suddenly stopped and listened breathlessly. My ears were so accustomed
to the noises of nature, the sighing of the breeze and the sob of the
waves, that any other sound made itself heard at a great distance.
I waited, listening with all my ears. Yes, there it was again--a
long-drawn, shrill cry of despair ringing over the sands and echoed
back from the hills behind me--a piteous appeal for aid. It came from
the direction of my house. I turned and ran back homeward at the top of
my speed, ploughing through the sand, racing over the shingle. In my
mind there was a great dim perception of what had occurred.
About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a high sandhill,
from which the whole country round is visible. When I reached the top
of this I paused for a moment. There was the old gray building--there
the boat. Everything seemed to be as I had left it. Even as I gazed,
however, the shrill scream was repeated, louder than before, and the
next moment a tall figure emerged from my door--the figure of the
Russian sailor. Over his shoulder was the white form of the young girl,
and even in his haste he seemed to bear her tenderly and with gentle
reverence. I could hear her wild cries and see her desperate struggles
to break away from him. Behind the couple came my old housekeeper,
stanch and true--as the aged dog, who can no longer bite, still snarls
with toothless gums at the intruder. She staggered feebly along at the
heels of the ravisher, waving her long, thin arms, and hurling, no
doubt, volleys of Scotch curses and imprecations at his head. I saw at
a glance that he was making for the boat. A sudden hope sprang up in my
soul that I might be in time to intercept him. I ran for the beach at
the top of my speed. As I ran I slipped a cartridge into my revolver.
This I determined should be the last of these invasions.
I was too late. By the time I reached the water’s edge he was a hundred
yards away, making the boat spring with every stroke of his powerful
arms. I uttered a wild cry of impotent anger, and stamped up and down
the sands like a maniac. He turned and saw me. Rising from his seat
he made me a graceful bow, and waved his hand to me. It was not a
triumphant or a derisive gesture. Even my furious and distempered mind
recognized it as being a solemn and courteous leave-taking. Then he
settled down to his oars once more, and the little skiff shot away
out over the bay. The sun had gone down now, leaving a single dull,
red streak upon the water, which stretched away until it blended with
the purple haze on the horizon. Gradually the skiff grew smaller and
smaller as it sped across this lurid band, until the shades of night
gathered round it and it became a mere blur upon the lonely sea.
Then this vague loom died away also, and darkness settled over it--a
darkness which should never more be raised.
And why did I pace the solitary shore, hot and wrathful as a wolf whose
whelp has been torn from it? Was it that I loved this Muscovite girl?
No--a thousand times no. I am not one who, for the sake of a white skin
or a blue eye, would belie my own life, and change the whole tenor of
my thoughts and existence. My heart was untouched. But my pride--ah,
there I had been cruelly wounded. To think that I had been unable to
afford protection to the helpless one who craved it of me, and who
relied on me! It was that which made my heart sick and sent the blood
buzzing through my ears.
That night a great wind rose up from the sea, and the wild waves
shrieked upon the shore as though they would tear it back with them
into the ocean. The turmoil and the uproar were congenial to my vexed
spirit. All night I wandered up and down, wet with spray and rain,
watching the gleam of the white breakers, and listening to the outcry
of the storm. My heart was bitter against the Russian. I joined my
feeble pipe to the screaming of the gale. “If he would but come back
again!” I cried, with clenched hands; “if he would but come back!”
He came back. When the gray light of morning spread over the eastern
sky and lit up the great waste of yellow, tossing waters, with the
brown clouds drifting swiftly over them, then I saw him once again.
A few hundred yards off along the sand there lay a long dark object,
cast up by the fury of the waves. It was my boat, much shattered
and splintered. A little farther on a vague, shapeless something
was washing to and fro in the shallow water, all mixed with shingle
and with sea-weed. I saw at a glance that it was the Russian, face
downward and dead. I rushed into the water and dragged him up on to
the beach. It was only when I turned him over that I discovered that
she was beneath him, his dead arms encircling her, his mangled body
still intervening between her and the fury of the storm. It seemed
that the fierce German Sea might beat the life from him, but with all
its strength it was unable to tear this one-idea’d man from the woman
whom he loved. There were signs which led me to believe that during
that awful night the woman’s fickle mind had come at last to learn the
worth of the true heart and strong arm which struggled for her and
guarded her so tenderly. Why else should her little head be nestling
so lovingly on his broad breast, while her yellow hair entwined itself
with his flowing beard? Why, too, should there be that bright smile of
ineffable happiness and triumph, which death itself had not had power
to banish from his dusky face? I fancy that death had been brighter to
him than life had ever been.
Madge and I buried them there on the shores of the desolate northern
sea. They lie in one grave deep down beneath the yellow sand. Strange
things may happen in the world around them. Empires may rise and may
fall, dynasties may perish, great wars may come and go, but, heedless
of it all, those two shall embrace each other forever and aye in their
lonely shrine by the side of the sounding ocean. I sometimes have
thought that their spirits flit like shadowy sea-mews over the wild
waters of the bay. No cross or symbol marks their resting-place, but
old Madge puts wild flowers upon it at times; and when I pass on my
daily walk and see the fresh blossoms scattered over the sand, I think
of the strange couple who came from afar and broke for a little space
the dull tenor of my sombre life.
THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX.
“All aboard?” said the captain.
“All aboard, sir!” said the mate.
“Then stand by to let her go.”
It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship Spartan was
lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under hatches, her passengers
shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The warning whistle had
been sounded twice, the final bell had been rung. Her bowsprit was
turned toward England, and the hiss of escaping steam showed that all
was ready for her run of three thousand miles. She strained at the
warps that held her like a greyhound at its leash.
I have the misfortune to be a very nervous man. A sedentary literary
life has helped to increase the morbid love of solitude which, even in
my boyhood, was one of my distinguishing characteristics. As I stood
upon the quarter-deck of the Transatlantic steamer, I bitterly cursed
the necessity which drove me back to the land of my forefathers. The
shouts of the sailors, the rattle of the cordage, the farewells of my
fellow-passengers, and the cheers of the mob, each and all jarred upon
my sensitive nature. I felt sad, too. An indescribable feeling, as of
some impending calamity, seemed to haunt me. The sea was calm and the
breeze light. There was nothing to disturb the equanimity of the most
confirmed of landsmen, yet I felt as if I stood upon the verge of a
great though indefinable danger. I have noticed that such presentiments
occur often in men of my peculiar temperament, and that they are not
uncommonly fulfilled. There is a theory that it arises from a species
of second-sight--a subtle spiritual communication with the future. I
well remember that Herr Raumer, the eminent spiritualist, remarked
on one occasion that I was the most sensitive subject as regards
supernatural phenomena that he had ever encountered in the whole of his
wide experience. Be that as it may, I certainly felt far from happy as
I threaded my way among the weeping, cheering groups which dotted the
white decks of the good ship Spartan. Had I known the experience which
awaited me in the course of the next twelve hours, I would even then,
at the last moment, have sprung upon the shore, and made my escape from
the accursed vessel.
“Time’s up!” said the captain, closing his chronometer with a snap, and
replacing it in his pocket.
“Time’s up!” said the mate. There was a last wail from the whistle, a
rush of friends and relatives upon the land. One warp was loosened, the
gangway was being pushed away, when there was a shout from the bridge,
and two men appeared running rapidly down the quay. They were waving
their hands and making frantic gestures, apparently with the intention
of stopping the ship. “Look sharp!” shouted the crowd. “Hold hard!”
cried the captain. “Ease her! stop her! Up with the gangway!” and the
two men sprang aboard just as the second warp parted, and a convulsive
throb of the engine shot us clear of the shore. There was a cheer from
the deck, another from the quay, a mighty fluttering of handkerchiefs,
and the great vessel ploughed its way out of the harbor, and steamed
grandly away across the placid bay.
We were fairly started upon our fortnight’s voyage. There was a general
dive among the passengers in quest of berths and luggage, while a
popping of corks in the saloon proved that more than one bereaved
traveller was adopting artificial means for drowning the pangs of
separation. I glanced round the deck and took a running inventory of
my _compagnons de voyage_. They presented the usual types met with
upon these occasions. There was no striking face among them. I speak
as a connoisseur, for faces are a specialty of mine. I pounce upon a
characteristic feature as a botanist does on a flower, and bear it
away with me to analyze at my leisure, and classify and label it in my
little anthropological museum. There was nothing worthy of me here.
Twenty types of young America going to “Yurrup,” a few respectable
middle-aged couples as an antidote, a sprinkling of clergymen and
professional men, young ladies, bagmen, British exclusives, and all
the _olla podrida_ of an ocean-going steamer. I turned away from them
and gazed back at the receding shores of America, and, as a cloud of
remembrances rose before me, my heart warmed toward the land of my
adoption. A pile of portmanteaus and luggage chanced to be lying on one
side of the deck, awaiting their turn to be taken below. With my usual
love for solitude I walked behind these, and sitting on a coil of rope
between them and the vessel’s side, I indulged in a melancholy reverie.
I was aroused from this by a whisper behind me. “Here’s a quiet place,”
said the voice. “Sit down, and we can talk it over in safety.”
Glancing through a chink between two colossal chests, I saw that
the passengers who had joined us at the last moment were standing at
the other side of the pile. They had evidently failed to see me as I
crouched in the shadow of the boxes. The one who had spoken was a tall
and very thin man with a blue-black beard and a colorless face. His
manner was nervous and excited. His companion was a short, plethoric
little fellow, with a brisk and resolute air. He had a cigar in his
mouth, and a large ulster slung over his left arm. They both glanced
round uneasily, as if to ascertain whether they were alone. “This is
just the place,” I heard the other say. They sat down on a bale of
goods with their backs turned toward me, and I found myself, much
against my will, playing the unpleasant part of eavesdropper to their
conversation.
“Well, Muller,” said the taller of the two, “we’ve got it aboard right
enough.”
“Yes,” assented the man whom he had addressed as Muller; “it’s safe
aboard.”
“It was rather a near go.”
“It was that, Flannigan.”
“It wouldn’t have done to have missed the ship.”
“No; it would have put our plans out.”
“Ruined them entirely,” said the little man, and puffed furiously at
his cigar for some minutes.
“I’ve got it here,” he said at last.
“Let me see it.”
“Is no one looking?”
“No; they are nearly all below.”
“We can’t be too careful where so much is at stake,” said Muller, as
he uncoiled the ulster which hung over his arm, and disclosed a dark
object which he laid upon the deck. One glance at it was enough to
cause me to spring to my feet with an exclamation of horror. Luckily
they were so engrossed in the matter on hand that neither of them
observed me. Had they turned their heads they would infallibly have
seen my pale face glaring at them over the pile of boxes.
From the first moment of their conversation a horrible misgiving had
come over me. It seemed more than confirmed as I gazed at what lay
before me. It was a little square box made of some dark wood, and
ribbed with brass. I suppose it was about the size of a cubic foot. It
reminded me of a pistol-case, only it was decidedly higher. There was
an appendage to it, however, on which my eyes were riveted, and which
suggested the pistol itself rather than its receptacle. This was a
trigger-like arrangement upon the lid, to which a coil of string was
attached. Beside this trigger there was a small square aperture through
the wood. The tall man, Flannigan, as his companion called him, applied
his eye to this and peered in for several minutes with an expression of
intense anxiety upon his face.
“It seems right enough,” he said at last.
“I tried not to shake it,” said his companion.
“Such delicate things heed delicate treatment. Put in some of the
needful, Muller.”
The shorter man fumbled in his pocket for some time, and then produced
a small paper packet. He opened this, and took out of it half a handful
of whitish granules, which he poured down through the hole. A curious
clicking noise followed from the inside of the box, and both the men
smiled in a satisfied way.
“Nothing much wrong there,” said Flannigan.
“Right as a trivet,” answered his companion.
“Look out! here’s some one coming. Take it down to our berth. It
wouldn’t do to have any one suspecting what our game is, or, worse
still, have them fumbling with it, and letting it off by mistake.”
“Well, it would come to the same, whoever let it off,” said Muller.
“They’d be rather astonished if they pulled the trigger,” said the
taller, with a sinister laugh. “Ha, ha! fancy their faces! It’s not a
bad bit of workmanship, I flatter myself.”
“No,” said Muller. “I hear it is your own design, every bit of it,
isn’t it?”
“Yes, the spring and the sliding shutter are my own.”
“We should take out a patent.”
And the two men laughed again with a cold, harsh laugh, as they took up
the little brass-bound package and concealed it in Muller’s voluminous
overcoat.
“Come down, and we’ll stow it in our berth,” said Flannigan. “We won’t
need it until to-night, and it will be safe there.”
His companion assented, and the two went arm-in-arm along the deck
and disappeared down the hatchway, bearing the mysterious little box
away with them. The last words I heard were a muttered injunction from
Flannigan to carry it carefully, and avoid knocking it against the
bulwarks.
How long I remained sitting on that coil of rope, I shall never know.
The horror of the conversation I had just overheard was aggravated by
the first sinking qualms of sea-sickness. The long roll of the Atlantic
was beginning to assert itself over both ship and passengers. I felt
prostrated in mind and in body, and fell into a state of collapse,
from which I was finally aroused by the hearty voice of our worthy
quartermaster.
“Do you mind moving out of that, sir?” he said. “We want to get this
lumber cleared off the deck.”
His bluff manner and ruddy, healthy face seemed to be a positive insult
to me in my present condition. Had I been a courageous or a muscular
man I could have struck him. As it was, I treated the honest sailor to
a melodramatic scowl, which seemed to cause him no small astonishment,
and strode past him to the other side of the deck. Solitude was what
I wanted--solitude in which I could brood over the frightful crime
which was being hatched before my very eyes. One of the quarter-boats
was hanging rather low down upon the davits. An idea struck me, and,
climbing on the bulwarks, I stepped into the empty boat and lay down in
the bottom of it. Stretched on my back, with nothing but the blue sky
above me, and an occasional view of the mizzen as the vessel rolled, I
was at least alone with my sickness and my thoughts.
I tried to recall the words which had been spoken in the terrible
dialogue I had overheard. Would they admit of any construction but the
one which stared me in the face? My reason forced me to confess that
they would not. I endeavored to array the various facts which formed
the chain of circumstantial evidence, and to find a flaw in it; but
no, not a link was missing. There was the strange way in which our
passengers had come aboard, enabling them to evade any examination
of their luggage. The very name of “Flannigan” smacked of Fenianism,
while “Muller” suggested nothing but Socialism and murder. Then their
mysterious manner; their remark that their plans would have been ruined
had they missed the ship; their fear of being observed; last, but not
least, the clenching evidence in the production of the little square
box with the trigger, and their grim joke about the face of the man who
should let it off by mistake--could these facts lead to any conclusion
other than that they were the desperate emissaries of some body,
political or otherwise, and intended to sacrifice themselves, their
fellow-passengers, and the ship, in one great holocaust? The whitish
granules which I had seen one of them pour into the box formed no doubt
a fuse or train for exploding it. I had myself heard a sound come from
it which might have emanated from some delicate piece of machinery.
But what did they mean by their allusion to to-night? Could it be that
they contemplated putting their horrible design into execution on the
very first evening of our voyage? The mere thought of it sent a cold
shudder over me, and made me for a moment superior even to the agonies
of sea-sickness.
I have remarked that I am a physical coward. I am a moral one also.
It is seldom that the two defects are united to such a degree in
the one character. I have known many men who were most sensitive to
bodily danger, and yet were distinguished for the independence and
strength of their minds. In my own case, however, I regret to say that
my quiet and retiring habits had fostered a nervous dread of doing
anything remarkable, or making myself conspicuous, which exceeded, if
possible, my fear of personal peril. An ordinary mortal placed under
the circumstances in which I now found myself would have gone at once
to the captain, confessed his fears, and put the matter into his hands.
To me, however, constituted as I am, the idea was most repugnant. The
thought of becoming the observed of all observers, cross-questioned
by a stranger, and confronted with two desperate conspirators in
the character of a denouncer, was hateful to me. Might it not by
some remote possibility prove that I was mistaken? What would be my
feelings if there should turn out to be no grounds for my accusation?
No, I would procrastinate; I would keep my eye on the two desperadoes
and dog them at every turn. Anything was better than the possibility of
being wrong.
Then it struck me that even at that moment some new phase of the
conspiracy might be developing itself. The nervous excitement seemed
to have driven away my incipient attack of sickness, for I was able to
stand up and lower myself from the boat without experiencing any return
of it. I staggered along the deck with the intention of descending
into the cabin and finding how my acquaintances of the morning were
occupying themselves. Just as I had my hand on the companion-rail, I
was astonished by receiving a hearty slap on the back, which nearly
shot me down the steps with more haste than dignity.
“Is that you, Hammond?” said a voice which I seemed to recognize.
“God bless me,” I said as I turned round, “it can’t be Dick Merton!
Why, how are you, old man?”
This was an unexpected piece of luck in the midst of my perplexities.
Dick was just the man I wanted; kindly and shrewd in his nature, and
prompt in his actions, I should have no difficulty in telling him
my suspicions, and could rely upon his sound sense to point out the
best course to pursue. Since I was a little lad in the second form at
Harrow, Dick had been my adviser and protector. He saw at a glance that
something had gone wrong with me.
“Hullo!” he said, in his kindly way, “what’s put you about, Hammond?
You look as white as a sheet. _Mal de mer_, eh?”
“No, not that altogether,” said I. “Walk up and down with me, Dick; I
want to speak to you. Give me your arm.”
Supporting myself on Dick’s stalwart frame, I tottered along by his
side; but it was some time before I could muster resolution to speak.
“Have a cigar?” said he, breaking the silence.
“No, thanks,” said I. “Dick, we shall all be corpses to-night.”
“That’s no reason against your having a cigar now,” said Dick, in his
cool way, but looking hard at me from under his shaggy eyebrows as he
spoke. He evidently thought my intellect was a little gone.
“No,” I continued; “it’s no laughing matter, and I speak in sober
earnest, I assure you. I have discovered an infamous conspiracy,
Dick, to destroy this ship and every soul that is in her;” and I then
proceeded systematically, and in order, to lay before him the chain of
evidence which I had collected. “There, Dick,” I said, as I concluded,
“what do you think of that? and, above all, what am I to do?”
To my astonishment he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“I’d be frightened,” he said, “if any fellow but you had told me as
much. You always had a way, Hammond, of discovering mares’ nests. I
like to see the old traits breaking out again. Do you remember at
school how you swore there was a ghost in the long room, and how it
turned out to be your own reflection in the mirror? Why, man,” he
continued, “what object would any one have in destroying this ship?
We have no great political guns aboard. On the contrary, the majority
of the passengers are Americans. Besides, in this sober nineteenth
century, the most wholesale murderers stop at including themselves
among their victims. Depend upon it, you have misunderstood them, and
have mistaken a photographic camera, or something equally innocent, for
an infernal machine.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” said I, rather touchily. “You will learn to
your cost, I fear, that I have neither exaggerated nor misinterpreted a
word. As to the box, I have certainly never before seen one like it. It
contained delicate machinery; of that I am convinced, from the way in
which the men handled it and spoke of it.”
“You’d make out every packet of perishable goods to be a torpedo,” said
Dick, “if that is to be your only test.”
“The man’s name was Flannigan,” I continued.
“I don’t think that would go very far in a court of law,” said Dick;
“but come, I have finished my cigar. Suppose we go down together and
split a bottle of claret. You can point out these two Orsinis to me if
they are still in the cabin.”
“All right,” I answered; “I am determined not to lose sight of them all
day. Don’t look hard at them, though; for I don’t want them to think
that they are being watched.”
“Trust me,” said Dick; “I’ll look as unconscious and guileless as a
lamb;” and with that we passed down the companion and into the saloon.
A good many passengers were scattered about the great central table,
some wrestling with refractory carpet-bags and rug-straps, some having
their luncheon, and a few reading and otherwise amusing themselves. The
objects of our quest were not there. We passed down the room and peered
into every berth; but there was no sign of them. “Heavens!” thought I,
“perhaps at this very moment they are beneath our feet, in the hold or
engine-room, preparing their diabolical contrivance!” It was better to
know the worst than remain in such suspense.
“Steward,” said Dick, “are there any other gentlemen about?”
“There’s two in the smoking-room, sir,” answered the steward.