Tales of terror
sufficient for their own needs, though they generously curtailed their
expenses in every way in order to contribute towards the support of
their sister and mother.
The shock of her father’s death threw Lily into a dangerous illness,
and for some time her life was threatened; but there was one who never
lost an opportunity of cheering her with his love, and that was Dick
Fenton.
When she was convalescent she one day said to him:
‘Dick, I have something to say to you.’
‘Nothing very serious, darling,’ he answered, laughingly.
‘Yes, very serious. When I was first engaged to you my father was
considered to be a wealthy man, and I understand that he promised
you that my dowry should be something handsome. That is all changed
now. We are ruined, and my dear father is in his grave. Under these
circumstances I can no longer hold you to your engagement, and
therefore release you from every promise. You must give me up and seek
for someone better suited for you than I am.’
She fairly broke down here, and burst into violent weeping. Dick’s
arm stole around her waist, he pressed her head to his breast, and,
whispering softly to her said, with deep earnestness:
‘Lily, there is one thing, and only one thing, that shall break our
engagement.’
‘What is that?’ she stammered between her sobs.
‘The death of one of us!’ he answered, with strong emphasis.
She needed no further assurance. There was that in his manner and tone
that convinced more than words could possibly have done. And so, save
for the shadow which hung over the little household, she would have
been perfectly happy.
A year went by and Mrs. Hetherington still lingered in India, for she
did not like to leave her sons; but failing health at length rendered
it necessary that she should return to England. At this time Dick
had just been granted two years’ leave of absence, and he urged Lily
to become his wife before they left India, as he too was going home.
She had asked him, however, to postpone the event, and made a solemn
promise that the wedding should take place on Christmas Day, adding:
‘It is not long to wait, dear. It is now the middle of July, and,
as we sail in a fortnight, the vessel is sure to be home by that
time. Besides, I am so fond of Christmas. It is so full of solemn
and purifying associations, and a fitting season for a man and woman
to take upon themselves the responsibility of the marriage state. A
wedding on Christmas Day brings good luck. Of course you will say this
is stupid superstition. So it may be, but I am a woman, and you must
let me have my way.’
Pressing his lips to hers, he made answer:
‘And so you shall, my own Red Lily; but, remember, come what may,
you’ll be my wife on Christmas Day.’
‘Come what may, I will be your wife on Christmas Day,’ she returned
solemnly.
August arrived, and Dick, Lily, and Mrs. Hetherington were passengers
on board the good ship ‘Sirocco.’ Their fellow-passengers were a
miscellaneous lot, and included several Indian officers, a planter or
two, a clergyman, and some merchants, who, having amassed fortunes,
were going home to end their days.
The second officer of the ‘Sirocco’ was a young man, of about eight
or nine-and-twenty, Alfred Cornell. He was a wild, reckless, daring
fellow, with a splendid physique. His hair was almost black, his
eyes the very darkest shade of brown, and small, keen, and piercing
as a hawk’s. In those eyes the character of the man was written. For
somehow they seemed to suggest a vain, heartless, selfish, vindictive
nature, and the firm lips told of an iron will. He was every inch a
sailor, bold as a lion, and a magnificent swimmer. The crew, however,
hated him, for he was the hardest of task-masters, but was an especial
favourite with the captain, as such men generally are, for he was
perfect in every department of his profession, and the sailors under
his control were kept to their duties with an iron hand.
About this man--Alfred Cornell--there was something that amounted
almost to weirdness. The strange, keen eyes exercised a sort of
fascination over some people. This was especially the case with women.
In fact, he made a boast that he had never yet seen the woman he could
not subdue. From the moment that he and Dick Fenton stood face to
face a mutual dislike sprang up in their hearts for each other. Dick
could not exactly tell why he did not take to the man, but he had an
instinctive dislike for him. The fact was there, the cause was not easy
to determine, but instincts are seldom wrong. The moment that Alfred
Cornell and Lily Hetherington met each other a shadow fell upon her,
and a devil came into his heart. She had an instinctive dread of him,
and yet felt fascinated. He thought to himself:
‘By heavens, that’s a splendid girl, and I’ll win her if I die for it.’
For the first week or two he paid her no more than the most ordinary
attentions, and the dread she at first felt for him began to wear off;
she could not help admitting to herself that he was certainly handsome
and attractive. The pet name by which she was known amongst her
family--the Red Lily--soon leaked out on board, as such things will,
and the passengers with whom she was most intimate frequently addressed
her in this style by way of compliment, for she was a favourite with
them all, and her beauty was a theme of admiration amongst the men,
even the ladies could not help but admit that she _was_ ‘good-looking,’
though they said spiteful things about her, as women will say of each
other. Alfred Cornell had never addressed her in any other way but as
‘Miss Hetherington’; but one morning, when the ship was in the tropics,
she had gone on deck very early to see the sun rise. The heat in the
cabins was so great that she could not sleep, and as the sailors had
just finished holy-stoning and washing down she had thrown a loose robe
over her shoulders and gone quietly on to the poop. It was Cornell’s
watch, but in all probability she did not know that at the time. It was
a very long poop, and save for the man at the wheel not a soul was to
be seen. The sea was oily in its calmness, and the sky was aflame with
the most gorgeous colours, such colours as can be nowhere seen save in
the tropics, and only then when the sun with regal pomp and splendour
commences to rise. The sails hung in heavy folds against the masts,
and there was a rhythmical kind of motion in the ship as she rose and
fell ever so gently to the light swell which even in the calmest ocean
is never absent. Lily leaned pensively against the mizzen rigging,
gazing thoughtfully across the sleeping sea to where the gold, and
amethyst, and purples, and scarlets were blended together in one blaze
of dazzling colour. Suddenly she was startled by a voice speaking in a
subdued tone close to her ear, and which said:
‘The Red Lily is up early this morning.’
She recognised the voice as that of Cornell, and turning quickly round
said, with much dignity:
‘Excuse me, sir, I am Miss Hetherington to you.’
‘Miss Hetherington,’ he answered, strongly emphasising the words. ‘I
beg your pardon, but the pretty name so fits you that I made bold to
use it. I trust I have not offended you.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, as she averted her gaze from his piercing eyes, for
she felt like a bird before the fabled basilisk. She would have rushed
away, but was spellbound. The strange man held her in a thrall.
‘How charming you look this morning,’ he remarked. ‘Why, you put even
the glory of the sunrise to shame.’
‘Really, Mr. Cornell,’ she exclaimed indignantly, and blushing to the
very roots of her hair, ‘you insult me by such extravagant and stupid
compliments. I don’t like men who talk nonsense, and think that all a
girl wants is to be flattered. Of course plenty of empty headed girls
do, but I’m not one of them.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, please; I am sincere. Can the wretched moth
that flutters into the flame of the candle help itself? Not a bit of
it. You would pity the moth; why not pity me?’
‘This is audacity, Mr. Cornell, and I will complain to the captain
about you,’ she exclaimed as she made a movement to go. But ever so
lightly, and without any effort, he touched her hand. What was the
fearful magic of that touch that she should thrill so? What was the
power in his voice that held her in a spell? She did not go, but stood
there. Her left hand resting on one of the rattlings of the rigging,
her right hanging down by her side, his large powerful fingers touching
hers, her head averted, for she felt as if she dare not look at him.
‘It is not in your nature to be cruel, Miss Hetherington’--he spoke
low, so that there should be no possibility of the man at the wheel
catching his words, though he was so far off there was not much fear of
that--‘why, then, should you be cruel with me?’
‘I am not cruel, but you are rude, very rude,’ she answered with a
voice that trembled from suppressed emotion.
‘I am _not_ rude, and you _are_ cruel,’ he returned, dwelling
deliberately on every word. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am
a man. Surely I should be less than a man if I failed to admire you?
Do you not admire the beauty of the sky there? why, then, should I do
less than you, though in your face I find more to admire than in those
glowing colours.’
‘If you do not instantly leave me I will call out for assistance,’ she
said. She felt faint and powerless, and as though she would certainly
fall down on the deck if she let go her hold of the rigging.
‘No, you must not do that,’ he answered, coolly. ‘How can I possibly
help feeling for you what I do feel. I am not a stone statue, but a
man with a heart, and though a bolt from heaven should strike me into
the sea for speaking the words, I tell you now, though I never utter
another syllable to you, _that I love you_.’
He had never taken his fingers from hers, and now he pressed her
hand. The sea seemed to be going round and round before her eyes. The
wonderful colours in the sky were all blended in one confused mass. The
ship appeared to be sinking beneath her feet, and yet she managed to
murmur in a low, weak voice:
‘For God’s sake leave me!’
Without another word he walked away, and then she seemed to breathe
more freely, and in a few minutes had quite recovered herself. She
turned and went towards the companion-way, and as she did so she saw
Cornell talking to the captain, who had just come on deck. The captain
bade her good-morning, but Cornell was as immovable and impassive as a
piece of sculpture.
Oh! what a sense of relief she experienced when she got down to her
cabin. The spell seemed to be lifted at last, and, closing the door,
she threw herself into the bunk and wept passionately. When the
hysterical fit had passed she was relieved, and she determined to tell
her mother what had happened, but this determination only lasted for
a few minutes, as on reflection she thought that it could but lead to
unpleasantness, and in a little floating world such as a ship is the
slightest things are looked upon as legitimate food for scandal to
batten upon. Therefore, her second thoughts were to keep the matter to
herself. Still she was very unhappy, and Dick noticed it. He naturally
asked her the cause, but she made an excuse by saying that she was a
little out of sorts. She was strongly tempted to tell him all, but was
restrained by a fear that it might lead to a quarrel between him and
the second mate.
For several days after the unpleasant incident with Cornell she
studiously avoided going on deck alone for fear of meeting him, but
whenever he had occasion to pass her she would shudder, for his strange
eyes seemed to exercise a power over her which was simply marvellous.
She felt, in fact, when he was looking at her that she could grovel at