CHAPTER XXI.

At four o’clock, the sky, which had been overcast, cleared up, the sea grew calm, and the ship was so steady, one might almost have thought oneself onterra firma—this gave the passengers the idea of getting up races. Epsom turf could not have afforded a better coursing-ground, and as for horses, they were well replaced by pure Scotchmen, as good as any “Gladiator,” or “La Touque.” The news soon spread, sportsmen immediately hurried to the field. An Englishman, the Hon. J. Mac Carthy, was appointed commissioner, and the competitors presented themselves without delay. They were half a dozen sailors, kind of centaurs, man and horse at the same time, all ready to try for the prize.

The two boulevards formed the race-course, the runners were to go three times round the ship, thus making a course of about 1300 yards, which was quite enough. Soon the galleries were invaded by crowds of spectators,all armed with opera-glasses. Some of them had hoisted the “green sail,” no doubt to shelter themselves from the spray of the Atlantic. Carriages were missing, I must confess, but not the rank, where they might have ranged in file. Ladies in gay costumes were hurrying on to theupper decksupper decks; the scene was charming.

Fabian, Captain Corsican, Dr. Pitferge and I had taken our places on the poop, which was what might be called the centre of action. Here the real gentlemen riders were assembled; in front of us was the starting and winning post. Betting soon began with a true British animation. Considerable sums of money were staked, but only from the appearance of the racers, whose qualifications had not as yet been inscribed in the “stud-book.” It was not without uneasiness that I saw Harry Drake interfering in the preparations with his usual audacity, discussing, disputing, and settling affairs in a tone which admitted of no reply. Happily, although Fabian had risked some pounds in the race, he appeared quite indifferent to the noise; he kept himself aloof from the others, and it was quite evident his thoughts were far off.

Among the racers who offered themselves, two particularly attracted the public attention. Wilmore, a small, thin, wiry Scotchman, with a broad chest and sharp eyes, was one of the favourites; the other, an Irishman named O’Kelly, a tall, supple fellow, balanced the chance withWilmore, in the eyes of connoisseurs. Three to one was asked on him, and for myself partaking the general infatuation, I was going to risk a few dollars on him, when the Doctor said to me,—

“Choose the little one; believe me, the tall one is no go.”

“What do you say?”

“I say,” replied the Doctor, “that the tall one is not genuine; he may have a certain amount of speed, but he has no bottom. The little one, on the contrary, is of pure Scotch race; look how straight his body is on his legs, and how broad and pliant his chest is; he is a man who will lead more than once in the race. Bet on him, I tell you; you won’t regret it.”

I took the learned doctor’s advice, and bet on Wilmore; as to the other four, they were not even discussed.

They drew for places; chance favoured the Irishman, who had the rope-side; the six runners were placed along the line, bounded by the posts, so that there was no unfair start to be feared.

The commissioner gave the signal, and the departure was hailed by a loud hurrah. It was soon evident that Wilmore and O’Kelly were professional runners; without taking any notice of their rivals, who passed them breathless, they ran with their bodies thrown slightly forward,heads very erect, arms tightly pressed against their chests, and holding their fists firmly in front.

In the second round O’Kelly and Wilmore were in a line, having distanced their exhausted competitors. They obviously verified the Doctor’s saying,—

“It is not with the legs, but with the chest that one runs; ham-strings are good, but lungs are better.”

At the last turning but one the spectators again cheered their favourites. Cries and hurrahs broke out on all sides.

“The little one will win,” said Pitferge to me. “Look, he is not even panting, and his rival is breathless.”

Wilmore indeed looked calm and pale, whilst O’Kelly was steaming like a damp hay-stack; he was “pumped out,” to use a sportsman’s slang expression, but both of them kept the same line. At last they passed the upper decks; the hatchway of the engine-rooms, the winning-post.

“Hurrah! hurrah! for Wilmore,” cried some.

“Hurrah! for O’Kelly,” chimed in others.

“Wilmore has won.”

“No, they are together.”

The truth was Wilmore had won, but by hardly half a head so the Honourable Mac Carthy decided. However, the discussion continued, and even came to words. The partisans of the Irishman, and particularly Harry Drake, maintained that it was a “dead heat,” and that they ought to go again.

But at this moment, urged by an irresistible impulse, Fabian went up to Harry Drake, and said to him in a cold tone,—

“You are wrong, sir, the winner was the Scotch sailor.”

“What do you say?” he asked, in a threatening tone.

“I say you are wrong,” answered Fabian quietly.

“Undoubtedly,” retorted Drake, “because you bet on Wilmore.”

“I was for O’Kelly, like yourself; I lost, and I have paid.”

“Sir,” cried Drake, “do you pretend to teach me?—”

But he did not finish his sentence, for Captain Corsican had interposed between him and Fabian, with the intention of taking up the quarrel. He treated Drake with supreme contempt, but evidently Drake would not pick a quarrel with him; so when Corsican had finished, he crossed his arms, and addressing himself to Fabian,—

“This gentleman,” said he, with an evil smile, “this gentleman wants some one to fight his battles for him.”

Fabian grew pale, he would have sprung at Drake, but I held him back, and the scoundrel’s companions dragged him away; not, however, before he had cast a look of hatred at his enemy.

Captain Corsican and I went below with Fabian, who contented himself by saying, “The first opportunity I have, I will box that impudent fellow’s ears.”

HE TREATED DRAKE WITH SUPREME CONTEMPT.

CHAPTER XXII.

From Thursday night to Saturday the “Great Eastern” was crossing the Gulf Stream, the water of which is of a dark colour, the surface of the current forcing its way against the waters of the Atlantic, is even slightly convex. It is, in fact, a river running between two liquid shores, and one of the largest in the world, for it reduces the Amazon and Mississippi to mere brooks in comparison.

This day, the 5th of April, began with a magnificent sunrise, the waves glittered, and a warm south-west wind was wafted through the rigging. It was the beginning of the fine weather; the sun, which had clothed the fields of the continent with verdure, caused fresh costumes to bloom on board. Vegetation is sometimes behind-hand, but fashion never. Soon the Boulevards, filled with groups of promenaders, looked like the Champs Elysées on a fine Sunday afternoon in May.

I did not see Captain Corsican once that morning;wishing to hear of Fabian, I went to his cabin, and knocked at the door, but getting no answer I opened it and went in. Fabian was not there. I went on deck again, but could find neither my friends nor the Doctor; the idea then crossed my mind to find out where the unfortunate Ellen was confined. What cabin did she occupy? Where had Drake shut her up? In whose care was the poor creature left, when Drake abandoned her for whole days? Most likely with some disinterested stewardess, or an indifferent nurse. I wished to know how it was, not from any vain motive of curiosity, but simply in Ellen and Fabian’s interest, if it was only to prevent a meeting, always to be dreaded.

I began my search with the cabin near the ladies’ saloon, and went along the passages of both stories. This inspection was easy enough, as the names of the occupants were written on each door, in order to facilitate the steward’s work. I did not see Harry Drake’s name, but this did not surprise me much, as I had no doubt he had preferred the more isolated cabins at the stern. In matter of comfort, however, no difference existed between the cabins at the bows and those at the stern, for theFreightershad only admitted one class of passengers.

I next went towards the dining saloons, keeping carefully to the side passages which wound between the double row of cabins. All these rooms were occupied, and all had thename of the passengers outside, but Harry Drake’s name was not to be seen. This time the absence of his name astonished me, for I thought I had been all over our Floating City, and I was not aware of any part more secluded than this.

I inquired of a steward, who told me there were yet a hundred cabins behind the dining saloons.

“How do you get to them?” I asked.

“By a staircase at the end of the upper deck.”

“Thank you, and can you tell me which cabin Mr. Harry Drake occupies?”

“I do not know, sir,” replied the steward.

Again I went on deck, and following the steward’s direction at last came to the door at the top of the stairs. This staircase did not lead to any large saloons, but simply to a dimly-lighted landing, round which was arranged a double row of cabins. Harry Drake could hardly have found a more favourable place in which to hide Ellen.

The greater part of the cabins were unoccupied. I went along the landing, a few names were written on the doors, but only two or three at the most. Harry Drake’s name was not among them, and as I had made a very minute inspection of this compartment, I was very much disappointed at my ill success. I was going away when suddenly a vague, almost inaudible murmur caught my ear, it proceeded from the left side of the passage. I wenttowards the place; the sounds, at first faint, grew louder, and I distinguished a kind of plaintive song, or rather melopœia, the words of which did not reach me.

I listened; it was a woman singing, but in this unconscious voice one could recognize a mournful wail. Might not this voice belong to the mad woman? My presentiments could not deceive me. I went quietly nearer to the cabin, which was numbered 775. It was the last in this dim passage, and must have been lighted by the lowest light-ports in the hull of the “Great Eastern;” there was no name on the door, and Harry Drake had no desire that any one should know the place where he confined Ellen.

I could not distinctly hear the voice of the unfortunate woman; her song was only a string of unconnected sentences like one speaking in sleep, but at the same time it was sweet and plaintive.

Although I had no means of recognizing her identity, I had no doubt but that it was Ellen singing.

I listened for some minutes, and was just going away, when I heard a step on the landing. Could it be Harry Drake? I did not wish him to find me here, for Fabian and Ellen’s sake; fortunately I could get on deck, without being seen, by a passage leading round the cabins. However, I stopped to know who it really was that I had heard. The darkness partially hid me, and standingbehind an angle of the passage I could see without being myself in sight.

In the meantime the sound of the footsteps had ceased, and with it, as a strange coincident, Ellen’s voice. I waited and soon the song began again, and the boards creaked under a stealthy tread; I leaned forward and, in the dim, uncertain light which glimmered through thecrackscracksof the cabin doors, I recognized Fabian.

It was my unhappy friend! What instinct could have led him to this place? Had he then discovered the young woman’s retreat before me? I did not know what to think. Fabian slowly advanced along the passage, listening, following the voice, as if it was a thread drawing him unconsciously on, and in spite of himself. It seemed to me that the song grew fainter as he approached, and that the thread thus held was about to break. Fabian went quite near to the cabin doors and then stopped.

How those sad accents must have rent his heart! and how his whole being must have thrilled as he caught some tone in the voice, which reminded him of the past! But how was it, ignorant as he was of Harry Drake being on board, that he had any suspicion of Ellen’s presence? No, it was impossible; he had only been attracted by the plaintive accents which insensibly responded to the great grief weighing down his spirit.

FABIAN WENT NEAR TO THE CABIN DOORS.

Fabian was still listening. What was he going to do?Would he call to the mad woman? And what if Ellen suddenly appeared? Everything was dangerous in this situation! However, Fabian came nearer still to the door of her cabin; the song, which was growing fainter and fainter, suddenly died away, and a piercing shriek was heard.

Had Ellen, by a magnetic communication, felt him whom she loved so near her? Fabian’s attitude was desperate; he had gathered himself up. Was he going to break the door open? I thought he would, so I rushed up to him.

He recognized me; I dragged him away, and he made no resistance, but asked me in a hollow voice, “Do you know who that unhappy woman is?”

“No, Fabian, no.”

“It is the mad woman,” said he, in an unnatural voice, “but this madness is not without remedy. I feel that a little devotion, a little love, would cure the poor woman.”

“Come, Fabian,” said I, “come away.”

We went on deck, but Fabian did not utter another word. I did not leave him, however, until he had reached his cabin.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Some moments later I met Captain Corsican, and told him of the scene I had just witnessed. He understood, as well as I did, that the situation of affairs was growing more and more serious. Ah! could I have foreseen all that would happen, how I should have longed to hasten the speed of the “Great Eastern,” and put the broad ocean between Fabian and Harry Drake!

On leaving each other, Captain Corsican and I agreed to watch the actors in this drama more narrowly than ever.

The “Australasian,” a Cunard steamer, running between Liverpool and New York, was expected this day. She was to leave America on Wednesday morning, and therefore would not be long before passing us. A watch was kept; however, she did not come in sight.

About eleven o’clock the English passengers organized a subscription on behalf of the wounded on board, some ofwhom had not been able to leave the hospital; among them was the boatswain, threatened with an incurable lameness. There was soon a long list of signatures, not however, without some objections having been raised.

At noon a very exact observation was able to be made—

We had the latitude to a second. When the young engaged couple read the notice they did not look remarkably pleased, and they had good reason to be discontented with the steam.

Before lunch, Captain Anderson wishing to divert the passengers from the tedium of their long voyage, arranged some gymnastic exercises, which he directed in person. About fifty unemployed men, each armed, like himself, with a stick, imitated all his movements with a strict exactitude. These improvised gymnasts, with their firm set mouths, worked as methodically as a band of riflemen on parade.

Another entertainment was announced for this evening. I was not present, for the same amusement, night after night, only wearied me. A new paper, a rival of the “Ocean Times,” was to be the great attraction.

I passed the first hours of the night on deck; the sea heaved, and gave warning of stormy weather, and although the sky was perfectly serene, the rolling grew more emphasized.Lying on a seat of the upper deck, I could admire the host of constellations with which the firmament was bespangled, and although there are only 5000 stars, in the whole extent of the celestial sphere, which are visible to the naked eye, this evening I thought I could see millions. There, along the horizon, trailed the tail of Pegasus, in all its zodiacal magnificence, like the starry robe of the queen of fairies. ThePleiadesPleiadesascended the celestial heights with Gemini, who, in spite of their name, do not rise one after the other, like the heroes of the fable. Taurus looked down on me with his great fiery eye, whilst Vega, our future polar-star, shone brilliantly, high up in the azure vault, and not far from her was the circle of diamonds, which form the constellation of Corona Borealis. All these stationary constellations seemed to move with the pitching of the vessel, and in one lurch I saw the main-mast describe a distinct arc of a circle from β, in the Great Bear, to Altair in the Eagle, whilst the moon, already low in the heavens, dipped her crescent in the horizon.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The night was stormy, the steam-ship, beaten by the waves, rolled frightfully, without being disabled; the furniture was knocked about with loud crashes, and the crockery began its clatter again. The wind had evidently freshened, and besides this the “Great Eastern” was now in those coasts where the sea is always rough.

At six o’clock in the morning I dragged myself to the staircase, leading on to the upper decks. By clutching at the balusters, and taking advantage of a lurch or two, I succeeded in climbing the steps, and with some difficulty managed to reach the poop. The place was deserted, if one may so qualify a place where was Dr. Pitferge. The worthy man, with his back rounded as a protection against the wind, was leaning against the railing, with his right leg wound tightly round one of the rails. He beckoned for me to go to him—with his head, of course, for he could not spare his hands, which held him up againstthe violence of the tempest. After several queer movements, twisting myself like ananalideanalide, I reached theupper deckupper deck, where I buttressed myself, after the doctor’s fashion. “We are in for it!” cried he to me; “this will last. Heigh ho! this ‘Great Eastern!’ Just at the moment of arrival, a cyclone, a veritable cyclone is commanded on purpose for her.”

The Doctor spoke in broken sentences, for the wind cut short his words, but I understood him; the word cyclone carried its explanation with it.

It is well known that these whirlwinds, called hurricanes in the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, tornadoes on the coast of Africa, simoons in the desert, and typhoons in the Chinese Sea, are tempests of such formidable power, that they imperil the largest ships.

Now the “Great Eastern” was caught in a cyclone. How would this giant make head against it?

“Harm will come to her,” repeated Dean Pitferge. “Look, how she dives into the billows.”

This was, indeed, the exact position of the steam-ship, whose stern disappeared beneath the mountains of waves, which swept violently against her. It was not possible to see to any distance: there were all the symptoms of a storm, which broke forth in its fury about seven o’clock. The ocean heaved terrifically, the small undulations between the large waves entirely disappeared under an overwhelmingwind, the foam-crested billows clashed together, in the wildest uproar, every moment; the waves grew higher, and the “Great Eastern,” cutting through them, pitched frightfully.

“There are but two courses now to choose from,” said the Doctor, with the self-possession of a seaman, “either to put the ship’s head on to the waves, working with a minimum speed, or take flight and give up the struggle with this baffling sea; but Captain Anderson will do neither one thing nor the other.”

“And why not?” I asked.

“Because—” replied the doctor, “because something must happen.”

Turning round, I saw the Captain, the first officer, and the chief engineer, muffled in their macintoshes, and clutching at the railings of the bridge; they were enveloped in spray from head to foot. The Captain was smiling as usual, the first officer laughed, and showed his white teeth, at the sight of the ship pitching enough to make one think the masts and chimneys were coming down.

Nevertheless I was really astonished at the Captain’s obstinacy. At half-past seven, the aspect of the Atlantic was terrible; the sea swept right across the deck at the bows. I watched this grand sight; this struggle between the giant and the billows, and to a certain extent I could sympathize with the Captain’s wilfulness; but I wasforgetting that the power of the sea is infinite, and that nothing made by the hand of man can resist it; and, indeed, powerful as she was, our ship was at last obliged to fly before the tempest.

Suddenly, at about eight o’clock, a violent shock was felt, caused by a formidable swoop of the sea, which struck the ship on her fore larboard quarter.

“That was not a box on the ear, it was a blow in the face,” said the Doctor to me.

And the blow had evidently bruised us, for spars appeared on the crests of the waves. Was it part of our ship that was making off in this manner, or thedébrisof a wreck?

On a sign from the Captain, the “Great Eastern” shifted her course, in order to avoid the spars, which threatened to get entangled in the paddles. Looking more attentively, I saw that the sea had carried off the bulwarks on the larboard side, which were fifty feet above the surface of the water; the jambs were broken, the taggers torn away, and the shattered remnants of glass still trembled in their casements. The “Great Eastern” had staggered beneath the shock, but she continued her way with an indomitable audacity. It was necessary, as quickly as possible, to remove the spars which encumbered the ship at the bows, and in order to do this it was indispensable to avoid the sea, but the steam-ship obstinately continued to makehead against the waves. The spirit of her captain seemed to animate her; he did not want to yield, and yield he would not. An officer and some men were sent to the bows to clear the deck.

“Mind,” said the Doctor to me, “the moment of the catastrophe is not far off.”

The sailors went towards the bows, whilst we fastened ourselves to the second mast, and looked through the spray, which fell in showers over us with each wave. Suddenly there was another swoop more violent than the first, and the sea poured through the barricading by the opened breach, tore off an enormous sheet of cast-iron which covered the bit of the bows, broke away the massive top of the hatchway leading to the crew’s berths, and lashing against the starboard barricadings, swept them off like the sheets of a sail.

The men were knocked down; one of them, an officer, half-drowned, shook his red whiskers, and picked himself up; then seeing one of the sailors lying unconscious across an anchor, he hurried towards him, lifted him on his shoulders and carried him away. At this moment the rest of the crew escaped through the broken hatchway. There were three feet of water in the tween-decks, new spars covered the sea, and amongst other things several thousand of the dolls, which my countryman had thought to acclimatize in America; these little bodies, torn fromtheir cases by the sea, danced on the summits of the waves, and under less serious circumstances the sight would have been truly ludicrous. In the meantime the inundation was gaining on us, large bodies of water were pouring in through the opened gaps, and according to the engineer, the “Great Eastern” shipped more than two thousand tons of water, enough to float a frigate of the largest size.

ONE OF THE SAILORS LYING UNCONSCIOUS.

“Well!” exclaimed the Doctor, whose hat had been blown off in the hurricane, “to keep in this position is impossible; it is fool-hardy to hold on any longer; we ought to take flight, the steam-ship going with her battered stem ahead, is like a man swimming between two currents, with his mouth open.”

This Captain Anderson understood at last, for I saw him run to the little wheel on the bridge which commanded the movement of the rudder, the steam immediately rushed into the cylinders at the stern, and the giant turning like a canoe made head towards the north, and fled before the storm.

At this moment, the Captain, generally so calm and self-possessed, cried angrily,—

“My ship is disgraced.”

CHAPTER XXV.

Scarcely had the “Great Eastern” tacked and presented her stern to the waves, than the pitching gave way to perfect steadiness; breakfast was served, and the greater part of the passengers, reassured by the ship’s stillness, came into the dining-rooms, and took their repast without fear of another shock. Not a plate fell off the table, and not a glass emptied its contents on to the cloth, although the racks had not even been put up. But three quarters of an hour later the furniture was set in motion again, and the crockery clattered together on the pantry shelves, for the “Great Eastern” had resumed her westerly course, which for the time had been interrupted.

I went on deck again with Dr. Pitferge, who seeing the man belonging to the dolls said to him,—

“Your little people have been put to a severe test, sir; those poor babies will never prattle in the United States.”

“Pshaw!” replied the enterprising Parisian, “the stock was insured, and my secret has not perished with it.”

It was evident my countryman was not a man to be easily disheartened, he bowed to us with a pleasant smile, and we continued our way to the stern, where a steersman told us that the rudder-chains had been jammed in the interval between the two swoops.

“If that accident had happened when we were turning,” said Pitferge to me, “I cannot say what would have become of us, for the sea would have rushed in, in overwhelming torrents; the steam pumps have already begun to reduce the water, but there is more coming yet.”

“And what of the unfortunate sailor?” asked I of the Doctor.

“He is severely wounded on his head, poor fellow! he is a young married fisherman, the father of two children, and this is his first voyage. The Doctor seems to think there is hope of his recovery, and that is what makes me fear for him, but we shall soon see for ourselves. A report was spread that several men had been washed overboard, but happily there was no foundation for it.”

“We have resumed our course at last,” said I.

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “the westerly course, against wind and tide, there is no doubt about that,” added he, catching hold of a kevel to prevent himself from rolling onthe deck. “Do you know what I should do with the ‘Great Eastern’ if she belonged to me? No. Well, I would make a pleasure-boat of her, and charge 10,000 francsa heada head; there would only be millionnaires on board, and people who were not pressed for time. I would take a month or six weeks going from England to America; the ship never against the waves, and the wind always ahead or astern; there should be no rolling, no pitching, and I would pay a 100F.in any case of sea-sickness.”

“That is a practical idea,” said I.

“Yes,” replied Pitferge, “there’s money to be gained or lost by that!”

In the meantime the “Great Eastern” was slowly but steadily continuing her way; the swell was frightful, but her straight stem cut the waves regularly, and shipped no more water. It was no longer a metal mountain making against a mountain of water, but as sedentary as a rock; the “Great Eastern” received the billows with perfect indifference. The rain fell in torrents, and we were obliged to take refuge under the eaves of the grand saloon; with the shower the violence of the wind and sea assuaged; the western sky grew clear, and the last black clouds vanished in the opposite horizon; at ten o’clock the hurricane sent us a farewell gust.

At noon an observation was able to be made and was as follows:—

This considerable diminution in the ship’s speed could only be attributed to the tempest, which during the night and morning had incessantly beaten against the ship, and a tempest so terrible that one of the passengers, almost an inhabitant of the Atlantic, which he had crossed forty-four times, declared he had never seen the like. The engineer even said that during the storm, when the “Great Eastern” was three days in the trough of the sea, the ship had never been attacked with such violence, and it must be repeated that even if this admirable steam-ship did go at an inferior speed, and rolled decidedly too much, she nevertheless presented a sure security against the fury of the sea, which she resisted like a block, owing to the perfecthomogeneityhomogeneityof her construction.

But let me also say, however powerful she might be, it was not right to expose her, without any reason whatever, to a baffling sea; for however strong, however imposing a ship may appear, it is not “disgraced” because it flies before the tempest. A commander ought always to remember that a man’s life is worth more than the mere satisfaction of his own pride. In any case, to be obstinate is blameable, and to be wilful is dangerous. A recent incident in which a dreadful catastrophe happened to aTransatlantic steamer shows us that a captain ought not to struggle blindly against the sea, even when he sees the boat of a rival company creeping ahead.

CHAPTER XXVI.

In the meantime the pumps were exhausting the lake which had been formed in the hold of the “Great Eastern,” like a lagoon in the middle of an island; powerfully and rapidly worked by steam they speedily restored to the Atlantic that which belonged to it. The rain had ceased and the wind freshened again, but the sky, swept by the tempest, was clear. I stayed several hours after dark walking on deck. Great floods of light poured from the half-opened hatchways of the saloons, and at the stern stretched a phosphorescent light as far as the eye could reach, streaked here and there by the luminous crests of the waves. The stars reflected in the lactescent water appeared and disappeared, as though peering through rapidly driving clouds. Night had spread her sombre covering far and near; forward roared the thunder of the wheels, whilst beneath me I heard the clanking of the rudder-chains.

Going back to the saloon door I was surprised to seethere a compact crowd of spectators, and to hear vociferous applauses, for, in spite of the day’s disasters, the entertainment was taking place as usual. Not a thought of the wounded and, perhaps, dying sailor. The assembly seemed highly animated, and loud hurrahs hailed the appearance of a troop of minstrels on board the “Great Eastern.” The niggers—black, or blackened, according to their origin—were no others than sailors in disguise. They were dressed in cast-off trumpery, ornamented with sea-biscuits for buttons; the opera-glasses which they sported were composed of two bottles fastened together, and their jew’s-harps consisted of catgut stretched on cork. These merry-andrews were amusing enough upon the whole; they sang comic songs, and improvised a mixture of puns and cock-and-bull stories. The uproarious cheers with which their performances were greeted only made them increase their contortions and grimaces, until one of them, as nimble as a monkey, finished the performance by dancing the sailor’s hornpipe.

A TROOP OF MINSTRELS.

However amusing the minstrels may have been, they had not succeeded in attracting all the passengers. Numbers of them had flocked to their usual haunt, the “smoking-room,” and were eagerly pressing round the gaming-tables, where enormous stakes were being made, some defending their acquisitions during the voyage, others trying to conquer fate by making rash wagers at the last moment. The roomwas in a violent uproar, one could hear the voice of the money agent crying the stakes, the oaths of the losers, the clinking of gold, and the rustling of dollar-papers; then there was a sudden lull, the uproar was silenced by a bold stake, but as soon as the result was known the noise was redoubled.

I very seldom entered the smoking-room, for I have a horror of gambling. It is always a vulgar and often an unhealthy pastime, and it is a vice which does not go alone; the man who gambles will find himself capable of any evil. Here reigned Harry Drake in the midst of his parasites, here also flourished those adventurers who were going to seek their fortunes in America. I always avoided a meeting with these boisterous men, so this evening I passed the door without going in, when my attention was arrested by a violent outburst of cries and curses. I listened, and, after a moment’s silence, to my great astonishment I thought I could distinguish Fabian’s voice. What could he be doing in this place? Had he come here to look for his enemy, and thus the catastrophe, until now avoided, been brought about?

I quickly pushed the door open: at this moment the uproar was at its height. In the midst of the crowd of gamblers I saw Fabian standing facing Harry Drake. I hurried towards him, Harry Drake had undoubtedly grossly insulted him, for Fabian was aiming a blow with his fist athim, and if it did not reach the place it was intended for, it was only because Corsican suddenly appeared and stopped him with a quick gesture.

But, addressing himself to his enemy, Fabian said, in a cold, sarcastic tone,—

“Do you accept that blow?”

“Yes,” replied Drake, “and here is my card!”

Thus, in spite of our efforts, an inevitable fatality had brought these two deadly enemies together. It was too late to separate them now, events must take their course. Captain Corsican looked at me, and I was surprised to see sadness rather than annoyance in his eyes.

“DO YOU ACCEPT THAT BLOW?”

In the meantime Fabian picked up the card which Harry Drake had thrown on the table. He held it between the tips of his fingers as if loath to touch it. Corsican was pale, and my heart beat wildly. At last Fabian looked at the card, and read the name on it, then with a voice stifled by passion he cried,—

“Harry Drake! you! you! you!”

“The same, Captain Mac Elwin,” quietly replied Fabian’s rival.

We were not deceived, if Fabian was ignorant until now of Drake’s name, the latter was only too well aware of Fabian’s presence on the “Great Eastern.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

The next day, at break of dawn, I went in search of Captain Corsican, whom I found in the grand saloon. He had passed the night with Fabian, who was still suffering from the shock which the name of Ellen’s husband had given him. Did a secret intuition tell him that Drake was not alone on board? Had Ellen’s presence been revealed to him by the appearance of this man? Lastly, could he guess that the poor crazed woman was the young girl whom he so fondly loved? Corsican could not say, for Fabian had not uttered one word all night.

Corsican resented Fabian’s wrongs with a kind of brotherly feeling. The intrepid nature of the latter had from childhood irresistibly attracted him, and he was now in the greatest despair.

“I came in too late,” said he to me. “Before Fabian could have raised his hand, I ought to have struck that wretch.”

“Useless violence,” replied I. “Harry Drake would nothave risked a quarrel with you; he has a grudge against Fabian, and a meeting between the two had become inevitable.”

“You are right,” said the Captain. “That rascal has got what he wanted; he knew Fabian, his past life, and his love. Perhaps Ellen, deprived of reason, betrayed her secret thoughts, or, rather, did not Drake before his marriage learn from the loyal young woman all he was ignorant of regarding her past life? Urged by a base impulse, and finding himself in contact with Fabian, he has waited for an opportunity in which he could assume the part of the offended. This scoundrel ought to be a clever duellist.”

“Yes,” replied I. “He has already had three or four encounters of the kind.”

“My dear sir,” said the Captain, “it is not the duel in itself which I fear for Fabian. CaptainMac ElwinMac Elwinis one of those who never trouble themselves about danger, but it is the result of this engagement which is to be dreaded. If Fabian were to kill this man, however vile he may be, it would place an impossible barrier between Ellen and himself, and Heaven knows, the unhappy woman needs a support, like Fabian, in the state she now is.”

“True,” said I; “whatever happens we can but hope that Harry Drake will fall. Justice is on our side.”

“Certainly,” replied the Captain, “but one cannot helpfeeling distressed to think that even at the risk of my own life I could not have spared Fabian this.”

“Captain,” said I, taking the hand of this devoted friend, “Drake has not sent his seconds yet, so that, although circumstances are against us, I do not despair.”

“Do you know any means of preventing the duel?”

“None at present; at the same time, if the meeting must take place, it seems to me that it can only do so in America, and before we get there, chance, which has brought about this state of things, will, perhaps, turn the scales in our favour.”

Captain Corsican shook his head like a man who had no faith in the efficacy of chance in human affairs. At this moment Fabian went up the stairs leading to the deck. I only saw him for a moment, but I was struck by the deadly pallor of his face. The wound had been reopened, and it was sad to see him wandering aimlessly about, trying to avoid us.

Even friendship may be troublesome at times, and Corsican and I thought it better to respect his grief rather than interfere with him. But suddenly Fabian turned, and coming towards us, said,—

“The mad woman, was she! It was Ellen, was it not? Poor Ellen!”

He was still doubtful, and went away without waiting for an answer, which we had not the courage to give.

Back to Index Next