Shivers for Christmas

by Richard Dalby

  ‘“Yes, sir,” I said.

  ‘“And don’t smoke on the boat deck, steward. If you want to smoke, come and have a pipe with me on the bridge.”

  ‘A very sarcastic person was the skipper of the Beramic.

  ‘I don’t think Captain Fairburn was as poor as Markson thought—even though his cheque was never presented.

  ‘The reason why I think this is because, when he came back to the Beramic about six months later, he had the honeymoon suite, and Mrs Fairburn (Miss Colport, that was) had the dandiest set of gold back brushes I’ve ever seen.’

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  RED LILY

  Dick Donovan

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  ‘Dick Donovan’ was the pseudonym and alter ego of J.E.P. Muddock (1843–1934), author of more than fifty mystery and detective volumes—many starring Donovan himself—and a frequent contributor to the Strand and most other popular magazines of the period. ‘Red Lily’ is taken from Donovan’s rare collection, Tales of Terror (1899).

  On one of the wildest nights for which the Bay of Biscay is notorious, the sailing ship Sirocco was ploughing her way under close-reefed topsails across that stormy sea. The Sirocco was a large, full-rigged vessel, bound from Bombay towards England, her destination being London. She had a mixed cargo, though a large percentage of it was composed of jute. Four months had passed since she cleared from her port of lading, and was towed out of the beautiful harbour of Bombay in a dead calm. For many days after the tug left her the Sirocco did nothing but drift with the current. She was as ‘a painted ship upon a painted ocean’. No breath came out of the sultry heavens to waft her towards her haven in far away England. It was a bad beginning to the voyage. The time was about the middle of August, and all on board were anxiously looking forward to reaching their destination in time to spend Christmas at home. But as August wore out and September came in, and still the horrid calms continued, pleasant anticipations gave place to despair, for many a thousand leagues of watery wastes had to be sailed before the white cliffs of Albion would gladden the eyes of the wanderers.

  The crew of the vessel numbered sixty hands all told, and in addition there were twenty saloon passengers. With two of these passengers we have now to deal. The one is a fair young girl, slender, tall, and delicate. She is exceedingly pretty. Her features are regular and delicately chiselled. Her hair is a soft, wavy, golden brown and her brown eyes are as liquid and gentle as a fawn’s. The pure whiteness of her neck and temples is contrasted by the most exquisite tinge of rose colour in the cheeks, which puts, as it were, a finish upon a perfect picture. The whiteness of her skin, the delicate flush in the face, the brown, flossy hair, the tall, slender, graceful figure were all so suggestive of the purest of flowers that her friends for many years had called her ‘Red Lily’. Her name was Lily Hetherington, and she yet wanted some months to the completion of her twenty-first birthday. Lily was the daughter of an officer of the Hon. East India Company’s Service—his only daughter, and by him worshipped. For many years he had been stationed in India, and at last, seeing no chance of returning to his wife and family, which consisted of two sons in addition to the girl, he requested them to join him in the East. This request was quickly and gladly complied with, and Mrs Hetherington and her children started on their journey. Mr Hetherington at that time was well off, for he had invested all his savings in the Agra and Masterman Bank, and held shares to a large amount in the concern, the stability of which, at that period, no one would have dared to have doubted. Indian officers throughout India swore by it, and they congratulated themselves, as they entrusted their hard-won money to the Bank, that they were making splendid provision for their wives and children when those wives and children should become widows and orphans.

  As Mr Hetherington possessed considerable influence he had no difficulty in quickly procuring his sons suitable appointments. Fond as he was of his lads, who were aged respectively twenty-two and twenty-four, his love for them was as nothing when compared with that he bore for his beautiful daughter, his ‘Bonnie Red Lily’, as he called her. Nor was Lily less fond of her father. She was a mere child when he left England, but she had never forgotten him, and never a mail left but it bore from Lily a long and loving epistle to the lonely officer, who was bravely doing his duty in the distant eastern land.

  One day, soon after her arrival, Mr Hetherington said to his daughter as they sat in the verandah of the bungalow, ‘Lily, my pet, I have got a little surprise for you.’

  ‘Have you, pa dear; and pray what is it?’ she answered, ‘You are such a dear, good kind papa that you are always giving me pleasant surprises.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, I like to give you pleasant surprises, but this one is different from any of the others,’ he returned with a smile, at the same time stroking her soft brown hair, and looking proudly into her beautiful face.

  ‘Oh, do tell me what it is,’ she exclaimed, as he paused in a tantalizing way; ‘do you hear, pa? Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘Restrain that woman’s curiosity of yours, my darling, and don’t be impatient.’

  ‘I declare you are awfully wicked, papa,’ she returned, with a pretty pout of her red lips. ‘Tell me instantly what it is. I demand to know.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ he answered, as he kissed her fondly and patted her head. ‘Tomorrow, then, I have a visitor coming to stay with us for a week or two.’

  ‘Indeed. Is it a lady or gentleman?’

  ‘A gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, do tell me what he’s like.’

  ‘Well, well, you are a little Miss Curious,’ Mr Hetherington laughed heartily as he blew a cloud of blue smoke from his cigar into the stagnant air. ‘Not to keep you in suspense any longer, then, the name of my visitor is Dick Fenton, Richard Cronmire Joyce Fenton, to give him his full name. He is a year or two your senior, and a fine, handsome, manly young fellow to boot.’

  ‘Indeed,’ muttered Lily, thoughtfully, as she fancied that her father’s words had a hidden meaning.

  ‘Yes. His father was a very old friend of mine, and we saw long service together. He died some four or five years ago, but before dying he made me promise I would look after his boy, who was an only child and motherless. Of course, I gladly gave this promise, and have sacredly carried it out.’

  ‘Ah, what a good, kind, generous man you are,’ Lily said, as she nestled closer to him, and tightened her little white fingers round his brown, hairy hand.

  ‘I saw there was stuff in the lad, and I took to him almost as if he had been my own son. Unfortunately, my good friend Fenton died poor, and was only enabled to leave three thousand pounds, for which he had insured his life, for his son’s education. I succeeded in getting Dick into one of the Company’s training establishments, and the marked ability he displayed very soon pushed him forward, and having gone through his cadetship with honour and credit, he was appointed a year ago to what in time will be a most lucrative post. I have watched the lad closely, and seen with pride the many noble qualities he possesses, and I have no doubt at all he will distinguish himself During the years that he has been my protégé I have constantly said to myself, “If my Lily should like Dick, and Dick should like my Lily, they shall be man and wife.”’

  ‘Oh, papa!’ exclaimed Lily, as the beautiful tinge in her face deepened to scarlet, that spread to her neck and temples.

  ‘Why, my darling, why do you blush so? It is surely every honest woman’s desire to become a wife, and I am very anxious to see you comfortably married before I die. Men go off very suddenly in this treacherous country, and I am well worn with service, and cannot hope to last much longer. But, understand me, Lily, pet, your own will and womanly instincts must guide you in this matter. I shall not seek to influence you in any way, and if you have already given your heart to another, if he is an honest and worthy man, even though he be poor as a church mouse, I shall not offer the slightest opposition to your wishes. It i
s your future happiness I study, and I am not selfish enough to attempt to coerce you into an objectionable union.’

  Lily rose and twined her arms round her father’s neck, and pressing her soft, white face to his bronzed cheeks, said:

  ‘My dear, dear father, I have not given my heart to anyone, and your wishes are mine.’

  On the morrow Fenton duly arrived at Mr Hetherington’s bungalow. He had travelled by dak from a station near Calcutta; and when he had refreshed himself with a bath, and made himself presentable, Hetherington took him on one side, and said:

  ‘Dick, lad, I have repeatedly spoken to you about my daughter, and before I introduce you to her, let me say that I shall be proud to have you as a son-in-law, providing that there is the most perfect reciprocal feeling between you and my Lily. I am not a man of many words, and I will content myself with remarking that your father was the very soul of honour. Never disgrace him, and never betray the confidence I repose in you.’

  ‘Do not doubt me, sir,’ said Dick. ‘I am indebted to you for everything, and I should be base if I did anything that could inflict pain upon you or yours.’

  ‘Bravely said, my boy. God prosper you. Win Lily if you can; but win her as a man should.’

  Hetherington had previously made known his wishes to his wife, and she had readily acquiesced in them.

  Fenton was, as his guardian had described him, a fine, manly, handsome young fellow. His frank, open bearing was well calculated to find favour with women, even if he had not been possessed of good looks.

  Hetherington and his wife watched the young people narrowly, and they soon saw that a mutual liking for each other was springing up, and before Dick’s leave of two months had expired he and Lily were betrothed, while the bond between them was that of the most perfect love.

  Dick returned to his station, and Mr and Mrs Hetherington congratulated themselves on having, so far as they were able, provided for their daughter’s future, a future that seemed likely to be one of unclouded happiness. ‘L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose’ says the French proverb, and never was the proverb more fully borne out than in this case. Within six months of Dick’s return to his duties, all civilized India was shocked to its inmost heart by a terrific commercial convulsion—for so only can it be described. Through the length and breadth of the land, the fearful rumour spread on the wings of the wind that the great bank of Agra and Masterman had broken. Men stood aghast, and women paled with fright, for, to hundreds and thousands of households in all parts of the world, it meant utter ruin, as many and many a one at the present day knows to his bitter cost. Many a widow living in poverty now might have reposed in the lap of luxury, and many a young man and woman, now in ignorance and want, might have been otherwise but for this cruel collapse of the great banking firm. It was so essentially an Indian bank, a depository for the earnings of Indian servants of the Company, that it affected a class of people who for the most part had been tenderly nurtured and led to believe that they occupied, and were destined to occupy so long as they might live, a good position in life, and to take their stand among the great middle class of society.

  At first men doubted the rumour, but soon the awful truth became too apparent to be longer questioned, and those who had grown grey and feeble beneath the burning Indian sun saw now that their few remaining days must be passed in poverty and misery. It was bitter, very bitter, but it was fate, and could not be averted.

  Amongst the greatest sufferers was Mr Hetherington. He had invested, one way and another, nearly one hundred thousand pounds in that bank, and now every penny piece was gone. The shock came upon him with great severity. His health had long been failing, and he had looked forward with great eagerness to retiring from the service in another year and ‘going home’ with his family. But that was never to be now. For a time he was stunned. He tried to bear up against the blow, but he was only human; his brain gave way, and in a moment of temporary aberration he shot himself.

  This new grief almost crushed the unhappy widow and her family. Fortunately ‘the boys’ had good appointments that held out every promise of improvement, but their incomes at that time were scarcely 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 taskmasters, 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: