It is proverbial that incidents in themselves trivial frequently form
the hinges on which great events turn. When Edgar Berrington went to
London he learned that the owners of the fine ocean-steamer the
_Warrior_ wished him to become their chief engineer for that voyage, the
previous chief having been suddenly taken ill and obliged to leave them.
Although flattered by the proposal, and the terms in which it was made,
Edgar declined it, for, having acquired all the knowledge he desired
about marine engines during the voyage out and home, he did not wish to
waste more time at sea. The owner, however, being aware of his worth,
was not to be put off with a first refusal. He took Edgar into his
private room and reasoned with him.
"Come now, Mr Berrington, consider my proposal again. You'll go, won't
you?"
"Impossible," replied Edgar. "You are very kind, and I assure you that
I fully appreciate your offer, but--"
He was interrupted by a clerk who entered at the moment and spoke a few
words in an under tone to the owner.
"Excuse me one minute, Mr Berrington," said the latter, rising quickly.
"I shall return immediately. There is a newspaper, to look--no--where
is it? Ah! No matter: here is a list of the passengers going out to
China in the _Warrior_. It may amuse you. Perhaps you may find a
friend amongst them."
Left alone, Edgar ran his eye carelessly over the names--thinking the
while of the disagreeables of another long sea-voyage, and strengthening
his resolves not to be tempted to go.
Now, the careless glance at this passenger-list was the apparently
trifling incident on which hinged the whole of our hero's future career;
his careless glance became suddenly fixed and attentive; his eyebrows
lifted to their utmost elevation and his face flushed crimson, for there
he beheld the names of Charles Hazlit, Esquire, and his daughter, Miss
Aileen Hazlit.
Just at that moment the owner of the _Warrior_ returned. This owner was
an intelligent, shrewd man--quick to observe. He noted the flush on
Edgar's countenance, and Edgar immediately blew his nose with violence
to account for the flush.
"Well now, Mr Berrington, what say you?" he resumed.
Poor Edgar knew not what to say. A reply had to be given at once. He
had no time to think. Aileen going to China! An offer of a situation
in the same vessel!
"Well, sir," said our hero, with sudden decision, "I will go."
Of course the owner expressed himself well pleased, and then there
followed a deal of nautico-scientific talk, after which Edgar ventured
to say--
"I observe the name of Mr Charles Hazlit on your list. He is an
acquaintance of mine. Do you happen to know what takes him so far from
home?"
"Can't say exactly," replied the other. "I think some one told me his
affairs in China require looking after, and his daughter's health
necessitates a long sea-voyage."
"Health!" exclaimed Edgar, striving to look and speak in a comparatively
indifferent manner. "She was quite well when I saw her last."
"Very likely," said the owner, with a smile, "but it does not take long
to make a young lady ill--especially when her heart is touched. Some
sort of rumour floats in my mind to the effect that Miss Hazlit is going
out to China to be married, or requires to go out because she doesn't
want to be married--I forget which. But it comes pretty much to the
same thing in the end!"
"Hah!" said Edgar shortly.
If he had said "Oh!" in tones of agony, it would have been more truly
expressive of his feelings.
The moment he got out of the office and felt the cool air of the street
he repented of his decision and pronounced himself to be a consummate
donkey!
"There," thought he, "I've made a fool of myself. I've engaged for a
long voyage in a capacity which precludes the possibility of my
associating with the passengers, for not only must nearly all my waking
hours be spent down beside the engine, but when I come up to cool myself
I must perforce do so in dirty costume, with oily hands and face, quite
in an unfit state to be seen by Aileen, and without the slightest right
to take any notice of her. Oh! Donkey--goose that you are, Eddy! But
you've done it now, and can't undo it, therefore you must go through
with it."
Thinking of himself in this lowly strain he went home to the solitude of
his lodging, sat down before his tea-table, thrust both hands into his
pockets, and, in a by no means unhappy frame of mind, brooded over his
trials and sorrows.
Let us change the scene now. We are out upon the sea--in a floating
palace. And oh how that palace rushes onward, ever onward, without
rest, without check, night and day, cleaving its way irresistibly
through the mighty deep. Mighty! Ah! _how_ mighty no one on board can
tell so well as that thin, gentle, evidently dying youth who leans over
the stern watching the screws and the "wake" that seems to rush behind,
marking off, as it were mile by mile, the vast and ever-increasing
space--never to be re-traversed he knows full well--that separates him
from home and all that is dear to him on earth.
The palace is made of iron--hard, unyielding, unbeautiful,
uncompromising iron,--but her cushions are soft, her gilding is
gorgeous, her fittings are elegant, her food is sumptuous, her society--
at least much of it--is refined. Of course representatives of the
unrefined are also there--in the after-cabin too--just as there are
specimens of the refined in the fore-cabin. But, taking them all in
all, they are a remarkably harmonious band, the inhabitants of this iron
palace, from the captain to the cabin-boy inclusive. The latter is a
sprightly imp; the former is--to use the expression of one of the
unrefined--"a brick." He is not tall--few sea-captains seem to be so--
but he is very broad, and manly, and as strong as an elephant. He is a
pattern captain. Gallant to the lady passengers, chatty with the
gentlemen, polite to the unrefined, sedately grave among the officers
and crew, and jocular to the children; in short, he is all things to all
men--and much of the harmony on board is due to his unconscious
influence. He has a handsome face, glittering black eyes, an aquiline
nose that commands respect, and a black beard and moustache that covered
a firm mouth and chin.
Grinding is one of the prominent ideas that are suggested on board the
iron palace. There are many other ideas, no doubt. Among seventy or
eighty educated and intelligent human beings of both sexes and all ages
it could not be otherwise. We allude, however, to the boat--not to the
passengers. The screw grinds and the engine grinds incessantly. When
one thinks of a thing, or things, going round and round, or up and down,
regularly, uninterruptedly, vigorously, doggedly, obstinately, hour
after hour, one is impressed, to say the least; and when one thinks of
the said thing, or things, going on thus, night and day without rest,
one is solemnised; but when one meditates on these motions being
continued for many weeks together, one has a tendency to feel mentally
overwhelmed.
The great crank that grinds the screw, and is itself ground by the
piston--not to mention the cylinder and boiler--works in a dark place
deep down in the engine-room, like a giant hand constantly engaged on
deeds of violence and evil.
Here Edgar Berrington, clothed in white canvas and oil, finds genial
companionship. He dotes on the great crank. It is a sympathetic thing.
It represents his feelings wonderfully. Returning from the deck after
inhaling a little fresh air, he leans against the iron bulkhead in these
clanking depths and gazes gloomily and for prolonged periods at the
crank while it grinds with a sort of vicious energy that seems in
strange harmony with his soul. Sometimes he grinds his teeth as a sort
of obbligato accompaniment--especially if he has while on deck, during a
wistful gaze at the distant perspective of the aft-regions, beheld, (or
fancied he has beheld) a familiar and adored form.
At first the passengers were sick--very sick, most of them--insomuch
that there were some who would gladly, if possible, have surrendered
their lives with their dinners; but by degrees they began to improve,
and to regard meals with anticipation instead of loathing. When the
sunny and calm latitudes near the line were reached, every one grew well
and hearty, and at last there was not a sad soul on board except the
poor sick lad who studied the screw and measured the ever-increasing
distance from home. One of the first evidences of the return of health
was the sound of song. When the nights were clear and calm, and naught
was audible save the grinding of the screw, the passengers crystallised
naturally into groups in the same way that ice-particles arrange
themselves in sympathetic stars; and from several such constellations
the music of the spheres was naturally evolved.
One of these crystals was formed, usually in a tent on deck, by the
attractive influence of smoke. It was consequently not a bright
crystal, and included particles both refined and otherwise. Its music
was gruff for the most part, sometimes growly. There was another
crystal which varied its position occasionally--according to the
position of the moon, for it was a crystal formed of romantic elements.
One of its parts was a Scottish maiden whose voice was melodious,
flexible, and very sweet. Her face and spirit had been made to match.
She had many admirers, and a bosom-friend of kindly heart and aspect,
with wealth of golden hair, in some respects like herself.
Our heroine Aileen, being passionately fond of music, and herself a
sweet singer, attached herself to this crystal, and became as it were
another bosom-friend.
Two bearded men were also much given to seek attachment to this crystal.
They also seemed knit to each other in bosom-friendship--if we may
venture to use such a term with reference to bearded men. One was
amateurly musical, the other powerfully sympathetic. A pastor, of
unusually stalwart proportions, with a gentle pretty wife and lovable
family, also had a decided leaning to this crystal.
One evening the group, finding its favourite part of the deck occupied,
was driven to a position near the tent of the smoky crystal, and,
sitting down not far from the engineer's quarters, began to indulge in
song. Grave and gay alternated. Duets followed; trios ensued, and
miscellaneous new forms of harmony sometimes intervened.
"Do sing a solo, Miss Hazlit," said the Scottish maiden. "I like your
voice _so_ much, and want to hear it alone. Will you sing?"
Aileen had an obliging spirit. She at once began, in a low contralto
voice, "I cannot sing the old songs."
Sometimes in private life one hears a voice so sweet, so thrilling, with
a "something" so powerful in it, that one feels, amid other sensations
of pleasure, great satisfaction to think that none of the public singers
in the world could "bat that" if they were to try their best, and that
few of them could equal it!
Such a voice was that of our heroine. It drew towards her the soul,
body, and spirit of the music-lovers who listened. Of course we do not
deny that there were some who could not be drawn thus. There were a
few, among the smoky crystals, for whom a draw of the pipe or a mildly
drawn pot of bitter beer had greater charms than sweet sounds, however
melting. With the exceptions of these, nearly all who chanced to be
within hearing drew near to the musical group, and listened while that
most, beautiful of songs was being warbled in tones not loud but
inexpressibly pathetic.
Among the listeners was our friend Edgar Berrington. Seated, as usual,
in front of the great crank, with bare muscular arms folded on his broad
chest and a dark frown on his forehead, he riveted his eyes on the crank
as if it were the author of all his anxieties. Suddenly the terminating
lines, "I cannot sing the old songs, they are too dear to me," rising
above the din of machinery, floated gently down through iron
lattice-work, beams, rods, cranks, and bars, and smote upon his ear.
Like a galvanised man he sprang on his legs and stood erect. Then, if
we may say so, like a human rocket, he shot upwards and stood on the
margin of the crowd. Being head and shoulders over most of them he
observed a clear space beside the singer. The night was dark, features
could not be discerned, even forms were not easily recognisable. He
glided into the open space, and silently but promptly sat down on the
deck beside Aileen. His elbow even touched one of the folds of her
garment. He went straight into paradise and remained there!
As for Aileen, if she observed the action at all, she probably set it
down to the enthusiasm of a more than usually musical member of the
ship's crew.
While she was still dwelling on the last note, a grinding sound was
heard and a slight tremor felt that not only stopped the song abruptly
but checked the applause that was ready to burst from every lip and
hand. Edgar vanished from the spot where he sat quite as quickly as he
had appeared, and in a moment was at his station. The captain's voice
was heard on the bridge. The signal was given to stop the engines--to
back them--to stop again. Eager inquiries followed--"What's that? Did
you feel it? Hear it? Could it be a rock? Impossible, surely?" No
one could answer with knowledge or authority, save those who were too
busy to be spoken to. Accustomed as they all were for many weeks past
to the ceaseless motion of the engines, the sudden stoppage had a
strange and solemnising effect on most of the passengers. Presently the
order was given to steam ahead, and once more they breathed more freely
on hearing again the familiar grinding of the screw.
To the anxious inquiries afterwards made of him, the captain only smiled
and said he could not tell what it was--perhaps it might have been a
piece of wreck. "But it did not feel like that, captain," objected one
of the passengers, who, having frequently been to sea before, was
regarded as being semi-nautical; "it was too like a touch on something
solid. You've heard, I suppose, of coral reefs growing in places where
none are marked on our charts?"
"I have," answered the captain drily.
"Might it not be something of the kind?"
"It might," replied the captain.
"We are not far from the coast of China, are we?" asked the
semi-nautical passenger.
"Not very far."
Seeing that the captain was not disposed to be communicative, the
semi-nautical passenger retired to persecute and terrify some of the
ladies with his surmises. Meanwhile the well was sounded and a slight
increase of water ascertained, but nothing worth speaking of, and the
pumps were set to work.
The anxiety of the passengers was soon allayed, everything going on as
smoothly as before. The evening merged into night. The moon rose
slowly and spread a path of rippling silver from the ship to the
horizon. The various groups began to un-crystallise. Sleepy ones went
below and melted away somehow. Sleepless ones went to their great
panacea, smoke. Lights were put out everywhere save where the duties of
the ship required them to burn continually. At last the latest of the
sleepless turned in, and none were wakeful through the iron palace
except the poor youth who mentally measured the distance from home, and
the officers and men on duty. Among the latter was Edgar Berrington,
who, standing at his accustomed post down in his own iron depths,
pondered the events of the evening while he watched the motions of the
great crank and listened to the grinding of the screw.