CHAPTERXI.
Fidette and I had a very pretty habit of climbing far out upon the bowsprit of the Happy Shark, although clearly under the observation of every man on deck, and sitting there for hours dangling our feet in the water among the anemones and jellyfish.
On the evening of my return we had taken our places as usual and were engaged in a serious conversation regarding our future.
In Sargasso, the prospective bride is rarely consulted regarding the date of the wedding. But I did not want the rule to be followed in Fidette’s case. I realized that with her beauty, the commanding position of her father, and, above all, the discreet instructions she had received from her mother, Fidette had probably had other experiences of the heart before my lot was cast with hers.
On this evening, therefore, I determined to make the condition of my feelings toward Fidette perfectly clear, to assure her of my unbounded love, and, if possible, to get her to fix a day when we should be mated.
I began by asking her if she were entirely heart free, and was assured that such was the case.
“I did love once,” Fidette said, looking me frankly in the eyes and taking my hand as she spoke. “The young man was the son of an exiled Portuguese marshal,and had been condemned to penal servitude in the Azores for some political crime. He made his escape in a small boat with his father, hoping to be picked up at sea. Their provisions were lost overboard. The poor father went crazy from hunger and thirst, and, throwing himself into the sea, was drowned. The son became unconscious, and, after drifting about for several days, his boat was captured and brought to Sargasso, where the stranger was adopted by one of the Kantoons.”
“How was it that his life was spared?” I asked.
“Oh, his case was somewhat similar to yours. His life was not forfeited because he had not come with any purpose of conquest. His addition to our numbers was an accident, an entirely unsought incident in his life. He was very handsome, very tall and very dark.”
“How did you meet each other?” I inquired, although I had no intention of becoming a jealous inquisitor.
“Do you notice that large space of open water on our right, about midway between this ship and the next one?”
“Yes, I do,” was my reply. “I have often wondered why the sod has not covered it!”
“One of the finest vessels of our community floated there from the earliest period of my recollection until about six months before you came,” continued Fidette, thoughtfully.
I now noticed that her face had taken on an expression of sadness I never had observed before.
“It was one of Sir John Franklin’s ships, that had been abandoned in the north, had drifted southward until it was melted free from the encircling ice floe by the Gulf Stream, and found a haven here with us. This was long years before I came into the world, but I have heard the story from my dear mother’s lips many times, and I remembered the ship very well. On the Royal George the stranger found an asylum. He was so quietand reserved that he attracted no attention whatever in the community for several months. One day, however, he came from the Kantoon of his own ship to deliver an official communication to my father. I was seated just where we are now. Our eyes met. It was a case of love at first sight for both of us, and although we found no opportunity or pretext to speak on this occasion, I did not let the second visit, which occurred within a week, pass without affording him an excuse to address me. I presented him the sprig of bay in token of my admiration, and, although he did not understand its full purport, he graciously replied in Portuguese, conveying his thanks. I speak only French, and, therefore, was compelled to murmur my appreciation of his words in that language. The young man replied in French, and we stood chatting at this side of the companionway some little time. Fortunately, the visit of his executive officer to my father was of longer duration than usual. The young Portuguese carried back with him triumphantly the sprig of green, and that act was the cause of much grief to us and of his subsequent destruction. Unwittingly, I destroyed the very life that I was interested in perpetuating. But of that I will tell you later.”
“What was his name?”
“Don Fernandez Otranto,” replied Fidette. “He had been educated in Paris and at Heidelberg, and his German schooling was responsible for the fact that he was an expert performer upon the trombone. I had never heard of such an instrument, and never knew what form it took. But I know that it is very sonorous and loud, because on our sacred days he often played for me upon this pipe, while I sat here, as we sit now, listening in enraptured fashion to its notes. Many of the beautiful arias were familiar to me because they had been taught me by my pretty mother, who sang well and played the mandolin to perfection. It became a source of great joyto my heart to hear Fernandez play. I contrived to communicate this to him during his visit to our ship, and, after that, at nightfall, he always played a few bars from the national hymn of his beloved country. It became as the Angelus to me, for my mother had been a good Christian in her early days, and never overcame the inspiration that the sunset bell had had upon her in girlhood!”
“You told me that the sprig of bay given the visitor by you was the cause of dire disaster,” I suggested. “How was that?”
“On the ship where he dwelt the Kantoon had a daughter older than myself, but deformed and homely,” replied Fidette, slowly and solemnly. “She was a fright—not that I ever saw her, for, with the single exception of my visit to the Priest of the Sacred Fire to make my vows, I have never been a ship’s length distant from the Happy Shark. But I know that she must have been homely. She conceived a violent passion for Fernandez, which I am sure he did not reciprocate. Of course, he could not prevent her loving him, could he?”
“Certainly not,” I hastened to reply.
“Well, when he returned to the Goo-ge-Goo, or Green Octopod” (as the Royal George had been rechristened), “the miserable girl detected the sprig of bay that Fernandez still clutched in his hand. She said nothing, and, as the unfortunate young man did not then suspect her love for him, of course he was unaware that the token had roused her jealousy. She had him spied upon. She corrupted the executive officer of her father’s ship, who always accompanied Fernandez on his official visits to my father, and as a result the fact of our meetings was made known, and, indeed, parts of our conversation were repeated to the vixenish creature. Our dreams of bliss, all the sweeter because our meetings were stolen, ended with a terrible catastrophe.
“One morning I arose with the sun, and, as was my custom, hurried upon deck and looked out to the northwardtoward Fernandez’s ship. It had disappeared. The sea had swallowed it during the night. Not a trace remained or a sign that it had ever existed, beyond that space of open water you see before you! Far down, down, down, in the depths of the ocean sank the Green Octopod, with every soul on board of her. So, in the frankness of my heart, I have told you how I have loved and been loved.”
There are mean traits latent in our natures. I am ashamed to say this pathetic tale did not evoke in my heart any disposition to give vent to tears. I felt no particular regret that the trombone player had gone to feed the fishes in the mid-Atlantic. Candidly, I had almost as much aversion for him as Fidette had confessed for the humpbacked girl who had stolen her lover from her, and who had undoubtedly scuttled the ship when she found she was going to lose him. What if he had escaped? Was he a good swimmer? Fidette didn’t know. The very ethics of the Sargassons would prevent him from declaring himself to his former sweetheart. Brief as had been his stay among these people, he would know that to save his life would be regarded as an act of cowardice, for when one’s ship had reached the end of its career every soul on board of her must die perforce. But, poor chap, he had been in love, and that excused anything.
Fidette’s story of the first awakening of love in her heart had thrown us both into a very thoughtful mood. Now that I am calmer and look back upon the incident, I see how ridiculous was my assumption of heart-whole superiority to her. Although I did not permit the truth to find place in my memory just at that time, I can now recollect more than half a dozen episodes in my early life wherein I was as badly smitten as poor Fidette had been.
I sat moodily gazing down into the water and watching Fidette’s little pink feet toying with the jellyfish and thesea urchins. Her gaze was to the northward—toward but far beyond the spot at which had rested the dwelling place of her first lover. She was in a reverie. I watched her face closely, taking one of her dainty hands in both of mine, and, apparently unnoticed by her, pressing it to my lips. Hardly a breath of air was moving, and the indescribable silence of the Sargasso Sea hovered over us.
Suddenly Fidette’s face became transfigured. The pupils of her dark eyes dilated, the rosy blush of joy suffused her cheeks. I detected the slightest possible stiffening of the neck and elevation of the chin. She was listening. She changed her gaze toward the westward, and fixed it there. Her lips slightly parted, then broke into a smile of inexpressible happiness.
Gently she withdrew her hand from my grasp. She had forgotten my presence; now she intentionally ignored me.
Across the waste of water and drift came to my ears a sound so shudder-inspiring that I in turn forgot Fidette. It was unlike any of the strange noises sometimes heard in the wakeful watches of the Sargasson night, defying rational explanation. It was music—demon music! I, too, put my ears apeak, and I needed not to listen long to detect in slow and plaintiff measure the rhythm of the Portuguese national hymn.
Fidette’s face told me the rest. Her first lover was alive.
The trombone player had escaped.