed
it to be a deep crevice, hollowed out of the solid rock in past ages by
the action of the water. The sea had since receded, leaving a kind of
cave, of no great height or depth, yet large enough to accommodate half
a dozen persons. The interior was dry, while the thick growth of velvety
moss underfoot provided a comfortable couch.
"A shipwrecked young woman couldn't wish for more luxurious quarters,"
muttered Armitage grimly to himself, and after he had taken mental note
of the natural advantages of the place, he turned to look at the
prostrate girl.
As yet Grace had given no sign of life. Her eyes were closed and her
face livid. But for the nervous twitching of her mouth, and a low moan
which from time to time escaped her lips, one might think she was dead.
Her head was thrown back against the cold, damp wall, her beautiful,
long hair, matted by sea water, was all disheveled. Water ran off every
part of her and formed a little puddle by her side. Her dainty
ball-dress, the envy of every woman on board only a few hours before,
was in shreds. What remained of it, soaked and discolored, clung closely
to her figure, revealing to Armitage's gaze outlines which caused the
blood to rush tumultuously to his head. Her low-necked gown, torn during
the panicky rush for the life-boats, had collapsed entirely at one side,
exposing part of the delicately rounded, blue-veined bosom, and
shoulders and arms as white and academically beautiful as if cut in
marble by the sculptor's chisel.
[Illustration: NEVER IN HIS LIFE HAD HE BEHELD A WOMAN SO FAIR.]
Armitage stood transfixed, his pulse throbbing furiously, his heart in
his mouth. For a moment the beast was aroused. His eyes sparkled
sensually, incoherent sounds issued from between his clenched teeth. A
kiss on that gently curved, sensitive mouth would be as near a taste of
heaven as ever he would get. He'd be a fool to hesitate. They were
alone--he and this girl--not a human being was within a thousand miles
of them. The chances of rescue were infinitesimal. They had escaped the
waves only to die of starvation--that was certain. If they must
die--to-day--to-morrow--or the next day--why deny oneself any joy that
the world still had to offer? Thus he argued, not in these words, but in
feverish, unreasoning, reckless thought. Boldly he approached her. His
face was flushed, his eyes were ardent as they took in every voluptuous
detail of her motionless form. He advanced closer, and, bending over
her, stood for a moment fascinated by the sight of her bare,
alabaster-like skin and perfectly modeled arms. Never in his life had he
beheld a woman so fair.
Suddenly she stirred and uttered a low moan. Armitage sprang back and
looked around guiltily. Only the screaming sea-gulls were there to
witness his discomfiture, yet his face had the expression of one
detected in an unworthy action. Again Grace moaned and stirred as if in
pain. He stood irresolute, embarrassed, not knowing what to do to help
her, trying to feel that he didn't care, surly and ill-tempered because
he felt contempt for himself. What was this woman's suffering to him?
She belonged to the class he now hated, the detested plutocracy upon
which he had declared war. The money she spent on her finery and
pleasures was no doubt gotten by cheating such poor fellows as he out of
their rights. Let her have her share of hard knocks. He chuckled to
himself as he reflected on life's ironies. Only a few brief hours ago,
on the luxuriously appointed liner, she was everything, he was nothing.
She was the grand lady, the pampered cabin passenger; he was the
despised stoker, hardly to be counted among human beings. Suddenly what
an astounding revolution! A cataclysm, and all was changed--distinctions
of birth, education, and wealth were instantly abolished. Now they were
merely two helpless human beings cast away on a deserted island in the
lonely mid-ocean, one dependent upon the other, one no better than the
other. They had returned to primeval conditions. In what way was she his
superior now?
Thus arguing to himself, he took fresh courage and drew nearer. She was
certainly pretty, there was no getting away from that, and he--was a
man!
Lying there, pale, soaked, bedraggled, Grace looked the picture of utter
misery. Of the artificial aids to good looks which women in their
vanity love to employ, not one remained, yet even with every adjunct of
self-adornment gone she was still beautiful. The exuberant spirits and
pride of bearing were no longer there, only a sad, wistful, pallid
loveliness that was even more potent in its appeal than the radiant,
gay, fashionably gowned, proud beauty who had attracted his gaze when,
from his place of concealment among the ventilators, he had gloomily
watched the brilliant scene on the promenade-deck.
She made no attempt to move. Still stunned by the awful calamity which
had so swiftly overtaken the steamer, her ears still ringing with the
despairing cries of her friends as they were swept to their deaths, her
brain was a blank. She could not think or reason. Every sense seemed
paralyzed. She felt no sensations of hunger or thirst. She was surprised
to find herself still alive. All she remembered was the terrible
explosion, the frenzied scramble for the boats, and then all at once she
found herself in the water, swimming, trying to keep herself afloat. How
she reached the shore she did not know. A man had caught her as she was
sinking, and in a vague sort of way she thought he was one of the crew.
She wondered where she was and why her body ached so. The air chilled
her bare shoulders. She shivered, moaned, and opened her eyes.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, advancing.
This abrupt breaking of the long silence by the sound of a human voice
seemed strange to her. She thought she was dreaming, and she smiled
faintly at the absurdity of it.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, again stooping over her.
She turned her gaze wonderingly on Armitage. In the uncertain light it
was difficult to get a good view of his face. He seemed a stranger to
her. From him, her eyes wandered inquiringly round the cave.
"Where am I?" she asked, in a low voice.
"On an island," he replied shortly. "The steamer's lost. Only you and I
were saved."
She turned white, and her breath came and went quickly. Then she caught
sight of her torn gown, and quickly she covered herself modestly, a
faint flush overspreading her pale face. She continued to stare at
Armitage, as if he reminded her of some one she had seen before.
Puzzled, she passed her hand over her eyes as if trying to remember.
"Who are you?" she said finally. "Where have I seen you before?"
He shifted uneasily on his feet and looked away, avoiding her scrutiny.
Why should she know that he had been one of the poor devils in the
stoke-hole? Perhaps she already recognized him as the deserter who was
so unceremoniously dragged on board ship in New York Harbor. Gruffly he
answered:
"I was swimming. I heard you cry out. I brought you in--that's all."
"You were one of the crew?"
He nodded.
"Yes--one of the crew."
"How can I thank you!" she exclaimed. "My father is rich. He will reward
you."
He laughed harshly.
"Money isn't much good here. You don't realize where we are. Every one's
gone but we--all are drowned. We're as good as dead. We're a thousand
miles from the mainland--with no means of getting away and no food.
There's little chance of being sighted by a passing ship, for the storm
had blown us out of the regular steamer track." Brutally, he added: "You
might as well understand the situation. Death by starvation stares us in
the face."
Grace interrupted him by an outburst of hysterical weeping. Weakened
physically by exertion and exposure, her nerves overwrought by terror
and suspense, little wonder that at last she gave way. She sobbed like a
child, a piteous passion of tears that would have melted a heart of
stone. She didn't care for herself. She was ready to die. But she was
sorry for Daddy and her poor mother. They would grieve for her and it
would break their hearts. She shuddered as she thought of the shocking
fate which had befallen her recent companions on the ship.
"Perhaps some of them got away in the boats," she gasped between her
tears.
"Maybe they did," he replied, with an indifferent shrug of his
shoulders. With a gesture of impatience he added curtly: "It's no use
crying. That won't do any good. What you need most is to get out of
those wet clothes. You're soaked to the skin."
"I have no others to put on," ruefully she replied, making an effort to
sit up and squeezing the water out of her skirt. She thought with dismay
of all her precious belongings forever lost at the bottom of the sea.
Fortunately, her pearls were saved. The necklace was still round her
throat.
"Look!" she said, holding the necklace up so he could see it. "At least
we have these. They are worth $40,000."
He laughed derisively.
"They're worth nothing where there's no one to buy them," he growled.
Then, impatiently, he said: "Don't waste your time bothering about that.
What you want to do is to take those clothes off right away. Then you'll
dry them and put them on again. You can't remain any longer in wet
clothes."
He spoke authoritatively, with the commanding air of one who intends to
be obeyed. She was in no mood to argue the matter. Besides, he was
right. She was already chilled and ran the danger of getting pneumonia
unless she dried her clothes quickly; but how could she change
them--with no fire to dry her things and with this man coming in and
out? He saw her embarrassment and intuitively guessed the reason. He was
still in the shadow, but she fancied she noticed a covert smile hovering
about his mouth, and she immediately took a dislike to him, in spite of
the service he had rendered her. His manner was overbearing--almost
insolent. Again, there was something about him that reminded her of a
man she had known or seen, but still she could not remember. Turning to
her, he said gruffly:
"I'm fairly well soaked myself. While you're changing I'll go and take a
run along the sands and dry my clothes in the sun. Before I go I'll
light a fire for you to dry your clothes on."
He produced from his pocket a small box wrapped in oilskin. Opening it,
he held up three lucifer matches, and, grimly, he said:
"These are worth more to us than your pearls. See--there are only three
left, and they're as dry as when I left the ship. I'm going to light a
fire just outside there, at the foot of the cliff. Once lighted, the
fire must never be allowed to go out. It must burn night and day. It
will keep us warm and cook our food. I'll start the fire; you'll keep it
going with what small pieces of wood you can gather. Do you understand?"
Grace was taken aback. For a moment she was speechless with indignation.
This man, this common sailor, was actually giving her a command, telling
her to do menial work, and admonishing her to do it properly, as if she
were a domestic servant. Her first impulse was to rebel and order him
angrily from her presence. On second thoughts, she said nothing. After
all, he was right. She ought to be willing to do her share. They were no
longer on the ship where she had only to touch a button and a dozen
maids and stewards ran to obey her slightest whim. Although reared in
luxury, and petted and indulged since her birth, she was not a fool. She
was quick to realize that conditions had changed and that their
respective social positions--hers and this sailor's--were now completely
reversed. She was dependent on him, not he on her. If she were to be
saved, it would be thanks to his resourcefulness, his courage. Her money
would be of no use here. He alone could protect and save her, so why,
quarrel with him. Docilely, therefore, she replied:
"Yes--I understand."
Armitage left her alone in the cave, and, proceeding along the silvery
sands, set hastily to work to gather together the scattered driftwood.
The beach was strewn for miles with the flotsam and jetsam of countless
tides, an accumulation that apparently had been undisturbed for
centuries. Much of it was moldy with age and, well protected from the
rains by overhanging rocks, was dry as tinder.
"This stuff'll make a bully blaze," he muttered cheerfully to himself.
He toiled with a will, glad of the brisk exercise to take the kinks out
of his numbed limbs. The sun was now high above the horizon, and its
warm rays felt grateful after the chill of the stormy night. Directly he
had started the fire, he'd leave the girl to change her clothes and go
himself where he could take a rub-down and lay out his own things to
dry. Then he'd take a run along the coast and climb the cliff to see
what sort of a place this was they had landed on. He felt a sense of
relief that he was no longer subjected to the discipline and restraint
of the ship.
He chuckled to himself as his mind dwelt on the disaster that had
emancipated him. His taskmasters were no longer there to torment
him--all were drowned or gone away in the boats. Once more he was a free
man. At last he could raise his head. To the others the wreck had been
an overwhelming calamity! to him it meant salvation. No matter what the
future had in store, no matter what privations he must suffer on this
island--even if he must soon perish--anything was better than the
torture he had endured in that hellish stoke-hole.
In a way, he felt sorry for the girl. Evidently she was not used to
roughing it. It would be harder for her than for him. She seemed
inclined to be haughty, he thought. He had noticed the proud toss of her
head when he spoke about her attending to the fire. He smiled grimly.
She didn't like that. Well, that was the fault of her bringing up. How
could a girl, raised as she'd been, be expected to do anything useful?
Such girls were only the butterflies of life--of no particular use
except to look pretty. It wouldn't do her any harm to learn a thing or
two. Apart from that, she seemed all right. In fact, he was not sorry
she'd been saved to share his solitude. His hour had not come to die,
that was sure; otherwise he'd have been drowned with the rest. As long
as he had to be cast away on this barren islet it was as well that he
had a companion. Of course, she wouldn't be much use if it came to real
hardships--procuring food, fighting off attacks of animals or reptiles,
or building a boat to get away--but she was a beauty, a prize-winner, no
mistake about that. Again his eyes gleamed as his mind dwelt upon what
had been revealed to him in the cave--a torn dress, a white, soft neck,
a soaked dress showing limbs like sculptured marble, a curved mouth,
tempting enough to inflame a saint. Fast and furiously he worked,
strange thoughts crowding upon each other in his brain.
Soon he had gathered a big pile of driftwood, and had it all ready for
lighting. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. They'd soon have a
blaze that could be seen fifty miles out at sea. Taking from his pocket
once more the little box, he unwrapped the oilskin and took out one of
the three precious matches. Then, with infinite precautions, stooping
and covering the tiny flicker with one hand to protect it from the wind,
he applied the light. Only one match was necessary. Owing to the extreme
dryness of the wood, the pile caught instantly. A thick column of smoke
rose to the sky, followed by a sharp crackling and long tongue of flame.
More wood and more he kept piling on until he had before him a roaring
furnace. Pleased with the quick result, he shouted to Grace, who was
still inside the cave.
"See here. You'll soon dry yourself by this fire!"
Grace appeared at the mouth of the cave. Busy tending to the fire, his
back turned toward the cliff, he did not see her suddenly recoil as she
perceived him, nor the expression of consternation and terror that came
into her pale, wan face. As he stood there full in the strong light of
the roaring fire, she saw the face of her rescuer distinctly for the
first time. She saw vividly a picture she had seen once before on the
ill-fated ship--the handsome profile of a man bending low over a glowing
furnace, with the shoulders and muscles of a Hercules, and the head and
grace of a Greek god. Transfixed, her bosom heaving, she stood rooted to
the ground. Now she remembered! Now she knew him! He was the fireman
Armitage--the terrible man of the _Atlanta_'s stoke-hole. She was alone
on the island--with that terrible man!