"And what are your intentions with regard to Miss Madison?" I asked.
"To win her love, if I can, and make her my wife," he said,
determinedly. "You say she does not remember me--the fellow in jail?
Well, don't tell her, doctor. I'll tell her myself when the time comes,
but not now. It might hurt me."
I promised, but could not see the future clear of trouble, for Dunbar,
for Lance, and for Miss Madison.
Dunbar went back to New York, to assume charge of Lance's yacht, and
I spent the next few months in fruitless argument, denunciation, and
threat; but I could not move Lance, and I think I drove him to harder
drinking. Then there came the time when Ella Madison, the girl I loved
as my own child, asked me to accompany her on a trip to sea in Lance's
yacht.
"I must disappear for a time," she said, sadly, "and I want you with
me. I know I will die if you are not with me, for he is inflexible."
"I'll go, my girl," I said, grimly, "and stand by you. But, God help
the scoundrel if things come to the worst."
I thought of Dunbar as I said this, wondering what he would do, when he
learned that his goddess was the victim of his savior.
But we packed up--my wife, the poor, weakened, and helpless girl,
and myself. We went to New York, boarded the black, shiny schooner
at Twenty-sixth Street, and put to sea, Dunbar delighted at the trip
with the woman he adored, and Lance drunk and disagreeable. It was
an unpleasant experience in his life, rendered necessary by his very
slight adherence to the conventions.
The yacht was a fine schooner of about a hundred and twenty feet
length, carrying, besides her skipper, a mate and twenty men, with a
cook, steward, and cabin-boy. She was well found, in stores and the
liquid refreshments dear to the soul of Lance, and well able to keep
the sea until this unfortunate happening was over.
I have not said anything so far of my wife, and she has small part in
this story. Let it suffice that she was with me heart and soul in my
interest for and love for Ella Madison, and our only desire was to
help her as we could, I as a medical man, she as a woman full of human
sympathy. The event came at the beginning of a gale off Cape Hatteras,
when Lance was half drunk, and Dunbar excited and interested in the
work of snugging down. He was on deck, and I heard his roaring orders
to his men while I, with my wife, attended the poor girl below in her
stateroom.
I had seen in Dunbar's eyes the suspicion that he entertained, but
had not yet brought myself to the point of informing him. Yet it came
unexpectedly, when, clad in oilskins, he caught me at the companionway,
and said:
"What's the matter? Is anything wrong with Miss Madison?"
"Dunbar," I answered, "she will be delivered of a child in less than an
hour; and its father is George Lance, who saved your life. Be careful
what you do or what you say."
The man reeled as though I had struck him, then went forward, and I
heard his voice, directing his mate and men. I hoped that his strength
of soul would stand by him.
I went below, meeting Lance in the forward cabin. He was
half-intoxicated, and I had small interest in his conversation, but he
said something that I remembered.
"No need, Doctor, to preserve any evidence of this. I'll see to that
all right. Just leave it to me, and she can go on and live her life,
and I'll go on and live my life, just the same. It's all a matter of
common sense. Understand."
I did not understand--until later, when, having left Ella Madison
with a small, crying creature in her arms, I went to my berth utterly
exhausted, and was aroused by my wife, who said: "The baby is missing.
Where can it be?"
I turned out and peeped into Ella's stateroom. She was sleeping
peacefully, but there was no sign of the babe.
"I only left her a few minutes ago," said my wife, "and the little one
was beside her. It had stopped crying."
"Go to your room, dear," I said, "and leave this to me."
She obeyed me and I went on deck. The yacht was hove to, under a
close-reefed mainsail, a double-reefed foresail, and the jib, with the
bonnet off. Forward, the watch on deck walked back and forth in twos
and threes, clad in snug oilskins and unmindful of the bombardment
of spume and spindrift. The mate was amidships, looking aloft and to
windward, and aft near the wheel was Dunbar, staring moodily into the
storm. I waited until he stepped forward to speak to the mate, then
approached the man at the wheel.
"Has Mr. Lance been on deck?" I said, nonchalantly.
"Yes, sir. He came up a short time back."
"Throw anything overboard?"
"Yes, sir. He had a bundle, and dropped it over the lee quarter."
"That's all right. Keep your mouth shut until I talk with you."
I went below, shocked and horrified beyond my powers of self-analysis.
Lance had murdered the child born to the woman he had won and despised.
And here on the scene was Dunbar, who had worshiped this woman as an
abstract ideal, whose life had been saved by this murderer, and who was
under such heavy obligations of gratitude that his course of conduct
was problematical. I could not foresee the solution. I did not know
what Dunbar would do.
I sought my wife and told her. She could not advise me nor help me. I
hunted for Lance, and found him, locked in his stateroom.
"Let me in," I said. "I want to talk with you."
He opened the door, and I entered. He was ghastly pale,
wild-eyed--drunk.
"Have a drink, Doc," he stuttered. "Of course, you know that I've
queered the case--that things are all right, now, and that when we get
back she can live her life and I can live mine."
"You will live your life," I said, "as a convict, sentenced to life
imprisonment, unless a more merciful decree of the court shall send you
to the electric chair."
"Oh, have a drink. It's all right. The evidence is out of the way.
Now, I'm willing to cut her out--to have nothing more to do with her,
and she can do what she likes, get married, or remain an old maid.
I'm through. I've made good. Her reputation hasn't suffered, because
nobody knows, except you, and I, and your wife. Well, what's the use
of talking? Just keep still, and we'll go back to New York. She can go
home, and the whole thing will end."
"Don't flatter yourself," I answered grimly. "There is a man on deck
that you will have to deal with--a man who has loved this girl for
years, who knows your position, and who will know of the crime you have
committed. You are a murderer, and you will have to deal with John
Dunbar."
"What have I got to do with him? He's my skipper, to do as I tell him."
"I'll see about that."
I left him and sought Dunbar, who stood on the weather quarter, alone.
The same man was at the wheel, and I raised my hand warningly as I
caught his eye. He nodded, as though he comprehended.
"Dunbar," I said, as I reached his side, "has the captain of a ship, or
yacht, the power to put the owner of the craft in irons?"
"Yes," he answered, slowly, the words seeming to struggle through his
set teeth, "if the owner violates the law in any way, or threatens by
his acts the destruction of property or life."
"Then put George Lance in irons for the murder of his own child."
He started, and looked intently into my face.
"He threw the child overboard within half an hour of its birth."
"Then, Doctor," he answered, slowly, "it seems that he does not mean to
marry her."
"Most certainly not. I gave up that hope long ago."
"He will cast her adrift to live this thing down as she can, I suppose."
"Yes, as he says, to live her life as she likes while he lives his."
"I will not iron him, doctor; for that would mean arrest, a trial, and
publicity. Where is he now?"
"In his room, drunk and defiant."
Dunbar threw off his long oilskin coat, doffed his sou'wester, and
descended the cabin stairs; I followed, and my wife, standing in the
open doorway of Ella's room, beckoned to me.
"I have just told her," she whispered, "but she seems too dazed to
realize it."
Dunbar, who had halted in the middle of the cabin, approached.
"May I speak to her?" he asked, quietly. We assented, and he stepped
into the stateroom. The poor girl, white and wasted, looked at him as I
have seen a kitten look at a huge dog, but she made no protest.
"Miss Madison," said Dunbar, gently, "do you remember the boy in the
jail about ten years ago, to whom you were kind when others--excepting
the doctor here--were not? Do you remember John Dunbar, who served a
four-year sentence?"
She nodded, slowly and weakly, with the light of recognition stealing
over her face.
"I am that boy, Miss Madison. Your kindness made a man of me. I studied
and worked and saved, looking forward to the time when I might reach
your level and ask you to be my wife. In all these years of absence I
have not spent ten seconds of my waking life without thinking of you,
your face and figure, trying to recall your voice, your gestures, and
expression. I want that you should know this--that you should know how
I loved you and what that love has done for me, so that you will not
think that your life is a complete failure, even though your present
trouble ends things for me. I am going to die. Good-by."
He leaned over, put his arms around her neck and gently lifted her;
then he pressed his lips to hers, long and passionately, and, laying
her down, brushed past us at the door.
"Where is he?" he asked, grimly.
"In his room," I answered. "But, Dunbar, what are you thinking of?
You're not thinking of dying, are you?"
"That, and other things."
He opened the door of Lance's room.
"Mr. Lance," he said. "Come out of that."
"What do you mean by this intrusion, Captain Dunbar? This is the after
cabin, and my private room, where you have no business to be. You are
my sailing-master. Go on deck where you belong." Lance's voice was
thick, and he spoke brokenly. But this ended it; Dunbar's face, voice,
and manner sobered him.
"Come out of that room!" thundered Dunbar, "or I'll drag you out by the
hair. COME!" The last word was like a trumpet-blast, and Lance followed
him out into the cabin.
"Mr. Lance," said Dunbar, his face as white as a sailor's may become,
and his voice low, tense, and thoroughly under command, "you saved my
life, and by so doing debarred me from any action antagonistic to you
while I retained that life. But you have forfeited yours. You could
go back to New York, stand trial for the murder of a helpless infant,
and die in the chair--which death would not atone for the suffering
you would inflict upon this girl that I loved, and upon me. For she
would be flouted by the world. And so, to save her from this flouting,
and because you have got to die, I appoint myself your executioner,
out here at sea where there are no reporters to give the facts to the
world. But in killing you I give you back the life that you gave me;
for that life is nothing to me compared with the happiness of Ella
Madison. Come! Come on deck, and go overboard with me."
"What--what?" stuttered Lance, his eyes wide open in terror. "What are
you thinking of? If you love this girl, marry her. I will stand the
expense and start you in life. You can command this yacht at double
your present pay, or I will secure you an interest in and the command
of a ship. This seems a pleasant solution of this very unpleasant
business. Come, now, what do you say?"
"Damn you!" roared Dunbar, and his fist shot out. Lance was fairly
hurled by the impact on his jaw against the bulkhead, where he fell to
the floor. Before he was well on his feet Dunbar had him by the throat.
"On deck with you," he said, as Lance struggled in his grasp. "Come,
and we'll follow the baby."
"Dunbar," I shouted. "Stop this. Are you going to be a murderer, too?
Leave this to the law. The law is adequate."
"The law will publish her shame to the world," he replied, as calmly
as a man may speak while struggling with one under mortal fear of
death. For Lance had roused himself to the necessity of action. He
was, a tall, strong man, nearly the match for Dunbar. They fought and
struggled round that cabin floor, while my wife screamed and finally
fainted. But I could give her no attention; I was trying, though a man
getting on to old age, to separate these two men, one bent upon death,
the other fighting for life. Through the open stateroom door Ella must
have heard it all.
Even as I tried, with my small strength, and the words at my command,
to stop this suicide and murder, there came to me the memory of the
similarity of happenings to these two men--that they were born in the
same spot and at the same moment, that the dates of their departures
coincided, and that they had both been strongly influenced by the
same woman, one to be uplifted, the other to be dragged down. Was it
to happen that both should die at the same time? I felt, rather than
believed, that the laws of astrology were as nothing when opposed to
the human will, and I resolved to stop that struggle. I rushed on deck,
and called the mate. He came, the inquiry in his face apprising me that
he had heard the sounds from below, and was wondering.
"Call all hands," I commanded. "The captain is half insane and is bent
upon jumping overboard with the owner. Separate them."
"Not much," he said. "I've nothing to do with their troubles, but I've
got my living to make. Both have power to fire me, and no matter who
wins, I'd get it in the neck."
"Men, come aft here," I shouted to the sailors. The men forward came
toward me, but were stopped by the mate.
"Go back," he said. "This is none of your funeral nor mine. Let the
owner settle his own affairs."
They obeyed him, and drew away. Of course, they did not know. I ran
aft to the companion. Dunbar and Lance were just at the upper step.
Dunbar was speaking, quietly, softly, yet intensely upon the matter in
hand--the absolute necessity of their both dying. He had one hand on
Lance's throat, the other upon his hair, and he was dragging him bodily
out of the companion.
"Dunbar!" I shouted, "stop this. You are insane. Put him in irons and
take time to think. Then you will not want to do this. Think, Dunbar."
He did not answer. His grim, determined face did not change nor soften.
He was the master of the other and was using his power. Slowly, while
Lance struggled and shrieked for help, he dragged him over toward the
rail.
"Drop your wheel," I said to the helmsman, "and help me to stop this
murder and suicide."
"Can't leave the wheel, sir," the man answered. "Get some of the other
fellows."
The other fellows were under control of the mate, careful of his job. I
was in despair, and in my despair I threw myself upon Dunbar, demanding
that he desist. He struck me down with a blow, and while I was in a
half-comatose condition, I saw a white-clad figure emerge from the
companion, and approach the contestants. It was Ella, in her night
robe, pale and weak, but determined.
"John," she said, as she laid her hand on the shoulder of Dunbar, "John
Dunbar. Stop. If you do this I will die, too. Do you want to kill me?
Stop, or you _will_ kill me. Stop, John Dunbar, and think of me, the
woman you say you loved."
Dunbar released his hold on Lance, and while the terror-stricken
scoundrel rushed to the companion, he turned toward the girl, his face
twisting with the conflicting emotions of his brain. I staggered to my
feet, reached her side and supported her.
"John Dunbar," she continued, "you are too big, and strong, and brave,
to do this thing--to kill yourself so that you may kill another. Live,
so that I may live, too. God will care for him."
Dunbar shook like a man with the ague, and it was some time before he
could control his voice in answer.
"I _can_ live," he stammered, "for you. But, is it possible? You love
him."
"I do not. He killed my child--his child."
Dunbar stiffened up and looked around.
"Mr. Wright," he called to the first mate. "Put the owner in irons and
lock him in his room."
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the officer.
And so, with the help of four husky, able seamen, Mr. George Lance,
owner of the yacht _Sylph_, was ironed and confined by order of his
sailing-master, charged with the crime of murder.
We returned to New York. Ella, collapsing in my arms after her
declaration to Dunbar, was put to bed by my wife, and slowly recovered
her strength. Dunbar, somewhat changed by what she had said, grew
tranquil, but non-committal. My wife recovered her equanimity, and
expressed hope for the future, in which hope I joined her; but Lance,
with his wrists linked by handcuffs, and his soul tortured by deadly
fear, reviled us all whenever his opened stateroom door gave him
opportunity.
There is little more to this story. We anchored, handed Lance over to
the harbor police, and went home to await the trial. Dunbar, whose
testimony was not needed, secured command of a ship and went to sea.
Ella remained in seclusion and was not dragged into the trial when
it came off; for Lance, on the evidence furnished by the man at the
wheel, my wife and myself, was easily convicted and sentenced to life
imprisonment. But there were the usual appeals and retrials, and,
pending the final disposal of the case, and with regard to Ella's
future, I moved my goods and chattels to a far-away city, there to
build up a new practice in a community that knew nothing of the trial.
But John Dunbar followed us, and, considering the preliminary reference
to astrology that appeared in this story, it is but fitting to close
with the statement that on the day Dunbar married Ella Madison, Lance
entered the penitentiary, there to remain for the rest of his life.