For a minute or two only the sighing of the wind through the trees and
the crackling of the fire was to be heard. Then that weary voice began
again--
"Ramsay, it's a strange request for a man like me to make, but d'you
know, if you could manage to scramble out some sort of a prayer I
believe I should die easier."
Like a flash my memory flew back across the waste of years, and once
more I was a tiny chap worshipping at my mother's knee. With a great awe
upon me I knelt and commenced the Lord's Prayer. When I had finished he
slowly repeated the last few words, "For ever and ever, Amen."
Then a wonderful thing happened. He raised his head, and, as he did so,
his eyes, which had hitherto been shut, opened wide, and his voice came
from him quite clear and strong. It was a grander and a nobler voice
than I had ever expected to hear. He said--
"My Lord, I urge nothing in my own defence; I simply throw myself upon
the mercy of the Court."
Then with a little sigh his head fell back again. Marcos Veneda was
dead!
CHAPTER IV
RESCUED.
Long after Veneda's speech I remained kneeling by his side in earnest
prayer, but when his laboured breathing ceased altogether, and I looked
up to find his jaw dropped and his great eyes fixed in a horrible stare,
I knew that all was over, and prepared to perform the last sad offices.
These accomplished, his expression changed completely. Up to the moment
of his death a haggard, weary look had possessed his features, but now
his face was like that of a little child for innocence and peace. I
stood looking down on him for some minutes, my mind surging with a
variety of thoughts. Then, picking up my cap, I strode hastily from the
plateau towards the interior of the island, in the hope of diverting my
thoughts from the scene I had just witnessed, and from the contemplation
of my own awful loneliness.
Swiftly I marched along; the bright sunshine straggled amid the trees
and lit up the glades through which I passed, but beyond being aware of
these things I had little attention for them. I could not divest myself
of the horror of my position. Here was I, I told myself, the sole living
being upon this island; my companion a dead and unburied man; my
prospect of rescue as remote as ever, and my food supply limited to a
few more meals. Indeed, so horrible was my condition that consideration
of it inclined me even to wish myself back in prison in Batavia.
In this state I passed out from the woods on to the shore. The tide was
far out, and an expanse of sand stretched before me. Thinking brisk
exercise might raise my spirits I set off to walk as quickly as I could
round the island. But it was only putting off the unpleasant work, for I
could not allow day to depart and leave me with the body still unburied.
My prison, I discovered, was not as large as I had thought it, being
considerably less than a mile long. My first view had evidently been a
deceptive one, and I must have allowed more for the fall of the hill
than was justifiable, considering that I had not seen the end of it.
In the hope that I might discover some sort of shell-fish with which to
sustain life when my meagre supply of rice should be exhausted, I walked
close to the water's edge, but not a trace of anything fit to eat could
I find. This knowledge added considerably to my uneasiness.
While engaged in my search, I espied, bobbing up and down in the water
not far from the shore, something that looked suspiciously like a bottle
with the cork in. My curiosity was instantly aroused. Who knew but that
it might contain the last message of a shipwrecked crew, thrown
overboard in the hope of carrying to the world information of their
unhappy fate. If this were so, into what weak hands had it fallen!
My mind made up to gain possession of it, it was the work of a moment to
wade towards it. I found it to be a Bass' beer-bottle, and on holding it
up to the light, I could see that it contained a sheet of paper. The
mouth was firmly corked, and to render it additionally secure, the
latter was not only tied down but carefully sealed. Bearing it ashore, I
threw myself on the warm sands and prepared to broach its contents.
I discovered the cork to be fastened with copper wire, while the wax
used was of a quality more generally employed by ladies on their
_billets-doux_ than by men before the mast. Cracking the bottle with a
stone I extracted the paper and spread it carefully out.
It was a full sheet of cream-laid, folded longways into a narrow strip
to go through the bottle's neck. Owing to this precaution it was quite
dry. The following is an exact transcript of what I read--
_S.S. Cambermine,_
"_Three days' steam from Nagasaki._
"To all whom it may concern,
"This is to certify that we, the undersigned, being on our
honeymoon, are the two happiest people on the face of this globe,
and don't you forget it!
"REGINALD AND MAY."
A sillier and, under the circumstances, crueller hoax it would have been
impossible to conceive. And yet to my mind there was something terribly
pathetic about that tiny message, tossed about by many seas, buffeted by
storms, carried hither and thither by various currents, its ultimate
fate to fall into the hands of perhaps the most miserable being on the
whole face of that world so flippantly referred to by the writers.
Shutting my eyes I could conjure up the scene--the promenade deck of the
steamer--the happy couple busily engaged upon the preparation of the
message--the toss overboard, and finally, the bottle bobbing up and down
a mute farewell among the waves. Big man as I was, when I pictured the
happiness to which the note referred, and compared it with my own
position, the tears rose into my eyes, and surely if it served no other
purpose, the message had done one good work in diverting for a time the
current of my miserable thoughts.
For some vague reason, I could not tell what,--perhaps that I might have
in my possession something which was the outcome of a fellow-creature's
happiness, or, maybe, because it was a last feeble link with the outside
world,--I resolved not to tear up the paper, but to keep it as a
talisman about me. When I had put it carefully away I resumed my walk,
and half-an-hour later had completed my circuit of the island, and was
back again on the sands opposite the plateau.
By this time my mind was made up, and I had resolved to carry out as
expeditiously as possible the horrible task which lay before me. But
how I was to dig a grave of sufficient depth, seeing that I had no
tools, save my knife and hands, with which to do it, I could not
understand. Fearing, however, that if I delayed matters any longer I
should never undertake it at all, I chose a suitable spot a little to
the right of the plateau, and fell to work.
I found it a longer business than I expected, for though I commenced it
early enough, it was nearly dusk before I had completed it.
Unfortunately I had only accomplished the least horrible part. What I
most dreaded was conveying the body to the grave, and this I had now to
do.
Returning to the camp on the plateau, the very remembrance of which had
grown indescribably repulsive to me, I approached the spot. A feeling of
surprise took possession of me when I saw that the body lay just as I
had left it, and perhaps for the same reason I found myself creeping
towards it on tip-toe, as if it were wrapped in a slumber which might be
easily disturbed.
Stooping down, I placed my arms round it, then lifting it on to my
shoulder, hurried back to the grave with all possible speed. Laying it
down, I returned for the cloth stretcher on which we had borne Veneda
the previous night, and having procured this I wrapped the body in it
and laid it in the grave. Then endeavouring to bring my mind to bear on
the awful solemnity of what I was doing, I repeated as much as I could
remember of the service for the burial of the dead. It was an impressive
scene. The dead man in his shallow grave, the evening breeze just
stirring the trees, the light and shadow effects of the sunset, the
smooth sea, and the awful silence of the island. Such an impression did
it make on me, that it seemed if I did not get away from the spot I
should go raving mad. So soon therefore as I had committed his body to
the ground, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," I began to
fill in the soil with feverish haste. The instant that was finished, I
picked up my remaining supply of rice and the cooking-pot, and ran for
dear life. Strange shapes peered at me from every tree, and unearthly
voices whispered in the faint rustling of the leaves. The truth was my
nerves were utterly unstrung,--and was this indeed to be wondered at,
considering the nature of my experiences within the last twenty-four
hours?
So great was my horror of an Unknown Something--what, I could not
explain--that I had run to the end of the island farthest from the grave
before I came to myself. Then I threw myself down upon the sands quite
exhausted. But I was too hungry to remain inactive long. Lighting a fire
with my one remaining match, I set to work to cook some rice, obtaining
water from a spring I had discovered in my morning's ramble. By the time
I had finished my meal it was quite dark, so I laid myself down, and
after a while fell asleep.
With prudence born of the knowledge that if my fire once went out I
should have no means of relighting it, I had heaped plenty of fuel on it
before I turned in, so that when I woke next morning it was still
burning brightly. Having cooked and eaten a small portion of my rice,
for I was now compelled to rigidly allowance myself, I replenished my
fire, and started off to climb to my usual look-out spot on the top of
the hill.
Though I searched in every direction, not a sign of a sail was visible.
Only the same expanse of blue water stretching away to the sky-line, the
same wheeling gulls, and the same eternal thunder of the surf upon the
rearward reef.
Anything more awful than the feeling of desolation that encompassed me I
would defy any one to imagine. My sensations were those of a man cut off
for ever from his fellow-creatures, a hapless outcast, destined to
perish by slow starvation on that barren spot. A few more meals I
discovered would find me at the end of my supplies. And what would
happen then?
While I was occupied with these miserable reflections, the locket Veneda
had given me chafed my skin, and the bitter irony of my position figured
before me in a new light. Here was I, I told myself, having about me the
key to enormous wealth, unable to procure the commonest necessaries of
life. A Croesus and a beggar! Indeed, at that moment, had it been in
my power to do so, I would willingly have exchanged all my chances of
obtaining the money for another small bag of rice like the one I was
just at the end of. I returned to my fire to spend the remainder of the
day tramping up and down the hill watching for the sail that never came.
That night I ate my last mouthful of food. Hence forward I must go
without, unless I could find some sort of fruit or shell-fish with which
to keep body and soul together. Having this object in view, off I set
next morning on another expedition round the island. But I might have
spared myself the labour. Trees there were in abundance, but not one
having any pretence to fruit. Fish I knew teemed in the bay, but I had
neither line nor hooks wherewith to catch them, nor anything of which to
manufacture such tackle. Thus when I reviewed my position I began to see
the hopelessness of it, and to think it would be better for me to lie
down and die without struggling any further against my overwhelming
fate.
All that day and the next I was without a morsel of food; my agony was
indescribable. How many times I climbed that hill I could not say, but
it was always with the same result--no sail--no sail! My one remaining
thought was to keep up the fire, for I knew that if that went out I
should have no means left of communicating with passing ships. Then a
period of abject despair supervened, in which I cared not a rap what
became of me. How I spent my time after that I could not tell you. I
believe, however, that I must have been delirious, for I have a faint
recollection of running along the beach screaming to Veneda that the
Albino was pursuing me. Certainly this fit lasted a long time, for the
next thing I remember is finding myself lying more dead than alive on
the sand beside my _burnt-out fire_.
My last hope was gone. My chance of attracting attention had been taken
away from me. Thereupon I asked myself, Why should I wait for death to
release me? why should I not take the direction of affairs into my own
hands, and anticipate what could only be a matter of another day, by the
very longest calculation?
Strange though it may seem, my troubled brain found something peculiarly
soothing in this idea. I brooded over it unceasingly, deriving a
melancholy satisfaction from the knowledge that, though my agony was
more than human, it was in my power to end it when I pleased. Somehow or
other I developed the idea that the evening would be the most fitting
time for me to accomplish the awful deed, perhaps just at sundown. Three
words, "the evening sacrifice," part of a half-forgotten hymn, faint
relic of my boyhood, haunted me continually--
"The sun is sinking fast,
The daylight dies;
Let love awake, and pay
Her evening sacrifice."
Then suddenly a grisly notion seized me, and all the afternoon I
occupied myself procuring from a tree a slab of wood, upon which to
carve my name and age. With what care I chose the inscription! With what
labour I worked upon it! When it was completed to my satisfaction, it
read as follows--
THE MORTAL REMAINS
OF
JOHN RAMSAY,
MARINER,
_Who, dying by his own hand,
Bluffed Starvation, and became the Victim of Despair!_
The sun was now only half a hand above the horizon, staring me in the
face, a great globe of mocking fire. I had long since chosen the spot
for my death, and thither I proceeded, sticking my tombstone in the
ground beside the place where in all probability my corpse would fall.
When all my arrangements were made, I fell to sharpening my knife upon a
stone, pausing now and again to watch the sun. His lower edge was hardly
an eighth of an inch above the sea-line, and as he sank beneath it, I
determined to have done with this weary world, and to endeavour to find
in another the peace which was denied me here.
For the second time since my arrival on the island, my whole life passed
in review before my eyes;--I saw the dame's school at Plymouth, Sir
Benjamin, and the East India Avenue, Maud, and my dear dead mother. The
bright side of my life seemed suddenly to end here, and a darker
procession commenced to stalk across the stage. My early sea life, my
quarrel with Maud, the gold-fields, my illness, Broken Hill, and,
lastly, Veneda's death. The beach seemed peopled with phantoms, and it
was as if they were all imploring me with outstretched arms to stay my
wicked hand. But I would not heed them. The sun was now more than half
sunk beneath the sea, and I drew back my arm to point the sacrificial
knife.
At that instant a tiny object moving on the beach, fifty yards or so
from where I stood, caught my eye. I paused to wonder what it might be,
and that little act of curiosity saved my life. In that moment I
abandoned the idea of self-destruction, and the next I was staggering
towards the thing, whatever it might be.
_It was a turtle making for the sea!_
Before he could escape me I had turned him on his back, and plunged the
knife into his breast; then working it round, in less time almost than
it takes to tell, I had portions of the flesh cut out, and was
ravenously devouring them. Oh, the delight of that meal!
When I had eaten as much as I wanted, I carried what remained to a place
of safety, and afterwards knelt upon the beach to thank God earnestly
for sparing my life to me. But for that tiny beast's intervention I
should have been a dead man. Then with a heart considerably lighter I
rose to my feet, and determined to see if by any chance I could discover
another of the animals.
My luck had turned, for on the other side of the island I was fortunate
enough to obtain another and even larger one. Carrying him back to my
camp, I despatched him at once to make sure, and then hid his flesh. I
can assure you that it was with a happier and more contented heart that
I fell asleep that night.
Next morning I breakfasted on the turtle, and when I had finished,
started up the hill to look for ships. As usual, none were to be seen.
Having convinced myself of this melancholy fact, I returned to the
shore, and, for something to do, set myself to destroy the head-board I
had manufactured the day before, and to begin another to perpetuate
Veneda's memory. In this manner I occupied myself all that day. When it
was finished, I set off to view the grave for the first time since I had
laid him in it.
It had already begun to look unkempt and straggling, so quickly do
things grow in these latitudes. When I had tidied it as well as I could,
I dug a hole at the head and erected the board. It is not much to look
at, but at least it will serve its purpose, so that whosoever visits the
spot in the future will be able to read the name of the man who lies
beneath it.
This work accomplished, I started back along the shore to my camp for
dinner. Turning the point, I happened to look out to sea. I stopped
suddenly in my walk. I almost dropped under the shock! _A sail was in
sight, and heading towards the island!_
For a moment I remained rooted where I stood; my excitement chained me
hand and foot. Would she see me, or would she pass me by? The latter
thought was agony. How could I attract her attention? I had no means to
raise a flare, so I must hit upon some other scheme. Rushing swiftly
across the sands into the thicket, I cut a long pole, and to this
fastened my jacket. Then running with all my speed along the beach
towards a piece of elevated ground, I ascended it, and wildly began to
wave my signal.
Closer and closer she approached the island, and, as she came, I made
out that she was not one of the small trading boats I had at first
imagined her, but a steam-yacht, and a large one at that. When she was
about two miles distant she ran a flag up to her peak. I could not of
course at that distance make out what it was, but I understood that it
was an answer to my signal, and waved my flag the more frantically,
running down to the water's edge to do so. Then I saw that a boat was
being lowered.
As soon as she was clear she started for the shore, and when I saw her
coming I fell upon my knees, and sobbed as if my heart would break.
After what seemed an eternity they grounded her, and I waded out to meet
them. A gentlemanly-looking young fellow sat in the stern-sheets. He
stared at me rather hard (and well he might, for I must have cut a
strange figure), and said--
"I've been sent to see what's the matter. Can we help you?"
"Take me away," I cried, "take me away. I'm dying!"
I really thought I was. My senses were leaving me. I tottered, clutched
at the gunwale of the boat, and remember no more!
CHAPTER V.
RAMSAY MEETS OLD FRIENDS.
When I came to my senses, my first impression was that I was still upon
the island. This notion was perhaps strengthened in my mind by a
continuous grinding noise (proceeding from the engine-room, I discovered
later), which, I must own, somewhat resembled the distant roar of the
surf upon the beach. When, however, I looked about me, it was not upon
the timber-clad hill, or the long sandy foreshore of the island that my
eyes alighted, but on the confined space of a ship's cabin. It contained
one bunk, a narrow sort of sofa, somewhat like the contrivance one sees
in the first-class state-rooms of the great mail-boats; a miniature
chest of drawers and desk combined, on the top of which, beneath a
number of photographs, pipes, and cheap knick-knacks, stood a variety of
sombre-looking account-books; a curtained recess for hanging clothes,
and a well-contrived washstand.
Then, in a flash, the remembrance of my rescue by the yacht came back to
me, and I had just recalled the circumstance of my wading out to her
boat, when the door opened and two men entered. The first was a
dignified, grey-haired man, possessed of a handsome, aristocratic face;
the second was rather smaller, with a bright, rosy little countenance,
eyes that bespoke him a humourist, and a general air that said as
plainly as words could have done that he was an Irishman. There was
still a third behind them, the steward, whose cabin I was then
occupying; but he, either from motives of delicacy, or because he
imagined the cabin to be already sufficiently crowded, remained in the
alley-way. The Irishman opened the conversation.
"Sir Richard," he began, as soon as he saw that I was awake, "you've
lost your money, he's himself again. Now, my man, how are you, eh?"
I answered that I felt almost well, but that I would be grateful if he
would inform me what boat I was on, and to whom I was indebted for my
rescue. Perhaps something in my voice told him that I was not an
ordinary foremast hand, for he immediately adopted a different tone, and
after feeling my pulse, said--
"You're undoubtedly much stronger than when you were talking nonsense
about Albinos, and digging up dead men, yesterday. Where are you? Why,
on board the _Esmeralda_, Sir Richard Tremorden's yacht, to whom you are
indebted for the civility of saving your life. Let me introduce you to
Sir Richard."
I turned to Sir Richard and tried to thank him, but he would not hear of
it.
"Not at all, Mr.----" Here he paused for me to give him my name.
"Ramsay," I said.
"Not at all, Mr. Ramsay. I am very thankful that I was in a position to
do so. It was quite by chance that we sighted the island, as our real
course lay a good deal to the eastward. Forgive my curiosity, but you
must remember you're a mystery, and we're all suffering from an attack
of impatience to know how you got there."
I was going to begin my story, but Dr. Sullivan--for such I afterwards
discovered the little medico's name to be--would not permit it.
"No, no, Sir Richard, not just now. I must really exercise a doctor's
authority, and forbid you to worry him with any questions until he's
stronger; besides, ye're doing the ladies, God bless 'em, an injustice,
by trespassing on their rights. They'll be wanting to cross-examine Mr.
Ramsay for themselves."
"As you please, doctor," Sir Richard said, with a laugh. "You're in
command down here, of course. Williams!"
The man in the alley-way answered, "Yes, Sir Richard?"
"Mind you take good care that Mr. Ramsay has everything he wants." Then
turning to me, "Now, I must return to the deck to tell the ladies how
you are. I hope, when you feel stronger, you'll give us the pleasure of
your company."
Shaking me by the hand, he bade me good-bye, and went out, leaving me to
the doctor, who thereupon began his medical examination, interspersing
it with many good-natured sallies. From him I learnt that Sir Richard
Tremorden was returning from a yachting trip to Japan, _via_ Borneo and
Java, to Singapore. The yacht was full of his friends, and it was only
just by chance that he, the doctor, had been able to make one of the
party. Furthermore, it was Lady Tremorden who first caught sight of my
signal, and it was a strange coincidence that she it was who had
proposed leaving their course to take a look at the island.
While we were talking, the steward brought me a large cup of beef-tea,
and after he had helped me to sit up to it, the kindly little medico
withdrew, having elicited all the information he could, concerning
myself and my profession, for the information of the ladies on deck.
When I was alone, I found myself face to face with a situation I had not
before contemplated. How was I to account for my presence on the island
without introducing the subject of our escape from Batavia? I thought
and thought, but without telling a downright untruth I could see no way
out of it. At last, after a deal of earnest consideration, I determined,
if asked, to say that, having nothing to do for a while, I had
accompanied a Malay on a sailing-trip. We touched at the island, and
while I was ashore he cleared out and left me. This was the only course
I could see. I had my own reasons for saying nothing about Veneda.
After lunch, dressed in a white duck suit of Sir Richard's, and having
removed from my face the fortnight's beard that covered it, I went on
deck, and was presented in proper form to the ladies, who, you may be
sure, were all on the _qui vive_ to hear my story. This, as soon as I
could, I told them, and I must own that I blushed to hear their vigorous
denunciations of the treacherous Malay. Lady Tremorden was particularly
gracious, and to her I hastened to express my deep debt of gratitude.
When I look back upon the strange experiences of that year, I always
think of that short voyage on board the _Esmeralda_ as one of the few
parts of it I should care to undergo again. I said as much to Sir
Richard the other day, when I met him in London at a certain club of
which we are both members. He laughed and answered--
"You were as good as a tonic to us, we had had no sensation since one of
the hands fell overboard in Nagasaki."
Early next morning we reached Singapore, where I was to bid my kind
friends "farewell." Before I left the yacht, Sir Richard invited me to
his cabin, and in a real spirit of friendliness asked me how I stood
with regard to money, offering to become my banker if I should require
anything to help me along. But as I still possessed a fair amount of the
Albino's loan, this kind offer I was able to decline, though of course I
was none the less grateful to the generous thought which prompted it.
By nightfall the yacht had coaled, and proceeded on her way to Saigon,
and, nothing else offering, I had signed myself on the _Turkish Pacha_,
to work my way home before the mast.
She was a powerful old Ocean Tramp, homeward bound from Hong Kong.
Strangely enough, to show how small the world is, it happened that her
second officer was none other than young Belton, who was third mate of
the _Beretania_ when I was chief officer. I suppose I must have looked
very much the same as the other fo'c'sle hands, for though we were often
thrown together, we were off the South Foreland before he recognized me.
Then, up to a certain point, and with numberless reservations that quite
altered the face of it, I told him my story. I don't suppose he believed
it for an instant; doubtless he thought me a wonderful liar, and put it
all down as the result of a liking for strong waters. But I must do him
the justice to admit, that when we were paid off he proffered me a loan,
my non-acceptance of which must have puzzled him considerably.
The time was now coming for me to ascertain what truth there was in the
story Veneda had told me of his fortune. But as I had passed my word to
him not to open the locket within a month of my arrival in London, I had
to look about me for a place to stay in until that time should expire.
Having sufficient money to keep me for at least six weeks in comparative
comfort, I resolved to put up at a quiet place I knew of, near the East
India Docks, until the end of that period, and then to open the locket
and try my success.
Somehow or other, though I had been assured by Veneda of its worth,
though I wore it round my neck as a tangible proof of its reality, and
had been warned of the attempts that would in all probability be made to
obtain possession of it, I was not altogether a believer in the
likelihood of its doing very much for me. I had been devoid of luck so
long that I began to believe no more could ever come my way. So, all
things considered, I should not have been overwhelmed with astonishment,
had I on opening it discovered the information it contained to be
entirely valueless.
I cannot tell you how strange it seemed to me to be back again in London
after so long an absence, and how bitterly I felt the loss of the poor
old mother's kindly welcome. As to Maud, my gentle Maud, of whom I had
been thinking more than was good for me of late, was it any use to think
of her? Had I forfeited all right to her regard? So constantly was she
in my mind that I remember one night, under cover of darkness, stealing
down to Holland Park just to take one glimpse at the old place where she
had lived, and where once I had been so happy.
It was a wet, miserable evening; a piercing wind shrieked along the
dismal streets and moaned round the corners, chilling to the marrow the
bones of one accustomed to the warmth and brightness of those sunny
Southern seas. Leaving my omnibus in the Uxbridge Road, I walked up a
side street to the house. There it stood, solid and respectable as I
remembered it. No changes had been made in its exterior, everything was
exactly as when I saw it last, even to the peculiar scrimpiness about
the piece of privet hedge beside the gate. A light was burning in an
up-stair window, but otherwise the house was dark and silent as the
grave. I stood and looked, the tears rising in my eyes as I did so;
then, heaving a sigh for the sake of "auld lang syne," and all that
might have been, I turned and went sorrowfully away.
And now I am brought to the relation of an incident which was to have a
great and awful bearing on my future. One wet morning, I had just
alighted from a 'bus in Oxford Street, a little below the Holborn
Restaurant, and was half-way across the street, when a hansom whisked
past me, so close that the horse's nose brushed my sleeve. The driver
called to me to stand clear, and, expecting an accident, the fare threw
open the apron and half stepped out. _To my amazement he was none other
than the Albino._ There could be no mistake about it; I knew him in an
instant. My astonishment was so great that I stopped in the middle of
the road, and once more came near being run over.
On recovering myself my first impulse was to hail a hansom and make
after him, but on second thoughts I saw the folly of such a proceeding.
My one endeavour must rather be to keep out of his way. Whether he
recognized me or not I could not of course tell, but we were so close to
one another that it was most unlikely that he could have failed to do
so. But then, I told myself, even if he did, what could it matter? He
would never suspect me of being the possessor of the locket, for how
should he know that I had escaped with Veneda from Batavia? Still, until
I knew whether the secret the locket contained was of any value, it
would be folly to run the risk of losing it. How well I guarded it the
sequel will show.
Having little if any money to spend in what is called "knocking about
town," I did not go out very much of an evening. When I did, my chief
amusement was the theatre, to which I treated myself on an average about
twice a week. After the performance it was my custom on the way home to
drop into a small hostelry called the "Rose and Crown" for a night-cap.
One evening (I had been to the Lyceum, I think) I went in and called for
my usual refreshment. The bar was crowded, and among the visitors was a
man who seemed to take a particular interest in myself. He came up to me
and invited me to take a glass with him. Upon my offering some excuse he
tried by every means in his power to ingratiate himself with me. But I
did not like his look, and resolved, if I saw anything more of him
there, to transfer my patronage from the "Rose and Crown" elsewhere.
A few nights later I was annoyed at finding him there again, this time
evidently awaiting my coming. As soon as I entered he advanced upon me,
and asked why I had refused to drink with him on the previous occasion,
demanding if I had any objection to his company? It would have been the
easiest thing in the world for me to have knocked him down, but I did
not want to make a row, so I resolved if possible not to lose my temper
with him. As soon as he found I was prepared to listen to what he had to
say, he entered upon a long rambling statement as to what he would have
done had I insulted him again, winding up by inserting his hand inside
my collar, and at the same time tugging violently at the chain which
held the locket round my neck. I was so surprised by his impudence that
for a second or two I let him pull, then, divining his intention, I
immediately knocked him down.
His fall raised a hubbub, but as soon as I could I explained matters to
the landlord, who, knowing me for a regular customer, was the more
disposed to overlook such a trifling indiscretion as knocking a stranger
down in his bar. When I left the house I hastened home, reflecting with
considerable gratitude (seeing the aspect affairs were beginning to
assume) that another ten days would give me the right to open the locket
and decide its secret.
That the man was an emissary of the Albino's, employed to find out if by
any chance I had the locket, I did not for a moment doubt. The whole
thing was as clear as daylight. Macklin had discovered Veneda's
whereabouts, and our escape together. Of course he could not know
anything of the other's death, but meeting me in London he must have
thought it worth his while to make sure that I was not the possessor of
what he was so anxious to obtain. Now the man would be able to inform
him definitely that I _had_ got it, and things would be pretty certain
to come to a crisis. I resolved to be more careful than ever.
On the Saturday following the events just described, I was not very
well, a feeling of intense depression had seized me, and in order to try
and raise my spirits I went to the Empire Music Hall. While mixed up in
the crowd leaving it I felt my arm clutched. Imagine my amazement on
turning at finding myself confronted by _no less a person than Juanita_!
She was dressed entirely in black, and though thinner than when we had
parted, still looked surpassingly beautiful. Without a word she slipped
her arm through mine and drew me from the building. When we reached the
street, she said--
"My Jack, how I have longed for this day! Oh, the joy of seeing you
again!"
I was about to venture some remonstrance, but she would not hear me
until we had left the square, and were pacing down a side street.
"What joy this is for me!" she said, as we walked along. "Never did I
think on that dreadful morning in Batavia that we two would meet again."
"It isn't your fault that we have," I said bitterly, remembering her
treachery. "It wasn't your fault that your evidence didn't bring me to
the gallows."
"Oh, Jack, you would not be so cruel as to blame me for that?" she
cried. "I could not help myself. If I had not given the evidence I did,
I should not have left Batavia alive."
"What do you mean?" I asked, astonished.
"Macklin," she hissed, and her eyes glowed with a sudden fury as her
lips dwelt upon his name. "I was his slave, body and soul. I dared not
do anything but his will. Oh, Jack, forgive me, forgive me, for I have
been so unhappy."
But though she pleaded in this fashion, I was not to be hoodwinked. I
had tasted her treachery before, how was I to know that she was not
fooling me now? I told her as much, whereupon she withdrew her arm from
mine, and made as if she would leave me. Her voice, when she spoke, had
a certain pride in it, which I could not understand.
"Say no more; it was foolish of me to have stopped you. I thought, when
I saw your face, there might be some little pity for my loneliness. I
was mistaken. Good-bye Jack, good-bye."
She held out her little hand to me as though she would leave me there
and then, and looking into her eyes--we were just beneath a gas-lamp--I
saw that she was crying.
Now, never in my life have I been able to stand the sight of a woman's
tears. Crocodile tears though they often are, they have an effect on me
which is more than peculiar. I began at once to reproach myself for
having been so blunt with her, and was more and more inclined to place
credence in her assertion that she was only led to act as she had done
by the influence of the Albino.
"Forgive me, Juanita," I said. "I spoke roughly to you, but it was only
natural under the circumstances. I believe what you say, and regret that
I should have given you additional pain. Where are you staying now?"
She gave me her address and I asked if she would allow me to take her
home. She consented, and as it was too far to walk, I called a hansom.
Placing her in it, I seated myself beside her, and we rattled off. As
we went her spirits began to revive. She recalled our voyage in the
schooner, our love-making in Thursday Island, and many other little
circumstances connected with our mutual past.
At length, after passing down a long overgrown thoroughfare, the cab
pulled up before a house. She got out and opened the front door while I
paid the cabman. Then we went up-stairs together to her sitting-room.
Once there, her light-hearted manner left her altogether.
"Jack," she began sadly, "I know it is all over between us, but can you
find it in your heart to say you forgive me?"
"Quite, Juanita. Badly as you have treated me, I forgive you
everything."
"And you believe, Jack, that whatever I may have done, I loved you
once?"
"Yes, I honestly believe that you did love me. But, Juanita, will you
let me ask you one question?"
"A hundred if you like, Jack; for this will be our last meeting. After
to-night we shall never see each other again."
"What do you mean?"
"That I am going away,--never mind where,--away from England. Now, what
is it you wish to ask me?"
"First, why did you want that money?"
"Oh, Jack, that is a long story, and a sad one. But I will tell you.
Once I was poor,--oh, so poor! And to keep myself from starving I sold
my honour. A little son was born to me--born in sin and shame. I loved
him more than all the world, but knowing what I was, I dared not imperil
his immortal soul by letting him remain with me. So I gave him into the
keeping of the Good Sisters. But when I did so, I bound myself by a
great oath. In bringing him into the world I had done him a wrong which
I could never repay. Poverty had compelled me to it, so I swore that I
would never rest until I had collected a certain sum of money, by any
means, good or bad, to be his property when he should become a man; so
that he should never experience the miserable want which wrought his
mother's ruin. This I set myself solemnly to accomplish. For a long time
I could hear of nothing. Then I joined a certain Society and learnt the
game Veneda and the Albino were playing. By chance I discovered Veneda's
secret, and I threw my lot in with him, determining to steal the locket
which contained the paper, and by that means obtain the money. How I
fought for it, how he deceived me, and how the Albino tracked us down,
you know. There is one thing, perhaps, of which you are not aware."
"What is that?"
"That your presence in London with the locket is known to him. That he
is aware of your escape with Veneda, your journey to the island, your
voyage to Singapore in Sir Richard Tremorden's yacht, and your arrival
in England by the _Turkish Pacha_."
"Good heavens!" I cried, astounded. "How on earth did he learn all
that?"
"How does he get to know of anything? He is the most wonderful man
under the sun, I think, and certainly the wickedest. His agents in
Batavia found out your escape from a cab-driver and a boatman. Lady
Tremorden described your rescue in a letter she contributes to a ladies'
newspaper. And he was in the docks when the _Turkish Pacha_ arrived from
Singapore."
I was so overcome with astonishment that I could not reply. She
continued--
"Jack, you don't know what escapes you've had. One night you crossed the
river to a house on the Surrey side, didn't you?"
I nodded. I remembered the occasion perfectly. I went over to spend the
evening with an acquaintance, but not feeling well, left early.
"Well, that night, by his orders, three men waited two hours for you on
Westminster Bridge. Somehow they must have missed you. Had they caught
you, you would most certainly have lost the locket, and probably your
life. One night you went to supper on board the _Prince of Tartary_,
lying off Blackwall?"
I nodded again.
"Those three men followed you. You slept on board, or they would have
had that locket and thrown your body into the stream."
"But, Juanita, this is simply murder."
"Jack, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but it is
nevertheless true. I have quarrelled hopelessly with Macklin, and I'm
hiding from his anger now."
"Why did you quarrel with him, Juanita?"
"Because he wanted me to help him in another scheme to murder you. I
refused, and he attempted my life. He is hunting for me everywhere,
thinking I shall communicate with you."
"But, Juanita, if you still want that money for your child, and you
didn't spare me before, why do you do so now?"
Big tears rose in her eyes, and her voice trembled as she replied--
"Jack, my child is dead. And think, he died on the day that I betrayed
you in Batavia. It was the judgment of heaven on my sin. Had he lived, I
should have betrayed you again. But now that I know he is dead, I will
not side with that man against you. But you must be careful. If you have
the precious paper, why don't you go to the place, and get the money at
once?"
"Because I can't. I have sworn not to open the locket until I have been
a month in England. The time expires in three days, then I shall do so.
But, Juanita, you must leave London at once, you are not safe here. Go
into the country, and in a week I will send you money enough to enable
you to get out of England. You must let me help you in return for what
you've done for me."
"Ah! you don't know," she answered sadly. "Now my little one is gone, my
life seems over; I am tired of the battle. I would rather die ... Jack,
if possible I should like to give my life to save yours, to show what
the worth of my love really is. Perhaps you would sometimes think kindly
of me then."
"I shall never think otherwise. Believe me, there is only kindness in my
heart towards you."
"Yes! Only kindness. Your love is dead. Jack, some day you will marry a
good woman. Don't let her believe me to have been altogether bad."
"Don't you know me better than that, Juanita?"
"But now that the Albino----"
"Well?"
We both sprang to our feet, and turned in the direction of the voice.
_The Albino stood before us smiling sweetly!_
"And what of the Albino, my dear Juanita? You see, he appears to answer
for himself. But there, don't let's talk of him. This is indeed a
pleasant surprise. Quite like old times, I declare. John Ramsay, how
d'you do?"
"You little devil!" I cried. "How did you get in here?"
"By the front door, my dear boy,--how else? The door has not been built
yet that could keep John Macklin out. But you don't seem pleased to see
me."
"I should be delighted if I thought I should never set eyes on you
again. I've come to the bottom of a good many of your tricks, and I've a
good mind to wring your neck, you murderous little reptile."
"That's nonsense, arrant nonsense. But let's get to business. Look here,
John Ramsay, you're very smart, but I'm smarter. I want that locket
Veneda gave you. I must have it sooner or later, so you may as well
hand it over now. Give it to me, and I'll give you a cheque for a
thousand pounds. Could anything be fairer?"
"I wouldn't give it you for two hundred times that amount."
"You're a fool, a madman! You're bringing about your own ruin. You've
got it on you now--give it to me, or I swear you don't leave this house
alive. You can't escape; I've got men in the street, and I'm armed, so
hand it over."
My temper, never too good at the best of times, here deserted me
altogether. Picking up the poker, I made a dash at him. Quick as
lightning he whipped a revolver from his pocket and covered me. Seeing
him about to pull the trigger, I came to a halt. Before I knew what had
happened, Juanita had thrown herself between us. He fired. Juanita gave
a little cry and fell at my feet. Mad with rage, I sprang over her body
towards him. He fired again. I felt a stab as if a red-hot
knitting-needle had been run through me, and became unconscious.
* * * * *
When my senses came back to me, I was in the Charing Cross Hospital,
more dead than alive. The bullet which had brought me down had been
extracted, and the police were anxiously waiting to examine me as to the
reason of it all. One thing was very certain; the Albino had achieved
his purpose, _for the precious locket, the cause of all the trouble, was
gone_.
CHAPTER VI.
CONCLUSION.
Three days after my meeting with Juanita in Leicester Square, I was
lying propped up in bed in the hospital, feeling very weak and
miserable, when one of the nurses came to tell me that two visitors were
coming up to see me.
"Who are they," I asked,--"men or women?"
"Ladies," the nurse replied, as if she were speaking of a third sex.
"Drove up in their own carriage."
"Ladies!" I said. "Who _can_ they be?"
Any further wonderment was put a stop to by the entrance of the ladies
themselves, escorted by the house surgeon. Can you guess who they were?
One was a lady I had never seen before, a chaperon, I suppose. The other
was--but there, I must leave you to imagine who alone would have
sufficient pity to forget the past, and to come and comfort the sick and
sorrowful? _It was Maud!_ The Maud I had treated so shamefully, to whom
I had done so great a wrong. I could hardly believe my eyes! With that
exquisite grace that always characterized her movements, she floated up
the long bare ward to where I lay, bringing with her sunshine and
happiness unspeakable.
"Jack, Jack," she began, taking my great brown paw between her dainty
hands, "welcome home, ten thousand welcomes home!"
Though the words she uttered were nothing more than ordinary, there was
something in the way she said them that invested them with a charm no
other woman could have given them.
"How did you know I was here?" I asked, when the first embarrassment was
over, and she had taken a chair by my side.
"Papa saw it in the paper," she said, "and we immediately made
inquiries."
"And you were forgiving enough to come and see me. Oh, Maud, how little
I deserve it!"
"Hush, you mustn't talk like that. Of course I could not let you lie
here without coming to you. Some people might be shocked at the idea of
a young lady visiting a gentleman in a hospital. But I do what I think
right myself. Now, the doctor tells me you are better, and will soon be
able to come out. Directly you are ready, you must come to us."
"Come to you, Maud? Your father would never allow that."
"Papa wishes it as much as I do, so be quick and get well. I have such a
lot to tell you, and messages to give you, Jack, from your poor dear
mother. I was with her till the last."
"I guessed you would be. Poor mother!"
We were both silent for a minute, then I said--
"Maud, can you tell me one thing? How is the woman who was found in the
room with me?"
"Dead, Jack. She died while the police were examining her this morning."
The shock was almost too much for me. It was some time before I could
realize it.
"Dead? Oh, poor Juanita! Then her wish was gratified after all. She gave
her life for mine. Maud, there is the end of a tragedy. Poor Juanita!"
"Don't think of it for the present, Jack. Wait till you are stronger. I
must go soon, or the doctor will say I'm keeping you from getting well."
"Nonsense, your presence will do me more good than all his drugs put
together. Forgive me one question."
"A hundred. What is this one?"
"Maud," I asked, almost afraid, "you are not married?"
She shook her head a little sadly, I thought. Oh, if I could only find
the pluck to put another! I would try, at any rate.
"Maud, have you only come here in pity, or do you--do you----"
She must have divined what I meant, perhaps she read it in my eyes, for
a great blush spread over her face, as she bent towards me and
whispered--
"How cruel of you, Jack, to make me say it! I am here because I love
you,--because I love you!"
My emotion was so great that I could not speak. My eyes overflowed with
tears; I could feel them coursing down my cheeks. The doctor and nurse
had taken the chaperon to the other end of the ward, and as I had a
screen round my bed, we were quite alone. At last I found my voice.
"Maud," I faltered, "I am not worthy of you, my dear, I am not worthy.
You do not know what my life has been."
What she said in reply has no business here but I know that it acted on
me like a magic potion. When she went away, I only let her go on the
strict understanding that she should come again as soon as she could
spare the time. After the door had closed on her it was as though all
the sunshine had gone out of the ward; but she had left behind in my
heart a greater happiness than I had ever known before, one that can
never leave me again as long as I live to feel it.
A little later the doctor came to examine me. He was struck by the
improvement in my condition.
"Why, man, what on earth have you been doing to yourself?" he asked.
"You're a hundred per cent. better than you were when I saw you last."
"Happiness, doctor," I answered. "I have had some news which has done me
more good than anything your science could prescribe for me."
"It looks like it," he said, and went on to the next bed laughing.
But though my heart was full of joy because I knew that Maud still loved
me, it was not unmixed with a feeling of sorrow. In the first place, I
knew in my heart of hearts that I was not worthy of my darling's love;
and in the second, how was I, a pauper, to ask her to be my wife? My
fortune, if it had ever been a fortune, had been stolen from me, and
even if I returned to my old profession, the sea, I should stand but a
poor chance of ever making enough to justify me in asking Sir Benjamin
for her hand. Consideration of these things was, however, postponed for
the present by the arrival of the police and a magistrate, to take my
deposition for use at the inquest on poor Juanita's body. She, brave
soul, had sacrificed herself for me, and it should go hard if any
exertion on my part should be wanting to bring her murderer to justice.
In the evening I had the satisfaction of hearing that a verdict of
wilful murder had been returned against John Macklin, and that a warrant
was already out for his arrest.
By special favour, Maud was permitted to see me every other day, until I
was in a condition to be moved. When that happy moment arrived, she
herself came to escort me. The carriage was at the great hospital door,
and in it we set out for Holland Park.
When we reached the house, who should open the door but Sir Benjamin
himself! His welcome could not have been more cordial had I been his own
son returning after an absence of many years. On his arm I entered the
house, tenderly watched by Maud. We passed into the drawing-room, and I
was soon seated in a comfortable chair before the fire.
"Sit yourself down, my dear boy," Sir Benjamin said, "and you'll just
take a glass of wine and a biscuit before you do another thing. I
prescribe it myself, and surely I ought to know. Hum, ha! Maud, my dear,
God bless you."
I never remember having seen Sir Benjamin so much affected before. Tears
stood in his eyes, and his hand trembled so violently that it was as
much as he could do to pour out the wine for me. Dear old man, I had
always misjudged his affection for myself, though why he should have
felt any was a thing which, personally, I could never understand.
It was not till after lunch that I got an opportunity of a private
conversation with him. Then, as I had made up my mind I would, I told
him my whole story, from the time of my leaving England on my last
voyage, up to the present moment. As my yarn progressed, I was alarmed
at the change in his face. From its usual rosy hue its colour passed to
an extraordinary pallor, and when I reached the account of my scene with
Juanita, and my attempted assassination, with the robbery of the locket,
I thought he would have fainted. He gasped--
"You say that Marmaduke, my nephew, gave you that locket containing the
piece of paper?"
"Yes, and bound me by a promise that I would not open it till I had been
a month in London."
"Then, John, God forgive me, I have done you an awful injury. I have,
unconsciously it is true, robbed you of L200,000!"
"What!" I cried, in my turn astonished by his words. "What had you to do
with that affair?"
"I was the custodian of it; my nephew sent it home to me from Chili to
keep for him, with the proviso that if ever he should send a messenger
for it, bearing a certain piece of paper, I should give him whatever
amount, even up to the entire sum, he should ask of me."
"And that messenger?"
"Came the same day that we heard of your accident, and brought the scrap
of paper; he said my nephew was in great danger, and wanted his money
immediately; he took away my cheque for L200,000 and accumulated
interest, and, as I have found out by inquiry, cashed it the same
morning. By this time he has probably left the country!"
"What was he like, this messenger?"
"Well, he was the most extraordinary little man I ever set eyes on. He
was a deformed Albino."
"The Albino! Then you've seen the murderer--the man who killed Juanita,
and attempted to do the same for me."
"Good heavens! What's to be done now?"
"Nothing that I can see. The police are searching high and low for him.
We can't recover the money, for we haven't the vestige of a right to it.
You must remember it was to be the property of whosoever brought you the
paper. The Albino brought it, and he has got it. We must grin and bear
our loss. You are not a bit to blame, Sir Benjamin."
I saw that he felt he had injured me, and to try and drive the subject
from his mind, I spoke to him of my views regarding Maud. In a second he
was another man.
"Jack, my boy, God bless you for that idea! My carelessness, though
certainly I did not know any better, has deprived you of great wealth;
now I can make up for it. You love Maud. Maud has never wavered in her
affection for you. I'm not going to ask what your life has been since
you left us, because I trust to your honour not to ask me for my girl if
there's anything against it. On the point of money we'll split the
difference, and on your wedding-day I'll make you a present of a cheque
for L100,000. Will that suit you?"
"No, Sir Benjamin, I cannot let you do it. If when I'm strong enough
you'll help me to some appointment which will enable me to support Maud
in a proper manner, I should be just as grateful. But I can't take your
money in compensation for what was not your fault."
"It shan't be in compensation then, it shall be as a free gift. See,
here is Maud; if you want to talk about it, let it be to her. I must go
into town, and find out if the police have discovered anything regarding
that Albino."
With this excuse the old gentleman hobbled out of the room, and I was
left alone with Maud. When I told her of her father's generosity she
became very silent, and her dear eyes filled with tears, but you may be
sure they were not tears of sorrow.
"There's one thing I want to tell you, Jack," she said. "I asked papa to
undertake on your behalf the funeral of that poor woman. He did so, and
now she has a quiet resting-place in Wendthrop churchyard, under the
great yew-tree near the lych-gate. I knew you would like to think she
had been given a proper burial. Some day we will go together, and see
the grave of the woman who sacrificed her life in such a noble way. We
must never forget her nobility, Jack."
"No, dear, pray God we never may! Poor Juanita, her troubled life is
over! Surely all her sins have been atoned for by her last act of
self-sacrifice!"
And so it came to pass, a month or two later, when summer was on the
land, that we twain, as man and wife, went down together to the little
village, in the churchyard of which Juanita takes her last long sleep.
It was evening, the after-glow of sunset was still upon the sky, and
bats were flitting hither and thither among the tombs. In the dip below
the churchyard the dear old river ran its silent course towards the sea;
a faint chattering sounded from the rooks in the elms above us, and
across the meadows came the gentle tinkling of cattle-bells. We passed
through God's acre to the old yew-tree, beneath whose ample shade a
grave was just beginning to show signs of the care that had been
bestowed upon it.
Hand in hand we stood beside it, thinking of the woman whose body lay
beneath us. In _my_ thoughts I was far away from England. Thursday
Island rose before my eyes; the bay dotted with shipping, clouds upon
the hill-tops, the noise of the surf upon the beach, the rustling of
palm-trees, and Juanita's laughter ringing from the Orient Hotel.
Before we came away we made a resolve that once every year, as long as
we two should live, we would repeat the visit. The grave will be our
constant care. For in that way alone can we show our gratitude to the
woman whose resting-place it is.
But to return to a more cheerful topic. My long story is fast drawing to
a close, and, as I don't doubt, you will say it is about time. But there
are two more circumstances of importance to be recorded before I can
with satisfaction call a halt.
The first is the matter of my marriage. But when I tell you that it only
happened a couple of months ago, you will see that I am hardly in a
position yet to describe it with the care such an important event
demands. Suffice it then that it took place at the parish church without
any ostentation or fuss. I'm not going to tell you how Maud looked in
her wedding-dress, because I was far too nervous to find that out for
myself. A tiny cousin acted as her bridesmaid, and an old sea friend was
good enough to officiate as my best man.
After the ceremony, which took place in the afternoon, we drove back to
the house, where Maud held a little reception; and here occurred the
second event to which I desire to draw your attention.
Among the guests who came to offer their congratulations were two people
whom I had seen before under very different circumstances. That they had
not recognized my connection with that affair was evident. So waiting
my opportunity, I took Maud on my arm, and bidding her listen,
approached the lady, saying politely--
"I think we have met before!"
She stared in blank surprise, grew very confused, and at last replied--
"I'm afraid you must be mistaken, Mr. Ramsay; I don't think I have ever
had the pleasure of seeing you before!"
"And yet I think I carried you in my arms once, and for a considerable
distance!"
"You, Mr. Ramsay? Surely you must be mistaken! Pray tell me when."
"In Australia. You were staying at the Federation Hotel the night it
caught fire. A fireman carried you down a ladder in his arms!"
"Good gracious! You were not that fireman?"
"I was, though please say nothing about it. If you do, I shall be sorry
I recalled the circumstance to your memory."
"But you saved my life. Oh, where is my husband? I must tell him. Maud,
do you hear what Mr. Ramsay says?"
"Yes, I have heard about it before, and I am very proud of him," said
Maud; and that little sentence was more than sufficient praise for me.
Next moment Major Welbourne--for he was Major now--was overwhelming me
with protestations of gratitude, and I was bitterly regretting having
said anything about the matter. But for all that it was a strange
coincidence, wasn't it?
As soon as the reception was over, we bade Sir Benjamin good-bye, and
started for Southsea, _en route_ to the Isle of Wight, where, as the
guests of Mr. Sanctuary, Maud's cousin, we proposed to spend our
honeymoon.
It is under his hospitable roof that this account of my strange
adventures has been written, and now comes to a conclusion.
I am loth to say "farewell," but what more can I tell you? Only the
other day I discovered that Bradshaw the banker, whose embezzlement was
the primary cause of all the trouble, had the misfortune to be
extradited soon after the loss of his money, and now occupies a cell in
one of her Majesty's criminal lunatic asylums. Of the ill-fated pair who
left Valparaiso in the schooner _Island Queen_, Veneda lies buried on an
island off the Sumatra coast, Juanita in an English churchyard. So far
nothing has been heard of the Albino. Despite his extraordinary
personality, which, one would be tempted to believe, would render it the
more difficult for him to escape, he has succeeded in completely
baffling the police. Whether I shall ever hear of him again is a matter
outside my power to tell, but that he will some day overreach himself,
and suffer the penalty of his crimes, I am as certain as that I am one
of the happiest of men to-day. And nothing can be more certain than
that!
And with the assurance of that fact I bring my story to a close. My
only hope is that I may be permitted to be the husband to Maud that she
deserves; and my only regret is that I cannot prove myself better worthy
of her love. Surely a life devoted to achieving both these ends cannot
be altogether spent in vain!
THE END.
LIST OF NEW BOOKS
By MAURICE THOMPSON.
A BANKER OF BANKERSVILLE. 12mo, 323 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
A thoroughly American story of stirring events in a Western "boom" city.
For a vivid pen picture of real life and romance in a hustling little
Western metropolis, with sufficient love and humor to make the book
interesting, we would commend "A Banker of Bankersville."
By F. FRANKFORT MOORE.
I FORBID THE BANNS. The story of a comedy which was played seriously.
12mo, 404 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
The hero and heroine meet on a vessel returning to England from
Australia and learn to love each other. The girl is rich and beautiful,
and does not believe in the rite of marriage. After much thinking, the
man agrees to take her to his home without a marriage ceremony. The
consequences of the departure from custom makes an interesting and
instructive story.
By W. E. NORRIS.
HIS GRACE. 12mo, 278 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
"Mr. Norris has never written a better novel than this, which deals with
English life and its remedy for debts--marriage to a rich wife--though
His Grace, being obstinate, weds a poor girl. The characters are all
distinctly drawn, and the plot is well proportioned and its movement
easy"--_Boston Literary World._
By ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
D'ARTAGNAN, THE KING MAKER. Illustrated. 12mo, 308 pages. Cloth binding.
$1.00
An old Dumas story, but quite new to the American public. The history
surrounding this peculiar state of affairs is too long to repeat here;
but it is an absolute fact that no translation of "The Kingmaker" has
ever before appeared in English. The plot of the story hinges upon the
mission of D'Artagnan, the Kingmaker, who is dispatched to Portugal,
then in the grip of Spain. He discovers Portugal a slumbering volcano,
and in a little while he is trying the temper of his blade right and
left. D'Artagnan, the dauntless, temporarily changes places with Don
Juan, the somewhat timid aspirant to the throne; and after a hundred
well-fought fights and a display of heroism that dazzled the populace,
he has the satisfaction of hearing Don Juan proclaimed King of Portugal.
It is a thrilling story, in which the clash of arms blends with the soft
tones of lovely women, and the amorous speeches of the susceptible
D'Artagnan. The book is splendidly illustrated by Charles Grunwald.
By OUIDA (Louise de la Rame).
SANTA BARBARA. 12mo, 303 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
In this collection of the gems of Ouida's storiettes, the author takes
the reader to the fog-bound shores of the Adriatic, along enchanting
wharves and quays, through gorgeous palaces and cathedrals, and
introduces the most charming characters in fiction.
THE TOWER OF TADDEO. 12mo, 313 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
This is a pathetic story of an old bookseller who, having no idea of
money, gathers treasures of old books, which, with the extravagance of
an ungrateful son, ruins him. He has a daughter who lives, loves and
cares for him, who becomes betrothed to a poor artist. It is a story of
simple trusting ignorance on the one hand and grasping dishonesty on the
other.
By J. MACLAREN COBBAN.
A SOLDIER AND A GENTLEMAN. 12mo, 211 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
The hero is a manly youth, who has seen service in the English army, and
who, upon his return to a civilian's life, finds himself rather out of
his element and extremely hard up. For a consideration, he agrees to
represent another person, and in this compromising position makes love
to a pretty, and, at the same time, wealthy young woman. How he proves
himself to be a Soldier and a Gentleman must be left to the reader to
discover.
By EDWARD W. TOWNSEND.
A DAUGHTER OF THE TENEMENTS. 12mo, 301 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.
This work is the master product of the author of "Chimmie Fadden." In
"Chimmie Fadden," we laugh at the humor of East-side life. In "A
Daughter of the Tenements," we have the real pathos and tragedy of life
in the tenements of New York, written by one who knows the people and
their ways and hearts, and how to write it all--as no one has ever known
and written of that district before.
By BILLY BURGUNDY.
TOOTHSOME TALES TOLD IN SLANG. Illustrated. 16mo, 120 pages. Cloth
binding. 75c.
Here are vivid pages from the everyday lives of fascinating women before
and behind the foot-lights. The yarns are dainty, sometimes humorously
pathetic, sometimes uproariously funny, but always delightful. "One
begins the book with a smile, and puts it away with a number one size
laugh, and a feeling that it has been worth while to cultivate the
acquaintance of Billy Burgundy's slang of the Rialto."
WORKS BY HENRY HARLAND
MRS. PEIXADA. 12mo, 317 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.
The hero, a young lawyer whose first case is the tracking of Mrs.
Peixada, a charming woman of about twenty-three summers, accused of
shooting her husband. The plot is as peculiar as that of "As It Was
Written." The denouement is a thorough surprise.
MADEMOISELLE MISS, and other stories. 12mo, 192 pages. Cloth binding.
75c.
The title-story of the present volume, as well as those which follow it,
shows the same clear insight into character, the same strength and
delicacy of description, and the same faculty of individualizing the
personages of the narrative, as are manifest in Mr. Harland's previous
work.
MEA CULPA--A Woman's Last Word. 12mo, 347 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.
To save her father, a woman marries a European prince. It is a loveless
marriage and the life is a bitter one. A former lover appears; there is
a duel; the prince dies. Then, instead of marriage bells, there is the
sadness of farewell. The lover feels himself a murderer and takes his
own life in an agony of despair.
THE YOKE OF THE THORAH. 12mo, 320 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.
Two lovers were to be married in the spring. That one was a Jew and the
other a Christian didn't seem to matter. But the God of Israel
intervenes through a venerable rabbi, and a struggle begins between hope
and doubt. The story is taken up with the attempts of the lovers to come
together and the plans of the elders to keep them separate.
AS IT WAS WRITTEN--A Jewish Musician's Story. 12mo, 252 pages. Cloth
binding. 75c.
"As It Was Written" is the confession of a man who, under peculiar
circumstances, murders the woman he loves and then gives himself up to
the punishment that the terrible crime demands.
GRANDISON MATHER--An account of the fortunes of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas
Gardner. 12mo, 338 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.
The opening chapter gives a sunny picture of Tom's vacation in Paris,
after finishing his college course, and his courtship of "Mrs. Tom."
After many experiences Tom writes a successful novel and makes some
money. The story is a simple everyday one throughout and is charmingly
told. It is full of graphic pictures of New York life.
A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, and other stories. 12mo, 269 pages. Cloth
binding. 75c.
The first story covers 190 pages, and is a charmingly told tale of life
and love in Paris, in which the actors are an American woman doctor, her
friend a young French girl, and an American author. The two latter, of
course, fall in love with each other.
WORKS BY AMEDEE ACHARD
This author is not as familiar to American and English readers as the
merit of his work would warrant, but it is a positive pleasure to
exploit the writings of one so well equipped for a foremost position in
the school of which Alexandre Dumas, Theophile Gautier and Stanley J.
Weyman are the accepted standards. Mons. Achard's works are popular
favorites with the French people, and the excellent translations of his
best novels which we are presenting to the public in moderate-priced
editions cannot fail to please and satisfy all lovers of "The Three
Musketeers," and works of like tenor.
BELLE ROSE--A Romance of the Cloak and Sword. Translated by William
Hale, with a biography of the author. Five full-page illustrations.
12mo, 368 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25
"Belle-Rose" is a romance in which the hero undertakes and conquers all
manner of difficulties for the love of a woman. The author throws the
glamour of love and war over all, introducing such celebrated characters
in history as to give it an air of reality.
THE DRAGOONS OF LA GUERCHE--A Sequel to "The Huguenot's Love."
Translated by Richard Duffy. Five full-page illustrations. 12mo, 358
pages. Cloth binding. $1.25
Although "The Huguenot's Love" is so complete and fascinating a story in
itself, the sequel is bound to prove a still greater satisfaction to the
reader. In "The Dragoons of La Guerche" we find the two heroes of the
former tale riding at the head of their band of cavalry through the most
hostile territory of Europe in the quest of the two fair women they
loved.
THE SWORD OF A GASCON. Translated by William Hale. Five full-page
illustrations. 12mo, 289 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25
This story of the reign of Louis XIV. is a typical "romance of the cloak
and sword." The Gascon hero is bold and daring, like all those of his
race. He is an accomplished swordsman, a gallant cavalier, who pays
court to an inn-keeper's daughter or the niece of a cardinal with equal
grace and equal success.
THE HUGUENOT'S LOVE. Translated by Richard Duffy. Five full-page
illustrations. 12mo, 333 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25
In this volume the gifted author gives a splendid picture of the
religious strife which paralyzed all Europe in the middle of the
seventeenth century. The two main characters are in religion enemies,
but personally the dearest of friends. They are valiant Frenchmen, who
under the standard of Gustavus Adolphus, engaged in the immortal Thirty
Years' War. Their sweethearts follow them in their expedition and incur
some marvelous adventures.
THE SEASHORE AND MOUNTAIN SERIES
_A NEW SERIES OF 12mo_
Handsomely bound in cloth, stamped in colors
Price, per volume, Fifty Cents
Heir of Linne, The Robert Buchanan
Her Faithful Knight Gertrude Warden
His Word of Honor E. Werner
In the Golden Days Edna Lyall
In the Roar of the Sea S. Baring Gould
In Strange Company Guy Boothby
Kidnapped Robert Louis Stevenson
Little Cuban Rebel, The Edna Winfield
Living or Dead Hugh Conway
Lorna Doone R. D. Blackmore
Lucky Young Woman, A F. C. Philips
Man in Possession "Rita"
Master of Ballantrae, The Robert Louis Stevenson
Master of the Mine, The Robert Buchanan
Miss Kate "Rita"
Mr. Meeson's Will H. Rider Haggard
Nobler Sex, The Florence Marryat
Of the World, Worldly Mrs. Forrester
Perilous Secret, A Charles Reade
Price He Paid, The E. Werner
Averil Rosa Nouchette Carey
Bam Wildfire Helen B. Mathers
Black Rock Ralph Connor
Beatrice H. Rider Haggard
Bondman, The Hall Caine
Black Carnation, The Fergus Home
Cardinal Sin, A Hugh Conway
Consequences Egerton Castle
Cruise of the Cachelot, The Frank T. Bullen
Dead Secret, The Wilkie Collins
Difficult Matter, A Mrs. Emily Lovett Cameron
Doctor Jack St. George Rathborne
Dugdale Millions, The Barclay North
Facing the Footlights Florence Marryat
Fatal Silence, A Florence Marryat
Fever of Life, The Fergus Hume
First Violin, The Jessie Fothergill
Frozen Pirate, The W. Clark Russell
Gentleman from Gascony, A Bicknell Dudley
Heaps of Money W. E. Norris
Ralph Ryder of Brent Florence Warden
She Fell in Love With Her Husband E. Werner
Should She Have Left Him? Barclay North
Splendid Spur, The "Q" A. T. Quiller Couch
Stormy Wedding, A Mary E. Bryan
That Beautiful Wretch William Black
Thelma Marie Corelli
Those Girls John Strange Winter
Treasure Island Robert Louis Stevenson
True To Herself Mrs. J. H. Walforth
Uncle Tom's Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe
Under Two Flags "Ouida"
Wedding Ring, The Robert Buchanan
Wee Wifie Rosa Nouchette Carey
White Company, The A. Conan Doyle
We Two Edna Lyall
Won by Waiting Edna Lyall
Wormwood Marie Corelli
Yale Man, A Robert Lee Tyler
Young Mrs. Jardine Miss Mulock
The Rockspur Athletic Series
BY Gilbert Patten
The series consists of three books, each being a good clean story of
athletic training, sports and contests, such as interest every healthy,
growing boy of to-day.
While aiming to avoid the extravagant and sensational, the stories
contain enough thrilling incidents to please the lad who loves action
and adventure. From the beginning, _The Boys of Rockspur_ work step by
step toward the grand consummation of their desires, the building and
fitting oL a club house and gymnasium, a result that is finally
accomplished; but, in the meantime, they have many trials, jealousies,
heartburnings and defeats, enemies and traitors in their own ranks,
making the struggle harder and the victory sweeter. The description of
their _Baseball and Football Games_ and other contests with rival clubs
and teams make very exciting and absorbing reading; and few boys with
warm blood in their veins, having once begun the perusal of one oL these
books, will willingly lay it down till it is finished.
1--THE ROCKSPUR NINE. A story of Baseball.
2--THE ROCKSPUR ELEVEN. A Story of Football.
3--THE ROCKSPUR RIVALS. A Story of Winter Sports.
Each volume contains about 300 pages, 12mo in size, cloth binding, per
volume, $1.00
THE FRANK MERRIWELL SERIES
BY BURT L. STANDISH
For a great number of years Frank Merriwell has been a name to conjure
with among the boys of America. Frank, with his chums, has been
deservedly popular, but his adventures and achievements have never
before been published in book form. It was in response to a clamorous
demand for the Frank Merriwell stories in this form that this series was
prepared. These are unique among boys' books; indeed, so filled are they
with incident and action oL every kind that it would be impossible to
give here any adequate idea of what they contain. Frank Merriwell was no
ordinary boy, and it falls to the lot of very few fellows to have as
much fun and strenuousness crowded into his school life as will be found
in this all-absorbing history.
The first titles in the series are:
FRANK MERRIWELL'S SCHOOL DAYS. Illustrated. 12mo, 302 pages. Cloth
binding. $1.00
FRANK MERRIWELL'S CHUMS. Illustrated. 12mo, 302 pages. Cloth binding.
(In press.) $1.00