The excitement of arrival at a new place is only equalled by the excitement of departure, and as the "Neptune" was to leave at nine o'clock no one thought of going to bed until the anchor was up.
The deck was crowded with passengers talking gaily about their adventures during the day, and here and there could be seen the strange faces of new arrivals on board. All round the steamer numerous boats, each bearing a light, were cruising about, and the water looked as if covered with restless fire-flies. Every now and then the whistle would sound in order to summon heedless passengers who had forgotten the hour of sailing. A lot of people had come to see new passengers off, and some were having a parting glass at the bar, while others were talking together in knots on deck. It was a very animated scene, and Ronald, standing by Ventin, felt amused at the chatter and bustle that was going on. Ventin however, eyed the crowd in his usual gloomy manner, and Ronald could not help asking him the cause of his lowering looks.
"Nothing more than common," he answered, carelessly; "I've seen all this sort of thing so often, it has become dreary--I'm bored, and I detest being bored."
"Are you afraid of seeing your wife?"
"Well, I don't know," replied Ventin, pulling his mustache; "if she thinks she can make a row she certainly will, but as I am under another name she will ask for me by my real one, and therefore she will be told there's no such person on board."
"And then?" interrogatively.
"Oh as she saw me in Valletta to-day she will think I'm stopping there, and hunt everywhere for me--I hope her patience will be rewarded--by the way, when do we start?"
"Nine o'clock," replied Ronald, looking at his watch, "it's now half-past eight."
"I'll go to bed, I think," observed Mr. Ventin, holding out his hand.
"Won't you wait till we start?"
"Too sleepy," yawned the other.
"Well if your fellow-traveller enters later you will be awakened."
"I daresay," said Ventin; "but I've got a whole cabin to myself--queer you haven't seen some things you'd like to look at."
"What is the number?" asked Monteith, carelessly.
"Forty-three."
Some one pushed against Ronald at that moment and he did not hear Ventin's answer.
"What number did you say?"
"Forty-three," from Ventin, in a louder tone of voice, "look me up in the morning--at present, good-bye," and he shook the young man's hand cordially.
"Good night you mean," said Ronald, laughing.
"It's all the same thing," replied Ventin, idly, "like Kathleen Mavourneen--it may be for years and it may be for ever--good night," and he moved away slowly down the saloon steps.
Ronald remained leaning over the bulwarks looking at the stream of people coming up, and presently he was joined by Pat Ryan, who made facetious remarks on the late arrivals.
"How much sham jewellery have ye got, Chester?" he asked of a fair young man who came lurching up, evidently having more on board than he could carry. Mr. Chester made some unintelligible reply, and Pat resumed, "Oh! it'ssham-pagne ye took instead; it's a bad pun, but a heavenly truth. That you Bentley: how many girls have you mashed to-day? Begad, if your success has only been equal to your knowledge of Maltese it's mighty small progress ye've made. Ah! Monteith me boy, that's a pretty girl in black, I hope she's come on board to stop; keep your wicked eyes off her, ye villain, or I'll set Mrs. Pellypop on to you."
The girl in question was neither pretty nor fascinating, but Pat's tongue, once started, never knew when to stop; and Ronald was just going to march him off to the bar as the only way of closing his mouth, when the last bell was rung, and the cry of "All aboard for the shore" was heard.
A rush took place to the side, and a black line of people streamed down the gangway, then the ladder was lifted up; the old and new passengers lined the bulwarks and sang out "good-byes" to their friends in the darkness--the anchor was tripped--the whistle blew, and the throb of the engines announced that the "Neptune" was once more on her way to England.
"I wonder if anyone is left behind," said Ronald to Ryan, as they went to the smoking-room.
"They must be deaf if they are," retorted Pat; "that divil of a whistle would wake the dead--now me boy, what is it to be?"
"Whiskey and soda for me," said Monteith, when they were comfortably established in the smoking-room, through the wide doorway of which they could see the lights of Valletta fading slowly away.
"I'll follow suit," said Pat promptly, lighting his pipe. "Two whiskeys and soda, steward, and not too much soda."
All the ladies, tired with their experiences of Valletta, had gone to bed, and the smoking-room was filled with gentlemen whose tastings of the wines of the country had made them more exhilarated than usual. Being convivially disposed they ordered more liquor, and prepared to make a night of it.
"Where's Ventin?" asked Pat.
"Gone to bed," replied Monteith, knocking the ashes from his pipe.
"The deuce he has," said Ryan with surprise; "that's unusual for him."
"Tired I suppose," was the answer.
"It's a pity," observed Ryan, regretfully; "he is a deuced good fellow for a song."
"Give us one yourself Pat," said Bentley, tapping his glass on the table.
"Mr. Ryan for a song gentlemen."
"Yes a song--a song"--from all.
"Something jolly?" from Chester, who was now quite intoxicated.
"I'll sing ye 'Killaloe,'" said Pat; "it's got a touch of the brogue about it that will go beautifully with the whiskey."
So he accordingly sang "Killaloe" to a delighted audience, who joined in the chorus with bacchanalian vehemence, and who gave the "Whoop ye divils" at the end with a vigour worthy of Donnybrook Fair. Then Ronald sang, "Wrap me up in my old stable jacket"--that old song which is always such a favourite; and after sundry other selections had been given by gentlemen with good intentions, but husky voices, Pat was called on to sing his favourite nigger song, "I love a lubly gal." A pleasant voice had Pat, and he sang the plaintive little melody in a charmingly sympathetic manner--
"I love a lubly gal, I do,And I have loved a gal or two;An' I know how a gal should beLub'd--you bet I do."
"I love a lubly gal, I do,And I have loved a gal or two;An' I know how a gal should beLub'd--you bet I do."
Ronald found himself humming it as he went to bed, and then fell to sleep, and dreamt the dark girl he had seen that day in Valletta was the "lubly gal" he loved.
* * * * *
Next morning they were out of sight of land, afloat on the blue waters, with the blue sky above them. Ronald was up early, as he found it too hot to remain below, and having had his tub and arrayed himself in his flannels, he went on deck to have a smoke before the ladies put in an appearance. The lascars were washing down the deck, and disturbing numerous sleepers who had been taking their rest all night upstairs for the sake of coolness. One of these was Pat, who came stumbling out of the smoking-room in his pyjama, with a fur rug under one arm and a pillow under the other.
"Hullo Pat," said Monteith, laughing; "you look as if you were going to the pawnbroker."
"I want to go to bed," retorted Pat crossly; "those divils in the smoking-room always commence shyin' pillows in the morning, and I'm as sleepy as Rip Van Winkle. I'll have another forty winks."
"Nonsense," said Ronald, looking at his watch; "it's about seven; go and have your bath and join me on deck."
"All roight," assented Pat, with a gigantic yawn; "I daresay cold water will wake me up."
"And, I say," called out Monteith, as Pat rolled along towards the saloon, "knock up Ventin; his cabin is No. 43."
"Roight you are," from Pat, as he disappeared.
Ronald took a turn along to the end of the hurricane deck and, after surveying the slumbering forms in the smoking-room, walked back again. Just as he got to the captain's cabin he saw a steward emerge therefrom with horror and alarm on his face.
"Hullo," said the Australian, stopping short; "what's up?"
"Oh, sir," gasped the steward, pausing a moment, "Mr. Ventin, sir--he's dead--murdered!" and he ran off to the cabin of the first officer.
Ronald sat down on the nearest seat and let the cigarette drop from his fingers.
Ventin--dead--murdered!
Monteith thought of the dead man's story and how he said he would never reach England alive. His presentiment of evil was right after all for his wife had fulfilled her promise, and killed him. "But she will not escape punishment," thought Ronald, "for in order to commit the crime she must have come on board."
The news was soon all over the ship, and in a short time all the passengers were on deck. The captain, the first officer, the doctor, and the purser all went along to see the body, after which the door of the cabin was locked while they deliberated over what was to be done. The excitement was intense, for no one doubted but that a murder had been committed, though no official notice had been given, and everyone was puzzling over what could have been the motive for such a crime. Only one man on board had a clue, and this was Ronald Monteith, who determined to tell the captain Ventin's strange story, and then have the ship thoroughly searched to see if the Maltese wife of the deceased could be discovered.
After breakfast, when all the passengers were gathered in excited groups talking over the affair, Monteith went along and asking permission to see the captain on the subject, told him everything, while the doctor went down to make an examination of the body.
As the weather was very hot, the corpse would have to be buried before arrival at Gibraltar, and Captain Templeton determined to hold an inquest at once. A jury was chosen from the passengers, and the captain acted as coroner, while the witnesses were the steward, who had discovered the body, the doctor, and Ronald Monteith.
The jury, having inspected the body, went into the captain's cabin to hold the inquest, and the proceedings were opened by a speech from Captain Templeton.
He stated that a crime had been committed on board the ship, and it behoved every passenger to use his or her best energies to find out who had committed it. The idea of suicide had been talked about, but they would hear from the evidence of Mr. Monteith, an intimate friend of the deceased, that the dead man had distinctly denied having any such idea. He went to bed the previous night at half-past eight, and at seven that morning one of the stewards, by name Matthew Dalton, had gone to the deceased's cabin and found him lying dead with a stiletto in his heart. The stiletto would be laid before the jury, the evidence of the steward, the doctor, and of Mr. Monteith taken, and every attempt would be made to find the author of this dastardly crime.
The first witness called was Dalton, who deposed that he had knocked at the door of the deceased at seven as usual, but receiving no reply had entered, and found him lying in the lower berth, with a stiletto (produced) in his breast. He was completely dressed, and as all the furniture of the cabin was in order, there was no sign of any struggle.
The stiletto produced was a slender, steel instrument, about seven inches long, with a curiously carved ivory handle, representing the head of Bacchus, surrounded by clusters of grapes.
Captain: Were the bed-clothes in the berth disarranged?
Witness: No sir; he was lying on top of 'em.
Captain: Quite dressed?
Witness: Yes sir; just as if he was taking a sleep afore turning in.
Captain: Any of his jewellery missing?
Witness: No sir; his watch was in his pocket, and two rings on his fingers.
Captain: When did you last see him alive?
Witness: Yesterday, when he came on board at Valletta.
Captain: How long was he ashore?
Witness: About an hour sir; he came back at three o'clock; he seemed upset, and asked me to get him a glass of brandy.
Captain: Do you know what time he went to bed?
Witness: No sir.
Captain: Was there any blood about the cabin?
Witness: No sir; just a little oozing from his breast.
The doctor was next called upon to give his evidence, and deposed that he had examined the body of Lionel Ventin, deceased. It was that of a man of thirty-seven, or thereabouts, well nourished; very little food in the stomach, but a faint spirituous odour, which showed that the deceased must have been drinking previously to his death. The deceased had died from a stab inflicted by a stiletto, which had penetrated the heart. The stiletto was in the wound when the body was discovered.
Captain: At what time do you think the crime was committed?
Doctor: That is difficult to say; it was quite cold when I felt it, at seven this morning. I should say at least eight or nine hours.
Captain: From the way the wound was inflicted, did the idea of suicide occur to you?
Doctor: No; the stiletto was long, and as the body was lying in a lower compartment, he could not have lifted the stiletto high enough to have driven it so deeply, without knocking his hand against the bottom of the top berth.
Captain: If he had managed to do so, would there be any bruise or mark on his hand?
Doctor: I should say very likely; but I did not discover any.
Captain: Was there much blood?
Doctor: Very little; the stiletto had been driven into the heart and left there, so comparatively little blood could ooze out.
This closed the evidence of the doctor, and then Ronald Monteith stepped forward and told the jury the story of the deceased.
Captain: You say the deceased expected to be killed by his wife?
Monteith: He told me so several times.
Captain: And did he ever say he would commit suicide?
Monteith: He distinctly denied having any such intention.
Captain: When did you see him last?
Monteith: At half-past eight last night; he said he would go to bed early.
Captain: Was he excited in any way?
Monteith: No; just the same as usual.
Captain: If your theory is correct, and the deceased was murdered by his wife, as he expected to be, do you think she came on board at Valletta?
Monteith: Yes; I am sure of it. (Sensation.)
Captain: Will you give us your reasons?
Monteith: The deceased saw his wife in Malta, and she recognised him. When he left me at half-past eight to go to his cabin, there was a number of strangers on board; if his wife were on board, she could easily have followed him to his cabin and killed him.
Captain: But she would not know the number of his cabin?
Monteith: Yes, she would. He asked me to see him in the morning, and told me the number of his cabin twice; the second time he spoke so loudly, that anyone could have heard, and immediately afterwards went away.
Captain: Then you think the crime was committed before the sailing of the ship?
Monteith: I can't say; if, as the doctor says, the deceased had been dead for nine hours, this would bring the time of the commission of the crime to nine o'clock last night, at which time the ship sailed.
The captain asked Monteith a few other questions, and then the inquest was adjourned till the next morning.
When the inquest had been adjourned, and the excited passengers were assembled in saloon and smoking-rooms giving their ideas on the subject, Ronald Monteith, at the captain's request, remained to talk over things.
"It is a curious case altogether," said Captain Templeton, sitting back in his chair. "I never knew of such a thing to occur aboard one of our steamers before, and your story is a strange one."
"It is, rather," assented the Australian, pulling moodily at his mustache; "but I think it is true. Poor Ventin told me it only too bitterly to leave any doubt in my mind as to his veracity."
The captain took up the stiletto, which still lay on the table, and looked at it thoughtfully.
"Have you ever seen this in Ventin's possession?" he asked.
"No," replied Monteith, casting a careless glance at it. "But, then, I never was in his cabin. We sat next to one another in the saloon at meals, and talked together a good deal. Beyond the story I told you I know nothing about his life."
"Excuse me putting the question to you again; but do you really think this Maltese wife killed him?"
"Well, of course, I can't say for certain, but it looks very black against her. She wrote and told him she would kill him."
"Oh!" interrupted the captain, "did he show you the letter?"
"No; but it might be among his private papers, which you will of course take charge of."
"Yes; I will look over his things to-night. But go on."
"Well, he goes on shore at Valletta, sees his wife, who recognises him, comes back, she follows, hears the number of his cabin, and kills him."
"And then?"
"Well, the question is easy to answer. She must have committed the crime before nine o'clock, and escaped on shore in the confusion, or----"
"Well."
"She must be still on the boat. What passengers came on board at Valletta?"
"I ascertained that when I heard your story this morning--two only."
"Maltese or English?"
"The former. Marchese Matteo Vassalla is the name of one, and the other is Miss Cotoner--both cousins."
"Do you think she is the wife of Ventin?" asked Ronald, eagerly.
"How the deuce do I know?" said Templeton, quickly; "I never saw her before!"
"What age should you think she was?"
"About twenty-four or five."
"Women's appearances are so deceptive."
"What the deuce are you driving at?" asked the captain, annoyed.
"I know the exact age of the Maltese wife."
"How so?"
"Ventin told me he was forty years of age, and that he was twenty when he started his career in London; he said he had thirteen years of fast living there, so in order to be forty now, seven years must have elapsed since his marriage."
"But what has this got to do with the age of his wife?"
"Everything; he said his wife was twenty-three years of age when he met her first; that by my argument must have been seven years ago, so to-day his wife must be thirty years of age--now is this new passenger thirty?"
"No, I'm certain she isn't; besides, the Marchese told me his cousin and himself stayed on deck till the vessel started."
"Oh!" said Ronald, thoughtfully, "so that disposes of this young lady, it cannot be she, but the Marchese might help us."
"I don't think so; he wouldn't know Ventin."
"Perhaps not, but he might know Mrs. Ventin, as he lives at Valletta, and the whole affair might be sifted to the bottom; but oh hang it, I forgot," broke off Monteith in dismay, "Ventin was not his real name."
"Heavens, you don't say so! Then what was it?"
"He did not tell me."
"How vexatious," said Templeton, rising to his feet, "this involves the affair in still deeper mystery, for if Ventin were not his real name, we cannot find the former Mrs. Ventin, and will not be able to ascertain if there's any truth in the story he told you."
"Examine his boxes," suggested Ronald, as he followed the captain outside, "his real name may be among his papers, or else a crest; you might find out from that."
The captain jumped at the idea, and was going down to carry it into effect, when Ronald stopped him.
"I say," he asked, eagerly, "who is that pretty girl with the dark hair?"
"Oh that," said Templeton, with a laugh, "is the object of your suspicions, Miss Cotoner."
Captain Templeton turned away, and Ronald discovered the young lady in question was the very one he had seen on the Barraca, and of whose face he had been dreaming ever since. She, guilty of a crime? The thought was madness; if any one even hinted at such a thing, he'd throw him over the side, and he no longer was astonished at the captain's indignation at his suggestion. The fact was, Master Ronald was in the first stage of that universal disease called love. He approached Mrs. Pellypop as she sat knitting industriously, and took a seat beside her; of course, she commenced on the great subject of the day, and expressed her opinion that it was a "lascar."
"But what motive?" asked Ronald, absently; "couldn't be robbery--nothing was stolen."
"Then it must have been a steward," said Mrs. Pellypop, determinedly. "Mr. Ventin looked like a man with a temper, and very likely struck a steward, who retaliated by killing him--oh, it's as clear as day to me."
"But where did he get his weapon?" asked Ronald.
"Stole it from the plate basket," said Mrs. Pellypop, whose idea of stilettos was vague.
"It was not a table knife," began Ronald, then broke off suddenly as he saw Miss Cotoner move away with a tall, slender, dark man. "I say, Mrs. Pellypop, who's that?"
"Whom?" asked Mrs. Pellypop, putting up her glasses. "Oh, the girl from Malta?"
"No not Miss Cotoner, I know who she is; but the fellow?"
"Oh, her cousin, the Marchese Vassalla," answered Mrs. Pellypop; "not that I care much for foreign titles myself, but he looks a gentleman."
And, as a matter of fact, he was by no means ill-looking, but when Ronald saw him he instantly took a dislike to him. Why, he did not know, unless it was on the Dr. Fell principle; it might have been instinct, perhaps prejudice; but the fact remained nevertheless--he did not like Matteo Vassalla. A handsome face certainly, with swarthy skin, brilliant, black eyes, and a coal black beard carefully trimmed. In his slender, sinewy figure there was something of the lithe grace of a panther; and what with the graceful movements of his hands, and the deferential manner with which he bent towards Miss Cotoner, he decidedly did not impress Monteith favourably.
But the lady--well, she has been described before, and as Ronald looked at her he only found new perfections. She had rather a sad expression on her face, and her head was a little bent down, but, for the rest, she was as straight and graceful as Artemis. Ronald, who had stoutly resisted all the blandishments of the pretty girls on board, caught one glance of those brilliantly black eyes and surrendered at once. He also caught the glance of another pair of eyes which did not regard him in such a friendly manner, and drew himself up haughtily as he left Mrs. Pellypop, and went down to the saloon.
"What the deuce did that foreign cad mean by staring at me like that;" he muttered, quite forgetting that the cad in question had a title, and was of higher rank than himself; "I don't suppose he has anything to do with her; perhaps they are engaged--hang it, it's impossible, she'd never throw herself away on a thing like that. I'll ask old mother Pellypop to-morrow, she'll be sure to know all about her in that time."
Having thus, in his own mind, satisfactorily settled the affair, Ronald went down to his cabin to dress for dinner.
Meanwhile Miss Cotoner and her cousin were having a few words on the subject of Mr. Monteith.
"What a handsome man," said Miss Cotoner, following the tall figure of the Australian with her eyes.
"Bah! a beef-eating Englishman," retorted Vassalla, with an angry light in his wicked black eyes, "he has no brain."
"You've to find that out yet," retorted the young lady, who seemed to take delight in tormenting her companion. "I think he's charming. I'm sure he looks it; I saw him yesterday on the Barraca."
"Remember you are engaged to me," replied the Marchese, angrily.
"By my parents, yes," she replied, coldly; "but not with my own consent."
"Consent, bah! let wiser heads guide yours, Carmela."
"Well, I certainly would not ask your head to take the position," replied Carmela, contemptuously. "Why do you annoy me like this; do you think I left my sister only to be worried by you? No, I don't think so, there is too much of the frying-pan into the fire theory in that for me."
"I will get your sister to take you back," he said, vindictively.
"Oh no, you won't," she retorted, turning on him; "I'm of age--my own mistress, and I have elected to go and stop with my cousins in England. If I choose to marry an Englishman I certainly will in spite of your threats; so good-bye Matteo, I'm going to dress for dinner," and she walked gracefully away, leaving the Marchese in a delightful temper.
"Bah!" he muttered angrily to himself, "she is only a woman; patience my good Matteo, you shall win her yet, and then----." He closed his mouth with an angry snap that did not argue well for the happiness of Miss Cotoner's future life.
"What a flirt that girl is," thought Mrs. Pellypop, as she looked after the young lady; "I'm sure I don't know what the world is coming to; I never flirted," and to Mrs. Pellypop's credit, it must be said, she never had, but then, as Rochefoucauld remarks, some women are safe because nobody seeks after them.
When Ronald emerged from his cabin in evening dress, he was caught at the foot of the stairs by Pat, who, in company with a few convivial spirits, was having a sherry and bitters.
"Come and have something to drink after all your labours," he said, in a hospitable manner; "anything new about the affair?"
"No, I don't think so," replied Ronald sadly; "poor Ventin! To think he was so jolly last night and now dead."
"Do you think the person who killed him is on board?" asked Pat, confidentially.
"No I don't," retorted Ronald, decisively; "I believe she's to be found at Malta, and I'll hunt her down and punish her somehow."
"Why?"
"Because I liked Ventin--he had a miserable life, and a miserable end, and a wicked woman like that wife of his is not fit to live."
"Stop a bit old boy," observed Pat, coolly, "you haven't brought the crime home to her yet."
"But I will," reiterated Monteith, doggedly; "I'm sure it's she, and if it isn't, I'll make it my business in life to find out who is the criminal."
"I say Monteith," said Bentley, a vacuous-looking youth with no brains and lots of money, "Ventin's place was next to you at table--who are they going to put there?"
"I don't know and I don't care," growled Ronald, savagely turning away, cursing Mr. Bentley under his breath for his callous way of speaking.
"Seems cut up," lisped Bentley, putting up his eye-glass in nowise disturbed.
"Well, it's no joke having a fellow you like murdered," said Pat, finishing his sherry; "and Ventin was a good sort anyhow."
Then they all commenced talking again about the mystery till Pat grew weary of the discussion, and went on deck, where he found Ronald leaning over the side looking moodily at the water.
"Well old chap," said Pat, slapping him on the shoulder, "don't take it so much to heart."
"It wasn't that," replied Monteith; "I was thinking how we could find out his real name."
"Why, wasn't it Ventin?"
"He said it wasn't."
"Search his baggage."
"That's been done, but without result--all his linen is marked L. V., all his letters directed to Lionel Ventin, in fact, it's the only name that can be found."
"Then it must be his real name," asserted Pat.
"Not necessarily; he told me he changed his name, so he evidently did it thoroughly."
"Any crest--that might give a clue?"
"No, nothing."
"Oh! it seems a deuce of a muddle. Hullo, there's the dinner bell--come down old boy, I'm starving."
They went below, and found nearly all the tables full. Pat went to his own table, and Ronald sat sadly down by the side of Ventin's empty chair. He was not there very long when he heard a rustle, and on turning round saw that Miss Cotoner was sitting beside him. Yes, sitting in the dead man's chair, so with a sudden impulse Ronald arose.
"I beg your pardon," he said, bowing; "but would you mind taking my chair instead of that one?"
"Why?" asked the young lady coldly.
"Because--because," he stammered, confusedly, "it was Mr.--Mr. Ventin's, the gentleman who died."
"Oh!" she said, and turned rather pale, "thank you"--rising--"I will accept your offer," and she sat in Monteith's chair while he took poor Ventin's.
Of course this little incident was observed by all, and by none more so than Matteo Vassalla, who sat at a distant table, and looked remarkably savage.
"Wait a little," he muttered; "when you are mine, I'll tame you."
Pat, indicating Ronald and Miss Cotoner to Kate Lester, hummed the first line of his favourite song, "I love a lubly gal I do."
"What do you think?" he asked.
Miss Lester laughed and nodded.
"I think the same as you," she answered.
THE inquest on the body of Lionel Ventin was resumed next day, but nothing new was discovered, and taking into consideration the strange story told by the deceased to Monteith, the time of the committal of the crime, which, according to the Doctor's showing, must have taken place when the ship was leaving Valletta, there appeared no doubt but that the murder had been committed before the steamer left Malta. As the deceased's real name was not Ventin, and all the evidence was purely circumstantial, the jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against a person unknown." The evidence was taken down so as to be handed to the authorities in Gibraltar, entries were made in the log-book about the affair, and poor Lionel Ventin's body was committed to the deep.
There is something inexpressibly sorrowful and solemn in a burial at sea. The body, wrapped in a sail, with iron shot at its feet, was placed on the lower deck near the open bulwarks, and was covered with the Union Jack. A number of the passengers were present, leaning from the upper deck, but many of the ladies, among whom was Mrs. Pellypop, were reading the service for the dead to themselves in the saloon. The captain, surrounded by his officers, read the service over the deceased, and at a signal the body was pushed over the side, slipping from under the Union Jack, and fell with a dull splash into the sea. Then everyone dispersed, the engines, which had been slowed down during the burial, resumed their usual speed, and life on board went on as usual. There was a gloom, however, over all the ship, for it was not an ordinary death, and it was not until the "Neptune" reached Gibraltar that the passengers began to recover their usual gaiety.
Meanwhile Ronald Monteith had become the slave of Carmela Cotoner, and, judging from her gracious manner towards him, she was in no wise displeased at having him at her feet. Ronald had hitherto laughed at the tender passion, but now he was being paid back for insulting the god of Love, as he found out to his cost. He was always at Carmela's elbow--carried her rugs and pillows about for her, danced with her, read poetry to her, and, in fact, was so constant in his attentions, that it was soon patent to the whole ship that Monteith was madly in love with the girl from Malta.
And, indeed, she was called nothing else. Mrs. Pellypop, not knowing her name at first, had given her that title, and everyone else followed suit. She was the belle of the ship, vice Kate Lester resigned, and was always followed by an adoring crowd of young men, of whom Ronald grew unspeakably jealous, and would get quite sulky if she smiled or spoke to anyone else. He carried this absurd behaviour to such an extent that Pat Ryan took him to task one day for his sins.
"You are a jolly old ass, Ronald," observed the candid Irishman, "to go on like this, making a fool of yourself."
"I can't help it," said Monteith, ruefully surveying at a distance a group of young fellows standing round Carmela; "just look at her; she doesn't care a bit about me."
"Of course, you say that," said Pat, lighting a cigarette, "because she doesn't devote herself exclusively to you. I tell ye what, girls don't like being made faces at because they speak to another fellow; hang it, I've seen you speak to girls enough."
"That was before I--I," hesitatingly, "met Miss Cotoner."
"Before you were in love, ye mean," retorted Pat; "begad, ye've got the disease badly. Are ye going to marry her?"
"I will, if she'll have me."
"Then why don't you ask her?"
"I've only known her a few days. Isn't that rather soon?"
"Not a bit, women like to be taken by storm," wisely remarked Pat, who was just out of the nursery, and fancied he knew the sex--Heaven help him--"go in, and win, my boy."
"By Jove I will," said Ronald, eagerly, and then fell to thinking what his father would say to the marriage. He didn't know who the young lady was--what she was--knew nothing about her family, and yet--and yet, he adored her. Why shouldn't he marry her? He was his own master, and if his father cut him off with a shilling, he could work--she was worth working for--yes, he would ask her to marry him--of course she would say yes--for it never entered this confident young man's head that women sometimes say "No." So Master Ronald went on building castles in the air, all inhabited by himself and Mrs. Monteith--no hang it, not yet--the girl from Malta.
He was aroused from these golden visions by a touch on his arm, and turning round, saw his special dislike, the Marchese Vassalla, looking at him. The Marchese detested Monteith, both for his good looks, and for the evident regard Miss Cotoner had for him. He would like to have dropped his rival over the side along with poor Ventin's body, but as he couldn't do this, he was excessively polite, and watched for an opportunity to do him an injury. Here was a chance now, and the wily Maltese took full advantage of it. He overheard the conversation between Pat and Monteith, so determined to dash all Ronald's hopes to the ground, by telling him that Carmela was engaged. To this end the serpent came into Ronald's paradise, and smiling, invited him not to have an apple, but a drink. The young man would have refused, but then he thought he might learn something about Carmela, and after all, the Marchese was her cousin, so he consented, and went down to the bar with the smiling Maltese gentleman.
As it was about eleven o'clock, they found the bar surrounded by thirsty souls having cocktails. In fact, there was a "Cocktail Club" on board, and it was a very popular drink with the young men, particularly if they had been up late the night before. Cocktails therefore, being the prevailing beverage, the Marchese and his victim each had one, and then the former gentleman opened the campaign.
"I shall be sorry when this voyage is over," he said, carelessly.
"So shall I," replied Monteith, thinking of the chances of meeting Carmela in London. "But I daresay I'll meet Miss--I mean you again."
"I don't think so," said Vassalla, coldly. "Myself and my cousin only stay a few days in London, and then go down to some friends in the country."
"Oh!" said Ronald, and looked blank.
"And then," pursued his tormentor, eyeing him mercilessly, "I am coming back to London to arrange about our marriage."
The poor lad turned pale as death.
"Whose marriage?"
"Mine and my cousin's. Did you not know we were engaged?"
Ronald finished his drink in a mechanical sort of way, and putting down his glass, walked away to his cabin, and shut himself in. The Marchese looked after him with a grim smile.
"I think that will give you food for reflection my friend," he muttered, lighting a cigarette as he strolled away.
"What's up with that Maltese devil?" asked Bentley. "He looks quite pleased with himself."
"It's more than Monteith did; he walked away as pale as a ghost," said Pat.
"It's about the girl from Malta, you bet," said Bentley, sagely, and no one contradicted him.
Miss Cotoner was without her attentive cavalier all that day, and was much surprised thereat. She asked her cousin about him, and that smiling gentleman told her Ronald was ill, and had gone to lie down. And indeed, Ronald was ill, not with a headache, but with a heart-ache, which is worse, and he lay all day in his narrow berth bemoaning his hard fate. Nor did he come to dinner, and Miss Cotoner was so vexed to think he was so ill, that she sent her steward with a little note to his cabin, saying how sorry she was, and she hoped he would be well enough on the morrow to take her over Gibraltar, all of which Monteith read and puzzled over.
"She's a flirt, a heartless coquette," cried the poor boy; "she's engaged to another man, and she's trying to break my heart, but she won't. I care no more for her than this bit of paper," and he threw the little note on the floor.
After a bit, however--with the usual inconsistency of lovers--he picked it up, and thought what a pretty hand she wrote, and then that he would go over Gibraltar with her, and he would find out if she were really engaged to that beastly Maltese. Ronald's language was strong but not choice. Then he sent a reply to Carmela, saying he would see her in the morning, and afterwards drank a bottle of champagne, and felt better. Oh what a queer disease is love, with its hopes, its fears, its smiles and tears, its kisses and blisses, and--its intense egotism.
The next day Monteith arose, cooled his hot head with a shower bath, donned a suit of spotless, white flannels, put a straw hat on his curly locks, and sallied forth with the determination to save his charming Princess from the clutches of the ogre Vassalla, or die in the attempt.
"Hullo," cried Pat, seeing the unusual splendour of Master Ronald's apparel, "going on the mash to-day? gad you'll knock the Gib girls over like nine-pins."
Whereat Ronald informed Pat in confidence that he intended to try his fate with Miss Cotoner that day, and Pat informed Ronald, likewise in confidence, that he thought he was quite right, and would bet him a bottle of champagne he would be accepted, which wager Monteith took, and went on deck with a light heart and a strong determination to win. All this time, however, in spite of his new-born love, Monteith never for a moment wavered from his determination to hunt down the assassin of his dead friend, and told Captain Templeton as much.
"How are you going to do it?" asked Templeton, dubiously, "we cannot even find out Ventin's real name."
"Isn't there a portrait of him among his luggage?" asked Monteith. Templeton shook his head.
"Not anything likely to lead to identification," he answered, "but I'll have a talk with you after we leave Gibraltar, for I must confess I would like the riddle solved," and the captain went off to his post on the bridge as they were now nearing the famous Rock.
Who that has once seen it can forget that enormous grey mass rising up from the blue water into the blue sky, with the red-roofed town nestling at its base? Monteith had never seen anything so impressive since Aden, which he had beheld, vague and mysterious, in the starlight. He realized with a thrill of pride that this was one of the visible signs of England's greatness, and he thought, with satisfaction, that he, too, was of the race that had conquered it. Aden, Malta, Gibraltar, all held by England; it made Ronald quite patriotic when he thought of the impregnability of these strongholds. If he had been a poet he would have burst into verse, but as he was not he simply contented himself with a commonplace observation--
"By Jove, it's wonderful!"
The Anglo-Saxon race are rarely enthusiastic.
The ship cast anchor about a mile from the shore, and soon Ronald and his beloved were in one of the boats dancing over the choppy water. Pat also was in the boat, and so was Mrs. Pellypop and Kate Lester. Ronald hinted to Pat that the old lady would be in the way, but Pat magnanimously said he would look after both her and Miss Lester, so as to leave Monteith free to pursue his wooing with Carmela.
When they reached shore, they rejected all the offers of carriages made by brown-skinned natives of the Rock, and sauntered leisurely up the dusty street, under the massive gateway above which they could see the red-coated sentries, and walked right into the market-place, where a lot of buying, selling, swindling, and talking were going on. Jews, with black, beady eyes and hooked noses, invited them into dingy little shops and produced oriental goods; and sedate-looking Moors in baggy trousers and large turbans, watched them, with Eastern apathy, as they passed along. The tall white houses with the striped awnings over the windows, the crowd of dirty little brats howling for money, the number of red uniforms about, and the narrow, crowded streets, all afforded them much amusement. Then Mrs. Pellypop, inveigled by the wily Pat, went into a shop to buy some things, and was soon engaged in a lively altercation with the shopman, who spoke broken English, and showed her broken things which he said came from Granada, and would have had a broken head if Mrs. Pellypop had not reflected that using her umbrella for such a purpose, might lower her dignity. Pat and Miss Lester looked on and laughed at the scene, so, taking advantage of the confusion, Ronald and Carmela slipped away and climbed up the steep lanes to the old Moorish castle which frowns over the town.
"I don't care much for ruins," said Miss Cotoner, putting up her red sunshade, and a pretty picture she looked under it; "there's a good deal of sameness about them; but Moorish architecture is picturesque."
"Yes, very!" assented Ronald, who would have agreed to anything she said.
"I have Arab blood in my own veins," observed Carmela; "at least, so my father said. One of our ancestors was an Emir."
"Is your father alive?" asked Ronald, who saw in this remark a good opportunity for finding out all about his beloved.
"No, he died a long time ago," she said, sadly. "My mother is also dead, and I lived in Malta with my sister."
"Was that your sister who was with you the first time I saw you?"
Carmela nodded.
"Yes, we did not get on well together, so I left her and am going to some relations in England."
"Then I shall not see you again," said the young man, in a moody tone.
"That depends on yourself," she replied, blushing.
All the blood rushed to Ronald's fair face, and it was only by a great effort he prevented himself from taking her in his arms, and kissing her.
"Does your cousin, the Marchese go with you?" he asked eagerly.
"I believe so."
"I suppose you are glad?"
"Glad!" she looked at him with surprise; "why on earth should I be glad?"
"Because--because--well"--desperately--"he's going to marry you."
Carmela frowned.
"Who told you so?"
"Vassalla himself--is it true?" asked the young man breathlessly.
Miss Cotoner looked at him in a queer manner for a moment, then turned away her head.
"My parents arranged a match between us," she answered, nervously.
"And you?"
"I'm not in favour of it--I don't think there is any chance of my ever marrying the Marchese."
Ronald sprang forward with a cry of delight.
"Oh, Miss Cotoner--Carmela--I----"
"Would like to see the fortifications," she answered, quickly nipping the declaration, she knew was coming, in the bud; "I wouldn't; let us go down to the Almeda."
She turned away, and Ronald followed mortified and humbled at his failure, but half way down the hill began to pick up his spirits.
"I can't expect her to fall like ripe fruit into my mouth," he thought, hopefully; "and it's impossible she can love me in so short a time."
He was wrong there, for Carmela liked him very much--in fact, more than she cared to acknowledge to herself; but she would not allow him to speak because--well, because she was a riddle. Woman is an eternal riddle that man has been trying to solve since the beginning of the world, but every attempt has failed.
Monteith, however, took his failure like the honest gentleman he was, and turned the conversation. Remembering his anxiety to solve the mystery of Ventin's death, he thought he would question his fair companion. "Did you know a lady in Valletta called Mrs. Ventin?" he asked, as they walked slowly along in the burning sun.
"No, I never heard the name before," replied Carmela promptly, looking at him.
"Of course not," thought Monteith; "it wasn't his right name."
"Who is she?" said Carmela carelessly; "that's the same name as the gentleman who died."
"She was his wife," replied Ronald.
"Does she live at Valletta?" asked Miss Cotoner.
"I think so."
"Strange I never met her."
"She was married to my friend seven years ago."
"Oh!" said Miss Cotoner with a slight start; "no I never heard of her, Mr. Monteith."
They were strolling along the Almeda by this time, and the Grand Promenade of Gibraltar was crowded. Many an admiring glance was directed at the pretty girl Ronald as escorting; and one young officer was heard to declare that "That dark girl was deuced good style you know."
On the Almeda they met Mrs. Pellypop, and the ever-lively Pat along with Miss Lester, and the whole party were tired and dusty with sight-seeing. Mrs. Pellypop, in fact, was rather cross, but triumphant, as she had secured a number of bargains, though, truth to tell, she had paid dearly for her purchases. She was not at all pleased at seeing Ronald escorting Carmela, and observed, with some asperity, that it was time to return to the ship. Everyone being weary agreed, and they went down the steep street out of the gate, and Pat ran to get a boat. While thus waiting, the Marchese Vassalla came up and addressed himself with some anger to Miss Cotoner.
"I did not get on shore till you left, and have been looking for you all day; you ought to have waited for me to escort you."
"Thank you," replied his cousin languidly; "Mr. Monteith has been kind enough to relieve you of your duties."
The look Vassalla cast on Ronald was not, by any means, a pleasant one.