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In Strange Company
A STORY OF CHILI AND THE SOUTHERN SEAS
By Guy Boothby
AUTHOR OF "Pharos, the Egyptian," "Dr. Nikola's Experiment," etc.
NEW YORK AND LONDON
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1894 and 1896,
By F. TENNYSON NEELY.
Copyright, 1900,
By STREET & SMITH
Dearest Mother,
IT IS
WITH THE UTMOST LOVE
THAT I
DEDICATE TO YOU THIS BOOK,
THE OUTCOME OF TEN LONG YEARS OF SEPARATION.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION BY MR. LUKE SANCTUARY 1
Setting forth how the Book came to be written, and
containing a Copy of a most important Letter.
PART I.
I. SHOWING WHERE THE MONEY REALLY CAME FROM 13
II. A STRANGE NIGHT 25
III. A STRANGER DAY 52
IV. THE ALBINO IS DISAPPOINTED 66
V. THE ESCAPE FROM CHILI 72
VI. THE 'ISLAND QUEEN' 81
VII. THE MAN'S DEATH 98
PART II.
I. JOHN RAMSAY TAKES UP THE TALE 115
II. A CHEQUERED CAREER 134
III. SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE 151
IV. RAMSAY BECOMES A SHIP-OWNER 165
V. A CURIOUS QUEST 180
VI. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 190
VII. BATAVIA--A STRANGE MEETING 198
PART III.
I. RAMSAY IS RELEASED FROM CUSTODY 216
II. GAOL-BREAKING EXTRAORDINARY 228
III. THE ISLAND 243
IV. RESCUED 257
V. RAMSAY MEETS OLD FRIENDS 270
VI. CONCLUSION 288
IN STRANGE COMPANY.
INTRODUCTION.
IN WHICH IS SET FORTH HOW THE BOOK CAME TO BE WRITTEN.
First and foremost it should be stated how I, Luke Sanctuary, came to be
connected with this most extraordinary and, to say the least of it,
mysterious business. For my own part, I do not doubt but that when you
have read a few pages you will have come to the conclusion that,
personally, I had no share in its actual making, for I am a man of
peaceful disposition, as much unaccustomed as I am unfitted to bear a
hand in such adventurous concerns; and what is perhaps more to the
point, one who has never been out of England in the whole course of his
existence.
This preliminary having been set forth, and your mind disabused of any
false impression, I am brought to the plain matter at issue, namely, the
reason of, the facts which led to, and the people who induced my taking
up the writing of this book. And as this again--for it seems I am not
permitted to escape it--necessitates the narration of more concerning
myself, let me, if I can be nothing else, be brief.
To begin with, my name is Luke Sanctuary; I am a bachelor; a man of
regular and studious habits; the possessor of what is vaguely termed a
comfortable income; and, as the result of such an income, a house, my
friends tell me, of considerable attractions, situated in that Garden of
all England, the Isle of Wight.
And truly enough it is, if the two terms be not synonymous, both a
comfortable and pleasant home; for while I have endeavoured to make its
internal accommodation what I imagine a dwelling-house in these
enlightened days should be, its external advantages have not been
unconsidered. From my windows, looking towards the north, I can command
one of the most beautiful and extensive views along the whole length of
the English coast; while straight before me, and as far as the eye can
reach to right and left, stretches Spithead, glittering, as I write, a
bright sapphire blue, in the warm sunshine of this September morning.
Across its placid surface may be seen the forts and mast forest of
Portsmouth, with Gosport on the near, and Southsea dim and distant on
the far side; to all of which the hills of Portsdown form an effective
background.
Of shipping there is no lack: a cruiser of the latest pattern, newly
commissioned, lies at anchor immediately before me; a deep sea
cable-steamer is in the act of entering the harbour; while
torpedo-boats, ferry-steamers, colliers, mud-dredgers, yachts, and
such-like small craft pass to and fro continually, as if for my
peculiar and individual benefit.
It is a picture of which I never grow weary, and indeed I sometimes
feel, were its attractions not so irresistible, my book, 'The First
Fruits of the Renaissance,' upon which I have been engaged these eight
years past, and which is as yet only in its fifty-second chapter, would
long ago have been in print, delighting an appreciative public, or, what
is more likely, cumbering the shelves of our second-hand dealers. And
surely--for I am in the humour for philosophical reflection--no better
view, or one more suited to the opening of this strange story, could
possibly be chosen than Spithead on this pleasant autumn morning.
But it is easier, I find, to talk of beginning than actually to begin,
for twice I have dipped my pen in the ink, and twice I have pulled my
virgin foolscap towards me, but somehow I have not yet managed to
commence. Now, however, I will sound the bugles and open the attack.
But it is of no use! Fate, in the form of a heavy footstep, is on the
stairs, and a masculine voice is calling, "Cousin Luke, Cousin Luke,
where on earth have you stowed yourself away?"
The voice is the voice of my sailor cousin by marriage, John Ramsay,
who, with his bride, has been my guest this fortnight past. His bellow
has something of the resonance of a fog-horn, and, partly for the safety
of my roof and partly to gratify my own curiosity, I am induced to
acquaint him of my whereabouts. Thereupon he rushes impulsively in, for
he will never be aught but a boy in his manners, his face aglow with
excitement, and brandishing a sheet of note-paper in his hand.
"'Vast working, Cousin Luke," he cries, scattering my MSS. with the
violence of his inrush; "pipe all hands, for here it is, just arrived by
post from Sir Benjamin!"
"What is here?" I ask, looking up into his handsome sunburnt face with a
smile. "What has Sir Benjamin been kind enough to send me? A brace of
partridges perhaps, or----"
"A brace of horse-marines!" is the prompt reply, and thereupon my
manuscripts are unceremoniously swept off the table, to make room for
the sheet of note-paper I have mentioned above.
"Now, Cousin Luke, I'll have to trouble you for the loan of your best
attention," he says, "for here is the mysterious letter of which I told
you last night; here is the bit of paper which has caused four people to
play hide-and-seek all round the world, occasioned the death of two, and
done its best to kill half-a-dozen others. Oh! my dear departed
grandmother, just fancy that innocent little slip of cream-laid having
once been worth a couple of hundred thousand pounds!"
I am supposed to know intuitively to what he refers, for he waves his
hand with a commanding gesture, forces me back into my seat, and then,
smoothing the letter out, bids me read it aloud for his and my own
information. This is what I read, and as upon it depends the whole point
of this book, I beg that you will give it your best attention.
"_Valparaiso, Chili_,
"_8th August, 1891_.
"TO SIR BENJAMIN PLOWDEN, KNT., ETC., ETC.,
"EAST INDIA AVENUE, LONDON.
"My worthy and respected Uncle Benjamin,
"I beg you will not suppose for an instant that I am unable to
imagine with what apprehension and surprise you will receive this
letter from one so unworthy as your nephew, written from such a
place, and dated at such a serious time. And yet, both the place
and the serious time are part and parcel of the reason which
induces the communication.
"To lay my business properly before you, it is necessary that I
should carry your memory back, let us say fifteen years, when,
after a certain episode which it would become neither of us to
recall, you were good enough to show me the front door of England,
and the back entrance to the outside world, at the same time
enriching me with much good advice, two trenchant sayings from the
works of that priggish person Solomon, and last, but by no means
least, Five Hundred Pounds sterling.
"Reflecting that all countries present equal possibilities to the
possessor of five hundred pounds in hard cash, I came out here,
with the result, that by ceaseless energy and thrift (of the
possession of which latter virtue you have hitherto scarcely
believed me capable) I have added to the five hundred pounds you
advanced me, four hundred similar amounts.
"In other words, my revered relative, my adventures have prospered
beyond my wildest expectations. My silver mines have achieved
wonders. As for my Haciendas, by which name these ignorant
foreigners denominate such farms as those of which I know you, my
uncle, to be the possessor, I managed to dispose of them, prior to
this unfortunate Revolution, for considerably more than twice their
real value. Therefore, to all intents and purposes, I may be
considered what you, in your absurd City jargon, would term a
decidedly _warm_ or rich man. So much by way of introduction.
"Now though I am, both by instinct and training, distrustful and
suspicious, yet, strangely enough, I am about to forswear my
principles so far as to repose in you, my father's brother, being
perfectly assured of your probity and honour, such confidence as
one man seldom places in another. In other words, having in my mind
the perilous times now upon this unhappy country, I am remitting to
your charge by the good ship _Culloden_, advised as leaving here on
Thursday of next week, the entire amount of my fortune, amounting
to _Two Hundred Thousand Pounds of English money, in specie_,
securely packed in accordance with the steam-ship company's
regulations, and addressed to you in London. The bill of lading
accompanies this present letter, which will be conveyed to and
posted in London by Captain Porson of H.M.S. _Chanticleer_, leaving
Valparaiso to-morrow morning.
"That this extraordinary trust will occasion you some little
surprise I do not doubt, but from what I know of your character, I
feel certain that not only will you accept the charge, but that you
will guard my interests as you would your own.
"Were it not that I consider it my duty to remain in this country
until these troubles are overpast, I should certainly come home to
guard my fortune personally. But such a thing being, for the
present, impossible, I have, I believe, by placing it in your
hands, done both what is wisest and best to secure its safety.
"One earnest piece of advice I would entreat you to remember. For
the reason that I am successful, I have made many enemies here, who
would not scruple to employ any means, however base, to bring about
my ruin. I beg and implore, therefore, that you will pay no
attention whatsoever to any person, male or female, who may
approach you in my name, either by letter or otherwise, with the
following exception.
"Should it be necessary for me to communicate with you, either
personally or by messenger, you will do nothing, listen to no
proposals, or even hint that you know anything of my existence or
my fortune, until you have in your hand the following authority.
"Having carefully considered the matter in all its bearings, I have
arrived at the conclusion that there is only one thing absolutely
and wholly unforgeable and unmatchable within my reach, and that
is, _the tear in an ordinary sheet of paper_.
"To apply this knowledge to my own purposes, I have obtained from a
certain source a sample of quite unknown note-paper, and torn it in
half in a peculiar manner. One portion I send to you herewith; the
other I shall retain in my own keeping, until I desire to
communicate with you. It is obviously impossible--no one having
seen this paper in my possession--that any third party could so
tear another as to match, fibre for fibre, the piece you hold, even
could they obtain a similar description of paper, which I happen
to know is out of the question.
"This being so, any person bringing to you a sample of the same
water-mark, of the same texture, and, more important still, torn in
such a manner as to exactly fit the piece you hold, must either
have stolen it from me (which I can confidently promise shall not
happen), or be my _bona-fide_ agent. I beg therefore that you will
pay to him whatsoever sum, up to the entire amount, he shall ask of
you. _But remember, on no consideration shall you pay even so much
as one half-penny to any person whomsoever, even one representing
himself to be your unworthy nephew, until this duplicate is in your
possession._
"For reasons which would not have the slightest interest for you, I
am compelled to act in this mysterious fashion; and such is my
absolute trust and confidence in your honour and integrity, that I
go so far as to freely absolve you beforehand from any blame
whatsoever, should the precautions I have enumerated here miscarry.
"Believe me, such warnings are not idle; attempts will certainly be
made to obtain the money, and after careful consideration, I think
I have hit upon the only safe way to guard myself against any such
conspiracies.
"If by any chance no word shall reach you from me within the space
of twenty-one years, day for day from this 8th of August, you may
regard it as complete evidence of my death, and in that case I
bequeath to your children, should you at that time have any living,
or failing them to such members of my father's family as may then
be alive, the entire amount of my fortune, with all interests and
accumulations which may have become added thereto.
"I am, my uncle,
"Your obliged and obedient nephew,
"MARMADUKE PLOWDEN."
When I reached the signature, Ramsay, who had been listening with
unabating interest, hit me a heavy thwack upon the shoulder, at the same
time crying enthusiastically--
"There, my learned cousin, what is your opinion of that precious
document?"
"I think," said I, with a gravity befitting such an important decision,
"that it is the letter of a very unscrupulous, and I should say at the
time he wrote it, very frightened, man."
"My idea exactly," Ramsay replied. "It is interesting to note how his
impudence dies out as his letter progresses, and how its place is
usurped by a good wholesome fear. One thing more, do you honestly
believe that that vast sum of money, L200,000, came from the respectable
sources to which he alludes--silver mines and farm properties, and
such-like; all accumulated by his own thrift and industry?"
"How can I tell? But from what I know of the man, I should be rather
inclined to guess--_not!_"
"Very good. And now, as we're agreed upon that point, let me ask you
what recollections, if any, you have of this peculiar relative of
yours?--for relative he certainly is."
"Of Marmaduke Plowden?"
"Exactly; _in Chili known as Marcos Veneda_. Surely you must have seen
him often when he was a boy?"
"Not often, Jack--half-a-dozen times at most; certainly not more. He
lived on the other side of the kingdom, you must remember; and then
again, he was not the sort of youth of whom one would be anxious to see
very much."
"What was he like?"
I hesitated before replying. The truth was, it was an awkward question,
for upon the last occasion of my seeing him, he was sitting in the
office of my kinsman, the Sir Benjamin Plowden before referred to,
looking very frightened and miserable, and wondering how a certain
interview which was being conducted in an adjoining room would end; that
is, whether it would result in his being sent to gaol or abroad. As may
be imagined, under these circumstances, he did not look his best. But
then that was well-nigh twenty years ago.
So absorbed was I in recalling these recollections, that I had quite
forgotten my companion's question. He brought me back to my senses with
a start.
"Come, come, Cousin Luke, no day-dreams, if you please; you haven't
answered my question yet."
"Well, Jack, as a young man, perhaps I cannot give you any better
description of him than to say that he was, without doubt, the
handsomest, and at the same time the most untrustworthy being, with whom
I had ever come into contact. As old Darby, our coachman in those days,
once put it, 'Young Master Marmaduke's as 'andsome as paint, but lor,
there, it's all on top, like bad coach varnish!' In fact, there was
something about the lad's good looks that repelled rather than
attracted one."
"How do you mean--a sort of fierceness?"
"No; a something that was rather crafty than fierce, a something that
betrayed cruelty as well as cunning. As a school-boy there was nobody
more admired for his beauty or more despised for his moral character."
"Was he a plucky boy?"
"To an extraordinary degree, I believe, as far as personal bravery went;
but somehow he was always at daggers drawn, not with his school-fellows
alone, but with everybody with whom he came into contact."
"And when he left school?"
"As far as I remember he went first into some office in a country town,
where he remained for a year; then Sir Benjamin took him in hand, and
got him a situation in a large banking institution in London."
"And after that?"
"Commenced his downfall; he fell in with a low set, became a frequenter
of second-rate race-courses, an admirer of ballet-girls and
objectionable barmaids; finally, is said to have forged his benefactor's
name, and to have come within an ace of standing in a felon's dock."
"A nice character truly! And Sir Benjamin honoured the signature?"
"For the sake of the lad's mother. And then it was, I suppose, that he
gave him the L500 referred to in that letter, and shipped him out of
England."
"And, as far as you know, he was never heard of again, until his letter
and the L200,000 arrived?"
"Not to my knowledge; in fact, until you recalled it, I had almost
forgotten his existence."
"Very well then. Now you'll just come for a walk with me, and, as we go,
I'll tell you something of Marmaduke Plowden's--otherwise Marcos
Veneda's--wonderful career, from the day he left England till I made his
acquaintance, under such peculiar circumstances, six months ago. Then
you shall take pens, paper, and ink, and write the first half of it.
I'll do the last, and together we'll make it into a book for the
information of the world. Here's a case full of first-class cigars; it's
a perfect day for a tramp; so get your things and come along."
Resistance being useless, I collected hat and stick and went, and the
result of that walk is the story--strange enough, goodness knows--which
I now place before you.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
SHOWING WHERE THE MONEY REALLY CAME FROM.
So far we have seen, that shifty Marmaduke Plowden, in Chili known as
Marcos Veneda, despatched to the care of his uncle, Sir Benjamin
Plowden, of the East India Avenue, London, L200,000 in English gold,
with the request that that gentleman would keep it for him until he
could come home to look after it himself.
Now, to properly understand our story, we must hark back to the very
beginning of things, and endeavour to discover where such an enormous
fortune came from in the first instance; for the statement of its owner
that he derived it from his silver mines and Hacienda properties is not
worthy of a moment's credence. There is only one person who can
elucidate the mystery for us, and his extraordinary adventures we must
now proceed to consider.
You must understand that Michael Bradshaw, of 3 Parkington Terrace,
South Kensington, was that sort of superlatively clever person who,
after a life of grand _coups_, always comes to grief in some
superlatively silly fashion. From the day on which he first entered the
service of the Anglo-Kamtchatka Bank, to the evening of the dinner in
his honour at the Whitehall Rooms as general manager, his career was one
of exceptional brilliance. He it was who hit out the scheme which saved
the Bank in the matter of the Bakell-Askern Syndicate; he it was who
manipulated the Patagonian Bonds and the Golden Sunset Silver Mining
Company to the Bank's ultimate advantage; he it was who--but there, his
devices are matters of history, and beyond being corroborative evidences
of his cleverness, are of little or no moment to this story. The
following notice of the dinner above referred to appeared in the columns
of the daily press the next morning, and is worth considering--
"At the Whitehall Rooms, last evening, Mr. Michael Bradshaw, the
well-known and universally respected General Manager of the
Anglo-Kamtchatka Banking Company, was entertained at dinner by the
Directors of that institution, prior to his departure for a brief
holiday in the South of France. Covers were laid for a hundred
guests, the chair being taken by the Right Honourable Lord Burgoo,
Chairman of the Company. In proposing the toast of 'Their Guest,'
the noble Chairman eulogized Mr. Bradshaw's services to the Bank,
and hoped that the holiday he was about to enjoy would enable him
to devote many more years to the advancement of the institution he
had served so well. Mr. Bradshaw replied in feeling terms."
After the dinner the manager drove back to his house in Kensington.
Though it was well-nigh two o'clock, he did not think of going to bed,
but went into his study and lit a cigar. As every one had noticed that
evening, he certainly looked as if he needed a holiday; his face was
woefully haggard, and his eyes had a peculiar brilliance that spoke, as
plainly as any words, of sleepless nights and never-ceasing worry and
anxiety.
For a long time he promenaded the room, his hands in his pockets and his
face sternly set. Once he smiled sardonically as the recollection of the
evening's speeches crossed his mind. Then, throwing himself into a chair
before his writing-table, he began to unlock the drawers, and to destroy
the papers they contained.
When this task was completed, the sun had been up some time, and a large
pile of paper-ash lay inside the grate. He pulled back the curtains,
unbarred the shutters, and opened the window, letting in a flood of
sunshine. Then, dropping into a comfortable chair beside the fire, he
fell asleep.
By eight o'clock he was at Charing Cross, his ticket was taken, and he
was bidding good-bye to a large crowd of friends.
Next day, instead of busying himself with the enjoyments of Monte Carlo,
as his friends supposed him, he was in reality at Dieppe, anxiously
awaiting the arrival of a small brig, the _Florence Annie_ of
Teignmouth. As soon as she arrived he boarded her, and half-an-hour
later, a course being set, she was bowling down Channel, bound for
Buenos Ayres. It was peculiar that the captain invariably addressed his
passenger as "Mr. Vincent." It was strange also that, for a voyage of
such duration, he should have brought with him so small an amount of
luggage. In the hold, however, were half-a-dozen barrels inscribed with
his name, and labelled "Cement." Now cement, as everyone knows, is a
staple article of export from Great Britain to the South American
Republics.
A month later, all England was astounded by the news that Michael
Bradshaw, the admired and universally respected, was _wanted_ by the
police on a charge of defrauding the Anglo-Kamtchatka Banking Company of
L250,000. But so carefully had his plans been arranged, that not a trace
of either the money or his whereabouts could be discovered. Being a
cultivated person, he might have replied with Plautus, "_Doli non doli
sunt, nisi astu colas._"
On the arrival of the _Florence Annie_ at her destination, Bradshaw,
_alias_ Vincent, went ashore with his barrels of cement, determining to
settle himself down to the study of Argentine life and character, having
pleasing knowledge of the fact, that at that time "on no condition was
extradition allowed in Buenos Ayres." But careful though he was not to
excite attention, before he had been a week in his new abode he began to
have suspicions that his secret was discovered. He fought against the
idea with all his strength. But the more he struggled, the stronger it
grew, till at last, unable to support his anxiety any longer, he
determined to cross the Andes into Chili, confident that in the
Balmaceda turmoil his identity would never be discovered. A long and
agonizing railway journey brought him to Mendoza. There, with prodigious
care, he chose his muleteers, packed his barrels of cement, and plunged
into the mountains.
At no time is that journey across the Andes one to be lightly
undertaken. To Michael Bradshaw it was a nightmare, from which there
seemed no awakening. Fear spurred him on behind; vague terrors of the
Unknown beckoned him ahead; while treachery menaced him continually on
either hand. When at last, more dead than alive, he arrived in
Valparaiso, he paid off his team; and leasing an obscure residence in
the Calle de San Pedro, prepared himself to wait, guarding his treasure
night and day, until the war should be over.
But though he was not aware of it, his arrival in the town was already
known, and plans were in active preparation for relieving him of his
wealth. His enemies had failed before, they had altered their tactics
now. Sooner or later, they must succeed.
One evening Michael Bradshaw sat in the only room he had made habitable,
earnestly perusing a Guide to the Spanish language. He had been in
Valparaiso nearly a week, and as he never ventured outside his own door,
he found his time hang heavily on his hands. I am not quite certain that
he had not already begun to regret his felony; not from any
conscientious motives perhaps, but because he found himself in an
awkward if not dangerous position. You see as far as his own personal
feelings went he was still the respectable English banker, therefore to
have assassination menacing him continually was a future he had
certainly neither mapped out for himself nor was it one he would be
likely to understand. He had been obliged to leave the Argentine because
he believed his secret had been discovered, and now in Chili he was
afraid to go very much abroad lest any of his former enemies might meet
and recognize him. He had many regrets, but perhaps the most bitter was
the fact that Valparaiso is an extradition port.
Since his arrival he had unpacked his barrels of cement, and with
infinite trouble concealed the treasure they so cunningly contained
under the floor of his room. This exertion, if it had served no other
purpose, had at least afforded him some occupation.
After a while he looked at his watch and found it was growing late.
Putting down his book, he was in the act of making up his bed, which, by
the way, was not as luxurious as the one to which he had been accustomed
in his old house at Kensington, when to his horror he heard stealthy
footsteps in the corridor outside his room. Next moment the door opened,
and a tall and singularly handsome man entered. He bowed politely, and
said in excellent English--
"Mr. Bradshaw, I believe?"
The ex-banker was too terrified to reply.
"I have taken the liberty of calling upon you on a little matter of
business. May I sit down?"
Without waiting for permission, he seated himself on the bed. Bradshaw
sank back with a groan into his chair.
"You are lately from England, I believe?"
Bradshaw found his voice at last, and said the first thing that came
into his head.
"What do you want with me? I cannot see you now; I'm not well."
"I am sorry, but what I have to say admits of no delay. You arrived in
Buenos Ayres by the brig _Florence Annie_ of Teignmouth--and oh, by the
way, what have you done with that L250,000?"
"For mercy's take, tell me what you want with me?"
"All in good time, my friend. You're pretty comfortable here, but your
floor needs repairing sadly--it looks as if you've been digging. You
must be very dull all alone. Let me tell you a story."
"I don't want to hear it."
"I'm desolated, but you must. The business upon which I desire to
consult you depends upon it, so here goes. Once upon a time, as they say
in the fairy tales, there was a young man who was turned out of England,
accused of a felony which he never committed. He was treated very badly
and, being a youth of spirit, resented it. He came to Chili, where he
has lived for the past fifteen years. Now, strangely enough, considering
it has done everything for him, he detests Chili and the people with
whom he has to associate, and he wants to return to England, where
everybody hates him. What he would do if he got there I don't know, but
he seems to think he might turn over a new leaf, marry, and settle down
to a quiet country life. Perhaps he would; perhaps he wouldn't--there's
no telling; at any rate, that has been his dream for fifteen years. You
ask, and very naturally too, if he's so bitten with the notion, why
doesn't he carry it out? And I reply, with an equal pretence to nature,
because he can't; the poor fellow has no money. Some people have more
than they know what to do with--L250,000 for instance--he has none!"
"Who are you, and what makes you tell me all this? Look here, if you
don't leave me, I'll----"
"No, you won't," the stranger said, drawing a revolver from beneath his
coat. "I see you've got a Smith and Wesson in that pocket. I'm sorry,
but I'll just have to trouble you for it."
Thus menaced, Bradshaw surrendered his pistol, which the other coolly
examined, and deposited in his own pocket.
"As I was going to say, and this is where the curious part of my story
commences, that young man, who, after all, is not a bad sort of fellow,
wants to give up his wild unchristian life out here, and get home to
England. Possibly with six thousand a year he might become a credit to
his family. It is his only chance in life, remember, and if he doesn't
want to go under for ever, he has to make the most of it. Meanwhile he
has not been idle. To assist his fortunes, he has joined a certain
Society, whose object is the amassing of money, by fair means or foul,
and which is perhaps the most powerful organization of its kind in the
wide, wide world. Now pay particular attention to what I am about to
say.
"News reaches this Society from London (their method of obtaining
information, I may tell you, is little short of marvellous) that a
certain well-known banker has absconded with L250,000. His destination,
though he thinks no one aware of it, is Buenos Ayres. On arrival in that
port, he is watched continually, and on two occasions attempts are made
to procure his money. By a mischance they fail. Suspecting something of
the sort, he crosses the mountains into Valparaiso, and takes a house in
the Calle de San Pedro. The Society's spies have followed his movements
with undeviating attention; they shadow him day and night; they even
take the houses on either hand of his in order that they may make quite
sure of his safety. One night they will descend upon that unfortunate
man and--well, I leave you to picture what the result will be!"
Bradshaw said not a word, but he looked as if he were about to have a
fit.
"Now, look here, I'm not the sort of man to rob any one without giving
him a run for his money. You've had your turn, and you've bungled it.
Now I have mine, and I'm going to carry it through. I see my chance to a
straight life in the best land under the sun if I can raise the money.
You've robbed the fatherless and the widow to get here; why shouldn't I
rob you to get there? You can't get out of this house alive, and if you
remain in it they'll certainly kill you. There's a man watching you on
the right, and just at present I'm supposed to be looking after you on
the left. If you doubt me, go out into the street, and take a walk round
the block; before you've gone fifty yards you'll find you're being
shadowed by a man in a grey poncho. It strikes me you're between the
devil and the deep sea. What do you think?"
Bradshaw only groaned feebly. His pluck, if he ever had any, had quite
deserted him. His visitor took a pack of cards from his pocket, and
threw them on the table.
"Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to sell my friends; in
other words, I'm going to do business with you on my own account. It's
been done before in the history of the world. We'll have a little
gamble. But you must pull yourself together, or you won't be able to
look after your own interests. The stakes shall be as follows. If I win,
I take the lot, the whole L250,000, or what there is left of it, and
find my own way to get it out of the house. If you win, I pledge myself
solemnly to assist you to escape with it. You'll have to trust me,
because you can't do anything else. Do you understand? Don't make a
noise, or I assure you I'll shoot you where you sit. There shall be fair
play between us, come what may. Now cut! The highest wins, remember!"
"I can't! I refuse! What right have you to make such a demand?"
"What right had you to betray your trust? Go on. I'll give you half a
minute, and if you don't cut then, I solemnly swear I'll blow your
brains out!"
"Have you no mercy?"
"Drop that and cut. Ah! you're going to,--that's right. Show!"
Trembling like a leaf, Bradshaw turned up a card.
"_Queen of Hearts!_"
"A splendid cut! My luck will have to be good to beat it. Great Jove,
prosper me, you alone know for what a stake I'm playing!"
"_King of Spades!_"
"I'm afraid, Mr. Bradshaw, I've won by a point. I'm sorry it turned up
King Death though--doesn't look as if I'm destined to get much good out
of it, does it? If I'd lost, I should certainly have shot myself before
daybreak; as it is, the money's mine. I suppose you've buried it under
the floor here. Bring me a shovel!"
When the shovel was forthcoming, Veneda, for so we will, with your
permission, henceforth call Marmaduke Plowden, set to work, and in ten
minutes had Bradshaw's treasure unearthed. Having made sure of it, he
turned to the unfortunate banker, and said--
"Now, my friend, I should advise you to make yourself particularly
scarce. For if they find you here, and the money gone, they'll probably
make things unpleasant for you. As for me, I've got to find a way to get
this out of the house, and then out of the country. Confound the man,
he's fainted."
* * * * *
That Veneda did manage to smuggle the money out of the house without
attracting the attention of the watchers on the other side is evident
from a letter written the next night (a copy of which we have already
seen), and which, we know, left Chili by an English man-of-war. That a
case of specie followed it a week later, and duly arrived in London, I
have also ascertained by perusal of a certain Steamship Company's books.
It only remained now for Veneda to follow it himself, and this he was
making arrangements to do. He was, however, compelled to exercise the
greatest caution, for he was quite aware that the Society (whose name
had so much frightened Bradshaw), of which he was one of the executive,
did not regard him with any extraordinary trust; and to leave the
country suddenly by one of the usual routes would, in all probability,
result in his being met and knifed on arrival at his destination. This
risk he had not the least desire to run.
As for Bradshaw, that unfortunate man, he was indeed in parlous case, so
much so, that he dared not venture out lest he might be assassinated,
while he dared not remain where he was for fear he might be murdered; he
was in fact destitute of everything, even of the consolation of that
time-worn maxim, "Virtue is its own reward."
CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE NIGHT.
Just a week, night for night, after the events recorded in the previous
chapter, Marcos Veneda was making his way slowly along the Sea-Front,
towards a distant portion of the city. The short winter day, made all
the shorter by a thick pall of cloud stretched across the sky, was fast
drawing to a close. Far out beyond the harbour a faint streak of silver
light still lingered, as if loth to say farewell; but nearer the wharves
the water lay black and sullen like the mantle of approaching night. In
the streets, though the hour still wanted twenty minutes of six, but few
people were abroad; for such was the lawless condition of Valparaiso at
that time, that walking after nightfall had become not only an
unpleasant, but in many districts an exceedingly dangerous undertaking.
But though, after he had proceeded a little way, Marcos Veneda stopped
abruptly in his walk and stood for some moments gazing out to sea, there
was nothing in his face to show that he was in any way conscious of
either the atmospheric effects or the personal danger to which I have
just alluded. It might rather have been inferred, from the frown that
contracted his forehead and the expression which fixed itself round his
mouth, that his thoughts were very far removed from any such minor
matters. Certain was it that he was more than a little disturbed in his
mind, and it was equally probable that, so far as he saw at present, he
was no nearer a solution of his problem than he had been at any time
during the previous twenty-four hours. Twice since he had come to a
standstill his lips had moved in commencement of a sentence, and twice
he had dug his stick impatiently into the ground before him, but the
frown did not relax nor the expression change. The truth was he found
himself in a very awkward predicament, one which will readily explain
itself when I say that he had been summoned to, and was on his way to
attend, a council meeting of the Society, to confer _as to the best
means of obtaining possession of Bradshaw's treasure_. As he walked he
was trying to arrange his course of action, for he was the victim of a
natural delicacy, which he knew would prevent him from informing his
colleagues of the fact that he had already appropriated and disposed of
the money.
Presently, however, he seemed to have decided upon some course, for he
pulled himself together, adjusted his hat, which had slipped somewhat
out of its usual position, and resumed his walk with the air of a man
who had only made up his mind after mature consideration. Just as he did
so the clouds opened their store, and a heavy shower descended.
While he is passing along the Front, perhaps we may be excused if we
seek to become better acquainted with one in whose company we are
destined to travel many thousands of miles.
He is indeed a strange man, this Marcos Veneda, a man of such perplexing
mixtures that I doubt very much whether his most intimate friend could,
under any circumstances, properly describe him. Gifted by nature with
such advantages, both personal and otherwise, as but seldom fall to the
share of one man, it seemed the irony of Fate that he should be debarred
from deriving the slightest real or lasting benefit from any one of
them. Hated with a cordial and undisguised hatred by the Chilanos
themselves, and barely tolerated by the English section of the
community, he supported an existence in Chili that was as unique as his
own individuality was complex and extraordinary. To any one more
sensitive such a life would have been unendurable, but Marcos Veneda
seemed to derive a positive enjoyment from his social ostracism, and to
become more and more satisfied with his lot in life as the gulf which
cut him off from his neighbours widened. Among other things, it was
characteristic of the man that he treated every one, high and low,
alike; he unbent to nobody; but if it could be said that he was more
amiably disposed towards one class than another, it was to those who
would be the least likely ever to repay his cordiality. How he
lived--for he practised no profession, and he certainly served no trade
or master--no one knew; he made it a boast that he had never received a
remittance from the outside world, and yet he was well known to have no
income of his own. On the other hand, though he owed nobody anything,
he had always money to spend, while those who had been privileged to
see, reported that he occupied quarters in a semi-fashionable portion of
the town that were very far removed from poverty-stricken.
Like most other people in Chili, in the year 1891, he had been drawn
into the bitter civil war then proceeding, and he knew, if only on the
score of party politics, the next twenty-four hours would decide much
for him.
And not to Veneda alone, but to many other unfortunates compelled to
remain in Valparaiso that night, was the question which the morrow would
determine, of vital moment. The fierce struggle which for the better
part of a year had been raging between the forces of the Dictator
Balmaceda and those of the Opposition or Congressionalist Party, as they
were more usually called, had at length reached such a pitch that it
required but one more vigorous battle to find a termination.
From being spread over the land, the two opposing armies were now come
face to face. The previous week had proved a deeply exciting one. Events
had crowded thick and fast upon each other, beginning with the battle of
Colmo; when, after a stubborn, hard-fought engagement, lasting something
like five hours, the Opposition had gained a well-earned victory.
Balmaceda's army had marched into battle 14,000 strong, and had been
obliged to beat a retreat, having lost, besides 1000 men killed and many
more than that number wounded, 18 field-guns, and 170 mules laden with
stores and ammunition. So signal was the disaster that, on realizing it,
no less than 1500 men of the Government forces threw down their arms and
fled into the mountains, while twice that number changed their uniforms
and went over _holus bolus_ to the enemy.
Immediately this crushing news became known to him, Balmaceda reinforced
the garrison of Valparaiso with troops from the south, and then, with an
army of 8000 men, perched himself on the heights above the city, and
prepared to fight the last and decisive battle of the campaign.
In Valparaiso the result of the impending engagement was, as may be
imagined, anxiously awaited by every one, Gobiernistas and Oppositores
alike. The former made no secret of their intention, in the event of
victory crowning their arms, to wreak vengeance upon their enemies. But
the Oppositores, on the other hand, though equally sanguine of success,
wisely refrained from giving vent to their feelings, for not only were
they located in the enemy's camp, so to speak, but they could not help
foreseeing that even a victory for their cause would involve them in
great risk, inasmuch as the Government troops would undoubtedly fall
back upon the town, when they would in all probability commence to sack
and burn Opposition property.
Such was the position of affairs on the evening described at the
commencement of the chapter.
As I have said, Marcos Veneda appeared to have made up his mind. This
might have been gathered from the set of his shoulders and his carriage
of his body when he resumed his walk. There was also a new and
singularly defiant look in his face as he passed into the Calle de
Victoria which had not been there five minutes before.
Half-way down the street he paused to try and decipher a notice newly
pasted on a wall. As he read, he became conscious that he was being
watched. Looking up, he found himself confronted by one of the most
respected English residents then remaining in the town. This gentleman,
whose personal appearance would not have been out of place in a London
board-room, had always shown himself one of Veneda's most inveterate
foes, and for this reason the latter was inclined to cross over the road
without a second glance at him. That, however, the elder man would not
permit; he advanced and button-holed his victim before he had time to
leave the pavement.
"I think you are going in my direction," he began, in order to give
Veneda time to recover from his astonishment. "In that case I shall not
be trespassing upon your time if I ask you to allow me to walk a little
way with you. I have something I want to say to you."
"I object to being button-holed in this fashion," the other replied, an
angry flush mantling his face.
"Not when it is to enable you to learn something to your advantage, I
think," his companion said quietly. "However, don't let us quarrel, I
simply stopped you because I want to do you a good turn. I know very
well you dislike me."
"It may be bad policy to say so," Veneda sneered, "but I must own I do
not exactly love you; you see, you have never given me an opportunity."
"Well, we won't discuss that now. What I want to say is, that I think in
times like these we Englishmen ought to hang a bit closer together,
don't you know; to try and help each other in any way we can."
The old gentleman, whose intentions were really most benevolent, gazed
anxiously at his companion, to see how his speech would be taken. But
Veneda's only answer was to laugh in a peculiarly grating fashion. It
was an unpleasant performance, born of the remembrance of snubs and
bitter discouragements received at the other's hands in by-gone days.
For the space of thirty seconds neither spoke, and then it was the
younger man, who said abruptly--
"Well?"
"You don't mind my going on?"
"I certainly should if I could prevent it," replied Veneda; "but you've
got me at a disadvantage, you see. I must listen to you."
"Well, the long and the short of it is, I want to warn you."
"That's exceedingly good of you; and pray what of?"
"Of yourself. It is--forgive my saying so--an openly discussed subject
in the town that you are playing a double game."
Veneda stopped suddenly, and leaning his back against a wall, faced his
companion.
"A double game," he said slowly, as if weighing every word before he
allowed himself to utter it; "and in what way is it supposed that I am
playing a double game? Think carefully before you speak, for I may be
compelled to hold you responsible."
The worthy merchant experienced a sensation of nervousness. His memory
recalled several little episodes in Veneda's past, the remembrance of
which, under the present circumstances, was not likely to contribute to
his peace of mind.
"Now don't get angry, my dear fellow," he hastened to say, "I'm only
telling you this for your own good. I mean that it is said you are
endeavouring to stand with a leg in either camp; that while you pose
among us as an active Oppositionist, you are in reality in communication
with Balmaceda's leaders. In other words, that, while we have been
trusting you, you have been selling our secrets to our foes."
"Well?"
Now it was a remarkable fact, that while the old gentleman expected and
even dreaded an exhibition of wrath from his companion, he was in
reality a good deal more frightened by this simple question than he
would have been by the most violent outburst. And yet there was nothing
startling in the word itself, nor in the manner in which it was uttered.
Veneda still lounged in the same careless attitude against the wall,
looking his companion up and down out of his half-closed eyes, as if to
cause him any uneasiness would be the one thing furthest from his mind;
but it was noticeable that his right hand had stopped fingering the
trinkets on his watch-chain, and had passed into his coat-pocket, where
a certain bulginess proclaimed the existence of a heavy object.
"Go on," he continued slowly, "since you seem to be so well informed;
what else do my kind friends say?"
"Well, if you want it bluntly, Veneda, they say that if our side wins
to-morrow, of which there seems to be little or no doubt, and you remain
in the city, your life won't be worth five minutes' purchase."
"And--and your reason for telling me all this?"
"Simply because I want to warn you. And because, in spite of your
Spanish name, which every one knows is assumed, you are an Englishman;
and, as I said before, Englishmen ought to do what they can to help each
other at such times as these. You don't think I've said too much?"
"By no means. I hope you'll understand how grateful I am to you for your
trouble."
"No trouble; I only wish the warning may prove of some use to you. Look
here, we haven't been very good friends in the past, but I do hope----"
"That in the future we may be David and Jonathan on a substantial New
Jerusalem basis, I suppose. Do you hear those guns?"
The noise of cannonading came down the breeze. And as he heard it the
merchant shuffled uneasily.
"What does it mean?"
"Well, I think it means that to-morrow will decide things more important
than our friendship. That's all. You're not coming any farther my way?
Then good-night!"
With a muttered apology for having so long detained him, the old
gentleman continued his walk to the left hand. When he had quite
disappeared, Veneda resumed _his_ walk, saying softly to himself, "This
is what comes of listening to the voice of woman. I was an idiot ever to
have mixed myself up with Juanita. I might have known she would have
given me away. Never mind, the money's gone to England, and if I can
manage to stave Macklin off to-night, and Boulger comes to terms about
his schooner, I shall beat them yet. But suppose Juanita _should_
suspect? What on earth should I do then?"
This thought was evidently of an absorbing nature, for he walked briskly
on, regarding no one, and turning neither to the right hand nor to the
left, until he had gone about three hundred yards. Then finding himself
face to face with a tall and narrow archway, guarded by a substantial
iron gate, he paused irresolute. To all appearance he was endeavouring
to make up his mind whether he should enter. Having decided in the
affirmative, he knocked upon the iron-work of the gate. It was
immediately opened, and an old man holding a lantern looked out, crying
as he did so--
"Quien este ahi?" ["Who is there?"]
Submitting his name, after a brief scrutiny he was admitted into the
patio, or courtyard of the building, of which the gate formed the outer
guard. The wet stones (for it was still raining), the dripping gutters,
and the weird moaning of the wind round the corners and between the
housetops, did not add to the cheerfulness of the place.
Half-way across the patio Veneda turned to his guide.
"Hold on, Domingo," he said, "in these matters it is just as well to be
prepared. Whom have we here to-night?"
"Pablos Vargas, Jose Nunez, and the Englishman, John Macklin, senor."
"All three? Very good. Go on!"
They approached a small door in the wall on the left hand of the
courtyard; between its chinks a bright light streaked forth. A subdued
murmur came from within, which was hushed as if by magic when the old
man rapped upon the panel. Next moment Veneda was inside the room,
endeavouring to accustom his eyes to the bright light of a common tin
lamp hanging upon the wall.
It was but a small apartment, destitute of any furniture save a rough
table and a chair or two, and filthy to an indescribable degree. The
three men, for whose presence Veneda had been prepared, were evidently
awaiting his coming. It was doubtful, however, judging from their
expressions, whether they were pleased or annoyed at his punctual
appearance. Though the heads of that mysterious organization which had
so much frightened Bradshaw, with one exception they were not
interesting. Pablos Vargas and Jose Nunez were simply Chilanos of the
middle class, but the Englishman, John Macklin, was altogether
extraordinary.
Besides being in many other ways peculiar, he was an Albino of the most
pronounced type, possessed of the smallest body and the largest head
imaginable in a human being; his arms were those of a baboon, so long
that his fingers, when he stood upright, could touch his legs below his
knees. His complexion was as delicate as the inside of a rosebud, his
eyes were as pink as those of a white rabbit, while his hair was nothing
more nor less than a mop of silkiest white floss. Added to these
peculiarities, his voice was a strangely high falsetto, and when he
became excited, he had a habit of cracking his finger-joints one after
the other, a thing which in itself is apt to be a disconcerting trick.
His history, so far as could be gathered, was an eventful one, and would
repay perusal. By his own statement he was a native of Exeter, England,
in which city his father had at one time conducted a school for the sons
of small tradesmen. At the age of ten, young Macklin became a choir boy
in the Cathedral, but his personal appearance and moral character
proving too much for his fellow-choristers, after a month some charge
was preferred against him, and he was dismissed with ignominy. This
circumstance, very naturally, was hardly of a kind calculated to
straighten his already warped nature, and then and there, with a
precocity beyond his years, he embarked upon a war against society,
which, as I shall endeavour to prove later, had suffered no diminution
when our history opens.
At the age of seventeen he became a lawyer's clerk in Bristol, following
this vocation until his majority from which time until his thirtieth
birthday nothing definite can be learnt of him. It is believed, however,
that for the greater part of that period he served a sentence in one of
her Majesty's convict prisons for fraud; and a semblance of truth is
lent to the belief by the knowledge that directly he re-appeared in
society he took ship for America.
The record of his doings across the Atlantic would form interesting
reading, if only for its variety. For three years, from thirty to
thirty-three, he followed many professions, including those of railway
scalper, book fiend, and insurance tout, eventually figuring as "The
Wild Man of New Guinea" in a dime museum in San Francisco, eating raw
meat in a cage, and growling at the public from behind substantial iron
bars. When this latter enterprise panned out unsatisfactorily, it left
him no alternative but to migrate into Mexico, where he supported a
chequered career as a money-lender, a lottery runner, keeper of a Monte
hell, and suspected leader of a gang of most notorious thieves. Mexico
no longer affording sufficient scope for his peculiar talents, he
repaired to Brazil, thence drifting by easy stages into Chili, where, at
the time of the Revolution, he had embarked on this new and exceedingly
remunerative line of business.
Veneda looked from one to the other before he spoke, but his eyes rested
longest on the face of the Albino and it was to him he addressed his
opening salutation. It was a part of his policy to ignore Vargas and
Nunez, as if they did not exist.
"Well," he said, by way of introduction, "gentlemen of the Executive,
you're annoying, to say the least of it. What may be the reason of this
unexpected meeting? I had more important business to-night."
"You always seem to----" Nunez commenced.
"Be silent," sneered the Albino, with truculent courtesy, "you're
wasting the honourable gentleman's time. Can't you see he's in a hurry
to attend the Council of the President? Ho! ho! Senor Veneda, you can't
bluff me, so don't attempt it."
"Who wants to bluff you?" said Veneda. "Don't be a fool, Macklin. Tell
me why this meeting has been called."
"Because there is a lot of important business to be got through, and by
reason of the disturbances we may not be able to hold another for a week
or two."
Veneda seated himself, and the meeting commenced.
"In the first place," said the Albino, who acted as chairman, "there is
some important correspondence from the branches to be considered. I have
here a letter from London, informing us that on the 13th May, Emanuel
Bendalack, secretary of a well-known Building Society, absconded from
England with L18,000. He left in the steamer _Royal Sceptre_, bound for
Cape Town; he is disguised as a Wesleyan missionary, and booked his
passage in the name of Blander. If you will allow me to make a
suggestion, I would advise that our agents in South Africa be directed
to meet Mr. Blander on his arrival, and that the Greek, Manolake, be
despatched from here as soon as possible to attend to the affair. Does
that meet with your approval?"
Assent having been given, the Albino made an entry in a book, and took
up another letter.
"This is a communication from Buda-Pesth. It is to the effect that the
well-known merchant, Julius Karlinska, left that city on the 6th June,
taking with him a sum equivalent to L22,000, the property of his
creditors. He is believed to be making for Australia, and has been
traced as far as Port Said. Photograph enclosed. What do you desire
regarding Herr Karlinska?"
Nunez was the first to offer a suggestion.
"I would advise communicating with our agent in Melbourne, and sending
some one at once to take over the affair."
"Who is at liberty just now?" asked Veneda.
"Emil Valdor, Shivaloff, and Maunders of the men, that is if Manolake
goes to Cape Town; Marie Darnee and Juanita Valdores of the women."
"Juanita? The very person; despatch her!"
"Impossible! She is wanted here."
Veneda gave a little sigh of disappointment.
"Where is the Italian, Automa?" asked Nunez.
"In New York, shadowing Clifford Blake-Ganon, who is expected to bolt at
any moment," answered Macklin.
"Then send the Darnee," urged Vargas; "she will find him and do the
business better than any."
"Is that your wish, senors?" the chairman asked.
They signified that it was.
"Very good, then the Darnee goes. And now we come to another matter, one
nearer home."
Veneda gave a start, so small that it was unnoticed save by the Albino.
"What matter?"
The dwarf cast a look at him full of withering contempt.
"Now, see you," he said angrily, "it's not a bit of good your coming
here and trying to make me believe that you want the whole story
overhauled again. You know very well what I mean."
"That poor hunted devil of an English banker in the Calle de San Pedro,
I suppose?"
"You suppose! Look here, Marcos Veneda, what the devil's the use of your
wasting our time playing 'possum like that?'
"How was I to know to what you alluded? we've so many irons in the fire.
But since we are on that subject, Macklin, I've got something to say
about it. Don't you think we might give the poor cur a run for his
miserable life? From all accounts he's pretty well frightened out of his
senses already!"
The Albino, Vargas, and Nunez stared with astonishment; in all their
experience of him, they had never known Marcos Veneda behave like this
before. The Albino laughed suspiciously.
"I wonder what your little game is, my friend," he said. "This is a new
line for you. Want us to spare him, do you? Very pretty, I'm sure; would
look well in a tract, wouldn't it, with a devil dodger's head on the
frontispiece!"
"Stow that, Macklin; I only want fair play for the wretch."
"Fair play, is it? Oh, I promise you he shall have _dead_ loads of
that."
The Albino laughed uproariously at his own vile joke. He was joined by
Vargas and Nunez.
Veneda's face grew black as thunder.
"That's enough," he said, with a sudden outburst of passion. "Stop that!
I'll not be laughed at by a set of greasy scattermouches like you."
The merriment ceased abruptly, and the Albino took the opportunity of
re-commencing business.
"To-morrow, whichever way the fighting goes, there'll be rioting and
sacking of houses. That's our opportunity."
"And who is to do the work?"
"We will decide that by lot."
"But how do you know that he hasn't taken flight, or that the
information hasn't leaked out, and the _cache_ been rifled already?"
"Because, my friend, as you're perfectly aware, the house has been
watched day and night ever since he sneaked into the town. No, no, don't
be afraid, we have taken very good care of ourselves; nobody has come
out, not even the old mole himself; and certainly no one has gone in.
You needn't be alarmed, the money is safe enough. He would be a clever
and courageous man who managed to play false with us."
Veneda breathed again. It had been an anxious moment; but he flattered
himself he had not betrayed his uneasiness, while at the same time he
had learnt all he wanted to know. The questions he was about to ask were
only intended to disarm any suspicions his manner might have aroused.
"And after the money is our property?"
"It will be divided here, on the capstan-head, so to speak; and when
each man has received his share, he can up stakes, and go to the devil
with it his own way."
"And how much do you say it will amount to? Remember the old man's had a
good slice out of it himself."
"Lord grant me patience! How many more questions do you want to ask?
Why, as near as we can fix it, Two Hundred and Twenty-five Thousand
Pounds; isn't it enough for you?"
"Pretty near," Veneda answered, with a laugh; "and now, if you've got
anything else to do, let's get to it at once. I've business down town."
At a signal from Albino, Vargas placed dice upon the table, and the
gamble commenced. Luck was with Veneda, for finally Vargas and the
Albino were elected to carry out the robbery. When that point had been
decided, the hour for meeting on the following night, and a few other
minor matters arranged, Veneda wished them a sneering "good luck" of
their work, and started homewards as fast as his legs would carry him.
As he went he laughed softly to himself, as one who enjoys a joke of
extraordinary humour. He was decidedly in better spirits than when we
accompanied him to the house. He even forgot himself so far as to
whistle.
Considering the state of Valparaiso at the time, and the fact that there
was no protective power at hand to quell disturbances, the city was
wonderfully quiet. A great anxiety was upon everybody, a disquiet that
was not at all attuned to noise.
Veneda strode briskly along, occupied with his own thoughts. But strange
though it may seem, he was not thinking of the scene he had just left,
nor of the impending battle of the morrow; he was recalling a certain
box and letter he had despatched to a London merchant a week previous,
and reflecting that by the time the Society could discover his
treachery, he would in all probability be on the high seas, far beyond
the reach of vengeance or defeat. There was only one thing; at any risk
he must prevent the woman Juanita from suspecting his intentions.
So absorbed was he in his thoughts, that he had arrived at his house,
let himself in, and ascended the stairs to his own peculiar sanctum
before he was really conscious that he had done so. The staircase and
the room were in total darkness. He crossed to a bracket where matches
were usually kept, and striking one, turned to light a candle close at
hand. As the flame caught, a low, musical laugh, distinctly feminine,
greeted his ears. His nerves must have been overstrung, for he started
violently, and came within an ace of dropping both candle-stick and
match. Holding the light aloft, he glanced in the direction whence the
sound proceeded. The room was big enough to contain many shadows, and
the candle did not give a very good light.
"Juanita?"
"Yes, Juanita certainly; are you so surprised to see me?"
He paused to light two other candles before replying. His visitor did
not fail to notice the trembling of his hand. Then the room being
illuminated to his satisfaction, and the door carefully closed, he
remembered his duty as host, and bade her welcome in proper form. When
she heard him say that he was glad to see her, she laughed very softly,
and said--
"Marcos, I wonder when you will learn to tell a falsehood with an air of
truth?"
Evidently he did not deem this question worthy of a reply, for he threw
himself into a chair, and began to roll a cigarette, without vouchsafing
one.
Now, when I say that Juanita Encarnacion Valdores, whose name we have
heard mentioned so many times before, was altogether an uncommon woman,
I desire to imply that she was uncommon not only in a physical, but in
several other senses besides. Her beauty alone was such as to arrest
immediate attention. Of rather more than middle height, she carried
herself with an erectness calculated to give one the idea that she was
several inches taller than her real stature. Even for one owning Spanish
blood, her complexion was dark almost to swarthiness, while her upper
lip was not without a suspicion of what is irreverently termed a
moustache. Yet it was strange that these two things, counted in other
women serious defects, in Juanita not only failed to detract from the
general effect, but in a great measure added to it. Her hands and feet
were in keeping with the rest of her frame, neither too large nor too
small; her manner could be anything she chose, from caressing to
fiendish; and her voice and laugh, when she so desired, sounded on the
ear like sweetest music. Like Marcos Veneda, she was all mysteriousness.
Many curious stories were told of her past, and as a faithful
chronicler, I must admit that they did not all redound to her credit.
She had been in Chili nearly four years; but where she had hailed from
before that I am not prepared to say. It only concerns us that, at the
time of which I write, she was without a protector, and indeed it
appeared as if she would be likely to remain so, for no man was
careless enough of his reputation with the public to take such a
position upon himself. It is possible that this may have been the reason
why she drifted towards Veneda, whose predicament, as we have seen, was
not altogether dissimilar to her own.
"Come, come, Marcos," she said, "I cannot say that you're the best of
company to-night. Tell me, don't you think I'm a plucky woman to venture
out on such a night, and to call on you of all people?"
"I am proportionately honoured," he replied gravely; "but I suppose you
have some very good reason, or you wouldn't have run the risk."
She shrugged her shoulders, and made a little gesture with her hands, as
one who would say, "who knows." Then her manner changed completely, and
leaning forward, she placed one hand on his arm. He had been earnestly
regarding her all this time, endeavouring to read in her face what was
passing in her mind. Now he prepared himself for the struggle he felt
was imminent.
"My Marcos," she said softly, and the name came very prettily from her
lips, "I suppose you have heard that people call me a witch, because
they say I turn men's heads. They also say--no, do not speak till I have
done--that sometimes I can read men's thoughts, and not unfrequently
foretell future events."
"Then, Juanita," he answered, as soon as he could get a word in, "you
certainly could not have come at a better time. You shall read my fate,
and advise me as to what course I should pursue regarding it."
Without another word she lifted his hand, which lay upon the arm of her
chair, and examined it carefully. The flickering candle-light fell upon
her bent head, and danced amid the luxuriant tangle of her hair.
"Shall I tell you everything I see?" she asked. He saw that her face had
grown suddenly very serious.
"Why not?" he replied.
"Because I am frightened, Marcos," she answered, shuddering, "because
there is something terrible written on your hand."
"In what way?"
"Treachery, Marcos, and for a large sum of money!"
He snatched his hand angrily away, and to cover his embarrassment
affected entire disbelief.
"You are indeed a fortune-teller! You will accuse me of having
assassinated the President directly. And pray what else did you see?"
"I had better not tell you, you will only be angry with me."
"Angry with you! Never!"
"Marcos, I saw on your hand more than you dream. Hush, listen to me; you
are contemplating flight."
"That is not a difficult thing to see. If things do not improve here,
many of us will be driven into clearing out. You must be smarter than
that, Juanita."
"Oh, but that is not all. I see that you have sent great treasure away
to a far country, and that you intend to follow it."
"This is beautiful! What--what else?"
"That your professed love for me is only lip service, for you intend to
desert me."
"That is about as true as the rest. Have you anything further?"
"That your treasure amounts to over L200,000 of English money, and that
it is directed to a--let me see,"--here she pretended to study his hand
again,--"Sir Benjamin Plowden (bah! your English names!) who lives in
the East India Avenue of your great smoky London. Is that true? Ah! I
see it is."
There was a ring of triumph in her voice. She had played a doubtful
card, and scored a victory. For the moment Veneda was totally unnerved;
his face, pale before, was now snow-white; large beads of perspiration
covered his forehead.
"How did you learn all that nonsense?" he stammered.
"Why, from your hand, of course," came the mocking reply. "And is it
such nonsense? Marcos, Marcos, I have always said you were a clever man,
but you must be cleverer still to deceive me. Woman's wit--you know the
proverb. Will you have more? Shall I tell you, for instance, what
Macklin and the Society would say of it, and what key guards your
treasure-chamber?"
"By all means, if there is such a thing," he cried, his nervousness
lifting his voice almost to a falsetto. Meanwhile his eyes seemed to be
attempting to read her very soul. Perhaps his scrutiny relieved him, for
the expression on his face changed.
"I knew you couldn't do it," he said quietly. "I return your compliment;
you're very clever, but you must be cleverer still to deceive me."
"How do you know that I don't understand it?" she inquired, with just a
suspicion of nervousness now in _her_ voice. "Since I can tell so much,
how do you know that I can't tell all?"
"Because, my dear"--he had quite recovered himself by this time, and was
bitterly regretting having betrayed his feelings so openly--"even if I
had any such business on hand, I am certain you don't know what you
pretend, otherwise you would have it in your eyes. Ah!"
His attention was attracted to a small writing-table standing in a
corner of the room. The blotting-book lay upon it turned upside down.
Seizing it, he fell to turning the leaves. One was missing.
"Ha! ha! my little sorceress!" he cried mockingly, "you are discovered.
It is an old trick and a good one. I remember blotting the first two
sides of the letter on a fresh page. To obtain your information, you
have simply torn that out, and held it against the light. But the rest,
the most important part, was not blotted at all. So you can do me no
harm after all."
"Why should you think I wish to harm you?"
"I don't think you do; I only think you might. And you see, of L200,000,
two hundred thousand pounds' worth of care must be taken. By the way,
since you know so much, I doubt if it would be prudent to let you out of
this house again."
Ignoring the threat entirely, she continued the conversation as if it
had not been uttered.
"At least you might have trusted me, Marcos."
"Have I said that I do not?"
"You have not said so in so many words, but I know you don't. Besides,
you are leaving Chili to-morrow night."
"How do you know that?"
"I forget, but it's true, isn't it, Marcos?--and you will take me with
you, won't you? Even if you no longer love me, you will have pity on me?
You will not leave me to their mercy? I am so tired of this life of
spying and conspiracy, and I would be so faithful to you."
Her voice trembled. He stopped his restless pacing up and down the room,
and looked at her. As far as he could see there was only a great love
for himself shining in her eyes. She looked wondrously beautiful. It was
a temptation and a danger; yet perhaps, all things considered, it was
the safest course. A second later he had made up his mind, and as he did
so a corresponding light came into his eyes. It would have been hard to
tell which was more in earnest. Resuming his seat beside her, he said--
"Juanita, I do love you, and I believe I can trust you; come what may,
we will go together."
"My own dear love!"
He took her hand and gravely kissed it. The crisis was past.
Both felt they had scored a victory, but both felt it would require very
little to overthrow it. Five minutes later she was speeding home
unaccompanied, for she would not hear of his being seen in the streets
with her. In the security of her own room she regarded herself in her
glass, and as she did so she said half aloud--
"He did his very best to put me off the scent, but I beat him in the
end. One thing is certain, he carries the piece of paper that is to
authorize the payment of the money about with him, in a large locket
fastened round his neck with a double chain. I felt it when my head
rested on his breast. Two hundred thousand pounds--it's the greatest
stake I ever played for. With that I should be a free woman again. Come
what may, my Marcos, I'll never desert you till I have shared it with
you or relieved you of it."
When she had left him, Veneda threw up his window, and leant out into
the night. The rain had ceased. He could see watch-fires gleaming all
along the heights, and myriads of lights twinkling among the shipping in
the harbour; but though he looked at them, I don't think he was
conscious that he saw them. He was reviewing in his mind all he had
passed through that evening, and wondering whether or not the balance
stood in his favour.
From the consideration of his present position, his thoughts passed out
across the open ocean to a mail-boat homeward bound. And so piercing was
the gaze of his mind's eye, that it penetrated even through iron and
timber to the vessel's bullion-room, where reposed a certain chest, with
which his fortunes were not altogether unconnected. Then dropping the
good ship behind it, as if she were standing still, on his fancy sped
across the seas to the land he had not known for fifteen years. There in
a smiling valley, nestling among beech woods, he found for himself a
home, a life of honest independence, of love, of respect, and, above all
things, of forgetfulness of Chili and the past! His imagination painted
it for him with realistic touches, but would it ever come true? With
Goethe he might very well have said, "When, how, and where? That is the
question!"
After a while he drew in his head, and shut the window. Then from round
his neck he took a locket. Opening it, a curious slip of ragged paper
fell to the floor. Picking it up, he gazed at it for a few seconds, and
then replaced it, saying to himself--
"Boulger's squared--the _Island Queen_ is ready, and with to-morrow
night's tide I bid good-bye to Chili for ever and a day. They'll never
think of looking for me in the South Pacific, and I'll work my way home
by Australia and the East. Confound Juanita! I ought to have anticipated
this trick of hers. It's the deuce and all, but there's no other way out
of it, I must take her with me. It would be madness to leave her behind
to act with the Albino and the Society against me; but before I get to
the other side, if I don't hit out some plan to rid myself of her, my
name's not Marmaduke Plowden!"
CHAPTER III.
A STRANGER DAY.
Quite an hour before daybreak Veneda was awakened by sounds of
excitement in the streets. Bitterly cold though the morning proved,
almost every one was astir, listening for the cannonading which would
proclaim the opening of the engagement on the heights. The booming of a
few guns came with the breaking day, faintly at first, but growing
louder as the light increased. Without doubt the long-expected battle
had commenced.
Following the example of his neighbours, Veneda threw up his window and
leant out to listen. Somehow or other, since his conversation with the
English merchant in the Calle de Victoria the previous night, his
confidence in a victory for the Government had been a little shaken; and
now for the first time he began to experience twinges of real alarm for
his own immediate safety. Supposing he should be arrested by the
Congressionalist leaders for his treachery to them, where would his
escape be then? In that case Boulger would not wait, and Juanita for her
own safety would be certain to betray him. But he reflected that it was
full early yet to be frightened, and moreover he had been in so many
close things before, that one more or less could hardly matter.
The behaviour of the people in the streets was peculiar. In their
excitement men no longer showed evidences of partisanship; all the
thoughts and anxieties of Gobiernistas and Oppositores alike were
centred on the battle then proceeding. It was as though they were
spectators of a stage-play and nothing more. The time for individual
animosity, they told themselves, would come later.
By breakfast-time the excitement had risen to fever heat. From the
clearness with which the sounds could be distinguished, it was plain
that the Government forces were being driven back, and this could have
but one meaning,--the Opposition were advancing on Valparaiso. The noise
grew louder every minute, and with its approach the turbulent element of
the town began to make its presence felt in the streets. The peculiar
ping of rifle-bullets sounded continually in the lower quarters; many
business premises away from the main thoroughfares were looted; while in
not one but several directions the smoke of incendiary fires rose on the
clear morning air.
So certain had every one, by this time, become of the result of the
fighting, that many Government supporters packed up their traps and
quitted the town with as little ostentation as possible; either
scurrying into the neighbouring mountains, or seeking refuge on board
the foreign men-of-war at anchor in the harbour.
Towards ten o'clock the firing slackened off, and by half-past had
ceased altogether. A victory had been won--but by whom? This question
was in everybody's mouth.
News, however, was not long forthcoming. In all directions terrified
camp-followers--men, women, and children, on foot and on
horseback--might have been seen making for the town as fast as their own
legs or those of their beasts could carry them. As they hurried along
they announced in loud voices the absolute defeat of the Government
forces, exaggerating the details with every repetition of the story.
After a short interval they were followed by the vanquished and flying
troops themselves, who corroborated what the others had so
authoritatively proclaimed. There could be no doubt that the Opposition
had won a signal victory. The reign of terror was over! The hated
Dictator, Balmaceda, hitherto regardless of what lives he sacrificed to
gain his ends, was now not only powerless, but an outcast and a
suppliant for his own.
Hard upon the heels of the fugitive troops, amid an outburst of wildest
excitement, came the advance guard of the victorious army, with bands
playing and colours waving. Bells clashed and jangled from every
steeple, continual _vivas_ rent the air, and crackers by hundreds were
exploded in the streets. Every one wore the red ribbon of the
Opposition, and every face (for active Gobiernistas were wise enough not
to parade theirs) testified to the relief and joy with which the result
was hailed. There could not have been a more popular termination to the
struggle.
As soon as the result of the battle had become known, the Intendente had
delivered up the town to the admirals of the foreign war-ships, who now
in their turn handed it over to the Congressionalist leaders. The place
had thus practically changed hands from the Republic to the Republic;
from one class to the other and more popular section of the community.
It may be imagined that Veneda took care to be well posted on all that
occurred. With the entrance of the troops he saw the total destruction
of his political hopes, and now his active mind was busily engaged
working out the best possible means of securing his own safety, until
the time should come for him to leave the country.
Reflecting that to all intents and purposes his life would depend an his
personal appearance, he first turned his attention in that direction. In
five minutes his close-cropped beard had disappeared; his heavy black
moustache was twirled and twisted into quite a new and extraordinary
shape; while his well-cut English clothes were discarded for a more
Chilian garb, including a poncho and a broad-leafed sombrero. When thus
equipped he paraded before his glass, he could not but admit that the
effect was excellent. The odds were a thousand to one against any one
recognizing in this typical Chilano the Marcos Veneda of half-an-hour
before.
By the time he was dressed he had determined as to his next course of
action. He saw that it would be impossible for him to remain where he
was; therefore, until the hour for boarding the schooner should arrive,
he must seek an asylum elsewhere. But before leaving the house many
things had to be thought of. Glancing round the room with its host of
familiar knick-knacks, he set himself to destroy what he did not desire
should fall into other hands, concealing about his person such small
articles of value or association as he wished to carry away. When this
was accomplished he dropped a carefully-loaded revolver into the pocket
of his poncho, and was ready to forsake the house.
That he might not be observed leaving by the front door, he lifted the
window and swung himself from it down into the patio. For a moment he
stopped to listen, then hearing nothing suspicious, passed without
further ado into the street. No one was to be seen.
Where to go, or what to do with himself (it was not yet two o'clock), he
had not made up his mind. Strange to say, considering the danger it
would involve him in, he felt an intense desire to see all that was to
be seen, and to participate, himself, in the general excitement. Of the
latter there was no lack; the town was full of disbanded soldiery, and
serious rioting had already occurred. The foreign war-ships had landed
forces to protect foreign life, but in the lower quarters the mob ruled
paramount.
So complete was his disguise that Veneda found himself, on more than one
occasion, standing side by side with former acquaintances, unmolested
and unrecognized. The knowledge of this security gave him fresh courage,
and he followed the course of the day's events with additional interest
and vigour. Yet a danger he had never anticipated was in store for him.
Leaving the Calle de Victoria, he passed down a side street in the
direction of the harbour, but before he had proceeded fifty yards a
sound he knew only too well greeted his ears; it was the noise of a
crowd in hot pursuit of something or somebody.
Not wishing to run the risk of being mistaken for their quarry, he cast
about him for a loophole of escape. But none presented itself. While he
was looking, footsteps sounded close behind him. To his astonishment the
runner was none other than John Macklin the Albino, chairman of the
Society, his face livid with terror, and his breath coming from him in
great spasmodic jerks. His clothes were in rags, and covered with a
filth which reached even to his hair; his hat was gone, and long purple
weals streaked his dainty cheeks. The agony expressed in his eyes lent
an extraordinary effect to his face.
"Save me, save me!" he gasped, falling at Veneda's feet. "In the
merciful name of God, I beseech you to save me!"
For the reason that Macklin did not recognize him, nothing would have
been easier than for the other to have cast him off, and for the space
of three breaths he was half inclined to do it. Then, for some reason
which he was never afterwards able to explain (it must be understood
that the dwarfs death would in a great measure have rescued him from his
very awkward predicament), he determined to do his best to help him. It
was a foolish resolution, but it was only on a par with the man's
extraordinarily complex character.
The noise of the mob, like that of hounds in full cry, was drawing
closer; any second might bring them into view. Turning to the terrified
creature beside him, he cried--
"I'll do my best for you. Pick up your heels and run."
Running appeared the last thing the Albino, in his present exhausted
condition, would be capable of, but he nevertheless followed in the
other's wake, panting horribly, and throwing his long arms about with
windmill-like gesticulations. As they started the mob burst into view,
and a second later a shot whisked in unpleasant proximity to Veneda's
head. There is something chilling in the whine of a rifle-bullet, and as
he heard it he began to repent having taken any share in the Albino's
private concerns. Without turning his head, he cried--
"Faster, faster, round the next corner, and then follow me."
This was, however, easier said than done; the little man's strength,
already taxed beyond straining pitch, was quite unequal to a fresh
demand. He began to lag behind, and Veneda saw that if he reached the
shelter of the street corner, about fifty yards distant, it would be as
much as he could possibly accomplish.
Not a second was to be lost; their pursuers were barely more than a
hundred and fifty yards behind. Stopping, he turned, and as his
companion approached him, stooped and took him in his arms, throwing him
up on to his shoulder as if his weight were the merest trifle. Then he
resumed his flight.
Reaching the corner he flew round it, thankful to find no one in sight,
and made for a row of deserted houses across the way. Into the patio of
the third of these he dashed, and not until then did he place his
burden on the ground.
"I can't carry you any further; we must hide!" he cried, vigorously
attacking a door which opened on to the courtyard; "our lives depend
upon getting into this house. Help me, help me!"
The Albino required no second bidding, and between them they burst in
the door. They were only just in time, for as the lock gave way they
heard the vanguard of the mob come howling round the corner. Veneda knew
that when they could not see their game before them, it would be only a
question of seconds before they would commence their search of the
neighbourhood. Experience had taught him that a mob does not allow
itself to be robbed of its prey without a struggle.
Once inside the house he led the way up-stairs. Unlike most Chilian
residences, it was of three storeys, and built of stone--a bad
speculation on the part of an English builder. Not until they had
ascended to the garrets did they pause to listen. An angry murmur came
up to them from the street, and when he heard it Veneda turned to his
companion, who was lying on the floor endeavouring to regain his breath,
and said--
"That means that they've tracked us down. How we're going to give them
the slip now is more than I can see."
As he spoke, a crash came from the lower regions.
"That's the front door," he continued calmly. "We must be moving on
again. Are you ready?"
The Albino's only answer was to spring to his feet.
Being already as high up as they could get without crawling on to the
roof, where next to go became the question. A noise of voices told them
that their pursuers were within the house itself. They were caught like
rats in a trap! Apart from any other consideration, it would, in all
probability, be a most unpleasant death they would die; and Veneda
reflected that after so many narrow escapes it would be humiliating to
perish at the hands of a lawless mob in somebody else's quarrel.
While these thoughts were flashing through his brain he was looking
about him for some means of exit, but save for the door they had entered
by, and the window which looked out at the back over some lower roofs,
nothing worthy of his consideration presented itself. The door was
clearly impracticable, unless they desired to meet their pursuers on the
stairs, and as to the window, there was a drop of fully fifteen feet
from it on to the nearest roof, and at least twenty more on to the
stones of the courtyard. By this time the foremost of the mob were in
the room beneath them.
A heavy perspiration broke out on Veneda's forehead; the Albino shrank
into a corner, and covered his face with his hands. But they could not
meet their death without a struggle, so, come what might, they must try
the window. Crossing to it Veneda threw it open, at the same time
beckoning the dwarf to his side.
"Now," he said, "there is nothing for it but to get out on the roof, and
crawl along the housetops till we can find a place to get down. Don't
stand whimpering there, but pay attention to what I say. I'll swing
myself up first, and when I'm ready I'll do my best to pull you after
me. Stand by, or I swear I'll leave you to your fate!"
It was a useless warning; the Albino was ready to risk anything, even a
tumble into the courtyard, rather than to allow himself to fall into the
hands of those who were now on the staircase leading to their room.
With all the speed he could command Veneda crawled backwards out of the
narrow window, and clutched the thin guttering of the roof above. What
he was about to attempt was not only a difficult, but a horribly
dangerous feat, for there was literally nothing to catch hold of that
would permit of a grip. It was an athletic test that would have tried
the nerve and endurance of the most accomplished gymnast. Bit by bit,
with infinite pain, he drew himself up, till his shoulders were above
the guttering. The muscles of his arms appeared as if they must snap
under the strain they were called upon to endure. The suspense was
awful; but if it seemed long to Veneda before he was lying stretched on
the roof, what an eternity must it have been to the miserable Albino
crouched in the room below!
Then the other's voice reached him, saying--
"Crawl backwards out of the window, and give me your hands. Be quick! I
can't stay like this long!"
The shouts of the mob and the trampling on the staircase stimulated him.
Crawling out of the window as he was ordered, he stretched his long arms
upwards. His hands were clutched from above; then he felt himself lifted
clear of the sill, and next moment he was swaying out into mid air. If
the strain on Veneda's muscles had been great when he pulled himself up
on to the roof, how much greater was it now that he had not only to
retain his own position, but to lift this other man as well! The Albino
looked up into his face and saw the veins standing out upon it as large
as maccaroni stems, and strange though it may appear, it was only then
that he recognized his deliverer. A minute later he was stretched on the
roof-top, just as the leaders of the mob entered the room they had so
lately quitted.
It was a long time before either spoke. Then the Albino, leaning towards
his preserver, whispered--
"Marcos, I owe you my life. I reckon I won't forget what you've done for
me to-day."
"You had a close shave of it. What devil's game were you up to that they
should chase you?"
"I met them in the Calle de Victoria, and some one cried 'Gobiernista';
next moment they started after me like bloodhounds. If I hadn't met you,
I'd have been a dead man!"
Perhaps Veneda did not hear him. At any rate he made no reply. He was
listening to the sounds in the street, and wondering, now that the mob
found themselves outwitted, what their next move would be.
He was not to be kept long in suspense. That operations of some kind
were being conducted he guessed from the sudden silence. Then a cry of
"Fire!" went up, and next moment smoke burst from either end of the row.
He understood exactly: not being able to find them, the mob intended to
burn them out!
From the two farthest houses the flames spread with awful rapidity, and
as they saw it their tormentors howled and shrieked with delight.
Fortunately the house, on the rearmost roof of which Veneda and the
Albino lay, was the centre one, and for this reason they would have some
time to wait before they could experience any actual danger.
It may be imagined with what interest they watched the approaching
flames, speculating how soon they would be obliged to move again. The
heat was over-powering; but the conflagration was not speedy enough for
the miscreants below, who thereupon set fire to the lower regions of the
middle house.
This, Veneda told himself, was becoming too much of a good thing. The
tiles were every moment growing hotter and hotter, and in a few minutes
it would be impossible to remain upon them. The dense, choking smoke
enveloped them in clouds.
With an eye ever on the look-out, he saw that the only cool spot was a
tiny position on a parapet to their left, as yet a good distance from
the flames. He moved towards it, thinking he had done quite enough for
his companion. There was not room for more than one upon the place, and
he secured it first.
Presently, overcome with heat and despair, the wretched Albino crawled
along the roof, and endeavoured to find a foothold on it also. Veneda
called upon him to go back, but he refused. It was impossible for both
to remain--one must go, and a battle began for the position.
Partly owing to the situation of the outhouses below, partly to the
fact that the mob was watching events from the street front, but more to
the dense smoke which enveloped them, their struggle was unnoticed. It
was of but short duration. How could one of the Albino's size hope to
contend with a man so muscular as Veneda! For a few brief seconds they
were locked in each other's arms; then Veneda's right hand seized upon
the other's throat, and began to press his head further and further
back. At last, to save himself from a broken neck, the Albino let go his
hold, and fell with a yell from the roof into the smoke below. But
though he had not succeeded in his attempt to remain upon the wall, he
did not allow his companion to occupy it either, for as he fell he made
a last feeble clutch at Veneda's legs. Slight though it was, it was
sufficient to disturb the other's balance. He tottered, swayed,
endeavoured to save himself, failed in the attempt, and finally fell, as
his companion had done before him, into the Unknown. Such was the
violence of his fall, that when he reached the bottom he lay stunned for
some time.
On recovering his senses he found himself lying in the hollow between
the roofs of the two outhouses before mentioned. Save for the
spluttering flames of the smouldering _debris_, it was quite dark. The
crowd had dispersed, and though he looked carefully about him, nothing
was to be seen of the Albino. Whether he had fallen into the courtyard
and been killed or captured by the mob, he could not of course tell, but
at any rate he was relieved to find that he had departed elsewhere.
Having made sure of this, he rose and convinced himself that no bones
were broken. He had experienced a miraculous escape, and he argued that
it was a good omen for what lay before him. Clambering over the side of
the roof, he lowered himself to the ground, and then skirting the ruins
of the houses, proceeded into the street.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ALBINO IS DISAPPOINTED.
When the Albino regained his senses, on the other side of the small
outhouse, within five feet of where Veneda lay, his first idea was to
find out if he had received any injury from his fall from the roof, and
next to discover what had become of the man who had occasioned it.
He found that beyond a severe shaking and a few burns, he had sustained
but trifling hurt, perhaps for the reason that by clutching at the
parapet he had in some measure broken his fall. But though he searched
diligently all round the patio, and even among the ruins of the houses
hard by, not a trace of his late antagonist could he discover.
What a narrow escape had been his he realized when he looked about him,
for on every side were heaped smouldering _debris_ of the dwellings,
while the conflagration was still proceeding, with unabated violence,
only a few steps further along the street. Why he had not been killed by
falling timber, found and despatched by the mob, or burnt up by the
flames as he lay unconscious, he could not for the life of him
understand.
The street being quiet, he settled it in his own mind that the mob had
gone elsewhere, believing their prey to have perished. So giving himself
a final shake to make quite certain that all was sound, he waited his
opportunity, and, when no one was passing, struck out in the direction
of the Calle de San Pedro. In spite of his recent adventures he had not
forgotten his appointment with Vargas at the house of the fugitive
English banker; and, as he hurried along, he reflected with a chuckle
that if, as in all human probability was the case, Veneda had perished
with the falling house, then would there be one less with whom to divide
the spoil. He wished, however, that he had seen the body. That, he told
himself, would have been altogether more satisfactory, for he knew
Vargas and Nunez well enough to be aware that they would not accept his
statement for truth, unless he could bring substantial proof of its
authenticity.
As he turned into the Calle de San Pedro, a man crossed over the road
and joined him. It was Pablos Vargas. Without a word they proceeded to
the house, a ramshackle, old adobe structure of one storey, with a broad
verandah running round three sides, and a commodious patio on the
fourth, this latter protected by a heavy gate.
As the conspirators approached it they were joined by two other men from
the premises on either side.
"Well, Miguel," said the Albino, addressing himself to the taller of the
twain, "what have you to report? He has not escaped you?"
"No, senor. We have not seen a sign of him this week past, and we've
watched day and night."
"Well, if he's gone you may pack your kits, and clear out of this
country for ever. I promise you, you won't be able to live in it with
me. You can go."
"We want our money," remarked the man who had not yet spoken.
"What? Want your money, do you, you longshore beach-comber--want your
money before we've seen how you've done your work! Clear out of this.
You'll be paid at the proper place, at ten."
"These are no times for promises. We want our money now," reiterated the
man; "and what's more, we're going to have it!"
The Albino was not at all impressed by the man's determined attitude.
Taking a step towards him, he whispered a sentence in his ear, with the
result that next moment the fellow was scuttling down the street like
one possessed, his companion after him.
Macklin turned to Vargas with a grin.
"There seems to be something in the old word after all. Now come; we've
got our work cut out."
As he spoke he produced a key, and opened the door of the dwelling
before which they stood, and which was to the right of that they
designed to visit. Entering, they proceeded along the passage to the
small yard at the back. Once there only a low wall separated them from
the other house. With an agility surprising in one so deformed, the
Albino mounted it, and dropped on to the other side; Vargas followed
him, and together they approached a window. Opening this, they crept
through it into the dwelling; then, soft as cats, passed across the room
towards the central passage. At a signal from Macklin, Vargas produced
and lit a candle.
Having before they started made themselves familiar with that part of
the house which contained the treasure of which they were in search,
they were able to approach it without hesitation or delay. On reaching
the room they paused to listen, at the same time taking the precaution
of examining their arms. Then, stealthily opening the door, they
entered, the Albino first and Vargas in the rear, shading the candle
with his hand.
A half-starved, decrepit old man was pacing up and down at the further
end. On seeing them he stopped his walk, and advanced towards them with
a courtly bow.
"You are very welcome," he began in English. "I've been expecting you
this week past. You must excuse the unprepared state of my surroundings;
but I've only moved in here while my Kensington house is being
redecorated. You will stay and take dinner with me, of course?"
"What does he say?" asked Vargas, who had no knowledge of English.
"He's mad!--stark, staring mad!" replied the Albino.
"Won't you sit down?" continued their host. "I will ring and have the
wine put in ice. By the way, I don't think you told me your business; my
memory is not what it was. I have had troubles--serious troubles."
"That's enough of that, my friend," Macklin interposed "Confound your
memory! We want that money--the Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand you
swindled the Kamtchatka Bank out of. If you want to save your skin,
you'd better own up where it is, and save any bother."
The ex-banker continued to smile sweetly.
"Ah! there's a very good story connected with that. It's going the round
of the clubs now. Lord Burgoo, our chairman, asked me about it this
afternoon in Piccadilly. You must know that I took it out to Chili to
invest on the Bank's behalf. One evening, I was sitting in my room in
the Calle de San Pedro, when a singularly handsome man called to see me.
'Mr. Bradshaw,' said he, 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but I've come to
play you a game of cards for that money.' I had no objection, of course,
so down we sat. Eventually he won, and I paid him all that was left of
the L250,000. It was a good stake, wasn't it?"
"You lie!" shrieked the Albino, dashing at him and clutching him by the
throat. "That be hanged for a tale. It's only one of your damned dodges
to put us off the scent. Where is it? Tell me, or I'll throttle you!"
"I assure you it's the truth," gasped the unfortunate banker, half
strangled. "I will even tell you his name."
The Albino withdrew his hand.
"Now, what was it? Quick!"
"Let me think. I fancy it began with V--Veneda, or some such name. Of
course I did not ask, but he allowed it to slip from him in his
excitement. He was a most gentlemanly person, and interested me
exceedingly."
"Nonsense! I won't believe it; he dared not do it. But, Marcos Veneda,
you thieving traitorous hound, by God, if this be true it will prove the
worst day's work you've ever done in your life."
Then in Spanish he explained what had happened to Vargas, whose rage was
absurdly theatrical. He danced and swore, tore his hair and ground his
teeth in an ecstasy of passion.
"Stop that nonsense," said the Albino. "We must search the house as
quickly as possible, and if it's not here, find Veneda without a
moment's delay. Now we see why he wanted us to spare him. It strikes me
we've been sold, and badly too."
Without further ado they set to work. But they might have spared
themselves the trouble. The money was undoubtedly gone--the _cache_ had
been rifled, and the treasure stolen. The Albino's rage surpassed
description; he vowed such vengeance against the traitor that even
Vargas was overwhelmed with terror. Suddenly they looked round for the
banker. He was not to be seen. Taking advantage of their absence in
another room, he had passed into the yard and quietly quitted the house.
"Never mind him," said Macklin, "he's no use to us now. We must collect
every man we can lay our hands on, and search the town until we find
Veneda. If he escapes, I'll be the death of somebody."
CHAPTER V.
THE ESCAPE FROM CHILI.
It was nearly seven o'clock when Veneda bade farewell to the ruins of
the house, in connection with which he had undergone such a variety of
experiences; and, as I have already said, at half-past he had arranged
to effect his escape from Chili. Now, though he was aware that there was
no possible chance of his being able to get out of it, he was
nevertheless much concerned about the wisdom of taking Juanita with him.
He could not help seeing that by including a woman in his plans he was
hampering his own freedom of action, and thus imperilling his one chance
of safety; but on the other hand he could hit out no way of disposing of
her, and since she possessed a large portion of his secret, it would be
the most criminal folly possible to leave her behind to join the ranks
of those who, he felt convinced, would ultimately pursue him from Chili.
There were, besides, other and more cogent reasons against this latter
course.
Though it was not a great distance to her abode, it took him some time
to reach it. He had no desire to attract attention by any undue hurry;
and for the same reason, when he did arrive at the house he made no
attempt to gain admittance until he had absolutely convinced himself
that he had not been followed. Then, crossing the patio, he knocked.
Juanita herself opened the door. When she realized who the visitor was
she uttered a little cry of welcome, and led the way into an inner room,
carefully closing the door behind them.
"Marcos," she began, lifting her clasped hands to him, "you really meant
what you said last night? You are here to take me away with you?"
"Did you think I should break my promise?" he answered almost angrily,
his disappointment at finding her unprepared getting the better of him.
"Why are you not ready? Every second is of the utmost importance to us.
As it is, we shall only just catch the tide."
"Wait only a moment and I will be with you; just one little moment."
She fled the room, and for five minutes he was left to his own thoughts.
They were not pleasant, a consuming impatience was upon him. He knew
that his very life depended upon the next half-hour, and now it looked
as if he were about to lose everything because a woman had misunderstood
a plain speech. Every moment found him more and more angry. At length,
unable to control himself any longer, he was in the act of going to look
for her, when a heavy footstep approached the room. The door was thrown
open and a man entered, clad after the same fashion as himself. The
behaviour of this individual was not conciliatory. Casting a quick look
at Veneda standing by the window, he said gruffly--
"Your business here, senor?"
"I am waiting for a friend."
"The Senora Juanita perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Then you will wait a long time, for she has gone."
Veneda almost shouted in his surprise. In a second all sorts of
treachery had flashed through his brain.
"Gone!" he cried. "What the devil do you mean? Where's she gone?"
"Who knows?" the other replied airily, giving his narrow shoulders a
slight shrug. "I allow it's her own business where she goes, not mine,
thank God."
In three strides Veneda was beside him, and had clapped a revolver to
his head.
"Look here, my uncivil friend," he said, "I don't want to make trouble
in this house for my own sake, but if you don't tell me what you know, I
swear I'll blow your brains out where you stand. That's cold-drawn biz,
I reckon."
The man was silent for a moment, then a nervous little laugh came from
under the sombrero.
"Marcos, do you think I am well enough disguised?"
_It was Juanita!_
Veneda could scarcely credit his senses, the deception was so perfect.
But his admiration for her acting did not prevent his drawing her
towards the door, whispering as he did so--
"It's wonderful! No one could possibly recognize you in than get-up.
Now we must fairly jump for the harbour, or we'll be too late."
Closing the front door on another incident in their lives they set off
towards the port. And what a night it was! All day long the city had
been the scene of constant rioting, but now that darkness had fallen to
cloak their misdeeds, the mob had grown proportionately bolder. From
simple exuberance of spirits and foolish mischief, their behaviour had
become that of fiends. Houses had been and were still being looted in
every street; incendiary fires pierced the sky in all directions; and
the crack of rifles, with the whine of bullets, sounded almost without
cessation. Scarcely a street, moreover, but was strewed with the bodies
of their victims, the greater portion of which were women.
Juanita's presence of mind was little short of marvellous; terrifying
though the sights she was constantly compelled to witness must have been
to her, only once did she betray a sign of fear. Leaving the street in
which her house was situated, they passed by a narrow alley into
another, which in its turn led them into an open square. This it was
unfortunately necessary that they should cross, in order to reach a
thoroughfare leading to the wharves. No sooner had they entered it than
Veneda saw what a fatal mistake he had made. One glance told him that it
was filled with the lowest scum of the Chilian mob, frenzied with
debauchery and incendiarism. On the far side a row of houses blazed into
the sky, while on that nearest to them a dense crowd of men and women,
denizens of the most infamous quarters, were dancing the Cueca, or
national dance, with a wildness absolutely indescribable. Twice while
he watched, Veneda saw men draw revolvers, and shoot down without any
reason save wanton cruelty the wretched women who leapt and gesticulated
opposite them.
These sights were too much for Juanita. She tottered, and would have
fallen in a faint, had not Veneda passed his arm beneath her poncho and
sustained her. Almost beside himself with despair, he dragged her into a
dark alley, and bade her sit down and rest until she felt able to
proceed. Then they resumed their walk at increased speed. Time was more
precious to them now than money; they could risk no more delays. It
seemed an eternity since they had set out together!
But there was not much more before them. Turning a corner the cold sea
breeze smote upon their faces, and a moment later the dark waters of the
bay confronted them. Had they had time, and been so inclined, they might
have stopped to offer up a prayer of thankfulness for their escape; but
as it was they contented themselves with looking anxiously for something
they expected to find awaiting them. Seeing nothing, Veneda gave a
peculiar whistle, which, to his evident relief, was instantly answered
from a mass of deep shadow to their left. A second later a ship's
long-boat came into the starlight, and pulled towards the landing-place,
the man steering standing up and peering towards them as if to make
certain of their identity.
"Who are you?" he took care to ask before he brought the boat up to the
steps, "and what do you want?"
"My name's Veneda," was the reply, "and I want a boat from the _Island
Queen_."
Evidently this answer was deemed satisfactory, for the same voice
replied--
"One moment, sir, and I'll bring her alongside. I've been waiting for
you this hour past; the tide is serving, and the old man will murder me
for being so long."
When the man in the bows had hooked on, Veneda escorted Juanita down the
steps, and signed her to enter the boat. But this the person in command
was disinclined to permit.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, civilly but firmly, "my instructions were to
bring you off alone, and I cannot include any one else."
"Oh, that's all right, my good fellow, this gentleman is a personal
friend, and I have arranged to take him on board with me."
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I cannot exceed my instructions; will you be
good enough to step in yourself? There's no time to waste if we want to
catch this tide."
"But I tell you my friend must accompany me," Veneda answered, at the
same time stepping into the boat himself; "I will be responsible to the
captain."
"No, sir, not another word, I cannot do it. My instructions were most
explicit--one gentleman, and only one! Jackson, shove off!"
"Ah! I see how it is. One gentleman--exactly--but nothing was said about
my wife."
The mate, for such it turned out later he was appeared completely
mystified.
"Your wife! Where is she?"
"This lady is my wife," said Veneda, pointing to Juanita standing on the
steps. "It was impossible for me to bring her through the town on a
night like this in her own dress, so to ensure her safety I was
compelled to make her wear a suit of mine. Juanita, my dear, convince
this gentleman that you are only masquerading."
Her voice sounded very sweet and womanly as she said in English--
"Surely, sir, you will believe what my husband says?"
The mate scratched his head. He was in a dilemma, and he couldn't see
his way out of it. At last he made up his mind.
"Well, sir, I'll risk it any way. Will you be good enough to step in,
ma'am? I'm sorry to have made you wait, but the fault's with the captain
for saying nothing about your coming."
Entering the boat, she took her seat opposite Veneda, and they pushed
off. Before they had way on her, the sounds of a man running were heard
upon the wharf, and next moment a strange figure came into view and
bounded down the steps. It was none other than the Albino, under the
influence of extraordinary rage; his long white hair floated in the
wind, his arms worked with frantic gesticulations, and his voice shook
with the violence of his passion. Fortunately for the fugitives he spoke
in Spanish, a language with which neither the mate nor any of the boat's
crew were familiar. He had caught sight of Veneda, and it was at him
that his torrent of abuse was directed.
"Marcos Veneda," he cried, shaking his fist at the retreating boat,
"thief! traitor! coward!--come back--come back, and give me what you've
stolen from me!"
But his wrath was vain; the boat by this time was fifty yards from the
steps, and under the strong arms of her crew was every moment increasing
the distance.
He was not, however, to be baulked; securing another, he was soon in hot
pursuit, rowing as though his very life, or rather L200,000, depended on
it.
The _Island Queen_ lay a good distance out, and when the boat containing
Veneda and Juanita came alongside, Captain Boulger was on deck.
Hastening to the gangway to receive his passenger, he was not a little
surprised to see two.
"I'm right glad to see you at last, Mr. Veneda," he said. "But I can't
say I counted on any one else accompanying you."
Veneda was prepared for this, and he beckoned the captain on one side. A
minute later he rejoined Juanita with the information that the
difficulty was satisfactorily settled. The mate went forward to attend
to the raising of the anchor, and by the time the Albino's boat was
within hailing distance, the schooner had got way on her, and was
drawing quickly out of the harbour.
To say that that gentleman, when he realized his enemy was escaping him,
was angry, would be to convey a very false impression of his state. He
stood up in his boat, foaming at the mouth, unable to speak, and shaking
his fist wildly at the vessel till she had passed out of sight. But,
though he was so overcome with rage, he had not failed to notice the
name painted in white letters across the stern--"_Island Queen_,
Tahiti."
It was some time before he felt able to pull ashore. But when he did so,
he said solemnly to himself--
"Marcos Veneda, I don't mind owning you're a very clever fellow; you
seem, however, to have forgotten one thing. You've broken faith with one
of the strongest organizations in the world. If it costs that Society
every cent it's worth, if it has to chase you round the world, it will
get the money back, and be even with you for this bit of treachery!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE 'ISLAND QUEEN.'
Fortunately for the success of the escape from Valparaiso, the wind blew
almost a hurricane from the schooner's most favourable quarter, and, as
Captain Boulger was careful to impress upon his passengers, "the _Island
Queen_ hadn't her equal in the whole of the South Pacific for foot."
(She was his own property, and for that reason, perhaps, he was rather
inclined to over-estimate her capabilities.) In the present instance,
however, she was called upon to put forward all her good qualities, for
in spite of the large sum it had cost Veneda to charter him, the captain
was fully aware of the risk he had taken upon himself, and he had
therefore no desire that anything should occur to impede or delay his
departure. As far as his own powers went he had small fear, for he was
in every way a capable seaman; but he knew that it required not only
considerable skill, but a fair amount of luck besides, to manoeuvre
successfully out of such an admittedly awkward harbour on a dark night.
Regarded in cold blood, the hairbreadth escapes of that evening read
almost like a nightmare. Twice the schooner came unpleasantly near
colliding with anchored vessels, and once they felt certain they had
attracted the notice of a Congressionalist cruiser; for a voice hailed
them out of the darkness as they swept past, and receiving no answer
gave utterance to a succession of orders, which were followed by the
shrill chirruping of a bosun's pipe. But though every moment they
expected to see the flash of a gun, nothing occurred, and in
half-an-hour they were clear of the land, steering a direct course
across the Pacific for Tahiti, _via_ Pitcairn Island.
Throughout the exit Veneda and Juanita remained side by side on deck,
anxiously watching events. The experiences they had lately passed
through supplied them with plenty to think about, while the repeated
close things they were then undergoing served to remind them that they
must not be in too great a hurry to believe themselves safe. Though they
might count themselves almost out of the frying-pan, there was still the
fire yawning to receive them, and both agreed it would be worse than
death to be captured and taken back just when safety seemed within their
reach.
With the recollection of the dangers they had passed through came the
remembrance of the Albino on the wharf, and his exhibition of futile
rage. A smile crossed Veneda's face as he recalled the scene, but it was
instantly obliterated and succeeded by a scowl as he reflected that, in
order to have been there at all, the dwarf must in some measure have
become cognizant of their plans; and in that case it would not be
beyond the bounds of possibility to suppose him aware of their
destination. The outcome of these thoughts was a serious reflection.
Could Juanita be in league with his enemy? He asked himself this
question with a good deal of anxiety. That they had had dealings
together in the past he was perfectly aware; what therefore more
probable than that in such a gigantic enterprise as the present, where
such a fortune was concerned, she should deem it the safest policy to
stand in with both parties, and if possible to hoodwink and outwit both?
With these thoughts in his mind he glanced at her as she stood clinging
to the taffrail by his side, her fine figure swaying to every motion of
the ship. No; he would not believe it. He told himself that, as far as
beauty went, she was a queen among women, and that whatever happened he
must not let her suspect he was anything but devotedly attached to her.
Meanwhile he would set his brains to work to devise some scheme by which
he might rid himself of her.
By this time only a few twinkling lights remained to them of Valparaiso.
The loud churning of the water under her nose, and the boiling froth in
her wake, evidenced the fact that the schooner was putting her best foot
foremost. The breeze whistled merrily, and from the appearance of the
sky there was every prospect of its continuing. Overhead the stars shone
as only tropic stars can, and their myriad radiances were reflected in
the coal-black water, till it had all the appearance of an ebony floor
powdered with gold-dust. But they would not be reflected there long, for
the sea was not now what it had been inside the bay. A heavy swell had
set in, and the little vessel was beginning to roll unpleasantly; so
much so, that once or twice Veneda had to clutch Juanita to save her
from falling. Standing side by side, they watched the last signs of
Chili vanish beneath the waves. As the land disappeared a sudden gust
swept Juanita's broad-brimmed hat from her head away into the swirling
darkness.
"Come, Juanita," Veneda said, slipping his arm through hers with the
first real sign of protectorship he had shown, "this is no place for
you; let me help you below."
But it was easier to talk of going below than actually to get there; for
the schooner was heeling over at an angle that made walking almost
impossible. Eventually, however, with the assistance of the mate, who
had taken charge, to allow the skipper to obtain his supper, it was
accomplished, and the shelter of the companion reached.
As they entered the cuddy, Captain Boulger emerged from his cabin, and
with a bow made his passengers welcome. He was a tall man, thin as a
lath, with a long, hatchet-shaped face, to which an idea of additional
length was imparted by a carefully-trimmed goatee beard. His eyes, a
peculiar shade of grey, peered at one from beneath enormous bushy
eyebrows. His voice was deep and rumbling, his utterance slow and
pedantic, and when he could think of nothing to say or was absorbed in
anything, it was his habit to whistle quaint almost forgotten
hymn-tunes, of which he had managed to acquire a wonderful collection.
Juanita was too much a woman of the world to have failed to note his
weak point, and bearing in mind the peculiar nature of her position on
board the schooner, and the need she might some day stand in of a
friend, she resolved to address herself to his subjugation without
unnecessary delay. On his side, in spite of her manly attire, he could
not but admit her attractions, and when she complimented him on the
sailing qualities of the _Island Queen_, she had laid the foundation of
his capture.
On the skipper's return to the deck, the mate, whose name by the way was
Crawshaw (a Hampshire man he called himself, though he confessed to
never having been in England in his life), descended in search of
supper. He was a nice-looking young fellow, well set up, very muscular,
and tanned by constant exposure the colour of mahogany. Seeing Veneda
and Juanita at the table he doffed his cap politely, at the same time
jerking out an embarrassed "Good-evening," as though he had not seen
them five minutes previously.
"It seems to be freshening up," Veneda remarked, for the sake of saying
something. "The schooner rides easier than I would have expected
considering what she's carrying. By the way, have you such a thing as a
cabin-boy aboard?"
Jamming an enormous piece of salt junk into his mouth, Crawshaw rose to
his feet, and, without a word, vanished up the companion-ladder, to
reappear a few minutes later with a shock-headed, shambling urchin, of
about sixteen years of age. Cuffing him towards Veneda, he said
sheepishly, as though ashamed of possessing so much knowledge--
"His name's Nicodemus,--'Old Nick' they call him forrard; he knows all
about everything, and he's a son of a gun for laziness. Can I make him
do anything for you?"
Veneda explained that he desired to see and arrange their respective
cabins. Whereupon Crawshaw resumed his cuffing of the boy, remarking--
"Now, you young swab, turn to and get those berths cleaned out, or I'll
break every second rib in your body; d'ye hear me now?"
The _Island Queen_ boasted four cabins aft, the dimensions of which were
about half those of the smallest pattern prison-cells, and were
evidently intended to contain human beings of less than the average
size. The captain had his furthest aft on the starboard side, the mate
that nearest the companion on the port. Juanita had therefore one on
either hand to choose from. She ultimately decided upon that adjoining
the skipper's; Veneda taking the berth next to Crawshaw. It was a
fortunate thing for both of them, but especially for Juanita, who
otherwise would have been compelled to make the whole voyage to Tahiti
in man's attire, that Veneda had been able to have a small quantity of
luggage conveyed on board. By the time her cabin was prepared, and her
comfort as far as possible assured, it was nearly eleven o'clock, and
she expressed herself ready for bed. Bidding her "good-night," Veneda
lit a cigar in the cuddy and returned to the deck.
It was a perfect night, with hardly a cloud visible in the whole length
and breadth of the sky. The wind still blew fresh and strong, and now
and again sharp dashes of spray rattled on the deck like hail. As she
had everything in her favour, the schooner's motion was comparatively
steady. Looking about him, Veneda spied the captain leaning against the
taffrail; on crossing, he found him whistling "The Old Hundredth" with
exceptional fervour.
"A fine night, Captain Boulger," he said, proffering a cigar; "if this
weather continues, we shan't be long picking up Tahiti."
"Not if it does," the skipper replied, taking a squint aloft at the
bellying canvas; "but don't you reckon we're always going to be as lucky
as this. It's not all plain sailing across these waters, especially at
this time of year, I can tell you."
"Well, at any rate I must congratulate you on the way you got us out of
the harbour; it was a fine bit of seamanship."
"It's all very well for you to say so, Mr. Veneda," the skipper
continued, lugubriously. "But what about the next time I want to go into
Valparaiso; d'you think they won't remember me for this? I'll be
boycotted for ever."
"Well, and if you are, you've been well paid for the unpleasantness, my
friend, so we'll hear no more on that score."
"And this lady, your wife you make her. Of course I don't say anything
about that. But nothing was ever mentioned about females in the
contrac'. How much is it to be for her?"
"Half as much as for myself; I thought we were agreed upon that."
"Well, well, I suppose it must be so, but in my opinion it's dirt cheap
at the money. And, look here, Mr. Veneda, my mate tells me something
about a grey-haired chap who wanted to come off too. Now what about
him?"
"Never you mind about him, he won't trouble you. We've done with him for
ever."
"Don't you be too sure of that; if he wants you so badly that he had to
pull off after you, he's not going to let you slip so easily; and what's
more, if he knows the name of your boat, he'll nail you by cable in
Tahiti as soon as winkin'. There are more ways of killing a cat than
choking him with butter, Mr. Veneda."
"I don't doubt it, but as he doesn't know the name of the boat, by your
own argument I'm quite safe," Veneda said, throwing the stump of his
cigar overboard into the curdling wake.
"Well, all I can say is, if he don't know it, he don't deserve to."
"But how the deuce could he know it?"
"Why, simply because, as I say, he followed you off," said the skipper,
with the superiority of a man who makes a statement knowing his facts to
be all right, "and because, just as we'd got way on her, he came
alongside and tried to hook on. If she hadn't been going too fast for
him, he'd 'a been aboard; as it was he had to slip astern."
"And you think he read her name?" Veneda muttered hoarsely.
"O' course he did. Why, he couldn't have helped it if he had eyes in his
head and knew his letters."
This unexpected news so staggered Veneda that for a moment it deprived
him of speech. He began to experience an awful dread, not of the
discovery of the means whereby he had obtained his fortune, but of the
disclosure of the precious secret which guarded it. Instinctively he
felt for the locket he wore round his neck, and in which reposed the
slip of paper Juanita was so anxious to obtain.
Crawling along the sloping deck to the companion, he proceeded to his
berth below. A swinging lamp lit the saloon, and in a gilt mirror upon
the bulkhead he caught sight of his own face. He was startled beyond
measure at its pallor.
"This won't do," he told himself as he undressed; "it's full early to be
frightened; besides, who knows? He was so excited that it's just within
the bounds of possibility he may not have read her name."
But do what he would he could not divest his mind of the thought that
the Albino was aware of his plans. He had had good reason in the past to
know that the dwarf really ruled the Society of which they were both
members, and remembering his vindictive nature, he felt certain that
neither pains nor money would be spared to ensure revenge for this last
and most glaring piece of treachery. Consideration of these matters kept
him tumbling and tossing in his bunk till long after midnight, to the
accompaniment of groaning timbers, skurrying rats, and the crash of seas
against the slender hull. When sleep did overtake him, his dreams were
troubled; he imagined himself being hunted round the world by the
Albino, who jumped after him across oceans, and from continent to
continent, and at last ran him to earth in the big hall of his old
familiar English school.
He was in the act of giving him the locket to square matters when he
awoke to find a flood of bright sunshine streaming in through the dingy
little disc that served him as a porthole. His joy at finding it was
only a dream was intense, and while under the influence of that relief
he dressed and went on deck, to find the captain once more on watch and
the crew busily engaged in washing down.
The fresh breeze of the night before still continued, and if the foam at
either bow, or the swirling water under the counter could be taken as
evidence, the _Island Queen_ was making the most of it. The sky was as
blue and the sea as green as only Pacific skies and seas can be, and
against it the taper masts, the hard-strained rigging, and the swelling
sails, white as snow in the brilliant sunshine, made up a picture that
found a responsive note in the relief which filled Veneda's heart. A
cheerful smoke issued from the galley, at the door of which the
shock-headed boy, "Old Nick," was engaged cleaning knives. Perhaps as
the effect of the lovely morning, the captain showed himself a little
more affable than he had been on the previous night. He nodded
familiarly to his passenger, and prefaced his conversation by inquiring,
with a peculiar sort of courtesy, after his wife's health. Further
conversation on that subject, however, was put a stop to by the
appearance of the lady herself, once more clad in the garments of her
sex.
As she emerged from the companion, Veneda hastened forward to receive
her, and when she had recognized the captain's presence they fell to
promenading the deck together. Fortunately she was an excellent sailor,
and the bright fresh morning and the brisk breeze brought a colour into
her cheeks that made her, so Veneda could not help owning to himself,
more than usually lovely. For half a moment he wondered why he should
not trust her, and the temptation came upon him to forget his original
intentions and to embody this splendid creature in his plans for the
future. She was fitted to adorn any station in life, he told himself.
But then, certain episodes in her past history obtruded themselves upon
his recollection, and he was compelled to admit that such a thing must
not be dreamt of for an instant.
But if a life's partnership were impossible, it was at least very
pleasant to skim over summer seas in the company of one so evidently
intended by nature to be all that was charming and agreeable to man. And
indeed Juanita exerted herself prodigiously to please, so much so, that
before they had been a week upon the voyage Veneda had once more
entertained serious thoughts of casting his previous apprehensions to
the winds and risking everything. Her behaviour was certainly calculated
to disarm suspicion. Never, by even as much as a hint, did she lead him
to suppose that she was in any way desirous of learning his secret. Her
trust in him was the only thing self-evident, and even this she was too
clever to exaggerate. Only once did she refer, and that indirectly, to
the treasure which was the sole inducement of their flight, and I have
often thought that that conversation was as strange as anything
connected with that extraordinary voyage.
It originated in this way. They were leaning over the taffrail, watching
for the rising of the moon. The schooner, racing along over the curling
seas under reefed canvas, seemed like a thing of life. Her canvas
towered aloft into the ghostly darkness, and the wind in the rigging and
the drum of the seas against the hull were the only things that could be
heard. The mate, Crawshaw, patrolled the opposite side of the deck with
the regularity of a pendulum.
Juanita had been peculiarly quiet all the evening, out of which state
Veneda had in vain tried to rally her.
"Marcos," she said suddenly in Spanish, nestling closer to his side,
"does it ever occur to you to wish you had left me behind in
Valparaiso?"
"Why, what on earth makes you ask such a question?" he replied. "Do you
think I should grow tired of you so soon?"
"So soon!" she answered, looking up into his face. "You have had me with
you a fortnight now, and there is not much variety on board a boat the
size of the _Island Queen_. I should not be at all surprised if you said
you were tired of my company."
"Well, I am not. So that settles it, doesn't it?"
"Marcos, why did you not let us go to England in a mail-boat? It would
surely have been quicker and safer?"
"Because in that case Macklin could not help but have discovered our
departure, and we should have been followed, if not murdered--that's
why."
"And now?"
"Now no one knows our whereabouts; we can choose our own route when we
leave Tahiti."
"And which way will it be, Marcos?"
"I have not decided yet."
She was silent for a minute or two. Then she said slowly, still keeping
her eyes fixed on him--
"I think I understand. You have decided, but you dare not trust me."
His first and most natural impulse was to deny the accusation. But on
second thoughts he adopted another course.
"You are quite right," he said with a laugh, "I certainly do not trust
you. And what is perhaps more to the point, I don't intend to. All
things considered, I don't think you have the right to blame me."
With a little laugh, and without a sign of vexation in her tone, she
answered, "Perhaps you're right. At any rate, you're wiser than I am in
such matters."
Then taking his arm, they returned to their constitutional up and down
the deck, just as if nothing out of the common had occurred.
And so day by day sped by, glorious weather, smooth seas, blue skies,
and fair winds accompanying them. It was more like a pleasure trip than
a flight for life. Captain Boulger improved upon acquaintance, and even
the mate, Crawshaw, rubbed off some of his angles as they grew to know
him better.
Three weeks almost to a day after dropping Pitcairn behind them, they
were on the fringe of the Society Islands; and at Papeete the captain
proposed to touch, to obtain supplies. His passengers, he knew, though
grudging the delay, would not be sorry for an opportunity to stretch
their legs; for the size of the schooner did not, necessarily, permit
much pedestrian exercise.
One morning, coming on deck, Crawshaw called Veneda to his side, and
pointed to a low smudge showing faintly on the horizon.
"What is it?" the other asked.
"Tahiti," was the reply, and with the word, like the opening of a
mill-sluice, Veneda's old anxieties rushed back upon him. In an hour or
two he would know whether or not the Albino was aware of his
destination.
By breakfast-time they were closing up on it. The high mountain peaks
had risen well above the horizon, and from being a simple blotch upon
the clear-cut sea-line, the land had developed a decided personality of
its own. An hour later they were close enough to it to be able to
plainly distinguish objects on shore, and were prepared to catch the
first view of Papeete.
By midday they were abreast of the entrance to Papeete harbour, looking
across the reef with its thundering surf to where the quaint little town
lay nestling among the trees. As soon as they were sighted the pilot put
off, and upon his gaining the deck the work of entering the harbour was
proceeded with. Once they were inside and at a standstill, Veneda and
Juanita departed ashore in search of luncheon. It was a new sensation
for them to wander about together as strangers in a strange place, and
Veneda watched to see what effect it would have upon his companion. She
had lost something of her vivacity, and was inclined to be more wrapt up
in her own thoughts than was usual with her.
Those who know Tahiti will know Charons (or the hostelry disguised under
that name), and those who know Charons will remember Alphonse, the most
obsequious of _garcons_, with his accumulated knowledge of traders and
their schooners, missionaries, pilots, copra merchants, and all manner
of strange beings and things appertaining to those delightful seas.
Therefore, when I say that Veneda and Juanita were fortunate enough to
secure the corner table in the big room, and the services of that
indefatigable person, I am, as you will agree, ensuring them the
pleasantest of times. With palates improved by the simple fare of the
_Island Queen_, they investigated every course, enjoyed some excellent
wine, trifled with dessert, and when they had drunk their coffee,
proceeded to stretch their legs along the beautiful Broom Road.
It was a most luxurious day; a soft breeze played in fitful gusts among
the tropic foliage, bearing upon its breast a thousand gentle, and to
our travellers unaccustomed, odours. There was only one blot upon it;
since his last glass of champagne, Veneda felt strangely sleepy, so much
so, that when they had walked but a little way he expressed a wish to be
allowed to sit down and admire the view. Nothing loth, Juanita
consented, so down they sat awhile, talking, and gazing upon the
panorama of sea and islands stretched before them. Her voice sounded
wonderfully soothing as he listened, and bit by bit he found this
mysterious desire for sleep overcoming him. His head gradually sought a
pillow by her side, his eyes closed, and in less than five minutes he
was unconscious.
Now Juanita, who had by no means been unmindful of his state (nor am I
prepared to authoritatively state that she had not, in some measure,
been the occasion of it), was too precipitate for her own safety. Such
was her impatience that, without waiting to make certain that he was
sound asleep, she must needs commence her search for the mysterious
locket round his neck, which contained, she was convinced, the paper she
was so desperately anxious to obtain. Perhaps in her hurry her touch was
too rough, or Veneda was not so much overpowered with slumber as she
imagined; at any rate, just as she had the precious locket in her hand,
and was about to broach its contents, his eyes opened, and his hands
closed on hers. Awkward as the situation was, her presence of mind never
deserted her, and she prepared to laugh it off with the excuse she had
prepared beforehand.
"Ah! my Marcos," she said jestingly, "it is well that you woke; for I am
going to be furiously jealous. And pray what fair lady's portrait do you
wear round your neck?"
For the moment Veneda was too amazed at her coolness to reply; then he
replaced the locket, and assuming a pensive air, said--
"You may be as jealous of her as you please. That is my poor mother's
miniature; the only remembrance I have of her. I will show it to you
this evening, if you would care to see it. Now we must be getting back
to the schooner."
His explanation was so simple and sincere that she was baffled
completely. If he were telling the truth her surmises must be all wrong;
if not, she had put him on his guard for the future.
But though he allowed no sign to escape him to show that he understood
her attempt, he was none the less concerned about it.
"I was more than a fool," he said to himself when he was alone in his
cabin, "to imagine that she could be anything but what I had always
thought her. However, Madame Juanita, the game is by no means finished
yet. There is an old saying that those laugh best who laugh last. We
shall see."
Next morning at daylight the _Island Queen_ bade farewell to Tahiti.
As soon as it was open, a stranger, who had arrived in the island from
South America the previous week, sought the telegraph office, and placed
the following message upon the counter--
"_John Macklin,
General Post Office,
Sydney, N. S. W._
"_Island Queen_ sailed this morning. Destination Thursday Island.
Both on board."
CHAPTER VII.
THE MAN'S DEATH.
When, after leaving Papeete, Veneda came to consider the facts connected
with his excursion ashore, he could not help seeing two things very
clearly. In the first place, he was quite convinced in his own mind
that, to obtain the information she wanted, Juanita had drugged the
champagne he had drunk at lunch; but in the second, though he was loth
to let her treachery pass unpunished, he could not but tell himself that
it would be a most foolish proceeding on his part to allow her to
suspect that he considered it of sufficient importance to make a fuss
about. To confess annoyance would be to admit that the locket contained
what she was in search of, and this he was, naturally, most anxious not
to do. One thing was very certain, the situation was becoming more and
more complicated every day; for each twenty-four hours was bringing them
nearer to civilization, and once there the difficulties of his position
would be intensified a hundred-fold. If Juanita were really in collusion
with the Albino, it was most imperative that she should be outwitted,
and that within the next fortnight. But though he racked his brains day
and night for a scheme, he could not hit upon one that was in any way
likely to prove successful.
Their course now lay almost due west, and though they had land on every
side, it was far from likely that they would touch anywhere until they
reached Thursday Island, where Captain Boulger's contract ended. It was
Veneda's intention to leave the schooner at that place, and to intercept
a British India mail-boat homeward bound.
If the voyage had been enjoyable before, it became doubly so now; warm,
sunny days, bright blue skies, sapphire seas, and the most exquisite
island scenery in the world kept them company continually. The Society
group lay far behind them; the Navigators were on the starboard bow;
while Hope, Keppel and Tafahi, or Boscawen peered up, surf-girt, away to
port. Had it not been for the friction which suddenly occurred between
the captain and Veneda, it would have been like a little heaven on
shipboard. But if the captain and his chief passenger could not agree,
the same could not be said of the two passengers themselves, whose
behaviour towards each other grew more and more affectionate as the
owner of the schooner's animosity deepened.
All past troubles and doubts seemed as much forgotten as though they had
never existed. They arranged their future with untrammelled freedom, and
even went so far as to discuss what they should do with the money when
they had possession of it. Juanita's suspicions were completely allayed.
Though she devoted considerable thought to the matter, she was as far
from understanding it as ever. She could only attribute the change to
the fact that her companion had at last really fallen under the spell of
her fascinations.
But on the evening of the day upon which they sighted Fortuna, or Horne
Island, as it is more usually called, an awful and unexpected event
occurred, which was destined to bring about as complete a revolution in
their plans as even Veneda could wish.
The breeze, which had been very uncertain throughout the afternoon, at
night dropped to the faintest zephyr. The peacefulness of the evening
was awe-inspiring; the ocean lay smooth as a sheet of glass, rising and
falling like the breast of a sleeping child. The sails hung limp and
listless, and the man at the wheel, one Schlank, a big, burly, taciturn
German, had barely enough work upon his hands to keep him awake. The
mate was in charge of the deck, the captain and passengers being below
at tea.
According to Crawshaw's account he had gone forward to give an order to
the cook, and when he returned it was to discover the German away from
the wheel, rolling to and fro upon the deck, retching in a terrible
manner, and nearly black in the face. Not knowing what to make of it, he
called a couple of hands aft and bade them carry the unfortunate man to
his bunk, while he himself hailed the captain through the skylight, and
took possession of the wheel.
When Boulger reached the deck he hastened forward to examine, the man
himself, but he was too late--_Schlank was dead!_
What the nature of the disease was, which had carried him off, no one
could tell, but that its effects were deadly in the extreme was
evidenced by the suddenness with which it worked its purpose; for,
according to his shipmates' account, the man was in the best of health
when he went aft to the wheel an hour before.
This sad occurrence, as might be expected, threw a gloom over the entire
ship, and both Juanita and Veneda felt little touches of nervousness
when they allowed their minds to dwell upon it. Lest any infection
should be caught from the body, the captain gave orders that it should
be committed to the deep as soon as a hammock and the necessary
preparations could be made.
Next morning, to every one's consternation, news came aft that Jacob
Norris, another hand, had been struck down by the same mysterious
complaint. The symptoms were identical with Schlank's case, and it
appeared as if no remedy could be found in the ship's meagre
medicine-chest to either alleviate the pain or to avert the disastrous
consequences. Within an hour of being taken ill the second man was dead
and overboard!
Then an awful terror took possession of everybody, and ominous
mutterings of "Cholera" and "Yellow Jack" passed from mouth to mouth.
Hitherto the disease seemed to have confined itself to the forecastle,
but it was not to remain there long, for in the middle of his afternoon
watch Crawshaw the mate was attacked. Veneda, who happened to be on deck
at the time, saw him drop and ran to his assistance. Picking him up he
carried him forrard and laid him on the hatch, at the same time sending
a hand to rouse the captain. The poor fellow's agony was heart-rending,
and in spite of all the remedies tried he too succumbed within the hour.
After this the consternation aboard the _Island Queen_ may be better
imagined than described. Every one went in fear and trembling, for no
one knew who might not be the next attacked.
About nine o'clock that evening Juanita and Veneda were on deck. As on
the preceding night, a wonderful stillness reigned. In the east the
stars were beginning to pale, preparatory to the rising of the moon. The
bo'sun, who had succeeded to poor Crawshaw's watch, was pacing to and
fro near the binnacle, casting an eye ever and anon aloft and around
him, as if in anticipation of a breath of wind.
Veneda and Juanita promenaded for awhile, and then crossed to the
taffrail, against which they leant, conversing in low tones. In spite of
the terrors of the day Veneda was in unusually good spirits. He rallied
Juanita upon her quietness, and once more broached the subject of their
future. Speaking softly so that the man at the wheel should not overhear
them, he said--
"Juanita, my darling, our voyage is nearly ended; are you satisfied?"
She was quick to reply, and her voice had almost a tremor in it.
"More than satisfied, Marcos, if you love me as you say."
"Are you sure, Juanita? Think before you answer. Would you be content to
take me for what I am?--to risk poverty with me if that fortune should
be gone when we get to London?"
She hardly knew how to reply. Was this a trap? she asked herself.
Slipping her hand over his with a gentle pressure, she said--
"Quite content, if you love me as I must be loved. But why do you speak
as if our money should be gone?"
"Because nothing is safe. I think it is--you think it is; but if you
found out my secret, why shouldn't the Albino have boxed it out and
anticipated us, eh?"
In reality he was not thinking anything of the kind; he was telling
himself that the peculiar note in her voice when she referred to the
money was not quite what it should have been at the moment of his
declaration of love. In spite of her cleverness, it evidenced what lay
uppermost in her mind. But he was not going to betray that he had
noticed anything.
While they talked the moon rose, and lent a wondrous beauty to the
night, sweeping the stars from the sky as if by magic, and turning the
sombre water into the likeness of a silver sea. The white and idle
canvas threw strange shadows upon the decks, and with the moon's coming
a light breeze stole across the surface of the deep, so that the
schooner began to draw a little faster through the water. The bo'sun
turned on his heel, and came aft to where the other two were standing.
"Nice evenin'," he said, by way of introduction; "the moon there makes
it real pleasant on deck, don't it? You'll excuse me, sir, but maybe you
don't happen to have a chaw of tobacco about you?"
Veneda gave him a piece, at the same time asking if there was any
further sign of sickness forrard. The bos'un did not think so, and
casting an eye aloft at the canvas now beginning to fill, and then at
the compass card, prepared to air his theory of the malady.
"It's my belief," he said, expectorating vigorously over the side, "that
it's no more nor less than pison,--fish-pisoning, I reckon it. Don't you
tell me that cholera or Yellow Jack's a-goin' to come aboard this while
out o' port--not it! Now, I mind a case once, where a schooner's crew
mutinied ten days out from Sydney, their tucker not bein' good enough
for 'em forrard. What must they do, when they'd got rid of the old man
and the mate overboard, but break open the lazarette, and set to work on
all the tinned fish they could lay their hands on!"
"What was the result?" Veneda asked carelessly.
"Why, that inside of three hours every mother's son o' that blamed crew
was lyin' a-rollin' an' a-kickin' about the deck o' that schooner,
turnin' black in the face, and lookin' for all the world as if they had
swallowed half-a-pint o' pison apiece. When they was picked up by a
man-o'-war, there was only one on 'em left to tell the tale, and he
wouldn't ha' been there but for not bein' hungry that night, having
started on cuddy bread, which is good an' fillin' at the price."
"And what makes you think," asked Juanita, "that the men on this ship
have been poisoned? Have they eaten such fish as you describe?"
"Well now, there you have me, ma'am; I don't know as they have, but
maybe it ain't fish this time, maybe it's somethin' else just as bad.
For my part, I----"
At this moment the captain appeared on deck to relieve the bos'un, who,
bidding them "good-night," went forrard. Veneda had grown suddenly
silent, and when he had ensconced Juanita in a sheltered spot (for the
wind was beginning to freshen), fell to pacing the deck as if he had
something upon his mind. Once he stopped and spoke in a low voice to the
captain; then he resumed his tramp, pausing now and again to lean
against the bulwark and scan the moon-lit sea. About four bells (ten
o'clock), Juanita declared her intention of going below, and he assisted
her down the gangway. As he bade her good-night, she was struck by the
change that had come over his face; he was deathly pale, and his eyes
had a look that was very foreign to their usual state.
"Marcos," she said anxiously, steadying herself against the cuddy table,
"there's something the matter with you; for heaven's sake take medicine
at once; your face frightens me. Don't delay an instant! Oh! if anything
should happen to you now!"
He laughed, and said huskily--
"Do you think you would care, my beauty? I rather doubt it." (Here he
caught sight of his face in the glass.) "My God, but my face is bad
though. I'll go and consult the skipper."
He turned towards the companion, but he was unable to reach it. He
tottered, stretched his hands out feebly for the bulkhead, missed it,
and fell prone upon the cuddy floor. With a scream Juanita sprang past
him, and dashed up on deck. The skipper was beside the binnacle.
"Oh, captain!" she cried, "come quickly; he's dying, he's dying!"
It did not take the captain long to understand to whom she referred; the
words were hardly uttered before he had passed the order for the bos'un
to come aft and take charge, and was down in the cuddy, kneeling beside
the sick man. The mysterious disease had found another victim.
Veneda's face was distorted almost beyond recognition; his limbs were
strangely twisted and cramped; his breath came in great gasps; only his
skin retained its extraordinary pallor. Juanita understood the captain
to say that the symptoms were the same as in each of the previous cases.
Between them they carried him to his bunk.
"Now, ma'am," said Boulger, turning to Juanita, "I'm sorry, but I'll
just have to trouble you to go to your own berth for a while. I can't
have you running any risks here. Mr. Veneda's quite safe in my hands,
and I'll let you know from time to time how he gets on."
But this was not in the least to her taste. She was not prepared to let
any one else pry into her private concerns.
"Oh, Captain Boulger," she began, throwing all the sweetness she could
muster into her voice and looks, "it's inhuman to think that I can
remain away from him; you cannot expect it; let me help you with him.
I'll be as patient and quick as possible, and I've had some experience
in nursing--I really have."
"No, no, ma'am, I'd like to, but I can't allow it," Boulger replied, "it
wouldn't be fair to ask me. What this devilish disease may be is more
than I can tell, but as it's certain there's infection in it, I can't
let any risks be run. Now, do go; you're only hindering me, and I must
be looking after him, poor chap; he wants all the attention I can give
him."
After this there was nothing for her but to submit, and I must do her
the justice to admit that she did it with as good grace as possible.
In the security of her cabin a vague terror seized her. What if Veneda
should die, and the locket be cast into the sea with him? The thought
almost took her breath away. Come what might, she must have a few
moments alone with the sick man, or, in the event of his death, with his
body.
True to his word, at regular intervals, hour after hour, the skipper
presented himself at her door with the latest bulletins of his patient's
condition. "Just a leetle better"--"Just so so"--"Not much
change"--"Seems a bit weaker"--"Another awful attack," was the order in
which they ran. On hearing the last she broke down completely, and for
some reason which I am unable to explain, fell to sobbing as if her
heart would break.
Suddenly a strange craving came over her, and rising from her bunk she
procured and propped her crucifix against the tiny wash-hand basin, and
kneeling on the sloping floor before it, endeavoured to frame a prayer
for the passing of the man's soul. Her long black hair hung in glorious
profusion about her shoulders; tears streamed down her pallid cheeks;
and her lips continually faltered over the words she tried to utter.
When she had finished, her spirits recovered, and crawling back into her
bed, she fell asleep.
It was long after daybreak before she awoke. The sun was shining
brightly through the porthole above her bunk, and from the angle at
which the schooner was lying, she knew a fresh breeze must be blowing.
Urged by a great anxiety to learn the latest news of Veneda's state, she
dressed with all the haste she could command, and passed into the cuddy.
As she entered it, the captain emerged from the berth opposite and
greeted her with a mournful face. She divined the worst.
"You're going to tell me that he is dead," she said, clutching at the
table.
"Ma'am, it's a thing which must come sooner or later to all of us. I
won't deceive you--he is dead--passed away in the hope of a glorious
resurrection, twelve minutes afore three bells in this morning's watch.
Now, don't take on about it too much, there's a good girl, for he's
better as he is than suffering the agonies he went through all night.
You couldn't wish it, I know."
"Dead! dead!" was all she could say. It seemed impossible that it could
be true. The news stunned her. Though she had expected and dreaded the
worst, she had no idea that it would have come so soon. What should she
do now? In spite of her consternation, her own position was always
uppermost in her mind. It behoved her to play her cards carefully, or
she might lose everything. Assuming a look of hopeless grief, unable to
find relief in tears, she faltered--
"Take me to him."
Without another word Boulger led the way across to the cabin, and opened
the door. She prepared to enter, but he would not permit it.
"No, ma'am," he said kindly, but with determination, "as I said last
night, you cannot go in; this ship's mine, and while there's infection
aboard, I'm not the man to run risks. But seeing he's your husband--and
I'm real grieved for you--I'll stretch a point, and let you see him from
here. But I dare not pass you in."
So saying, he went in himself, and approached the figure lying stiff and
stark under a blanket in the bunk. Pulling the covering aside, he
allowed Juanita a view of the drawn and pallid face beneath. A terrible
change had come over the man, and accustomed though she was to what are
called horrible sights, she was compelled to avert her eyes. Seeing
this, Boulger re-drew the blanket, and came out of the cabin, securely
locking the door behind him. Then, with a fatherly air, he placed his
arm around the woman's waist and led her on deck, whistling the _Dead
March_ softly as they went.
In the bright sunshine the horrors of the cabin were for a time
dispelled from her memory. It was a glorious morning. The wind, which on
the previous night had been so weak, now blew with invigorating
freshness. The schooner, under a press of sail, was ploughing her way
through the green water as if conscious of her strength, turning the sea
away in two snowy furrows from either bow. Dotted about on either hand
were numerous small islands; and thinking it might distract her
thoughts, the skipper named them to her.
Ahead, across the curling seas, and not more than eight miles distant,
rose the mountains of Vanua Lava, the largest island of the Banks Group.
A few clouds rested gracefully on the topmost peaks, and so clear was
the air that it was already just possible to make out the native
villages ashore. Suddenly an idea leapt into Juanita's brain; a
brilliant inspiration that she wondered had not occurred to her before.
Turning to the captain, who stood beside her, and who was inwardly
wondering at the vivacity of her expression, she said--
"Captain, there is one thing I should like you to get for me--I know you
will not deny it--a locket he wears round his neck."
"No, ma'am; I'm real sorry, but that I can't do. He asked particularly
that it should be buried with him. It's his mother's portrait, and we
mustn't go against that."
Juanita could have cried with vexation. But she dared not show it. She
had still another card to play.
"Where will you bury him? Not at sea, captain; oh, not at sea!"
"And pray why not at sea, ma'am?" the captain replied, pulling himself
up short in a rendering of "Rock of Ages,"--"many a good man has been
buried at sea."
"Of course, I know that," she sobbed; "but oh, I cannot bear to think
of his poor body tossing about for all time under those cruel waves, the
prey of every shark and fish! Oh! no, no, I beseech you, do not let it
be at sea."
Her grief was so sincere that the captain was visibly affected.
"What would you have me do then, my dear ma'am?" he asked tenderly,
thinking he would go a long way towards obliging her if she always
pleaded like that.
"Why not bury him on land?" she asked, turning her tear-laden eyes
towards the island they were approaching; "surely it would not be so
very difficult?"
"Well," replied the captain, after a moment's consideration, "if you're
so set upon it, I don't know but what it can't be done; we'll see, at
any rate. Now you just come along down and have a bit of breakfast.
It'll cheer you up more than anything."
When they returned to the deck the island was abeam. The captain
occupied himself with a careful study of authorities, and then selecting
a spot, hove the schooner to off a thickly-wooded bluff. Sounds of
carpentering came from forrard, and Boulger, who had quite constituted
himself Juanita's protector, took care that she should not go too near
lest she should see the work which occasioned it.
It was well into the afternoon before the arrangements for the funeral,
including the digging of the grave ashore, were completed. As soon as
all was ready the captain informed Juanita, who thereupon prepared
herself to accompany the party.
When the long-boat was swung overboard and brought alongside, sounds of
scrambling feet came up the companion-ladder, and next moment the
captain, carpenter, and two of the crew appeared, bearing the rough
coffin which the carpenter had managed to knock together. With some
difficulty it was lowered into the boat, and then, the captain steering,
Juanita sitting beside him, and two of the hands pulling, they set out
for the shore.
Unlike most approaches to the island, the deep water extended right up;
consequently the boat was able to discharge its burden on the beach
without much difficulty. Having landed, they marched to the grave,
situated beneath a grove of cocoa-nut trees, some hundred yards from the
shore. The captain, whom Nature seemed to have designed for the work,
delivered a short but impressive address, and then the remains of Marcos
Veneda were committed to the ground.
To Juanita it was all a whirl. She could not realize that the man had
passed out of her life--that he whom she had admired for his strength in
Chili was now an inanimate substance on Vanua Lava. The whole thing had
been so sudden that she had had no time to prepare herself for the
shock. Yesterday he was triumphant in all the consciousness of living;
to-day he was only a memory, a part of the mysterious, irreclaimable
Past!
The funeral over they returned to the schooner, which at sundown weighed
anchor, and resumed her voyage to Thursday Island. It certainly seemed
as if Veneda was to be the last victim of the malady, for not another
soul was attacked.
The following morning, after breakfast, the captain escorted Juanita to
the vacant cabin, and handed her the dead man's goods and chattels. With
a well-simulated air of grief she bore them to her own berth, in order
to examine them. They made only a small parcel, but hunt through them as
she would, no sign of either letter or locket could she find. The
contents were simple in the extreme--a few clothes, a pocket-book
containing twenty pounds in English gold, a tattered Horace, a knife, a
ring, and a few little personal odds and ends, completed the total.
Waiting her opportunity, she again approached the captain on the subject
of the locket, but he had only the same answer for her.
"What he had on him, ma'am," he solemnly declared, "I reckoned was his
own property, and left there; so the locket you speak of is under three
foot of earth now, back there in Vanua Lava; meaning no disrespect to
you, ma'am."
This was all the information Juanita could gather on the subject. Nor
did she press the matter further. Fortunately her own immediate comfort
was provided for by the twenty pounds, of which she assumed undisputed
possession. Had it not been for this she would have found herself placed
in a very awkward situation.
The rest of the voyage needs little chronicling; suffice it that ten
days later the schooner dropped her anchor off Thursday Island, her
eventful journey completed.
When Captain Boulger bade Juanita farewell, he asked if she had formed
any definite plans regarding her future. She hesitated before replying,
but finally said that she thought of remaining in the island until she
had communicated with her friends. He felt a touch of pity for her
loneliness, and proffered any assistance within his power. She, however,
declined it with thanks, and a day later the _Island Queen_ departed on
her return voyage to Tahiti.
The same night, the Thursday Island telegraph operator was in the act of
closing his office, when the following mysterious message was handed
in--
"_To John Macklin,
Sydney._
"Schooner arrived. Man dead. Woman remains here."
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
JOHN RAMSAY TAKES UP THE TALE.
It seems that when I induced my cousin by marriage, Luke Sanctuary, to
write the first part of this history, I pledged myself to continue the
work at the point where I became personally interested in it. That time,
he tells me, has now arrived, and so it comes to pass that I find myself
sitting before a blank sheet of paper, holding a brand-new pen in my
hand, and wondering how on earth I'm going to set down all the
extraordinary things I have to tell.
One assertion I can safely make, and that is that this is the first time
I have ever undertaken such a contract. For writing was always a trouble
to me; and now I come to think of it, it was that very hatred of
penmanship which resulted in my being concerned in what I shall always
call that "Chilian Mystery." For, had I proved an apt writer, I should
in all probability have made a good clerk; and had I turned out a good
clerk, I should never have become a sailor; and to continue the argument
_ad infinitum_, had I not become a sailor, I should certainly never
have known anything of the story my cousin has begun, and which I am now
called upon to continue.
As I am perhaps the chief actor in the latter part of this history, and
as in matters of this sort it is always best, according to my way of
thinking, to begin at the very beginning, I may perhaps be excused if I
briefly narrate the principal events of my life which led up to my
connection with it.
To begin with, let me remark that I was born in the village of Coombe,
near Salisbury, in the county of Wiltshire, where my father was a
country doctor. He, poor man, had the misfortune to be peculiarly
devoted to his profession, so much so, that it was neither more nor less
than sheer overwork which occasioned his untimely end.
That sad event occurred within a week of my seventh birthday. And with
the remembrance of his funeral, a peculiarly sombre picture rises before
my mind's eye. I see a dreary autumnal day; thick mists upon the
hill-tops, dripping trees, and a still more dismal procession, winding
its way along the high-road, unrelieved by any touch of colour. And,
incongruously enough, the whole recollection is heightened by the
remembrance of a pair of black cloth breeches worn by me on that
melancholy occasion for the first time. By such small and seemingly
unimportant things are great events impressed upon our memories.
Perhaps after my father's death I proved myself a handful to manage;
perhaps my mother really thought it the best thing for me. At any rate,
a boarding-school was chosen for me at Plymouth, to which she herself
reluctantly conducted me. Being her only child, and having hitherto been
accustomed to get my own way at all times and seasons, this maternal
abandonment was a proceeding I could not appreciate. I evinced, I
believe, a decided objection to saying farewell to her, and I know I
found only inadequate consolation in either the ancient dame who kept
the school (who promised my parent to be a mother to me, and for that
reason perhaps caned me soundly before I had been twenty-four hours
under her charge), the house, or my school-fellows, who figure in my
memory as the most objectionable set of young ruffians with whom I had
ever come into contact.
For three years I continued a pupil of this "Seminary for the Sons of
Gentlemen," and should perhaps have remained longer had I not
experienced the misfortune of being expelled, for laying a
fellow-scholar's head open with a drawing-board; a precocity at ten
years which was plainly held to foreshadow my certain ultimate arrival
at the condemned cell and the gallows. After that, from the age of ten
until fifteen, I drifted from school to school, deriving but small
benefit from any one of them, and every term bringing my dear mother's
grey hairs (as she would persist in putting it) nearer and nearer to the
grave, by reason of the unsatisfactory nature of my reports.
At fifteen, being a well-set-up stripling for my years, and like to fall
into all sorts of errors as to my proper importance in life, if allowed
to remain any longer with boys younger than myself, I was taken away and
carried to London, in order that my mother might consult with an old
friend as to my future. How well I remember that journey, and the
novelty of seeing London for the first time!
Arriving at Waterloo, we drove to Notting Hill, and next morning went by
omnibus into the city to discover Sir Benjamin Plowden in the East India
Avenue.
Never, if I live to be a hundred, shall I forget my first impression of
that office, and the unaccustomed and humiliating feeling which stole
over me as I crossed the threshold behind my mother, to await an
audience with this mysterious Sir Benjamin. It was one thing, I
discovered, to be the cock of a small country school, and quite another
to be an applicant for a junior clerkship, at a salary of five shillings
a week, in a London merchant's office.
At the end of five minutes a liveried servant entered the waiting-room,
and informed us that "Sir Benjamin would see us now, if we'd be good
enough to step this way." Thereupon my mother gathered up her
_impedimenta_, including a reticule, a small black handbag, an umbrella,
a shawl, a paper bag of sponge-cakes, and her spectacle-case, and
toddled down the passage after him, leaving me to follow in her wake, my
heart the while thumping like a flail against my ribs.
Ever since that morning, when I desire to realize a man in every way
embodying my idea of what a merchant prince should be, I recall my
first impression of Sir Benjamin. At the date of our visit he was on the
hither side of fifty, of medium height, stout and bald, with curly white
whiskers, a shaven chin and upper lip, very rosy as to his complexion,
dignified in his bearing, and given to saying "Hum, ha!" on all possible
occasions.
He received my mother with cordiality, and even went so far as to
recognize my presence with an expressive speech,--"So this is your
boy,--a big fellow,--like his father about the mouth,--too old to be
idling about country towns, getting into mischief, and deriving a false
idea of his own importance. Hum, ha!" After which I was left to my own
thoughts, while they entered upon an animated discussion for perhaps the
space of half-an-hour.
At the end of this time he rose--I think, as a hint to my mother--and
rang the bell. It was answered by the same dignified man-servant who had
ushered us into his presence; whereupon Sir Benjamin bade us farewell,
promising to communicate with my mother on the subject they had been
discussing at an early date; and we were escorted out. I, for one, was
not sorry that the interview was over.
Leaving the Avenue, we visited the British Museum, by way of
counteracting the two serious impressions forced upon my mind by the
ordeal we had just undergone, I suppose; and here my mother, in the
middle of the Egyptian Department, surrounded by evidences of an extinct
civilization, gravely prophesied the eminence to which I should some
day attain, if only Sir Benjamin could be induced to take an interest in
me.
As if in answer to her words, two days later I was the recipient of a
letter signed by Sir Benjamin himself, in which it was stated that a
position had been found for me in his own office, at a salary of ten
shillings a week. I must leave you to picture my sensations. Surely no
possessor of an autograph letter from the throne itself could have been
prouder than I that day. As for my mother, she argued confidently that
my Future (with a capital F) had undoubtedly commenced. And, between
ourselves, I certainly think it had.
It is not necessary, for the understanding of the story I have to tell,
that I should enter upon a recital of my life in the East India Avenue;
let it suffice, that it did not come up to the expectations I had formed
regarding it. The hours were long, the supervision was constant and
irksome, the superiority of the other clerks humiliating, while the
personal attention and affability which my dear mother had led me to
expect from Sir Benjamin was not only not forthcoming, but showed no
signs of making its appearance at any time within the next half-century.
However, there were many compensations to balance these petty
annoyances, and chief among them I reckoned that of carrying letters and
papers to the docks, where the ships which brought Sir Benjamin's
merchandise from far countries discharged their cargoes.
Nothing gave me greater happiness than these little excursions, and when
I had fulfilled my errand, it was my invariable custom to enter upon an
investigation on my own account, wandering all over the mysterious
vessels, asking questions innumerable about the strange places they
visited, and, I have no doubt now, making myself a complete and
insufferable nuisance generally. Perhaps that was why, throughout my
sailoring career, I had always a sneaking sympathy with boys who boarded
us, and asked permission to look round. At any rate, I am convinced that
those journeys were what made me believe I had at last hit upon my
vocation in life; for I know that every time I passed outwards through
the dock-gates, I renewed my vow that before many years were over I
would become a sailor, and the commander of just such another ship as
that I had lately overhauled.
This sort of life continued with but slight variation until I was on the
verge of seventeen, when I made a firm resolve to assert myself, and
embark upon the calling I had marked out for my own. My mother was
prepared in some manner for the blow, for she certainly could not have
failed to notice the way my inclinations tended; so when I broached the
subject she offered no objections, only sighed somewhat sadly, and said
"she was afraid a time would come when I should repent it." Little did
the poor soul know to what a fatal prophecy she was giving utterance.
A day later, for the second and last time in her life, she visited Sir
Benjamin, and the following morning I was summoned to his presence.
"Your mother tells me you wish to leave my employ to become a sailor,"
he began, when I had closed the door behind me and approached his table.
"Now you know your own business best, but remember it's a hard life,
more kicks than halfpence; and what is worse, I can assure you that when
you have once taken to it, you'll never be fit for anything else again.
You have thought it over, I suppose?"
I modestly replied that I had devoted a good deal of consideration to
the matter, and would have gone on to say that I wished for nothing
better had he not interrupted me.
"Very good; I've promised your mother to do the best I can for you, so
you'll be apprenticed to the Yellow Diamond Line as soon as I can see
about it. You'll probably be surprised to hear that I think you're a
fool, but I suppose in this world there must be a proportion of fools to
balance the wise men, or we'd all come to grief. Hum, ha!"
He was true to his promise, for the following week I received a
notification to attend at the head office of the Yellow Diamond Line of
clipper ships. Here I complied with the formalities, signed the
necessary papers, and had the satisfaction of leaving the Company's
office to all intents and purposes a member of the nautical profession.
It was arranged that I should desert Sir Benjamin's employment at the
end of the month, and after that I was confident my real career would
commence. It is, I think, one of the most wonderful things in our poor
human nature, that we should always look forward to the future with so
much confidence, PROportionately the more when we have perhaps the
least justification for it. For my own part, when I left the Company's
office I would not have changed places with the Prime Minister himself;
yet such is the perversity of fate that, not six hours from the time of
my signing the papers, I would have given anything I possessed to have
been allowed to forfeit my premium and to remain ashore. This is how it
came about.
Sir Benjamin was laid up with an attack of gout, and it became necessary
to obtain his signature to some important letters. About four o'clock in
the afternoon, therefore, the chief clerk sent for me, and giving into
my care a small despatch-bag, bade me take a cab, and drive with it to
Sir Benjamin's residence in Holland Park. Nothing loth, off I set.
The East India merchant's home was a most imposing place, and it was
with some little awe that I rang the great front-door bell, and
requested the dignified butler to inform me if I could see his master.
Saying he would find out, he ushered me into a small room off the hall,
to which he presently returned with the request that I would accompany
him up-stairs.
I found my employer propped up in a chair near the fire, nursing his
swaddled leg. Beside him was seated a young lady I had never seen
before, but of whom I had often heard my mother speak,--his daughter
Maud.
When I entered she was for leaving us, but this Sir Benjamin would not
permit. Having received the papers from my hands, he turned to her and
said (and I regarded it as a mark of unusual condescension)--
"My dear, let me introduce Mr. John Ramsay to you; a young gentleman who
is forsaking the East India Avenue to distinguish himself by falling off
the topsail-yard. Mr. Ramsay, my daughter!"
Then he settled himself down to the papers I had brought, and I was left
free for conversation with his daughter.
As a rule I am considered bashful with strangers, but such was Maud
Plowden's wonderful knack of setting people at their ease, that I would
defy any man to remain shy very long in her company. I do not mean to
infer by this that she was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, for though
I have heard people go into ecstasies about that, her charm lay not so
much in her face as in her voice and manner. Of one thing at least I am
quite certain, had I a secret I was desirous of obtaining from a man, I
would rather trust Maud to coax it from him than the most beautiful or
dangerous woman in existence.
When ten minutes later I re-took my seat in the cab, I was in love for
the first time in my life. And then it was that I began to regret not
having been content to remain quietly in Sir Benjamin's office, where I
might have found other opportunities of improving my acquaintance with
his charming daughter. It was certainly the irony of fate, that when I
wanted to embrace the nautical profession, no opportunity was vouchsafed
me; but when I did not want to take to it, I had no option but to do so.
It is not my intention, even had I the space, to narrate all that
befell me before my departure on my first voyage, but will content
myself by remarking that not only did my uniform almost satisfy me, but
that on my first day of wearing it (and you may be sure, like most
youths, I seized the opportunity as soon as it presented itself), who
should drive up to our door but Maud Plowden herself. I had forgotten
until then that my mother and she had developed a sudden but intimate
acquaintanceship.
What she said to me or what I said to her during the space that she
remained under our roof I cannot recall, but I remember that when she
went away, it seemed as if all the sunshine had gone out of the house.
What a strange and indeed weird experience that first falling in love
is, and, as a rule, how signally we fail to estimate its true importance
in the building up of a life's character! Is it not a time of high
ambitions, of pure intentions, of great resolves,--when not to succeed
is a thing impossible? A period of our lives when women are all pure and
noble, and men all brave and honest! Oh, the pity, for humanity's sake,
that there should ever come an awakening!
On the Thursday following that tea-drinking, I joined my ship, the
_Beretania_, then lying in the East India Docks. My mother came to see
me off, and her tears and parting blessing opened my eyes to my conduct
towards herself, showing me my position in a new and exceedingly
unpleasant light.
And now as my doings for the term of my apprenticeship would form but
poor reading, let me skip a few years, and come to the time when I
returned to England to a certain extent tired of Father Ocean, but very
proud of my position as third mate. I was then, to all intents and
purposes, a man, six feet in height, broad of shoulder, and, if my
doting mother could be believed, not altogether deficient in good looks.
On that point, however, I must be mute.
As we had just hailed from China, it was only natural that I should have
brought with me a whole cargo of curios. These I intended for family
presents, and on the day following my arrival I sorted them out,
retaining those I most admired for my mother herself, and setting apart
those I did not care very much about for transmission to any relatives
and acquaintances she might think worthy of the notice. Among the
prettiest of the things was an exquisitely inlaid tortoiseshell and
ivory card-case, which, in my own mind, I had destined for Maud, if I
could but find an opportunity of giving it to her.
This came sooner than I expected, for on the afternoon following my
arrival she dropped in to five o'clock tea, and as she intended to walk
back, I had the delight, not only of presenting her with my gift, but
also of escorting her, at my mother's desire, a little way upon her
homeward road. Now I'm not vain enough to think that she was already in
love with me (the sin of conceit cannot at least be laid to my charge),
but I'm certain, and even she herself admits it now, that after that
night she was not altogether indifferent to me. However, be that as it
may, I saw her no more during my leave ashore, and it must have been
two full years before I looked into her face again.
When I reached England the next time, I had not only been twice round
the world, visiting China, Australia, and both North and South America
in so doing, but had passed my examination for chief officer, though I
only held a second officer's position.
It was close upon Christmas when we arrived, the Serpentine was frozen,
and skating parties were in full swing. Now skating is an amusement of
which I have always been fond, though naturally in my profession I did
not get many opportunities of indulging in it. For this reason, when I
did I made the most of them, and that season was a notable instance.
One morning, on the Serpentine, I had the good fortune to catch a young
lady just as she was about to fall in such a manner that the consequence
could only have been a nasty sprain. She thanked me prettily, and a few
moments later her protector on the ice crossed over to where I sat
taking off my skates, and added an expression of his gratitude. Somehow
his face seemed strangely familiar to me, and it was not long before I
recognized in him a nephew of Sir Benjamin Plowden, with whom I had been
slightly acquainted in by-gone days. Making myself known, I was taken
across and formally introduced to the lady, who turned out to be his
wife. We strolled part of the way back together, and next day, to my
surprise, I received a card for an "At Home" at their residence the
following night.
Now though I am not particularly fond of "At Homes," I suppose my
destiny ordained that I should accept this invitation. It was altogether
a brilliant affair, and as there was dancing, and Captain Plowden (for
that was my host's name) was kind enough to see that I did not want for
partners, I enjoyed myself hugely.
Towards the middle of the evening I happened to be standing near the
door of the ball-room, when, to my astonishment and delight, who should
enter but Maud, leaning on her father's arm. To make myself known to Sir
Benjamin (for I had altered so much since my last interview with him
that I doubt very much if he would have known me else) was the work of
an instant, and before a spectator could have counted a hundred I had
completed the necessary preliminaries, and was waltzing up the room, my
arm round Maud's waist, and my whole being intoxicated with the
fragrance of her presence.
Whether I danced well or ill, whether my step suited hers, what the
music was, or why we did not collide with every other couple on the
floor, I do not know. I was only conscious that I was dancing with Maud,
that I held her in my arms, that I was looking into her face and
listening to her voice. When the music ceased I led her through the
drawing-room into the conservatory, and finding two vacant seats settled
myself beside her.
How can I describe all the delights of that evening! It would be
impossible, for beyond the fact that just before supper I blurted out a
question which had been on the tip of my tongue for years, it is all
one mist of rose-coloured light.
When I left the house I trod on air, I was the happiest man in England,
for I had proposed to Maud, _and she had accepted me_! Though it was
considerably past two o'clock when I reached home, what must I do but
wake the mother up to tell her my glorious tidings; and I know her
congratulations were genuine, though, in her confused state, the dear
old soul could hardly make head or tail of what I said to her.
As early next morning as my conscience would permit, I set off to call
upon Sir Benjamin, hoping to catch him and get my interview over before
he should leave for the city. Arriving at the house, I was shown into
the morning-room, and I had not been there two minutes before Maud
entered. If she had appeared adorable the night before, she was doubly
so now, and the pretty little air of embarrassment which possessed her
did not, I promise you, detract from her beauty in my eyes.
"Oh, Jack," she began--for somehow every one calls me Jack--"how good of
you to come so early!"
I thought it was rather a matter for shame, but didn't say so.
"I have come to see your father, Maud," I answered, making, I do not
doubt, a rueful face; "and though I know him so well, I feel for all the
world like a criminal going to execution. Have you said anything to him
about it?"
"Yes," she whispered, nestling her head on my shoulder, "I could not
help it, Jack; you see I have no mother to advise me, and I felt that I
must tell somebody. You don't mind?"
"Mind, my darling, as if I should mind anything you might do. And what
did he say to it?" I asked this rather anxiously. "I know he won't
altogether approve, but does he dislike the idea so very much?"
Maud made what is, I believe, correctly termed a little _moue_ before
she replied.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Jack, I'm afraid he's not overjoyed about
it; but then perhaps it's quite natural; you see, I'm his only child,
and--well, he's not seen as much of you as I have, so he doesn't know
all your good qualities."
The proper answer to such a speech cannot be put on paper, and, even if
it could, I doubt whether it would prove of very much interest here. It
was accomplished only just in time, for next moment Sir Benjamin
entered, and Maud with an encouraging glance at me withdrew.
Though he had aged a good deal since I had left his employ, he was brisk
enough this morning, and to my sorrow I could see not best pleased. I
cannot, however, conscientiously say that his greeting was any the less
sincere, but his tone was a little more curt, and his demeanour
decidedly stiffer, than when I had met him on the previous evening. He
seated himself opposite me, and came to business at once.
"I suppose you're aware, Mr. Ramsay, that my daughter has told me of the
offer you made her last night?"
When I had signified that I was, he continued--
"Now I'll be bound you don't know what a shock a piece of information
like that gives to a man of my years. I was, of course, quite aware that
Maud would be likely to marry sooner or later, but somehow I had never
brought myself face to face with the actual situation before. Do you
know that she is a very considerable heiress?"
I ventured to remark that I had been so informed, and started to try and
convince him that my offer had nothing whatever to do with such a
circumstance. But he stopped me.
"I know exactly what you're going to say. If I mistake not, I said it
myself once upon a time. But tell me, John Ramsay, what would you say of
a young man, five-and-twenty years of age, mate of a sailing ship, with
nothing but his pay to depend upon, who proposed to a rich merchant's
daughter with an income of something like six thousand a year. Reflect
for a minute, and then tell me what you would think of him?"
This was a poser, but I made shift to answer it.
"I should say that it couldn't matter how much money she had if he
really loved her, and thought he could make her happy."
He sniffed scornfully.
"Exactly what I thought. Now that's all very pretty. But to look at it
in another light. We'll suppose that I give my consent to your marriage,
what are your intentions then? Are you going to remain at sea, and
leave your wife unprotected ashore, or are you going to abandon your
profession, and live a life of idle luxury on her money? For, as I
warned you years ago, you're fit for no other calling now."
I could not answer either way, and I think he saw my difficulty, for he
rose and came over to me. Putting his hand on my shoulder, and speaking
in a kinder tone than he had adopted yet, he said--
"Jack Ramsay, you understand what a problem it is. I like you, my boy,
and I like your family; I think you're a steady, honest young fellow,
and a credit to your calling; what is more, I know you love my girl, and
I'm certain that she loves you. For these reasons I shall not definitely
forbid your engagement."
"Oh, Sir Benjamin," I hastened to say, "how can I express my gratitude!"
"Hold on, sir, hear me out. Though, as I say, I shall not definitely
forbid your engagement, yet remember, I do not sanction it. I shall not
do so until I see how you behave. If I know that you work hard, and do
your best to advance in your profession, it will be something for me to
go upon, and I may eventually find sufficient reason to allow your
marriage. Now, good-morning. Maud, I don't doubt, is awaiting you in the
drawing-room. You had better tell her what I've told you."
So saying, the worthy merchant shook me by the hand, and hobbled from
the room, leaving me a good deal more relieved than I had expected to be
by the nature of his communication.
Over the bliss of the succeeding fortnight I must draw a curtain. Of
course I saw Maud every day; and equally, of course, each twenty-four
hours convinced me more and more of the wisdom of my choice. But, like
the school-boy's Black Monday, the fatal day of parting had to come;
and, accordingly, one miserable Wednesday night I bade my darling
farewell, and next morning, with a heavy heart, rejoined my ship and put
back to sea.