In a common cause of suffering or rejoicing, social distinction is frequently forgotten,—thus, over Stella's safe return friends, relatives and servants vied with one another in expressions of joy and gratitude, and even touched each other's hands in an outburst of heartfelt congratulation.
To Mrs. Sinclair, Stella related every detail of her most astonishing experience, and the tears she shed over Julia Webber's awful death were the proofs of genuine love and tender remembrance.
It is true that Julia Webber had insisted upon her imprisonment for eight long months, but from what had she not saved her!
Of Maurice's whereabouts she knew as little as did Mrs. Sinclair, and after the first recital his name was never mentioned between them. To her faithful friend, Sir Frederic Atherton, Mrs. Sinclair repeated Stella's story, but between the two no mention of the matter was ever made.
In her perfect innocence, it never occurred to Stella that her imprisonment in Julia Webber's house was anything more than unfortunate and humiliating, and if any more disagreeable thought entered Sir Frederic's mind it was promptly banished as an unworthy suggestion of a worldly education.
During the weeks of convalescence through which Stella passed after the shock of that evening's disaster, Mrs. Sinclair scarcely left her side. The two were inseparable, and during the long winter evenings they would sit before the blazing, open fire, which was always to be found in Mrs. Sinclair's cosy sitting-room on chilly nights, Mrs. Sinclair in the comfortable rocker with Stella's golden head pillowed lovingly upon her knee, while the young girl sat in graceful comfort on the heavy hearth-rug, or a convenient ottoman.
The sorrowful days had left their traces on Mrs. Sinclair's raven locks, and in the shadows about her eyes, but an expression of supreme thankfulness shone on her face as her eyes rested lovingly on Stella's wavy hair. Only now and then when silence fell upon the air, the sweet mouth curved in lines of sadness, and her motherly eyes seemed trying to pierce the clouds of uncertainty and apprehension that closed around her at every unfamiliar step or voice.
It was as if she looked and listened for a nameless something while she dreaded its coming with a mighty dread. Even now, when a card was handed her by the servant, her hand shook perceptibly as she took it from the salver. A look reassured her, and smiling into Stella's upturned face, she said, "It is Sir Frederic, love, shall we have him right up here?"
"Certainly, mamma if you wish," was the simple response, but in some way the face that a moment before was demure and white as the lily, is now flushed and brimming with joy like the heart of an opening rose.
Rising, she had only time to seat herself decorously on the comfortable sofa when Sir Frederic entered.
"Ah, Sir Frederic, I am more than glad to see you this evening," said Mrs. Sinclair, as she gave him her hand in greeting.
"And I," responded he, "have been counting the moments since dinner in my eagerness to come and yet not presume upon your hospitality by the earliness of my appearance."
Then turning, he continued with a sudden rush of tenderness in his tones, "and you, Miss Stella, are glad to see me?" He was so absorbed in the contemplation of her face and his eagerness to hear her answer, that Mrs. Sinclair's somewhat unceremonious exit from the room was unnoticed.
Stella smiled, and giving him her hand, said softly, "I am very glad, Sir Frederic, it is always a pleasure to see you, but to-night,"—here her eyes filled with tears, "is the anniversary of all our trouble, and you have been our best and dearest friend, mamma's and mine. I don't know what we should have done without you," here her voice grew fainter as she continued, brokenly, "I don't know what I,"—
She could not go on, and Sir Frederic, placing his arm tenderly about her, pillowed her head upon his breast while he whispered gently, "You shall never do without me again, little one, for indeed I cannot live longer without you. I may not tell my love prettily, Stella, for I am little versed in that pleasing art, but if a life of untiring devotion can speak my love, I will gladly give you that. Look up dear heart, and tell me that you will give yourself to me forever."
But Stella did not look up. Instead, she nestled her head deeper in his arms, but as his lips touched her shining hair, he murmured with a satisfied and radiant smile, "my darling, my wife."
To a man of forty who has lived his life unsinged by passion's blaze, and unblinded by young love's delusion, the blessing of a woman's love brings peace and happiness, almost too great for human understanding. All the currents of his soul go out to her, and the restless rivers of his mighty nature find peace at last in the unfathomable ocean of her love.
Thus it was during the first sweet hour of their betrothal. In Sir Frederic's heart the calm of a great joy followed like a summer cloud upon the path of a sorrowful tempest.
Not so with Stella, however, for with the first great rush of joy on knowing that she was so beloved, her very identity, past, present and future, seemed lost in his. A glorious panorama of heavenly sights and entrancing music burst upon her vision.
Self was lost in the whirlpool of future joys and duties, and the only object that stood clear before her eyes was the form of her heart's beloved, and to him she clung with all the fond abandon of her simple trusting nature.
Body and soul she gave herself to her lover, as woman can only give herself once in the period of her existence, and in deeply reverential spirit, Sir Frederic received the precious gift and cherished it forever.
It was Mrs. Sinclair's voice at the door that at last recalled the lovers to a vague consideration of things earthly.
The eyes of an indifferent observer could hardly have misunderstood the situation, and Mrs. Sinclair only glanced into Stella's face and in another second her darling was in her arms and both were laughing and crying in true woman fashion.
Ever since the morning that Lady Van Tyne confided her belief in Maurice Sinclair's Satanic individuality to her family physician, the remorseful Dr. Seward was imbued with an undying curiosity to learn more of this human phenomenon. But the abduction of Stella, coming so suddenly upon them, made it almost impossible to indulge his interest in that direction.
Naturally he would not care to mention the subject to the grief tortured mother, and as to Lady Van Tyne, her excitement rendered her totally incoherent whenever the subject was broached. Another reason for sensitiveness on the part of Dr. Seward, when in the presence of Mrs. Sinclair, may have lain in the knowledge of his guilty secret, the unburdening of which, would have been to press the dregs of shame to Lady Van Tyne's lips and pierce the devoted mourner of Archibald Sinclair where her love and faith were tenderest. Thus it was not until after the restoration of Stella to her foster mother's arms that the impatient physician learned ought of the young man in whom he had taken so unaccountable an interest.
It was now some time after Stella's recovery and Dr. Seward was sitting, for a brief social call, with Mrs. Sinclair in her pleasant parlor. Dr. Seward had been a faithful friend for years and now that her darling was safe, Mrs. Sinclair told him freely of Stella's unfortunate experience and of the information which she received of her son during her brief call upon Elizabeth Merril's grandparents.
The old physician was deeply interested in the narrative and made occasional notes on one of his visiting cards in reference to the matter. The names of Lawrence Maynard and Elizabeth Merril were heavily underscored and the card placed carefully in his pocket.
The doctor laid great weight upon the absence of intuitive, motherly affection in Mrs. Sinclair's case at her son's appearance when she had clearly explained her feelings to her old adviser, but she only saw in his rigid cross questioning the life long habit of scientific analysis and gave little thought to the problem which the physician was trying, in his clever brain, to solve. More interested than he cared to admit, Dr. Seward only waited a few days before going to G—— St., as had Mrs. Sinclair before him.
The aged couple, burdened with sorrow, were only waiting the hour when, hand in hand, they should enter the dark valley of the shadow of death, even as they had walked through the many checkered paths of a life of nearly four score years.
Perhaps it was a mercy that their trusting hearts were spared the actual knowledge of Elizabeth's fate, as the sweet memory of her childhood and girlish days was always a solace even in their moments of grief. Could they have seen her at any time during the year that had now elapsed since her disappearance, the misery and squalor of her surroundings and the shame of her one error, would have occasioned their virtuous souls far more anguish than the awful death which they supposed to have been her fate. Calmly, and with unvarying precision, the white haired woman related to Dr. Seward the only crumbs of information it had been her lot to gain, and from another room she brought a small, oddly shaped vial, containing a dark brown powder, which she said she had found in his apartments when her eccentric, young lodger had left.
The vial was without a label and heedful of Mr. Maynard's frequent warnings the cork had never been removed.
It took but a glance to show Dr. Seward that it was an exact counterpart of the one found in Stella's room the morning after her abduction, and placing it carefully in his pocket he took kindly leave of the aged people, and not wholly dissatisfied with his morning's work, returned speedily to his private office. It was about three in the afternoon when he seated himself in his easy chair, and adjusting his glasses prepared to examine, from a purely analytical standpoint, the brownish powder contained in the little vial. He held it to the light, but it was opaque, dull and uninteresting. He shook it, but the agitated particles fell back as indifferently as possible to their original positions. Then, true to his vocation, he removed the stopper gingerly between his first and middle fingers and raised the vial cautiously to a respectful distance from his nose. The first sniff was entirely non-committal. The next was a little stronger effort and he thought he detected a faint, sickish odor.
Shaking the bottle again gently, he drew it nearer and took a bold inspiration immediately over its contents. Almost instantly his hand fell to his side; the vial fell upon the heavy carpet, spilling most of its contents, and these, as they came in contact with the air, ignited and burnt, while the sickening, penetrating fumes arose like incense and completely filled the spacious apartment. For one hour by the clock he sat there, motionless as death, but fully cognizant of all that passed about him. He longed, with true scientific fervor, to rescue the vial with its remaining contents, but his members were benumbed and motionless. He heard the signs of life in and about the house, but was powerless to raise his voice. He even fancied, in his speculative manner, that he was experiencing the sensations of a disembodied soul after the resurrection, and his scepticism regarding spiritualism and theosophy, was shaken to its very foundation.
There was no terror in the situation and almost from force of long trained habit, he noted every symptom of his condition with great precision and detail. He saw the hands move slowly on the clock before him, and felt the draught from a half closed door blowing softly upon his back. This trifling matter amused him, coming to his mind, as it did, in the midst of grave, spiritualistic meditations, and the mental smile which accompanied the amusement was another proof of the absolute uselessness of the fleshy body for all demonstrations of like nature.
It seemed strange to him that he had never before realized how useless an encumbrance the body was, after all. He could see, hear, smell and think, and his mind conveyed him wheresoever he willed, so that really only the power of speech was denied him. Suddenly it occurred to him that speech also was possible, but it must necessarily be a communion of similar disembodied souls rather than intercourse with ordinary mortals, and while he was longing with all the zeal of his investigatory nature for an opportunity to test his mental vocabulary, a tingling sensation began in his extremities and passed, almost like an electric current, through all his members. His living death was ended, and concentrating all his energies, he staggered from the chair.
The fumes from the burning powder were now exhausted, and bending unsteadily, he secured the half emptied vial and corking it firmly, concealed it once more in his pocket.
Then touching an electric bell, he sent a peal vibrating through the house, and a moment later, when the frightened assistant hurriedly entered, it was only to find the good physician stretched in apparently dreamless slumber upon the office sofa.
The months of another year flew swiftly by and still nothing was heard of Maurice Sinclair. It was finally concluded by all that he had escaped to some foreign port and the search was finally abandoned.
In her new joy, Stella overlooked the past as only youth can overlook its sorrows, but in Mrs. Sinclair's heart there was always a bitter pain and a mother's prayer for her erring boy.
It was the second anniversary of that never to be forgotten ball, but it was Stella's wish that the crowning happiness of her life should take place on the recurrence of that night which brought them all so much of grief and misery, and, although torn with varied emotions, Mrs. Sinclair was well content that it should be.
Thus, in the grand drawing room of her foster mother's home, Stella and Sir Frederic were married.
The ceremony was strictly private, as the shadow of sin and sorrow still hung heavily above their heads.
But to Stella it was as the glorious dawn of another life, whose anticipated pleasures were far in excess of any she had heretofore experienced. Peace and joy spread their white wings about her and the haven of her husband's love seemed the very portals of Heaven itself.
For this night also, the shadows were lifted from Mrs. Sinclair's face, and banishing with a resolute will, the fears and anxieties of the past, she entertained the few guests with her old time gracious stateliness.
As for Sir Frederic, it mattered little to him that the world was full of sorrow; that every pleasure came attended with more or less of grief and pain; that rogues and rascals exceeded by far the honest members of society and all on earth was vanity and vexation of spirit. Into his life had come a bliss, capable in itself of turning bitter, sweet; of overcoming evil with good and changing all the darker passions of life, chameleon like, beneath the rays of his rosy lenses.
It was Stella's own wish that they, Mrs. Sinclair, her husband and herself, should visit America on their wedding journey, and Sir Frederic, thinking it would be best for them all to leave for a time the scenes of so much sorrow, readily acceded to her wish. Not but that he would have consented just as readily to a trip across the Sahara or to some unexplored region in the mountains of the moon, but America was her wish, and to America they sailed on the first Cunarder that left Liverpool after their marriage.
Stella's marriage to Sir Frederic, although a quiet and unostentatious event, brought, both to Stella and Mrs. Sinclair, a sense of security and protection that was very grateful after the anxieties and excitement of the past.
Women may prate of independent self reliance, and scorn the assistance of man during their hours of success and pleasure, but seldom it is in the darker days, when danger threatens and the weakness of a delicate organism assumes alarming proportions, that the willing hand and steady head of an honorable man, goes unappreciated.
Goodly numbers there be, whose only claim to manliness lies in body and garments, from the weakness of whose intellects, brave women turn with ill concealed disgust, but an unwomanly woman it is that does not value true masculine strength and bravery and turn with grateful heart to the protecting arm that is proffered so gladly in each and every disaster of life.
It seemed to Stella that forever and ever she was safe from the temptations and evils of life, and upon the rock of her husband's protection she threw herself with that tender helplessness so dear to an adoring husband's heart.
Woman has done much to increase man's femininety by her persistency in doing his duties for him, and if now her "lord and master" sits calmly by while she labors for the support of the family, the responsibility of this deplorable result rests, in nearly every instance, upon herself or some other self-sufficient member of her short sighted sisterhood.
Mrs. Sinclair had been an almost worshiping wife, but her independent nature responded to the touch of necessity, and in the time of required bravery no woman could have acted with greater courage and judgment.
Thus, in Stella's childlike trust, Sir Frederic recognized the germs of noble womanhood, and respect and reverence blended deeply with his tender love and passion.
When at last the service was ended and man and wife were clasped in each other's arms, that measure of perfect and enduring love was felt by them that is rarely known in this world of thoughtless and misguided unions.
Little did they dream that on the very night of their perfect happiness, another terrible tragedy was being enacted, with Maurice Sinclair in the villain's role and Elizabeth Merril again the victim.
It was on this very night that the habitues of that particular passage in the Whitechapel section, gazed with sentiments of mingled awe and curiosity, as Sam Hop Lee withdrew the bloody weapon from the prostrate body of "Queen Liz."
Elizabeth's reputation in the passage was pretty clearly defined in our opening chapter. Her ability to defend herself and friends against her pugilistic and plundering neighbors had been the eventual outcome of fear, desperation and the first law of nature.
She shunned their society from the first, and acting on the advice of one who knew the ways of rogues and rascals from long association, she demonstrated her skill in the use of "protecting irons" at the very first provocation. Jealousy and envy surrounded her, yet so great was their fear of genuine bravery that Elizabeth managed to live pretty much as she wished in her own wretched room. She guarded her beautiful baby girl with the ferocious affection of a tigress. Not an instant, day or night, was the child allowed out of her sight so great was her distrust of those by whom she was surrounded.
But in some way from the first, Sam Lee had in many ways befriended her. He had given the baby queer little chop sticks to play with and not infrequently an odd looking paper of curious tasting tea was slipped into her hand by the beady-eyed mongolian. Recognizing him at once as Mr. Maynard's mysterious peddler, Elizabeth was inclined to be suspicious of his friendship, but as days and weeks rolled by she found herself going oftener and oftener to his quarters, and never in a single instance did he abuse her neighborly advances. She tried hard to teach him the English language, but in spite of his earnest efforts he proved but an indifferent scholar.
Soon it was noticed that the genteel looking stranger who spent so much time with Queen Liz, became also much at home in the Chinaman's shanty, and they were frequently heard conversing in that peculiarly abbreviated language that was so bewildering to those who listened.
The genteel stranger was always arrayed in a heavy coat with a jaunty cape and a soft felt hat slouched suspiciously over his eyes. His beard was red and closely cropped, while a tawny moustache completely concealed his mouth. He was seldom seen during the day, but partook strongly of the habits of the other residents in his nocturnal goings and comings.
Queen Liz always escorted him safely to the street, and it was observed by the more curious that her face wore a happier expression after one of his visits, and her whole manner betokened a lighter heart. She would fondle and caress the baby, which she always kept spotlessly clean, and occasionally her voice was heard as she sang some plaintive air to the uncertain accompaniment of a clanging Chinese cymbal.
But to-night it was all over, and as Sam Lee withdrew the glittering knife from her bleeding side, a terrible frown darkened his brow; Chinese curses and lamentations followed one upon another, and to the bewildered spectators it seemed as if, in his own heathenish method, Sam Lee was swearing vengeance on the murderer, whom he had evidently recognized by the weapon. At any rate, he removed the woman and the child, and the inmates, nothing loth, resigned all claim upon them both, and soon the episode, like many others of similar nature, was forgotten.
Only a week later the Chinaman's shanty was closed and no one of the trio, Queen Liz, the child or their benefactor, was ever again seen by the inhabitants of the passage.
The first day at sea was fair and uneventful, but on the second day a curious episode occurred upon the deck.
An under-officer, young and with a frank, boyish face, came quietly, hat in hand, to where Mrs. Sinclair, Sir Frederic and Stella were sitting, and in a respectful manner requested permission to address the ladies in behalf of a poor woman and her child who had shipped in the steerage.
The woman, he said, was refined in her appearance, and was very seriously ill while her sufferings were necessarily aggravated by her incommodious surroundings.
With a modest blush he went on to say that ever since he discovered her wretched condition he had been scanning the faces of the passengers in search of a kindly heart and had finally decided upon their party as the one most liable to assist him in his humane undertaking.
She was being cared for, in a measure, by a kind hearted Mongolian, but his sympathies were won, not so much by the woman as by the baby, who seemed almost entirely neglected.
He had learned that the woman was a victim of intended murder, and the Chinaman whose name was registered among the steerage lists as Sam Hop Lee, had taken both woman and child and gone forth unaided and unasked, in search of the murderer whose face he knew and who he had good reason to believe, was now in New York.
The story seemed plausible, and the memory of their own bitter sorrows fresh in their minds, made their hearts ache with sympathy in the poor woman's behalf, still, quite naturally, the ladies hesitated before taking upon themselves so great a responsibility.
But the young officer, with a shrewd knowledge of women's hearts, ran forward, and as quickly returned with one of the "sweetest, cunningest babies in the world."
At least, that was the verdict of both ladies on the very instant of the little girl's appearance.
The baby settled the matter, as the young officer almost knew she would. She looked into Stella's lovely face and smiled, but she opened her little arms to Mrs. Sinclair and nestled her curly head in her motherly arms and no coaxing or inducements could alter her decision. Fortunately, a berth was secured for the invalid, but no one ever guessed that it was the young officer's own stateroom that was so promptly offered for her acceptance.
Sir Frederic made many attempts to gain more information regarding the unfortunate woman and her child from Sam Hop Lee, but his limited English so confused and muddled him that there was little satisfaction to be gained.
The young officer succeeded better through a slight knowledge of the Chinese tongue, but whether Sam Lee did not sufficiently understand or whether he had some reason for remaining silent it was difficult to determine.
However it was, nothing definite was learned through repeated conversations with him, and he gradually slipped back to his position in the steerage and the ladies saw no more of him during the voyage. The woman was suffering, not only from an incisive cut in the side, just over the lower rib, but also from an obstinate attack of pleurisy from exposure and lack of care, so that conversation with her was, at the time, impossible.
The little girl was sweet and affectionate and soon made friends with all on deck, much to the satisfaction of the young officer who, apparently, looked upon her as a sort of protégé.
Little did Stella and Mrs. Sinclair dream of the disclosures that time was destined to reveal regarding this innocent child and her unhappy young mother.
But before another day had passed, a story was brought to their wondering ears that made them forget for a time the sorrows of others in the extraordinary development of their own life tragedy.
The steamer was now about half way across the Atlantic, and this was the first disagreeable weather she had encountered. To-night the wind blew heavily; the waves rolled high and few of the many passengers remained on deck after the "dog watch" was set.
Mrs. Sinclair felt a slight sensation of that much dreaded and truly awful malady which bears the mild, delusive name of sea-sickness, and remained quietly in her berth, but Stella, clinging to her husband's arm, reached a somewhat sheltered spot on deck, and there, with his arm about her, Sir Frederic sat and looked about over the fast darkening ocean.
Clouds, black and threatening, were rolling heavily across the sky, while the winds howled angrily through the rigging, and the white capped waves threw themselves against the steamer's sides as though enraged at her stubborn resistance of their destroying wills. Truly, sky and ocean, air and space, seemed joining powers in a mighty effort to overthrow the universe, and were only lashed into greater fury at the defiance cast in their very teeth by the handiwork of man. Yet the steamer advanced steadily forward, coquetting with the gentler waves and breasting the more determined ones with dogged persistence.
But to Stella, the confusion of the elements brought only a feeling of greater security in her husband's love. She looked to him and trusted; she clung to him and was safe,—for come weal or woe, they were together, and death by whatever manner could bring no terror, so that it found her in his arms. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Stella raised her eyes and whispered softly, "Dearest, there is something I would like to tell you, in fact, I should have done so before but I was so happy I dreaded to revive old memories,—but now, I feel that I would like to tell you, of that night—"
"No, Darling," Sir Frederic interrupted, quickly. "Do not speak of it Stella. Try and forget all that is past, and live only in the joys of the present and future," and he pressed her closer to his side as if the joy of his present was sufficient to eradicate all memories of unpleasant nature.
"But I think I would feel easier if I could tell you, dear," she pleaded. "It was all so strange, but neither you or mamma ever asked me and some way I have never felt like mentioning it myself until to-night. Do let me tell you, Frederic," she entreated.
"Stella, dear, if you wish to, certainly my love, only do not let your memory dwell upon so painful a subject."
"It is about that night," Stella said softly. "I had gone to my room to retire, after telling Maurice plainly which room I was to occupy. I closed my door and threw open the window for a moment while I stood, injudiciously you will say, and let the damp mists cool my face. I did not hear my door open, neither did I hear his step, but suddenly a most peculiar odor stifled me. I turned quickly to see from whence it came, and there was Maurice standing by my side. The expression on his face was horrible. I opened my lips, involuntarily, to scream, but no sound came. Instead, my throat and lungs seemed instantly filled to suffocating with the stifling odor. I grew dizzy and would have fallen but he caught me in his arms. Then he wrapped my cloak about me,—put my traveling cap on my head, and, Frederic, I walked out of the room with his aid, through the hall to the side door and actually entered a cab, knowing all the time exactly as well what I was doing as I know now, but it was impossible for me to speak or think connectedly. I could not move without his aid. So it was throughout that long and dreadful ride; I could neither speak or move but I heard and understood every word that he addressed to me. He evidently knew the exact nature of the drug that he had employed for he talked to me all the way, telling me his plans, and the awful fate that awaited me if I did not yield to his wishes. But this I must say to his credit, that in no way did he molest me and I was as free from the pollution of his touch when I left the carriage as when I entered it."
Here Stella's voice died away as a specially vindictive gust swept by their sheltered nook, and Sir Frederic, after pressing a tender kiss upon her lips, sprang to his feet and wrapping her closer in his ample rug, almost carried her across the deck and down to the comfortable stateroom, then leaving her with Mrs. Sinclair, he climbed the stairs once more, and walked back and forth across the slippery planks, trying to calm, if possible, the tumult of indignation and sorrow, that Stella's recital aroused within his breast.
Soon two other passengers joined him in his solitary walk, and it was evident to him by the peculiar roll of the body, that one of the newcomers at least, was well accustomed to pacing slippery decks and encountering heavy seas. Sure enough, he was the old "sea dog" whose genial, brown face had won the hearts of all at the Captain's table. He was Commander of some ship now on dry dock, and was taking this opportunity to try a voyage with his friend, the Captain of the Cunarder.
To-night, he had succeeded in enticing a particularly timid young man on deck to "try the weather and brace him up a bit," as he good-naturedly explained it. But now that he was once more walking the deck in the teeth of a "rattling breeze," 'his cup of pleasure overflowed and he proceeded to terrify the young man nearly out of his wits by a thrilling sea yarn of earlier days.
Sir Frederic, realizing that a story told on deck is common property, linked his arm in the young man's unoccupied one and catching step as best he could, walked on, while he listened somewhat absently to the Captain's narrative.
"It was twelve years ago," the Captain was saying, "and I was in charge of the 'Water Sprite,' running from Liverpool to Calcutta. She was a rakish little craft, with a slippery keel,—quick to mind her helm and would carry sail to the last, but we'd had a long, rough voyage and all hands was pretty nigh used up, but when we was about three days from the eastern port we was struck, almost unawares, by a terrible gale. I say unawares, but I must own we was in pretty good shape for squalls all the time, but on this partic'lar night I staid below more'n I should if it hadn't been that one of the young chaps that shipped 'tween decks in the cargo at Liverpool, was a dyin' out of pure out and out sea sickness.
"Well, as I was sayin; the first officer was on the bridge and I was sittin' below with young Sinclair, when"—
"Excuse me, Captain,—Sinclair, did you say?" exclaimed Sir Frederic, suddenly aroused to interest by the familiar name.
"Aye, Aye, Sir, Maurice Sinclair, a lad of about fifteen years. He said he'd got into some scrape at home and had just started out on his own hook, and"—
"Maurice Sinclair,—Twelve years ago,—Did he die?" Sir Frederic almost screamed in the old Captain's ear as a howling blast swept by, nearly driving their feet from under them.
The old man steadied him with a powerful hand but his ire was rising at these frequent interruptions to his favorite yarn, and he answered somewhat snappishly, "Die? Yes, poor lad. He died in my arms that very night in the height of the gale, when the rigging was swept away and the waves was washing the upper deck—"
"Can you prove that?" demanded Sir Frederic, excitedly.
"Prove what? that the rigging was swept away?" thundered the old salt, now thoroughly angry.
"No! No!—that Maurice Sinclair died in your arms, twelve years ago."
Well I ruther guess I can, seein' as I've got the young chap's partin' letter to his mother in London and a picter of the old lady herself"—
"Let me see it, quick," said Sir Frederic, then in a measure controlling himself, he told him as briefly as possible of Maurice Sinclair's return to his mother's house a little over two years ago and of the crime for which he was wanted by the city authorities.
The old Captain was inclined to be incredulous, but before Sir Frederic had finished his story, his ire had vanished, so also had all recollection of the yarn he had been about to spin, and leaving the timid young man to return as best he could, he laid his hand on Sir Frederic's arm and hurried him down the companion way while he muttered spitefully between his teeth:
"It's a lie. Maurice Sinclair is dead, and that rascal, whoever he is, is a Damned Imposter!"
Words can hardly convey the feelings of wonder, sorrow and relief that followed each other in rapid succession through Mrs. Sinclair's mind at the old Captain's story.
She looked upon the undeniable proof of her own photograph with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, while the last repentant words of her only child, brought pain too deep for utterance or demonstration. It seemed that two lads of about the same age, strangers to each other, became inspired with the mutual desire to run away from parental authority and try their luck upon the ocean.
Neither of the lads dreamed for an instant that their unexpected entree into the Captain's family, when they were safely out of port, would be greeted with less than cheers and congratulations, or that other than ease and glory would be their portion for the remainder of the voyage.
Fortunately, for the success of their expectations, the Commander of the "Water Sprite" had a gentle heart under his rough exterior, and moreover, had boys of his own at home, so he only insisted on their earning their glory by keeping the brass work shining and allowed them to eat their fill at the second table.
The boys were singularly alike in feature but widely different in expression and disposition, Maurice being mischievous and happy, while Jack Fenton, the other lad, was ill-natured and vicious in his dealings with his companion in the adventure.
On the day preceding the terrible storm, Maurice was taken violently ill, and notwithstanding all was done that could be under such limited circumstances, he passed away almost at the very moment, when, rudderless and with her rigging swept away, the "Water Sprite" drifted helplessly at the mercy of wind and wave.
They were all saved through the timely assistance of an outgoing steamer, but Maurice's dead body was left to find a watery grave, through sheer inability to remove it.
The other lad was safely landed in Calcutta, and the Captain soon lost track of him in the press of his many duties.
To the old Captain, Maurice had told much of his home surroundings and the letter to his mother, on the day of his death, was written at his instigation, when his experienced eye saw that the black shadow was fast settling down upon the frail lad's features. Before he died he gave his ring, his clothing and the few other trifles that he had managed to conceal about him when leaving home, to his comrade, Jack Fenton.
Afterward the Captain regretted that he had not retained these treasures with the photograph and letter, but years passed by and in the varied excitements and dangers of his adventurous life the incident was only remembered in connection with the terrible disaster to his favorite vessel, but the letter and picture had traveled about with him for twelve long years, so safely hidden in the case of his miniature pocket compass that their very existence was forgotten until the moment of Sir Frederic's astounding revelation. The night was far spent before he had finished his narrative and answered the almost innumerable questions of his excited hearers.
They little heeded the violence of the storm, so great was the tempest of sorrow and rejoicing that raged within their hearts. When morning broke, the ladies were more composed, and a peaceful smile rested upon Mrs. Sinclair's face.
Truly, the grief for a loved one whom death has taken from our hearts and homes, is nothing in comparison to the shame and sorrow for one upon whom evil deeds have left an ineffaceable stigma. A load seemed lifted from her heart and although sorrow fell like a pall around her, still the bitterness had been removed and even in her bereavement she could find great cause for heartfelt thankfulness.
The sick woman was slowly recovering and the little Elsa was like a ray of sunshine, lighting up each grief darkened heart with her merry prattle.
Promptly upon their arrival in New York the suffering woman was placed in the wards of St. Luke's Hospital, but the little girl was gladly retained under the watchful eye of motherly Mrs. Sinclair.
Some way, in the bustle and confusion of disembarking, Sam Lee was totally forgotten, but the beady eyes of the Mongolian watched their every movement and in his own quiet way he soon discovered the destination of both the woman and the little girl.
It was not long before Sir Frederic secured the lease of a handsomely furnished house, and removed, not only Mrs. Sinclair and Stella, but also the now convalescent woman and her child, to this beautiful, although transient, home.