"SHE THREW HERSELF ON THE SOFA IN AN AGONY OF GRIEF."
Nearer and nearer drew that ship, and bigger and bigger she seemed to
grow, evidently with the intention of landing on the island.
Even with the naked eye they soon could see that her bulwarks were badly
battered, and that her fore-topmast had been carried away.
Back they now hurried to leave Ilda and Matty at the palace. Then
camp-wards with all speed; and just as they reached the barracks they
could hear the rattling of the chains as both anchors were being let go
in the bay.
A boat now left the vessel's side, and our three heroes hurried down to
meet it.
The captain was a red-faced, white-haired, hale old man, and one's very
_beau-ideal_ of a sailor. He was invited at once up to the barracks,
and rum and ship biscuits placed before him. Then yarns were
interchanged, Captain Cleaver being the first to tell the story of his
adventures. Very briefly, though, as seafarers mostly do talk.
"Left Rio three months ago, bound for San Francisco. Fine weather for a
time, and until we had cleared the Straits. Then--oh, man! may I never
see the like again! I've been to sea off and on for forty years and
five, but never before have I met with such storms. One after another,
too; and here we are at last. In the quiet of your bay, I hope to make
good some repairs, then hurry on our voyage. And you?" he added.
"Ah," said Dickson, "we came infinitely worse off than you. Wrecked,
and nearly all our brave crew drowned. Six men only saved, with us
three, Mr Hall's daughter and a child. The latter are now with the
white Queen of this island. We managed to save our guns and provisions
from our unhappy yacht and that was all."
"Well, you shall all sail to California with me. I'll make room, for I
am but lightly loaded. But I have not yet heard the name of your craft,
nor have you introduced me to your companions."
"A sailor's mistake," laughed Dickson; "but this is Mr Hall, who was a
passenger; and this is Dr Reginald Grahame. Our vessel's name was the
_Wolverine_."
"And she sailed from Glasgow nearly three years ago?"
Captain Cleaver bent eagerly over towards Dickson as he put the
question.
"That is so, sir."
"Why, you are long since supposed to have foundered with all hands, and
the insurance has been paid to your owners."
"Well, that is right; the ship is gone, but _we_ are alive, and our
adventures have been very strange and terrible indeed. After dinner I
will tell you all. But now," he added, with a smile, "if you will only
take us as far as 'Frisco, we shall find our way to our homes."
Captain Cleaver's face was very pale now, and he bit his lips, as he
replied:
"I can take you, Captain Dickson, your six men, Mr Hall and the ladies,
but I cannot sail with this young fellow." He pointed to Reginald. "It
may be mere superstition on my part," he continued, "but I am an old
sailor, you know, and old sailors have whims."
"I cannot see why I should be debarred from a passage home," said
Reginald.
"I am a plain man," said Cleaver, "and I shall certainly speak out, if
you pretend you do not know."
"I do _not_ know, and I command you to speak out."
"Then I will. In Britain there is a price set upon your head, sir, and
you are branded as a _murderer_!"
Dickson and Hall almost started from their seats, but Reginald was
quiet, though deathly white.
"And--and," he said, in a husky voice, "whom am I accused of murdering?"
"Your quondam friend, sir, and rival in love, the farmer Craig Nicol."
"I deny it _in toto_!" cried Reginald.
"Young man, I am not your judge. I can only state facts, and tell you
that your knife was found bloodstained and black by the murdered man's
side. The odds are all against you."
"This is truly terrible!" said Reginald, getting red and white by turns,
as he rapidly paced the floor. "What can it mean?"
"Captain Dickson," he said at last, "do you believe, judging from all
you have seen of me, that I could be guilty of so dastardly a deed, or
that I could play and romp with the innocent child Matty with,
figuratively speaking, blood between my fingers, and darkest guilt at my
heart? Can you believe it?"
Dickson held out his hand, and Reginald grasped it, almost in despair.
"Things look black against you," he said, "but I do _not_ believe you
guilty."
"Nor do I," said Hall; "but I must take the opportunity of sailing with
Captain Cleaver, I and my daughter and little Matty."
Reginald clasped his hand to his heart.
"My heart will break!" he said bitterly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a few days' time Cleaver's ship was repaired, and ready for sea. So
was Hall, and just two of the men. The other four, as well as Dickson
himself, elected to stay. There was still water to be laid in, however,
and so the ship was detained for forty-eight hours.
One morning his messmates missed Reginald from his bed. It was cold,
and evidently had not been slept in for many hours.
"Well, well," said Dickson, "perhaps it is best thus, but I doubt not
that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by
this time all his sorrows are ended for ay."
But Reginald had had no such intention. While the stars were yet
shining, and the beautiful Southern Cross mirrored in the river's depth,
he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the
palace.
Ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee Matty. Both were surprised
but happy to see him. He took the child in his arms, and as he kissed
her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist.
"Dear Matty," he said, "run out, now; I would speak with Ilda alone."
Half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, Matty retired
obediently enough.
"Oh," cried Ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, "you are
in grief. What can have happened?"
"Do not sit near me, Ilda. Oh, would that the grief would but kill me!
The captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me
terrible news. I am branded with murder! Accused of slaying my quondam
friend and rival in the affections of her about whom I have often spoken
to you--Annie Lane."
Ilda was stricken dumb. She sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of
him she loved above all men on earth.
"But--oh, you are not--_could_ not--be guilty! Reginald--my own
Reginald!" she cried.
"Things are terribly black against me, but I will say no more now. Only
the body was not found until two days after I sailed, and it is believed
that I was a fugitive from justice. That makes matters worse. Ilda, I
could have loved you, but, ah! I fear this will be our last interview
on earth. Your father is sailing by this ship, and taking you and my
little love Matty with him."
She threw herself in his arms now, and wept till it verily seemed her
heart would break. Then he kissed her tenderly, and led her back to her
seat.
"Brighter times may come," he said. "There is ever sunshine behind the
clouds. Good-bye, darling, good-bye--and may every blessing fall on
your life and make you happy. Say good-bye to the child for me; I dare
not see her again."
She half rose and held out her arms towards him, but he was gone. The
door was closed, and she threw herself now on the sofa in an agony of
grief.
The ship sailed next day. Reginald could not see her depart. He and
one man had gone to the distant hill. They had taken luncheon with
them, and the sun had almost set before they returned to camp.
"Have they gone?" was the first question when he entered the
barrack-hall.
"They have gone."
That was all that Dickson said.
"But come, my friend, cheer up. No one here believes you guilty. All
are friends around you, and if, as I believe you to be, you are
innocent, my advice is this: Pray to the Father; pray without ceasing,
and He will bend down His ear and take you out of your troubles.
Remember those beautiful lines you have oftentimes heard me sing:
"`God is our comfort and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid.'
"And these:
"`He took me from a fearful pit,
And from the miry clay;
And on a rock he set my feet,
Establishing my way.'"
"God bless you for your consolation. But at present my grief is all so
fresh, and it came upon me like a bolt from the blue. In a few days I
may recover. I do not know. I may fail and die. It may be better if I
do."
Dickson tried to smile.
"Nonsense, lad. I tell you all will yet come right, and you will see."
The men who acted as servants now came in to lay the supper. The table
was a rough one indeed, and tablecloth there was none. Yet many a
hearty meal they had made off the bare boards.
"I have no appetite, Dickson."
"Perhaps not; but inasmuch as life is worth living, and especially a
young life like yours, eat you must, and we must endeavour to coax it."
As he spoke he placed a bottle of old rum on the table. He took a
little himself, as if to encourage his patient, and then filled out half
a tumblerful and pushed it towards Reginald. Reginald took a sip or
two, and finally finished it by degrees, but reluctantly. Dickson
filled him out more.
"Nay, nay," Reginald remonstrated.
"Do you see that couch yonder?" said his companion, smiling.
"Yes."
"Well, as soon as you have had supper, on that you must go to bed, and I
will cover you with a light rug. Sleep will revive you, and things
to-morrow morning will not look quite so dark and gloomy."
"I shall do all you tell me."
"Good boy! but mind, I have even Solomon's authority for asking you to
drink a little. `Give,' he says, `strong drink to him Who is ready to
perish... Let him drink... and remember his misery no more.' And our
irrepressible bard Burns must needs paraphrase these words in verse:
"`Give him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
And liquor good to fire his blood,
That's pressed wi' grief and care.
There let him bouse and deep carouse
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er;
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.'"