Tales of terror
partial coma. But there were loving hands to tend, and loving voices to
soothe, and gradually she came round. All the sunshine, however, seemed
to have gone out of her nature, and she was a crushed woman.
For the first time for many days she went on deck, and was propped with
pillows in a sofa-chair, and for the first time since that terrible
night she saw Cornell. All her feeling of revulsion for him had
changed, and, stretching forth her white hand to him, she said in her
loving, sweet voice:
‘Mr. Cornell, I have been unjust to you. You must forgive me. You are a
brave and generous man.’
He took her hand and answered:
‘I grieve with you, Miss Hetherington. I did my best to save him, but
it was not to be. No man can prevent his fate. It is not for me to say
why, at such a moment, your lover should have met his doom. It was
Destiny; but, though I battled with the waves and the darkness of the
night, it was not my destiny to drown.’
Lily shuddered. The man spoke so strangely. There was such a weird
appearance about him, and his influence over her was as strong as
ever. And yet a fearful thought came to her. Was it not probable that
Cornell had hurled her lover into the sea, and then, seized with sudden
remorse, had dived after him?
Oh, how that dreadful thought troubled and pained her! She struggled
with it for days, and wept and wept and wept again. At one moment she
resolved to take her mother into her confidence, and tell her all. But
whenever this feeling came upon her the mysterious Cornell seemed to be
at her side, and then all her will power went again. She felt that she
hated him one moment, but the next she could and would have grovelled
at his feet, overcome by a curious fascination, mingled with a sort of
admiration, for the daring, reckless, wicked, iron-willed fellow.
* * * * *
A week later the ship was in the London docks.
Lily and her mother went on shore at Gravesend. The poor girl was
bowed with sorrow, and she felt as though she would never again hold up
her head. Before she left the ship Cornell begged hard to be allowed to
call upon her. She wanted to refuse him, but could not, and, with the
consent of her mother, she gave him permission to do so, for the mother
felt she was indebted to him.
Lily and Mrs. Hetherington went to reside in the west-end of London,
and Cornell, availing himself of their permission, was almost a daily
visitor. He announced his intention of not going to sea again for some
time, and the old fascination he had exercised over Lily was exerted
now to a greater degree; and though she was sure she possessed no love
for him, she felt drawn towards him in a strange manner. One day, four
months after their arrival home, he pressed her to become his wife,
and she reluctantly gave her consent. She would have said ‘No’ if she
could, but she was powerless; and believing that she had previously
misjudged him and done him a wrong, she said:
‘I will be a dutiful and faithful wife to you, but you must never hope
to win my love. _That_ is buried in the cruel sea.’
It was arranged that the wedding was to take place in a few months’
time. He objected to the delay, but she was firm on the point, for she
felt that it would not be respectful to her dead love to marry so soon
after the calamity. Many a girl who knew Lily and her lover envied
her. Cornell was so ‘handsome,’ so ‘fascinating,’ so ‘manly,’ ‘such a
splendid type of a sailor’; but when her friends congratulated her she
only sighed. She felt as if she were sacrificing herself; but then her
affianced husband had so nobly risked his life for her lover’s sake,
notwithstanding his previous strange conduct, and on that account alone
she was going to give him her hand. She little dreamed that his jumping
overboard was only part of his diabolical plan, and was meant to avert
suspicion--which it did most effectually. So far as the risk to himself
was concerned, it was reduced to a minimum, for he was a magnificent
and powerful swimmer, and before he took the leap he was careful to
see that plenty of lifebuoys had been dropped over, and that the boat
was all ready for lowering.
In the course of the next few months Mrs. Hetherington and her daughter
removed to the village of Bowness, on the banks of Windermere, as they
had friends living there; and it was arranged that the marriage should
take place in the parish church of that place.
The wedding day came. It was a glorious summer’s morning, and the
air was filled with the music of birds and the scent of flowers. The
wedding was to be very quiet, and but few guests had been invited.
Those who knew Lily well said that the ‘Red Lily had drooped.’ All the
brightness was out of her life, for she felt that her heart was beneath
the waves of the Bay of Biscay.
The wedding party had assembled in the church, and the ceremony had
commenced. When the grey-haired clergyman asked if anyone knew any just
cause or impediment why the man and woman should not be joined together
in the bonds of holy matrimony, there rose up a man in the body of the
church, and in a loud and steady voice exclaimed:
‘I forbid this marriage.’
Had a thunderbolt fallen through the roof the consternation and
confusion could not have been greater. With a great cry the Red Lily
threw up her arms, and then fell forward on her face in a swoon. For a
few moments Cornell stood as if petrified. His face was ghastly pale.
By this time the man had come forward to the altar rails, and then
Cornell found tongue.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘is it possible that the dead can come to
life?’
‘No; but the living can thwart the machinations of a villain, and I
am here to do that,’ said Dick Fenton, for he it was. ‘This man,’
continued Dick, addressing the astonished spectators, ‘attempted to
murder me.’
No one moved. They were dumb with amazement, for they naturally thought
a madman was amongst them. Dick himself stooped and lifted up the
inanimate form of the Lily, and bore her into the vestry. Taking
advantage of the confusion--for everyone seemed bewildered--Cornell
stole from the church, got clear away, and was never heard of more.
It was some time before Lily recovered consciousness. It is better to
leave the reunion of the lovers to the imagination of the reader, for
words always fail to convey anything like an adequate notion of such
a scene. The news of the affair had rapidly spread over the village;
an enormous crowd had gathered about the church, and the uproar was
immense. The wedding party had to wait a considerable time before they
could get back to their homes; then explanations were given.
On that dreadful night in the Bay of Biscay Dick had escaped death
almost by a miracle, as it were. He was a good swimmer, but was a
little stunned by striking his head against the side of the vessel
in his descent. He had a recollection, however, of making a powerful
effort to swim, and in a little while he felt something touch his hand,
and found it was a lifebuoy. On this he supported himself for a long
time--it seemed to him two or three hours. Then he saw the outlines
of a vessel, which he took to be the ‘Sirocco,’ and he shouted with
all his might, and presently had the satisfaction to hear the plash of
oars. He had only a faint recollection of hearing a human voice, and
feeling the grasp of hands about him. Then ensued a blank. When next
he opened his eyes he found himself in a comfortable cabin, and he
soon learnt that it was not the ‘Sirocco’ that had picked him up, but
an outward bound ship, called the ‘Golden Fleece.’ She was bound for
the Cape, and so Dick was mortified to find that he must accompany her
there, unless a homeward bounder should be fallen in with, and he could
get on board. This chance did not occur, and so to the Cape he went,
but the vessel made a long voyage. As soon after arrival as possible he
took ship for England, and on reaching there he soon discovered to his
amazement that the Red Lily was on the eve of being married to Cornell.
He hurried down to the Lake district, and was there a whole week
determining not to declare himself until the last moment, so that the
discomfiture of his enemy might be the more complete.
For some months after this strange and startling incident Lily remained
in such delicate health that grave fears were at one time entertained.
Sudden joy is almost as bad as great sorrow at times, and the
unexpected return of her lost lover had been too great a shock. Care,
attention, and change of air, however, gradually restored her, and
again she made preparations for her marriage, which was to take place
on Christmas Day, twelve months after the terrible scene in the Bay of
Biscay, when Dick was hurled into the sea.
The day came at last--cold, crisp, and bright. The earth was wrapped
in a robe of spotless white, and the church was decorated with holly
and winter flowers. As the bells pealed forth merrily, and the winter
sun shone out from the dull sky, Dick Fenton led his bride down the
pathway to the carriage that waited them at the gate, and the crowd
of villagers that had gathered in the old churchyard declared that no
bonnier bride had ever been seen than the Red Lily.
V
THE PIRATE’S TREASURE
A TRUE AND DRAMATIC STORY OF THE SEA
At the time the startling events I am about to relate occurred, I had
but recently passed my final examination in medicine, after what I may
modestly say was a successful course of study in Glasgow, of which
city I am a native. For some time I had been anxiously expecting my
diploma, which would give me the right to practice my profession, and
I was trying to obtain an appointment as surgeon on board a splendid
East Indiaman, known as the ‘Clydesdale.’ Singularly enough, on the
very day that I received the intimation that my application had
been favourably considered, I was placed in possession of a letter
from a dear friend in London, asking me if I would proceed on his
behalf with all possible speed to Surinam, on a very delicate and
important mission. For an hour or two I was exercised in my mind as
to the proper course I ought to pursue in my own interests; that is,
whether I should accept the ‘Clydesdale’ appointment, or undertake my
friend’s commission. Something prompted me to choose the latter, and
I immediately communicated my decision to London. In a post or two I
received my instructions, with a bank draft for my expenses, and I was
told to secure a berth in a vessel if possible proceeding direct to
the place where my business was to be transacted. I therefore lost no
time in making inquiries about a ship, and at last heard of one called
the ‘Ariadne.’ She had been chartered by a Glasgow company, and was
then loading up at the West Quay, and was to sail in a few days. I at
once secured a passage in her, and went down to see the vessel for
the first time the very day she was to leave. Little did I dream then
how strangely my destiny was to be affected by the fact of my having
undertaken my friend’s commission. While I stood examining her from the
pier, two sailors, who seemed to be roaming idly about, stopped and
began to converse by my side.
‘Has the “Ariadne” shipped all her hands, Jack?’ asked the one; ‘I see
she has the Blue Peter flying. Somebody told me she has been sold to a
Dutch firm now. How would you like to sail in her?’
‘Not me, mate,’ replied the other; ‘I know too much about her. I made
a voyage in her four years ago, and a cleaner or livelier craft is not
on the sea! But there is a limb of the devil in her as skipper that is
enough to cause her to sink to the bottom. It was in my voyage that
he did for Bill Burnet with the pump-sounding rod, because the little