she felt like a bird before the fabled basilisk. She would have rushed
away, but was spellbound. The strange man held her in a thrall.
‘How charming you look this morning,’ he remarked. ‘Why, you put even
the glory of the sunrise to shame.’
‘Really, Mr. Cornell,’ she exclaimed indignantly, and blushing to the
very roots of her hair, ‘you insult me by such extravagant and stupid
compliments. I don’t like men who talk nonsense, and think that all a
girl wants is to be flattered. Of course plenty of empty headed girls
do, but I’m not one of them.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, please; I am sincere. Can the wretched moth
that flutters into the flame of the candle help itself? Not a bit of
it. You would pity the moth; why not pity me?’
‘This is audacity, Mr. Cornell, and I will complain to the captain
about you,’ she exclaimed as she made a movement to go. But ever so
lightly, and without any effort, he touched her hand. What was the
fearful magic of that touch that she should thrill so? What was the
power in his voice that held her in a spell? She did not go, but stood
there. Her left hand resting on one of the rattlings of the rigging,
her right hanging down by her side, his large powerful fingers touching
hers, her head averted, for she felt as if she dare not look at him.
‘It is not in your nature to be cruel, Miss Hetherington’--he spoke
low, so that there should be no possibility of the man at the wheel
catching his words, though he was so far off there was not much fear of
that--‘why, then, should you be cruel with me?’
‘I am not cruel, but you are rude, very rude,’ she answered with a
voice that trembled from suppressed emotion.
‘I am _not_ rude, and you _are_ cruel,’ he returned, dwelling
deliberately on every word. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am
a man. Surely I should be less than a man if I failed to admire you?
Do you not admire the beauty of the sky there? why, then, should I do
less than you, though in your face I find more to admire than in those
glowing colours.’
‘If you do not instantly leave me I will call out for assistance,’ she
said. She felt faint and powerless, and as though she would certainly
fall down on the deck if she let go her hold of the rigging.
‘No, you must not do that,’ he answered, coolly. ‘How can I possibly
help feeling for you what I do feel. I am not a stone statue, but a
man with a heart, and though a bolt from heaven should strike me into
the sea for speaking the words, I tell you now, though I never utter
another syllable to you, _that I love you_.’
He had never taken his fingers from hers, and now he pressed her
hand. The sea seemed to be going round and round before her eyes. The
wonderful colours in the sky were all blended in one confused mass. The
ship appeared to be sinking beneath her feet, and yet she managed to
murmur in a low, weak voice:
‘For God’s sake leave me!’
Without another word he walked away, and then she seemed to breathe
more freely, and in a few minutes had quite recovered herself. She
turned and went towards the companion-way, and as she did so she saw
Cornell talking to the captain, who had just come on deck. The captain
bade her good-morning, but Cornell was as immovable and impassive as a
piece of sculpture.
Oh! what a sense of relief she experienced when she got down to her
cabin. The spell seemed to be lifted at last, and, closing the door,
she threw herself into the bunk and wept passionately. When the
hysterical fit had passed she was relieved, and she determined to tell
her mother what had happened, but this determination only lasted for
a few minutes, as on reflection she thought that it could but lead to
unpleasantness, and in a little floating world such as a ship is the
slightest things are looked upon as legitimate food for scandal to
batten upon. Therefore, her second thoughts were to keep the matter to
herself. Still she was very unhappy, and Dick noticed it. He naturally
asked her the cause, but she made an excuse by saying that she was a
little out of sorts. She was strongly tempted to tell him all, but was
restrained by a fear that it might lead to a quarrel between him and
the second mate.
For several days after the unpleasant incident with Cornell she
studiously avoided going on deck alone for fear of meeting him, but
whenever he had occasion to pass her she would shudder, for his strange
eyes seemed to exercise a power over her which was simply marvellous.
She felt, in fact, when he was looking at her that she could grovel at
his feet at his mere bidding. It was a dreadful feeling, and her health
naturally suffered. Her mother and lover were both concerned about her,
but she endeavoured to remove any anxiety they might have had by saying
that her indisposition was of a very trivial character. One evening
she had been sitting on the poop with Fenton. The weather was fine,
but a strong breeze was blowing, and the vessel was tearing through
the water. The daylight had almost faded out, and it was impossible to
distinguish people who were standing or sitting only a few yards away.
Fenton left her for a few minutes to go down to his cabin for some
cigars, and scarcely had he disappeared when she was startled by the
sudden appearance of Cornell. It seemed almost as though he had risen
up out of the deck. She was seated on a camp stool, and he bent his
head low until she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. He whispered
to her in a voice that could not possibly have been heard by anyone
else, however near they might have been; but she heard every word,
every syllable, as it was poured into her ear, and it seemed to burn
into her brain.
‘Lily, you are cruel,’ he said; ‘I love you madly, and yet you avoid
me. You must give me some encouragement, or I will drown myself; and
if you breathe a word of what I have said to you to any living soul, I
tell you in God’s name that I will throw myself overboard, and my death
will lie at your door. Remember what I say. I am a determined man, and
nothing on earth will stop me carrying out my will.’
Once again his fingers touched her hand; then in a moment he was
gone as suddenly as he had appeared. He seemed to fade away into the
darkness like a spectre, but almost immediately afterwards she heard
him bawling some orders in stentorian tones to the watch.
When Fenton came back she was trembling and faint, and though she
struggled hard to conceal from him that she was agitated, he could not
fail to observe it, and in a tone of alarm asked the cause.
‘Oh, nothing, dear--nothing,’ she answered; ‘at least, nothing of any
consequence. A slight feeling of faintness has come over me; but really
it is not worth bothering about.’
Oh, how she longed to tell him all; but the words of the strange man
who was exercising such a powerful influence over her were still
ringing in her ears, and she was silent.
Fenton did not make any further remark then on the subject, but he
felt uneasy. He was convinced that there was some mystery, but what it
was he could not for the life of him determine. The thought did flash
through his brain that she was deceiving him, but instantly he put it
away as unworthy of him. It seemed so preposterous to associate deceit
with the Red Lily, who was as pure as the beautiful flower after which
she was called.
When he escorted her down to the cabin a little later, he said:
‘Darling, I am uneasy about you. Something is wrong, I am sure, but
your gentle heart prompts you to keep it from me for fear of giving
me pain. Do be good to yourself for my sake. Why don’t you take your
mother into your confidence, and tell her if you have any trouble,
since you do not apparently care to confide it to me.’
‘Do not be uneasy,’ she answered. ‘Believe me, oh, do believe me, when
I say that my indisposition is of a very trifling character. I have
nothing to tell my mother, and you know perfectly well, Dick, you have
my full confidence.’
She felt a little guilty as she said this, for she knew that she
ought to have told him at once of Cornell’s conduct. But, firstly,
the strange fascination he exercised over her kept her silent; and,
secondly, she was really afraid of causing a scene between the two
men. Besides, she comforted herself with the thought that the voyage
would soon be over, and once clear of the ship it would be good-bye to
Cornell for ever. She regarded him as a vain, presumptuous fellow, who
imagined that every girl he looked at must be in love with him.
As soon as her lover had left her, and she had been to wish her mother
good-night, the Red Lily once again gave unrestrained vent to her
feelings, and wept passionately. She could not help it. She felt almost
as if she would die if she did not weep, and weep she did bitterly
until she fretted herself to sleep.
The following morning she was weak and pale, and did not put in
an appearance at breakfast. The beautiful pink had faded from her
face, and she had the look of one who was jaded and unhappy. Mrs.
Hetherington visited her daughter, and naturally felt alarmed. There
was a doctor on board, and Mrs. Hetherington expressed a determination
to consult him; but Lily pleaded with such earnestness, and at last
expressed such a strong determination not to see him, that her mother
yielded, and Lily kept in her cabin all that day.
On the following day she was better. Cornell’s influence had passed
away, and she had to a considerable extent regained her spirits.
The weather was now very chilly, and unfortunately the wind was
unfavourable, so that the ship had to sail on long and short tacks. It
was worse than tantalising to those who had looked forward so eagerly
to spending Christmas with their friends in the dear old country. The
hope of doing that was now past, for the distance was too great to
cover in the time that intervened between them and the great Christian
Festival. Well wrapped in rugs, Lily was once more seated on deck in
company with Dick. She had been doing some fancy needlework, and he had
been sketching a large vessel that had been in company with them two or
three days. Presently he laid down his sketching block on the deck, and
looking up into the fair face of his companion, he said:
‘Lily, pet, do you remember the promise you made to me before we left
India?’
‘What was that, Dick?’ she asked.
‘That you would become my wife on Christmas Day.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly, and with some slight agitation; ‘but we
shall not be home by that time.’
‘That is true; but it need not affect your promise.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ she answered.
‘You are surely aware, Lily, that a marriage on board of a ship is
perfectly legal. Even a captain has the power to marry people; but it
fortunately happens, as you know, that we have a Church of England
clergyman amongst us, and therefore I claim the fulfilment of your
promise.’
‘Oh, Dick, it cannot be.’
‘Cannot be!’ he echoed in some astonishment. ‘Were your words, then,
_only_ words after all?’
‘Ah, love, do not be harsh with me. I should so much prefer that our
wedding took place in the regular way on shore, and it is to be hoped
that we shall arrive in England by the New Year.’
‘I am far from being harsh with you, Lily,’ answered Dick, a little
sadly; ‘but you yourself expressed a wish to be married on the
Christmas morning, even saying that you were superstitious about it.
Although there is every prospect now that we shall be at sea on that
day, there is no reason at all why we should not be married on board;
and if you like we will go through the ceremony again when we reach
England. The mere circumstance of being married in or out of a church
cannot possibly affect our union, and I am sure you have too much
good sense to be influenced by the stupid idea which possesses some
small-brained people--that a marriage performed out of a church cannot
be sanctified.’
‘I have no such idea,’ she said. ‘I should be ashamed of myself if I
had.’
‘Very well, then, Lily, say that you will be my wife on Christmas
morning, even though we are at sea.’
‘How long does it want to Christmas, Dick?’
‘Three weeks exactly.’
‘Then I promise you that if mamma offers no objection I will gratify
your wish.’
‘I am perfectly satisfied that your mother will willingly let us have
our own way, so on Christmas Day we will become man and wife, if we are
both living.’
‘On Christmas Day we will become man and wife if we are both living,’
she repeated solemnly, but the words had scarcely left her lips when
she almost uttered a scream, for close beside her stood Cornell. He had
his sextant in his hand, and had come up the companion-way (near which
Dick and Lily were sitting) with the captain to take the sun.
‘Make eight bells,’ said the captain, ‘we shall get no sun to-day.’
‘Eight bells,’ roared out Cornell.
‘Come, dear, let us go down to luncheon,’ said Dick as he rose,
gathered up the wraps, and offered his arm to his _fiancée_.
She had to pass Cornell to reach the companion-way, and she saw his
hawk-like eyes fixed upon her, although he pretended to be examining
the figures on his sextant. Those eyes burned into her soul, as it
were, and the strange hysterical feeling came back again so that she
felt as if she must weep, but by a powerful effort she controlled
herself, and Dick did not notice how she was affected.
The question of the marriage being put to Mrs. Hetherington, that lady
said that she should offer no objection to the wishes of the young
people. Consequently it was soon understood that the monotony of the
voyage would be relieved by a wedding on Christmas morning. In which
case there would be a double occasion for rejoicing and festivities.
Christmas at sea is always a festive time, but this particular one on
board the ‘Sirocco’ promised to be unusually lively. The captain gave
orders to the steward that he was to reserve a good supply of his best
champagne for the occasion, and the cook was ordered to make plenty
of cakes and fancy things; while the butcher was instructed to kill
the fattest geese of the few that remained, and the last pig was to
be slaughtered in order to add to the feast. The lady and gentlemen
passengers rummaged amongst their boxes to try and fish out suitable
little presents to give to the young couple, and there was much fun and
laughter as all sorts of odd suggestions were made; while the ladies
further busied themselves in improvising suitable decorations for the
saloon. In fact, this coming marriage was looked upon as a blessing
almost, for the voyage had been so long and tedious, that the little
excitement caused by the prospective union of the Red Lily and Dick
Fenton was most welcome.
As the second mate seemed to purposely avoid Lily now, she recovered
her spirits; in fact, several days passed without her seeing him, and
she began to laugh at her stupidity in allowing him to have such an
influence over her. Dick could not fail to notice the change, and,
attributing it to the pleasure she anticipated at the near prospect of
their union, he was delighted also.
Christmas Day was now anxiously looked forward to by all the
passengers, and as it only wanted eight days to the time great
preparations were going on, and ladies busied themselves in stoning
raisins and performing other incidental necessaries in connection with
the concoction of those mysteries--Christmas puddings. The gentlemen
found occupation in dressing the saloon with flags, and decorations
ingeniously constructed by the fair sex out of the most likely and
unlikely things. No one who has not been on a long voyage in a
passenger ship can imagine with what avidity every little incident
calculated to relieve the monotony of life at sea--if it can truthfully
be said to be monotonous--is seized upon. Therefore, Christmas tide and
a marriage in the bargain were such important events, that the little
floating world which the ‘Sirocco’ represented was agitated to its very
centre, and the excitement rose to fever heat.
Life at sea, however, is influenced by laws which do not affect it
on land. Changes in the weather; changes from calm to rough weather
have a marked effect on a floating community, and a few hours often
produce the most extraordinary transformations. An oily sea may become
raging mountains of water, and the steadiness of a ship is turned into
violent pitching and tossing that renders walking to all but the most
experienced a matter of great difficulty. At such times soup plates
will perform somersaults into your lap, and joints of meat evince a
decided objection to remain in their proper positions. While, as for
poultry, wine bottles, &c., they suddenly acquire an agility for flying
through the air, so that what with dodging these missiles, and holding
on like grim death to the table or the back of the settee, one’s life
at meal time on board of a ship in stormy weather is by no means as
comfortable as it might be in a well-appointed dining-room on shore.
Within a week of Christmas it became manifest that the ‘Sirocco’ was
destined to encounter some bad weather. There had been sullen calms
succeeded by fitful bursts of storm, but the good ship had crept on
and on until she had reached the verge of the Bay of Biscay. The bay,
although it bears such a bad character, is suggestive of nearing home
to those who come from afar, and consequently the passengers were
high-spirited, notwithstanding that it was pretty certain that a good
deal of knocking about was in store for them.
One night during the middle watch a furious squall suddenly burst upon
the vessel, and as she had all sail set she heeled over almost on
to her beam ends. Several sails were rent to fragments by the force
of the wind, and the long strips flying out in the tempest made a
tremendous cracking like the cracking of stock whips. ‘All hands’ were
called on deck, and there were all the noise, and shouting, and uproar
incidental to a sudden squall in the dead of night. To the timid and
the inexperienced this is particularly alarming, for as the ship flies
along on her side the waters hiss in a strange manner, the shouting and
tramp of the sailors, the orders given hastily and in stentorian tones,
the cracker-like reports of the torn sails, the groaning and creaking
of the rudder chains, the indescribable howling of the wind, and the
extreme angle of the vessel, are sufficiently alarming to produce
nervousness even in those whose acquaintance with the sea is not of
recent date. And this is more particularly the case when such a squall
occurs at night; then the sky is inky in its blackness, and nothing can
be seen save the spectral-like outlines of the rigging and the masts,
and such objects as are immediately near the spectator. When this
particular squall struck the ship it happened that the Red Lily’s cabin
was on the weather side, and so suddenly did the ship heel over that
Lily narrowly escaped being thrown from her bunk. Although this was not
her first experience of a squall at night she felt unusually alarmed,
for the vessel was lying over at such an unusual angle, and there was
so much noise on deck.
Hastily throwing on a few articles of clothing, and covering them with
a dressing-gown, she encased her feet in slippers, and rushed over to
her mother’s cabin, which was on the lee side. Undisturbed by the shock
Mrs. Hetherington was sleeping soundly, and so, not wishing to wake
her, the first impression of alarm having passed away, Lily closed the
cabin door gently, and then went up the companion-way and peeped out
into the darkness. The white waters were flying past, and the vessel
was lying over almost to her lee scuppers. Lily stepped on to the deck,
holding on to the handle of the companion-way door. There was a babel
of mingled sounds, and the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane. She
had stood there but a few minutes when suddenly she became aware that
Cornell was standing beside her. He was superintending the stowing
of the mizzen to’gallant sail. He was evidently surprised to see her
there. She was about to descend again, for his presence brought back
all her old fears, when he caught her arm, and with gentle force
restrained her.
‘This is fortunate,’ he said. ‘The opportunity I have longed for this
squall has at last given me.’
‘Let me go,’ she exclaimed, ‘or I will scream.’ She was trembling with
fear and excitement, but he still held her.
‘You dare not,’ he answered in a strange tone. Then, after a pause, he
added, ‘You have been cruel to me, but you must be so no longer or I
shall die. I cannot live without you.’
‘Are you mad?’ she said with a shudder.
‘Perhaps I am. If I am you have made me so.’ He passed his arm round
her waist and held her closely.
She struggled to free herself, but she was powerless in his strong
grasp. The mysterious influence he exercised over her now kept her
tongue tied so that she could not scream, could not cry out. He bent
low and pressed his lips to hers, and yet that did not break the spell
which bound her.
‘You are to be married on Christmas Day,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I hope
before then _he_ or I will be dead. If I live you shall become _my_
wife. Do you hear? my wife. You may think I am talking mere words, but
you will see.’
He released her and she found herself in her cabin. How she got down
she did not know. She was burning with indignation and shame. His
polluting lips had touched hers, and she shivered as she thought of it.
She rubbed her lips with her handkerchief as though he had left some
stain which she was trying to wipe away. She yearned to go at once to
Fenton’s cabin and tell him all, but a deadly fear of Cornell withheld
her, the spell of his extraordinary power was upon her, and she felt
that she _dare not_ open her mouth to tell aught of what had occurred.
The man’s influence, whatever it was, was paramount. She feared and
hated him, and yet dare not denounce him. Of course she was weak, but
then he was no ordinary man. His strength of will was enormous, and
subdued her.
During the rest of the night she could not sleep, and she longed for
Christmas Day to come, so that, as Dick’s wife, she might be free from
the persecutions of the mysterious Cornell.
When the morning broke the storm had died away, leaving a gentle wind
that wafted the ship along at about eight knots an hour.
‘We shall have steady weather now,’ the captain observed at breakfast
time, as he examined the barometer that swung over the cabin table.
His prognostication proved correct. The wind increased day by day until
it was blowing a strong gale, but as it was favourable a large spread
of canvas was carried upon the ship.
The day preceding Christmas Day arrived; the ‘Sirocco’ was in the
Bay of Biscay, off the inhospitable Cape Finisterre. By Christmas
Eve the wind had increased very much, so that the ship was ‘snugged
down.’ Extra lookouts were kept, for a great number of outward and
homeward bound vessels were in the Bay. The night promised to be a
very ‘dirty one,’ but there was merriment on board, and many a toast
to ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ was drunk, both in the cabin and in the
forecastle, for a liberal allowance of grog had been served out to the
crew.
The preparations for the wedding were all complete. The saloon was
gaily decorated, and it was arranged that the marriage ceremony was
to be performed at eleven o’clock in the morning. But before eleven
o’clock strange things were to happen.
The night waned, and as eight bells sounded Dick Fenton went on deck to
smoke a cigar before turning in. The ladies had all retired, and only
a single night lamp burned in the saloon. The wind had drawn ahead a
good deal, and the vessel could only carry close-reefed main-topsail
and fore-topsail, so that she was making very little way, simply
‘forging,’ as sailors say, at the rate of about two knots an hour. A
favourite seat with Dick when he went on deck to smoke his cigar was on
the rail near the mizzen shrouds. There he was under the shelter of the
captain’s gig, which was slung outside on davits, and his feet rested
on a hencoop that ran along the poop. Sitting there now pensively
dreaming of his Red Lily, and the happiness that awaited him on the
morrow when she would become his wife, he had no thought of danger.
There was music in the rush of the wild waters and the screaming sweep
of the wind. The vessel had that short, jerky motion which a ship has
in a rough sea when under reefed topsails.
Suddenly there rose up before Dick’s vision the dark figure of a man.
‘Hallo! is that you, captain?’ exclaimed Dick.
‘No,’ was the answer, and in the gruff voice Dick recognised the second
mate.