RECOGNITION OF THE DEAD BODY.
“And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep,
But where he died his grave is quite as deep!
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound,
That earth nor formed, nor marble decked the mound.”—_Byron._
Deeply shocked as he was, Lord Montressor bent earnestly forward to
listen for something further.
But Mr. Levering, apparently overcome with the thought of the scenes
through which he had just passed, covered his face with his hands, and
continued silent.
The doubt that troubled Lord Montressor remained unsolved. For all that
he could gather from Mr. Levering’s conversation, Victoire L’Orient
might have been lost in the ship, or saved in the boat—supposing that
the latter had lived to reach the shore. That his mother had preferred
to stay in the ship, where she finally perished, was no sure sign that
Victoire had not deserted her there, as he surely might have done had
she persisted in remaining while he chose to depart.
Finally, unwilling to disturb Mr. Levering with questions upon this
painful subject, conscious also, perhaps, of feeling too deep an
interest in the fate of Monsieur L’Orient, Lord Montressor bade his new
acquaintance good-day, and, leaving him to repose, went up on deck.
The storm had spent its fury. The wind and waves, as if they had
accomplished the object for which they arose, had now subsided.
The scene on deck was a stirring one. The captain, mate and crew were
all busily engaged. One party, under the direction of the captain, were
preparing to get under sail. Another set, at the orders of the mate,
were letting down the boats.
The captain stood forward, leveling his glass at the sand-bank that,
strewn with sea-weed, shells and fragments of the wreck, now loomed
largely from the retiring waves.
Lord Montressor came up to the side of the skipper, who immediately
lowered his glass and said—
“We are making ready to get under sail, my lord! But first I shall send
the boats to the sand-bank to bring off that body, which has been cast
ashore there, and give it Christian burial, at least, if it be only in
the depths of the sea! By the general appearance, I think it is the body
of that man that beat the other one off the plank and drowned himself in
the act. There! you can see for yourself, my lord.” And the captain
placed the glass in the hands of his passenger.
Lord Montressor raised the instrument and took sight at the sand-bank.
Yes! there, thrown up by the waves, partially buried in the sand, and
slightly covered with sea-weed, lay the dead body of a man! Various
fragments of the wrecked ship, and remnants of its cargo—spars, yards,
planks, barrels, casks and strong boxes, more or less broken and staved
open, were scattered about. From these various objects Lord Montressor
turned his glass once more upon the dead body. It certainly did bear
some resemblance to the man who had struck his companion from the plank,
and perished in the deed; but beyond this Lord Montressor could not form
any conclusive opinion in regard to it. With a sigh he dropt the
telescope.
Two boats were now lowered, manned, and pushed off from the brig.
Lord Montressor watched their course with his naked eye until they
reached the scene of the wreck; then he once more raised the telescope
to scan more closely their operations on the sand bar.
The men in the small boat landed first, and reverently raised the corpse
and carried it on board their boat, where they covered it with a sail
cloth; then they returned to the sands and joined the men from the large
boat, who went about among the waifs of the wreck, selecting such casks,
barrels and boxes as had received the least injury, and were the most
worthy of preservation. When this was done and the second boat was
laden, the men embarked again and rowed back to the Queen Charlotte.
The large boat with the rescued relics of the wreck reached the brig
first, and was unladen before the small boat, propelled slowly with
measured strokes, in honor of the dead she bore, arrived.
She pulled up to the starboard gangway, where the captain, mate, and
many of the passengers were assembled to receive her.
The corpse, still wrapped in the sail-cloth, was reverently lifted out,
hoisted up, and laid upon the deck.
The face and breast were uncovered, and exposed to inspection.
“Is there any one present who is able to identify this body?” inquired
the captain, possibly as a mere matter of form, for it was not probable
that any other than the shipwrecked passenger, then resting in the
cabin, could be competent to do so.
Many, however, crowded around to examine the features of the corpse. It
seemed that of a man of about thirty years of age, of tall, slight
figure, brown complexion, black hair, eyebrows, and mustachios, and
features that seemed to have originally been regular and handsome, as
far as their present distorted and stiffened condition allowed the
spectator to judge.
Lord Montressor stood among the lookers-on, and, with folded arms and
serious brow, gazed upon the face of the dead. And well he might! It was
the cause of all his woe—it was the mortal foe of Estelle—it was, in a
word, Victoire L’Orient that lay dead before him!
No one spoke.
“Well?” asked the captain, looking around upon the tamest faces bent
over the body.
“I can identify this corpse, Captain Brande,” said the solemn voice of
Lord Montressor.
All eyes were now turned upon his lordship.
“Well, my lord?” said the captain.
“This is the body of a Frenchman, by name Victoire L’Orient, a native of
Paris, and a late passenger on board the Mercury. It would be well,
also, to have this identity further proved by Mr. Levering, the rescued
passenger below.”
And Lord Montressor, having delivered these words, bowed gravely and
withdrew from the scene.
The corpse was again wrapped in the canvas and carried aft to the stern
gallery, where it was laid and covered over, while preparations were
made for the burial.
Julius Levering, after an hour’s repose, dressed himself in a suit of
clothes supplied to him by Lord Montressor’s valet, and came up on deck
to look about; hearing that a dead body had been picked up and
recognized as that of Victoire L’Orient, he inquired where it lay; and
being informed, he went aft to the stern gallery to behold it. Arrived
upon the spot, he stooped, raised the covering, and gazed upon the face
of the dead.
He had a heavy stake in the fate of this man, beside whose corse he
stood wrapped in the closest thought. He started like a detected
criminal in hearing a voice speak at his side:
“I beg your parding, Capting, but do you also know this corpse?” said a
man in livery, touching his hat as he joined him.
“Yes, my friend, this is the body of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, my late
fellow-passenger,” replied Mr. Levering, recovering his self-possession.
“Beg your parding again, Capting, but are you certain, now, as this is
really and truly the body of Mounseer Wictwor?” repeated the new-comer,
incredulously.
“Of course I am, friend,” replied Mr. Levering, gravely.
“Can’t possibly be _any body else_ by mistake can it?”
“Assuredly not.”
“Then he is Mounseer Wictwor to a _dead certainty_?”
“To a dead certainty, yes,” answered Mr. Levering, wondering at the
strange manner of the intruder.
“And was he _drownded_ sure enough?”
“Certainly, he was.”
“And are you sure he is _quite_ dead?”
“Can you not see for yourself?” asked Mr. Levering, beginning to believe
his new acquaintance to be a lunatic.
“Yes, he looks so, sartain; but then you never can depend on these
wenemous reptyles. They’re so uncommon deceiving.”
“Deceiving?”
“Yes; you never can be sure on ’em unless you bile ’em!”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I mean they’re so werry apt to come round again—do you think _he’ll_
come round?”
“What?”
“Do you think he’ll not _come to life_ presently?”
“Does he look like it?” inquired Mr. Levering, now firmly convinced that
his interlocutor was a madman.
“No, he don’t! but as I said afore you can’t place any confidence in
sich!”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Nothing I only this here Mounseer was shipwracked _once afore_ and
drownded—_dead_. And two years arfter, when everybody had forgotten him,
lo! and behold! he comes to life and turns up most onconveniently, in
the wrong time and place, as sprightly as a sarpint in spring! and gives
no end to the trouble to those in high places!”
“Pray, friend, who are _you_?” inquired Mr. Levering of the supposed
maniac.
“One of his lordship, Lord Montressor’s grooms.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Levering, with the air of a man upon whom a sudden
light had broken.
The men coming aft to prepare the dead body for burial, interrupted the
conversation. The new acquaintances both left the stern gallery. The
groom went down to the gundeck to gossip with the sailors. And Mr.
Levering proceeded to inspect the waifs of the wreck that had been
brought on board. He seemed very much relieved to find among them a
strong box which he immediately claimed and proved to be his own.
At noon that day the solemn ceremony of a “Burial at Sea” was performed.
The crew were all piped on deck, and amid a reverential silence, the
captain read the impressive funeral service of the Episcopal Church. And
at its conclusion the body was solemnly committed to the deep.
And immediately afterward the Queen Charlotte once more set sail. And
from this hour an uninterrupted season of fine weather, with a fresh
wind, favored her until the fifth day, a beautiful Sabbath near the last
of August, when at sunrise the Queen Charlotte, with all her flags
flying, anchored in Baltimore harbor.
The same morning Lord Montressor bade adieu to his late companion, and
left the ship for his hotel.
If any circumstance would have augmented his intense desire to meet
Estelle, it must have been his possession of the important information
he had now to communicate to her. He considered the events of the
recovery of the drowned body by the crew of the Queen Charlotte, and his
own presence on the spot to identify the corpse as that of Victoire
L’Orient, as providential. He felt assured that certainty in regard to
the fate of this man must at least give peace to the tempest-tost life
of Estelle. He hoped also that it would change her purposes and settle
her future. And now that he had reached port, his anxiety to find her
was almost insupportable. But the Sabbath must be lived through; nay,
indeed notwithstanding his weak human impatience, it must be duly
honored! He compelled himself to be quiet, and went to the Episcopal
church twice that day—attending St. George’s in the forenoon, and St.
John’s in the afternoon, in the faint vain hope also that at one or the
other he might possibly see Estelle, whom he knew to be a scrupulous and
regular attendant upon Divine Service.
And then, after a night of sleepless anxiety, he arose early on Monday
morning, and as soon as there was any possibility of finding the bankers
at their place of business, he took a carriage and drove it to the
banking-house of Somerville and Son. He found the senior partner already
at his desk. He introduced himself, and made inquiries relative to the
lady of whom he came in search.
Alas! Alas!
At first Mr. Somerville, senior, knew nothing about such a lady—had
never seen or heard of her, and was certain, begging his lordship’s
pardon, that she had never honored their establishment with a call. But
at this point of the conversation, Mr. Somerville, junior, who had been
standing at another desk, listening with his pen behind his ear, came
forward and recalled to his father’s mind the beautiful English lady,
dressed in deep mourning, who had come from the house of Scofield
Brothers, London, and had called upon them just two weeks ago.
Then—yes! oh, yes! the old banker did not remember the lovely lady in
mourning, but he remembered the heavy drafts drawn by Scofield Brothers
on them, in favor of——now, who _was_ it in favor of? He referred to his
papers and found—
“Estelle Montressor.”
“Yes, that was the lady.”
Well! the lady had received her money and had departed. And that was all
they knew of her. And from them Lord Montressor received no other
satisfaction.