II.
March 7.--I begin this journal for two reasons. First, my dear motherasked me to keep a record of my voyage and of my life, that she mightread it when I got back home. She thinks that I am coming home again. Ipromised her to do so, but I shall never see England again. I hope theday may come when I can take my dear mother to my Australian home, but Ishall never set foot on the island that holds the woman I hate, and thatholds so many women like her. In the second place, I want to write downnot only my impressions in this new experience, but my thoughts. I havemany of them. I want to see them spread out before me. We are now wellstarted on the voyage, five days out from Liverpool. Uncle John is stillill enough, and says that he wants to die. Captain Raymond laughs athim, and says that a little sea-sickness will do him good. I likeCaptain Raymond. He is big and burly, and has a deep voice, and a heavybrown beard. He's just the typical sea captain, an interesting person toa man who saw the sea for the first time six days ago. I'm glad to findthat I'm a good sailor, and can thoroughly enjoy the new experiencesthat present themselves in the beginning of the long voyage we havestarted upon. I have written the word "enjoy"; let it stand. I thought Inever should have known enjoyment again, but I do. There's enjoyment inthe knowledge that each hour puts miles of ocean between me and thewoman that has spoiled my life. No, I won't admit that. She shan't havethe satisfaction of spoiling my life. She tried hard enough, God knows.She played with my heart, much as though it were a mouse and she a cat.She is a cat. A sleek, soft, purring cat, and with claws. I could eatout my own heart when I think how she played with it. I was fair gamefor this experienced coquette, and now I suppose she is boasting ofanother conquest, telling of her victory over the simple country lad.Well, let her enjoy her conquest while she may. The country boy will oneday come back with money enough to buy her and her purse-proud heart.Yes, I will go back to England and I'll humble her at my feet. What rotI'm writing. Mother, if you ever see these pages, read these words withsympathy, as the idle ravings of a man well-nigh gone mad over a woman'sfalse beauty. I never told the story, even to you, my dear mother. Idare say you guessed much of it. You know how Helen Rankine came downfrom London to our quiet country home. You know how beautiful andgracious she was. How kind and loving to you; how apparently frank andfriendly with me. She was the first woman I ever saw to whom I gave asecond thought, save you, dear mother. We rode and drove and chattedtogether. She drew my very heart from me. I told her all my plans andhopes and aspirations; of my love of the art to which I had devoted mylife; that I hoped to go to London and study, and then to Rome; that Iwanted to become a great painter. She was so full of hearty sympathy, sokind, so womanly, that before I knew it she had me enslaved. For all thegraciousness and frankness and sympathy were but the means she used inher heartlessness to enslave me. Then came a day, a day to beremembered; a day like that when, beguiled by another beautiful fiend inwoman form, our first father, poor, foolish man, ate of the fruit of thetree of the knowledge of good and evil, and so lost his paradise. I toldHelen of my love; and how I did love that woman! And she put on anappearance of surprise, and squeezed a cold tear or two from herbeautiful eyes, and said that she thought I knew and understood. Andwhen half dazed I asked her what she meant, what it was that I wasthought to have known, she had to blush, and said that she had long beenengaged to her cousin, John Bruce, who was now with his regiment inIndia, and that when he came home they were to be married. And then shesaid something about my being so young and having a great career beforeme, and that she should always be my friend and pray for my success. Andshe stretched out her hand toward me. I think she must have seen thehate in my face, for my great love turned to great hate even while shespoke, and all the wholesome currents of my being seemed poisoned by thesupreme passion, and she turned pale, and her hand dropped, and I cursedher.
March 10.--A call from Uncle John interrupted me the other day, and Ihave had no heart to write since. My moods shame me. I wrote those wordswith burning cheek and throbbing heart. I have just read them without anemotion. Why can't I be a man, and not a silly, raving boy? Not that thehate that burns in my heart is abating. It can never abate. It will growand grow, and keep me true to my purpose. No more mooning over art andthe hope of a great name; but hard work and money-making. Uncle Johnpromises us both fortunes. He feels confident that his explosive willwork such wonders in Australian mines that within ten years we can goback to England rich beyond the dreams of avarice. But I shall never seeEngland again. No matter what I may have written here. Never shall I setfoot on the land that rears such women as the one I hate. CaptainRaymond was almost angry when he learned that in Uncle John'sinnocent-looking boxes was a compound powerful enough to blow us all outof the water. But he was somewhat reassured when uncle insisted that aslong as the _Albatross_ floated she and we were safe; for he says thatthe explosive is only an explosive when wet. Captain Raymond said thathe'd try and keep it dry then, and he sent men into the hole where theboxes were stored, and had them placed carefully in an unused cabin. Weare the only passengers. I made sure that no woman was to be on boardduring the long voyage. I came near being disappointed in this, forCaptain Raymond tells me that his wife was to sail with him, and hadmade all preparations, even to sending some boxes of clothing aboard,when the sudden death of her father prevented her from going. I'm sureI'm sorry that Mrs. Raymond's father is dead, but I'm very glad thatMrs. Raymond is not on this ship. I don't want to look on woman's face,nor hear woman's voice. There's but one woman to me in the wide world,and, dear mother, forgive me if sometimes I cannot thank her forbringing me into the world. You understand me, mother. You know what Ihave suffered. You can sympathize with me when I say that I exult at thethought that leagues of ocean lie between me and that other woman,who----
March 12.--A strange thing has happened since I last wrote in this book.As I was writing I heard quite a commotion on deck--cries of thesailors, sharp orders from officers, and the tramping of feet. I rushedon deck. Uncle John and the captain were standing on the poop, lookingintently across the water; the first mate was shouting orders that Icouldn't understand, and the crew were lowering the long boat.
"What's the matter?" I asked, joining uncle and the captain.
"There's a little boat adrift out yonder," answered Uncle John pointing,"and the lookout says that there are a couple of bodies lying in it.There, do you see it, on the top of that wave!"
I saw it; a mere shell it seemed, poised for a moment on the top of aswell, and then sliding down into the trough of the sea, quite out ofsight. The long boat was soon lowered, and, guided by the cries of thelookout, made straight for the little boat. It seemed very long beforeit was reached, and then we saw the sailors make it fast to the longboat and begin to pull slowly back toward the _Albatross_. It was slowand hard work towing that boat, small as it seemed, through the ratherheavy sea. There was no sign of life in her. What was behind those lowgunwales? What were the men bringing to us? At length they camealongside, and then we saw that there were two bodies lying there.
"A man and a woman, sir," called up the mate. "There's life in 'em both,but precious little."
It was nice work getting the two boats alongside and the bodies out ofthem and up to the deck; but it was done by the aid of slings, the womanbeing brought up first. Uncle John, by virtue of his profession, gavedirections as to placing her on the deck, and then knelt by her side. Istood aloof. Why had that woman come to us in mid-ocean! Why was it?Fate?
"She is alive," cried Uncle John. "Captain, we must get her below atonce."
I glanced at the woman. Thick locks of matted black hair lay around aface on which the sun and wind and the salt sea-water had done fearfulwork. And yet those blackened and blistered features somehow had afamiliar look. Where had I seen them? I could not tell. Four sailorscarried her below and I turned to look at her companion, who had beenlaid on the deck. Uncle John just took time to grasp his wrist and said,"He's alive, too"; then he dropped the limp hand and hurried below.Always the way. Women fi
rst. This dying man might get what attention hecould. The woman must be nursed back to life to deceive the first foolthat takes her fancy. I turned to the man, a common sailor evidently,brawny and bearded. The mate was by his side, and together we did whatwe could to nourish the spark of life that kept the pulse feeblyfluttering in the big brown wrist. It was afternoon when these two waifswere found, and all night we fought with death. Now Uncle John says thathe thinks that they will live. Neither of them has spoken, but each hastaken a little nourishment and the pulse shows gaining strength. CaptainRaymond has turned his cabin over to the woman, and as I write uncle issitting by her side. For the time he has forgotten his wonderfulexplosive. The old professional air has come back, and he is like theDr. Hartley of the days before he gave up medicine for chemicalinvestigation. The question continually repeats itself to me, What hasbrought this woman here? Reason as I may, I feel, I know, that she hascome to me; to me who was happy in the thought of not seeing her kindfor months. Another question asks itself, Has she come for good or ill?There can be but one answer to that question.
March 13.--The sailor whom we rescued gains strength fast. He was ableto talk a little to-day. Briefly told, his story, as far as I got it, isthat he was one of the crew of the _Vulture_, bound from England toIndia with army stores and arms, including a large consignment ofpowder. One day, he can't say how many days ago, the ship caught fire inthe hold. There were frantic and unavailing efforts made to get at theflames and extinguish them; and then the order was given to flood thehold, but before it could be executed there was a tremendous roar, andthe sailor knew nothing else until he found himself in the waterclinging to a fragment of the wreckage that strewed the sea. The shiphad been blown up and had sunk at once. Not far from him floated one ofthe quarter-boats apparently uninjured. He managed to swim to it, andclamber in. There he was able to stand up and look around him. At firsthe could see no sign of life, but in another moment he heard a faint crybehind him, and, turning, saw a woman clinging to a broken spar. With abit of broken board he paddled to her and got her into the boat. Likehimself, she was unharmed, save by the awful shock and fright. Hepaddled around and around, but saw no further sign of life. Once a man'sbody rose near the boat; rose slowly, turned, and sank again, and thatwas the last they saw of the twoscore men that but a little momentbefore had been full of life and vigor.
This much I heard the sailor tell, and then stopped him, for he wastired. The woman still sleeps and has showed no signs of consciousness.
March 14.--The sailor, whose name is Richard Jones, was able to crawlout on deck this morning. He completed his story. The young woman, hesaid, was the only passenger on the _Vulture_. He did not know her name.It had been talked among the crew that she was going out to her lover,an officer in the Indian Army who had been wounded; that she would notwait for the regular East Indiaman, but had managed to secure passage onthe _Vulture_. When she realized that she and the sailor, Jones, werethe only ones alive of all those that had been on the vanished ship, andthat they were quite alone on the ocean, in a small boat, without oars,or sail, or food, or drink, she cried a little and wrung her hands andbecame very quiet. She took her place in the bow, and there she sat.Jones sat in the stern and paddled clear of the wreckage, and then,using the piece of board for a rudder, kept the boat before the wind.Luckily there was very little sea. He thought that they were in thetrack of Indiamen, and so kept good hope. He tried to encourage theyoung woman, but she seemed to prefer silence, and so he kept still.Thus they drifted. The sun beat down upon their unprotected heads. Theybegan to want for water. They did not think so much of food as of water.Jones doesn't know how long they were adrift. He doesn't know when thegirl lost consciousness. He remembers that one day she moaned a little,and in the night he thought that he heard her whispering to herself. Hethought that she was praying, perhaps. Then he began to loseconsciousness. He remembers seeing a beautiful green field, with trees,and a brook running through it. He says that men suffering from thirston the ocean often have such visions. He remembers nothing else until heopened his eyes and saw me bending over him.
Uncle John reports no change in the condition of the young woman. Shelies in a stupor, apparently. The pulse daily grows stronger, he says,and she swallows freely the nourishment administered.
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