Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

FAIR PLAY
A NOVEL

BY

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

AUTHOR OF

“Self-Raised,” “Ishmael,” “Retribution,” “The Bridal Eve,” “The Deserted Wife,” “Eudora,” “The Haunted Homestead,” “The Widow’s Son,” “Victor’s Triumph,” “The Wife’s Victory,” Etc.

CHICAGO

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

PRINTERS AND BINDERS

407–429 DEARBORN STREET

CHICAGO

FAIR PLAY.

CHAPTER I.
THE FOUR BELLES OF BELLEMONT.

“God created woman, a living soul, worthy to stand in His presence and worship him! and if it were only from the reverence she owes him, she should never degrade herself to be any man’s slave! God endowed woman with individual life—with power, will and understanding, brain, heart and hands to do His work; and if it were only in gratitude to him, she should never commit the moral suicide of becoming the nonentity of which man’s law makes a wife!”

She was a splendid creature who uttered this heterodoxy, a magnificent and beautiful creature! She spoke fervently, earnestly, passionately, with blazing eyes, flushed cheeks and crimsoned lips that seemed to breathe the fire that burned in her enthusiastic soul.

She was the most brilliant of a group of four lovely young girls who were seated on the fresh grass, in a grove of magnolia trees on the south banks of the James.

Before them flowed the fair river, fringed with wooded shores and dotted with green isles, all sparkling in the early sunlight of a June morning.

Behind them, from amidst its ornamented grounds, arose the white walls of Bellemont College for young ladies.

The first day of June was the annual commencement of the college. And these four young girls, all dressed in purest white robes with rose-colored wreaths and sashes, had sauntered out together and grouped themselves under the magnolia trees to wait for the ringing of the bell which should call them to the exhibition room.

Four more beautiful young creatures than these could scarcely be found in the world. They were called the Four Belles of Bellemont. They would have been belles anywhere and borne off palms of beauty from all other competitors. Yet beautiful as each one was, the four were not rival belles; because, in fact, each one was of a totally different style from all the others. They might be said to represent the four orders of female beauty—the blue, gray, hazel and black-eyed woman.

So far were they from being rivals, that they were fast friends, banded in an alliance for offense and defense against the whole school, if not the whole world!

Britomarte Conyers, the man-hater, the woman’s champion, the marriage renouncer, first in beauty, grace and intellect, was, as I said, a magnificent creature—not in regard to size, for she was not so tall as the blue-eyed belle, nor so full-fleshed as the hazel-eyed one; but magnificent in the sense of conscious strength, ardor and energy with which she impressed all. She felt and made you feel, that if her earnest soul had been clothed with the form of a man, she would have been one to govern the minds of men and guide the fortunes of nations; or, woman as she was, if law and custom had allowed her freer action and a fairer field, she would have influenced the progress of humanity and filled a place in history.

Britomarte’s present position and prospects were not very brilliant. She was the orphan ward of a maiden aunt, who had sent her to this school to be educated as a governess; and a hard struggle with the world was all that she had to look forward to; but certainly, if ever a woman was formed to fight the battle of life without fear and without reproach, it was this brave, spirited, energetic young amazon.

In this quartette of fair girls the second in merit was certainly Erminie Rosenthal, the daughter of a Lutheran preacher. Erminie was above the medium height, with a well-developed, beautifully rounded, buxom form; splendidly moulded features, blooming complexion, softly shining, hazel eyes, and a shower of bright, auburn ringlets shading the sweetest face in the whole group.

The third in this bevy of beauties was Elfrida Fielding, the daughter of a thriving farmer. Elfie was small, slight, and elegant in figure, and dark in complexion, with a rich crimson flush upon cheeks and lips, and with black eyes, eyelashes and eyebrows, and jet black hair, cut short, parted on the left side, and worn in crisp curls like a boy’s. Elfie was the wild sprite, the mischievous monkey, the fast little girl of the party. She was lively, witty, impulsive, excitable, fickle, and had an especial affinity for—anything and everything in its turn, and an especial mission to engage in—anything and everything that turned up.

Fourth and last among the four belles of Bellemont, though certainly first in social position, was Alberta Goldsborough, the daughter of a wealthy merchant in Richmond, and the heiress in her own right of a rich plantation on the James. Alberta was tall, slender and dignified, with classic, marble-like features, dazzlingly fair complexion, light golden hair, and light blue eyes. She was a statuesque blond beauty.

The four belles, languidly reclining under the magnolia trees, had been discussing as schoolgirls always do when they get together out of the sight of their teachers—first the highly important subject of dress; Elfie exclaiming indignantly at the outrage of being obliged to wear rose-colored trimmings, when maize or cherry suited her brilliant brunette beauty so much better; and Alberta placidly adding that she herself would have preferred pale blue or mauve as more becoming to her blond complexion. Erminie made no objection to the uniform, which was perfectly adapted to her blooming loveliness; and Britomarte was too indifferent to the subject to join in the conversation. But when their talk turned upon matters of secondary importance, namely love and marriage, and they had talked a great deal of girlish nonsense thereupon, then Britomarte broke forth with the words that opened this story.

“Are you right, dear Britomarte?” questioned Erminie, lifting her soft, sunny, hazel eyes to the face of the speaker, with a loving, deprecating reverence, as though asking pardon for doubting that any word of her oracle could be less authoritative than those of Holy Writ. “Are you quite sure that you are perfectly right?”

“I am,” answered Britomarte, firmly.

“But is not man’s law of marriage founded upon God’s?” timidly persisted Erminie, laying her hands upon the lap of her idol.

“No! Those who say that it is, repeat a falsehood, invented by man and inspired by Satan! The law of marriage founded on the law of God, indeed! There is not a line or a word in the books of Moses or the gospels of Christ to justify the base assertion? Pray, were the glorious women of the Old Testament, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Esther, Deborah, Judith, Jael—women who ruled with men—had talked with God and His angels—or were the divine women of the New Testament, Mary, Elizabeth, Anna—the mother of the Christ, the mother of the Baptist, the Prophetess of the Temple—were any of these, I say, the mere nonentities that man’s laws makes of married women? Never! And more I say! Any man who approves of the present laws of marriage that take away a married woman’s property and liberty, and even legal existence—any man, I say, who approves those laws is a despot and despoiler at heart, and would be a robber and murderer if the fear of prisons and scaffolds did not hold him in restraint! And any woman who disapproves these laws, yet dares not express her disapproval, is a slave and a coward who deserves her fate!”

“Britomarte, dear, how warm you are. Your cheeks are quite flushed. Take my fan and try not to get so excited,” said Alberta, coolly, presenting a pink and spangled toy to the ardent amazon.

“Hold your tongue! Thank you, I don’t want it,” answered Britomarte, waving away the proffered article.

“But, Britomarte, love,” murmured Erminie, leaning upon the champion’s lap, and lifting her soft hazel eyes to the champion’s proud face, with that appealing gaze with which the loving plead with the fiery, “Britomarte, darling, ‘Wives, obey your husbands’ are the words of Holy Writ!”

With an impatient gesture Britomarte pushed off her worshiper, exclaiming:

“Paul said that! He was a dry old lawyer, a bookworm and a bachelor! What did he know about it? And besides, if he had been like Jacob, a married man, with two wives, and two handmaids, and twelve children, I would not take the word of the old apostle any more than I would that of a modern preacher, unsupported by the law of Moses and the gospel of Christ! And man’s legislation upon marriage has been guided neither by law nor gospel!”

“Bosh!” exclaimed Elfie, whom neither pastors nor masters had been able to break of the use of slang, “let the poor wretches make all the laws in their own favor, if it amuses or helps to deceive them. They like it, and it don’t hurt us! We needn’t trouble our heads to keep their laws, you know! Let who will bother themselves about women’s rights, so we have our own way! And anything we can’t bluster or coax out of our natural enemy ain’t worth having! Why, law! girls, the creatures are easily enough managed when you once get used to them! Why, there are no less than three governors at Sunnyslopes—one pap and two uncles; but who do you think, now, rules the roost at Sunnyslopes?”

“You do, when you are at home,” suggested Britomarte.

“You better believe it, my dear! Why, law, girls, I can wind pap and uncles round my finger as easily as I can this blade of grass,” said Elfie, suiting the action to the word with a mischievous sparkle in her bright black eyes.

“Well, for my part,” said the fair Alberta, coolly playing with the gold chain upon her bosom, “whenever I shall be engaged to be married, it will, of course, be to the proper sort of person. And papa will see that proper settlements are drawn up between us, and that my own fortune is settled upon myself to spend as I please. In that way I shall secure all the rights I care about. I must have a splendid establishment, with costly furniture, and carriages, and horses, and servants, and dresses and jewelry, and unlimited pocket-money. And so that I have all that, my husband may do all the voting and make all the laws for both of us.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Britomarte, bitterly, “it is you and such as you, Alberta, that retard the progress of woman’s emancipation! If there were no willing slaves, there could be no successful tyrants! You are quite willing to sell your liberty for lucre—to become a slave, so that your chains and fetters be of gold!”

“Yes, these ornaments are rather like handcuffs, are they not?” said Alberta, slightly raising her eyebrows as she displayed the priceless diamond bracelets on her wrists. “But I do not see the justice of your words, Britomarte, since I certainly do not intend to sell my hand for money, but only to have my own inherited fortune settled upon myself.”

“For which simple price of justice you are willing to concede your most sacred civil and political rights!”

Alberta shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I speak to you of pocket-money, and you answer me with politics. Bah! why should I care, so that I have a fortune to spend independent of my future husband? For just think what a trouble it would be to have to ask him for money every time I wanted to go shopping!”

“Oh! a horrid nuisance! I think I shall follow your example, Alba! I shall get pap to settle the niggers, and the money, and the old blind mare, and all the rest of the personal on me by myself, so that my natural enemy, whenever I shall fall into his hands, can’t take it from me. In return for which I will promise to keep in my sphere, and not run for constable nor Congress,” said Elfie.

“You are both right so far as you go,” said Britomarte, earnestly, “but you don’t go far enough. A girl with property is often married only for that property. And if her husband should be a prodigal and squander it, and bring her to want, or if he should be a miser and hoard it, and deprive her of the comforts of life, she has no redress. Therefore, it is well that a woman’s property should be settled upon herself, and that she should be independent of her husband, at least as far as money can make her so. What do you say, my dear?” she inquired, turning to Erminie.

Erminie hesitated, the bright bloom wavered on her cheeks, and then deepened into a vivid blush. She dropped her long-fringed eyelids over her soft eyes, and answered, gently:

“I am glad I am not rich; very glad that I have nothing at all of my own. Now I go to my dear father for everything I want, and it is sweet to receive it from his hands; for he never refuses me anything he can afford to give, and I never ask him for anything he cannot spare.”

And the Lutheran minister’s daughter paused thoughtfully, as if in some tender reminiscence of her absent parent.

“But we are not talking about papas—we are talking about hubs,” exclaimed Elfie, impatiently. “We are cussing and discussing the best means of offense and defense against our natural enemies, meaning our future hubs—poor wretches!”

“I know,” said Erminie, gravely.

Then, turning her soft eyes, that had strange mesmeric power in their steady tenderness, upon the face of Britomarte, she continued:

“And, as I am not rich, as I have nothing at all of my own, no one will ever marry me for anything else but affection. And, as I find it so sweet to depend on my dear father, who loves me, I shall find it very sweet also to depend on another who shall love me—ah! if only half as well as he does!”

“I hope you will remain with your father, my darling. Fathers may be trusted with their daughters—sometimes. The same cannot be said of lovers or husbands,” said Britomarte, earnestly, and laying her hand caressing upon the bright head that leaned against her bosom. “Yes, I hope you will never commit that spiritual suicide of which I spoke.”

Erminie gently lifted her head from her queen’s bosom—every motion of the fair girl was gentleness itself—again she hesitated, and the bloom wavered on her face and settled into an intense blush, as she softly said:

“I do not agree with you, dear Britomarte. I cannot. Nor do I like discussions on this subject. It seems sacrilegious to speak so irreverently of the holiest mysteries in nature, for such, indeed, I deem love and marriage; and it seems like unveiling the holy of holies in one’s own sacred bosom to give one’s thoughts and feelings about them. Still, when that, which to me is a divine truth, is assailed even by you, dear Britomarte, I must defend it, if necessary, by laying bare my own heart.”

“Defend it, then, my love. Come on! I shall mind your fencing about as much as I should the pecking of an excited turtle dove,” said the amazon, with an indulgent smile.

Yet again the bloom wavered and flickered on Erminie’s sensitive cheek as she murmured, softly:

“I have been thinking of all you have said this morning; I have been listening to my heart, and it has told me this: To lose self in the one great vital love a true wife finds in a true husband, is not moral suicide, as you say, but the passing into another life—a double life—deeper, sweeter, more intense, and more satisfying than any known alone. To be content to be guided by his wisdom, and upheld by his strength, and comforted by his love—to have no will but his will, which she makes her own—this is not to be a nonentity, or weak, or silly, or childish, but to be identical with the husband’s greater life—to be wise, strong, womanly. She passes into his life, becomes part and parcel of it. In losing herself she finds herself; in giving herself away she receives herself again—transfigured! Oh! Britomarte, I am not intellectual like you, but I do know, because my heart surely tells me, that the true wife and the true husband are one—one being on this earth, as they will be one angel in heaven,” said the gentle girl, forgetting her timidity in her enthusiasm.

“Bosh!” cried Elfrida Fielding, in disgust, tearing and throwing away the withes of grass she had been winding around her fingers, emblematically of her method of managing natural enemies.

“Bah!” yawned Alberta Goldsborough, shrugging her shoulders.

“Have you seen many such unions in your short life, Erminie?” gravely inquired Britomarte.

“No, I have not; but I know that all unions should be such! As for myself, I do not think I shall ever love; but I do know that I shall never marry unless I shall be sought by one whom I can love with all my heart, and soul, and spirit; whom I can honor almost as I honor my Creator; and I can obey in word and deed, with such perfect assent of my will and understanding, that to obey his will shall be to have my own way!—one who shall be to me the life of my life, the arbiter of my fate, almost my God! Yes, that is what I feel I want, and nothing else in the universe will satisfy me! That is what every true woman wants, and nothing else in the universe will satisfy her! Oh! Britomarte—you who are woman’s champion—you greatly bewray woman when you ascribe to the coercion of coarse human laws that divine self-abnegation and devotion which is the instinct and inspiration of her own heart!” exclaimed Erminie.

“The dove pecks sharply—her little beaks are keen,” said Britomarte, smiling. Then, speaking more gravely, she added: “Women might be such angels, my darling, if men were such gods; but you will find few women willing to be so devoted, and fewer men to deserve such devotion. Men do not believe in women’s voluntary self-abnegation, and hence they coerce them by what you call coarse human laws, by what I call unjust, despotic, egotistical laws. I return to my point, darling. I hope that you will never marry.”

“I do not think I ever shall, since it is not likely that I shall ever meet with any one such as I have described,” said Erminie.

“Oh, no, that you will not, my dear,” said Elfie; “but you will think you have met such a prodigy, and that will be all the same to you. You will some day run against some commonplace John Thompson or Tom Johnson whom you will take for a Crichton or a Bayard. You are booked for a grand passion, my dear. It is in your system and it must come out. It would kill you if it was to strike in. I pity you, poor child, for that thing don’t pay. I know all about it; I’ve been all along there!”

“You, Elfrida?” exclaimed Alberta, with unusual interest, for her.

“Yes, me, ‘Elfrida!’ You had better believe it!”

“Tell us all about it.”

“I am going to. Well, you see when pap first brought me to this school to finish my education, we stopped in the city a few days to fit me out and show me the sights. One night he took me to see an opera. Hush, girls! I never was inside of an opera house before in my life; and you better believe I was dazzled by the splendor and magnificence around me, and found quite enough to do to gape and stare at the gorgeous decorations of the house and the beautiful dresses of the ladies, until the curtain rose. Then, whip your horses! The opera was ‘Lucia di Lammermuir,’ and the part of Edgar Ravenswood was performed by Signor Adriano di Bercelloni.”

At the mention of that name Britomarte became attentive.

“Now, whether it was the jaunty bonnet, with the heron’s feather, or the crimson tartan plaid, or the black velvet tunic coat, or the white cross-gartered hose and buskins, or the music, or the man, or all together, I don’t know; but I fell over head and ears in love with Edgar Ravenswood. Heavens! how I adored him! Don’t frown, Britty, And, ah! how I hated Lucia, who had the divine happiness of being wooed in strains of heavenly music by Edgar Ravenswood! And, oh! how ardently I aspired to be a great prima donna, and play Lucia to that exalted being, Edgar. Alba, if you smile that way I’ll bite you.”

“How did it end?” inquired Erminie.

“I’m going to tell you, Minie. I went home with my head in a whirl; I had Bercelloni on the brain. Pap wanted me to come into the dining-room and take some supper. But faugh! After the divine life of music, buskins, love, heron’s feather, romance and Ravenswood, the mere idea of eating was revolting to the last degree! But I made pap promise to take me to the opera the next night. ‘Why, daught., you are music mad,’ he said. ‘I am very fond of music, pap,’ I answered. Law girls! he believed it was only the music! Our paps are very simple-minded people. Or else they have learned so much wisdom in their age that they have forgotten all they knew in their youth. Don’t you think so, Alba?”

“Yes, but never mind about the old gentleman. Tell us of the signior.”

“Well, instead of feasting on a vulgar supper, I went to bed to feast on memories of the divine life of the opera and on hopes of living it over again on the next evening. Ah! how I worshiped the Signior Bercelloni! Ah! how I detested the Signiora Colona! Ah! how I aspired to be a famous prima donna! I felt capable of dying for Bercelloni, of choking Colona, and of running away from pap to become a prima donna. I was in the last stage of illusion, hallucination, mania! Don’t glower at me so, Britty! or I can’t go on. Ah! if our paps did but know, it is not always safe to take every one of us to such places!”

“Indeed, it is not!” exclaimed Britomarte, so earnestly, so bitterly, so regretfully, with so dark a shadow overhanging her face, that little Elfie paused and gazed at her in dismay, faltering:

“Why, Britty, what is the matter? Surely, you never——”

“No, no,” said Britomarte, recovering herself with an effort, “I was never at an opera. Go on. How did it end?”

“How did it end? As a Fourth of July rocket ends, of course. It streamed up from the earth a blazing meteor, aspiring to the heavens! It fell down to the ground a blackened stick, to be trodden under foot!”

“Ah!” sighed Erminie, in a voice full of sympathy.

Elfie laughed, and went on:

“But to leave the hifaluting and come down to the common. It was very late when I got up next morning, and pap was as late as I was. And when we sat down to the breakfast table we found a party sitting opposite to us who were as late as we were. I didn’t look at them. I was still in a dream, living in memories of the past evening and hopes of the coming one. In so deep a dream, that I didn’t know whether I was breakfasting off an omelette or stewed kid gloves, until pap stooped and whispered to me: ‘Daught., there’s Signior Adriano di Bercelloni sitting opposite to us.’ I woke from my dream and raised my eyes to see. Was it Bercelloni? I looked and looked again before I could be sure. Yes, it was he! But oh! my countrymen, what a change was there! How like, yet how unlike my gorgeous hero of the evening before! His head was bald! his face was bloated! his form was round! Ugh! His eyes were red! his nose was blue; his teeth were yellow—ugh! ugh! He had a great plate of macaroni and garlic before him, and a great spoon in his hand, with which he shoveled the mess down his throat, as a collier shovels coal into a cellar—faugh! Whatever he had done to himself to make him look so differently on the stage, I don’t know. But the sight of him au natural made me sick and cured me.”

“And so that is the end of the story?” inquired Alberta.

“No, not quite. On one side of him sat a swarthy, scrawny signiora, who was the wife of his ‘buzzum’. And on the other sat an equally swarthy and scrawny signorina, who was the lovely pledge of their wedded affections. And that’s not all either, Alba. That evening pap said, ‘Well, daught., shall we go to the opera to see the Signior Bercelloni play Fra Diavolo?’ I answered, ‘Thank you, pap, I had rather not.’ And so we went to church instead to hear the celebrated Rev. Mr.—What’s-his-name? Law! you know who I mean.”

“Did you fall in love with him?” inquired Alberta.

“Not as I know of! He may have had ‘a very beautiful spirit,’ as some of his admirers say; but, if so, it was clothed with a very unattractive person. Next day pap brought me here to school, and I have been here ever since, except when I have gone home for the holidays. Now, sisteren, I have given in my experience at this love feast for the benefit of Sister Erminie Rosenthal; and I hope she will profit by it. And now, I think, that is all.”

Alberta and Erminie laughed, but Britomarte looked very grave as she said:

“No, Elfrida, that is not all. I have a sequel to your story, but I will not tell it to you now. I will tell you this, however: The old glutton who revolted your taste at the breakfast was Signior Adriano di Bercelloni, the elder, and the father of Signior Adriano di Bercelloni, the younger, whom you saw play Edgar Ravenswood.”

As Britomarte spoke, Elfie gazed at her with open eyes and mouth in silent amazement.

“They have the same name, and they bear a strong personal resemblance to each other, modified by the difference of age and temperament; but they never play the same parts. How could you imagine, my dear, that there could be any arts of the toilet, or effect of the stage, that could transfigure that coarse old creature into the hero of an opera?”

“I don’t know. I thought toilet arts, and stage effects, were almost miraculous. But what astounds me is the cunning of the gay old deceiver, my pap! Now, I wonder if he didn’t see my infatuation from the beginning! I wonder if he didn’t show me the old one, and let me deceive myself, on purpose?”

“Of course, he did,” opined Alberta.

“But how came you to know anything about them—so much about them, I may say, Britty, dear?” Elfie inquired.

“I said I had a sequel to your story; but I cannot tell it now,” replied Britomarte, very gravely. Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added: “I think it wrong—oh! very wrong—in parents and guardians to take young, inexperienced, impressible girls to such places. If they love music, let them have as many concerts as they please, but no operas, and no plays—except, perhaps, a few of Shakespeare’s best historical plays.”

“How old are you, Britomarte?” suddenly inquired Alberta.

Britomarte paused as though she could scarcely answer that question at a moment’s warning; and then she answered:

“I am eighteen. Why?”

“You talk as if you were eighty—that’s all.”

“I have had enough to age me,” said Britomarte, putting Erminie’s caressing arms from her neck, and rising, and walking away, as if to conceal, or overcome, some strong and deep emotion.

“Britomarte speaks bitterly,” said Elfie, in amazement.

“She has good reason to do so,” replied Alba, meaningly.

“What reason?” inquired Elfie and Erminie, in a breath.

“Law! don’t you know? Have you never heard?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t know whether I ought to tell it. It seems unfair to do so. It seems, indeed, like speaking ill of her family behind her back. She might not like it,” said Alberta, hesitating.

“Then, don’t do it,” urged Erminie.

“Do!” insisted Elfie.

“Well, you see, I never knew a word of it myself until last Easter holidays, when I was home on a visit, and heard it by the merest accident. For you know she never mentions a word about her family.”

“No, never; except sometimes to allude to the maiden aunt who pays her school bills. But do tell me! Is it anything bad?” eagerly inquired Elfie.

“Yes, very,” replied Alberta, with a shudder.

“And to think you should have known the secret ever since last Easter and kept it from us!” exclaimed Elfie, with a reproachful look.

“You see I kept it to myself for her sake,” explained Alberta, with an apologetic smile.

“Keep it so still, Alberta,” earnestly urged Erminie. “If you have become possessed of any secret that you think Britomarte would not like to have divulged, it would be disloyalty to your friend to divulge it.”

“Bosh! It is all among friends, so what’s the harm? Go on, Alberta. I am on thorns until I hear all about it. Was it a murder, or a forgery, or a bigamy, or an elopement, or an—or what was it?” eagerly questioned Elfie.

“It was neither of these. It was something far more—Where are you going, Erminie?” Alberta suddenly broke off in the middle of her sentence to ask of her fair companion, who had risen and was walking away.

“I am going out of hearing of a secret that my friend might not like me to know,” answered the true-hearted girl, leaving Alberta to tell Britomarte’s mystery to her only willing listener.

CHAPTER II.
THE MAN-HATER’S LOVER.

Erminie sauntered slowly down the winding footpath leading through the magnolia grove to the acacia avenue, on the banks of the river. She had not gone far when, a few paces in advance of her she saw Britomarte walking alone.

Not wishing to intrude on the amazon in her dark hour, Erminie was turning away, when Britomarte by some means became aware of her presence, and looked back with an expression of ineffable tenderness, and beckoned her to approach.

The gentle girl went to the brilliant amazon’s side, and was encircled by her arm.

“Thanks for letting me come, dear Britomarte,” she murmured, lifting her soft, hazel eyes to meet the gaze of the splendid dark-gray orbs that were shining down upon her.

“My bonny love, I never wish to avoid you. In my darkest hour you are ever welcome to me,” answered the man-hater, in the soft tone and with the sweet smile she ever used in addressing this best-beloved of her soul.

“Thank you! Thank you, dearest Britomarte!” Erminie exclaimed, kissing the hand of her friend. But, then growing grave, she added, “Oh, my dearest love, I am so sorry you are such an intense man-hater! Your wholesale hatred makes you so unjust! It is the one dark spot on the bright disc of your clear, warm, strong, sunlike nature! All men are not brutes, dearest Britomarte.”

“Then they are imbeciles! There is but one division.”

“What! Do you mean that all men are either brutes or idiots?”

“All!”

“Oh! Britomarte, how can you—can you—say so, dearest? You had a father!”

Dark as a thundercloud grew the beautiful face of the amazon; harsh, curt and strange were the words of her reply.

“Yes; I had a father with little claim upon my love, and less upon my honor. Never name him to me again.”

Erminie was appalled.

Britomarte stopped in her walk and sat down at the foot of a tree, as if overshadowed by some dark destiny.

Erminie sank down at her feet and laid her head on her lap.

Both were silent for a time, and the only sounds that broke the stillness were the whispering of the leaves above their heads, the hum of the insects around them, and the ripple of the river below.

Erminie began to sob softly, while Britomarte laid her hand gently on her pet’s head.

“Britomarte, dearest, I am sorry that I hurt you; I would not have done it for a kingdom, if I had known it.”

“I am sure you would not, darling!—sure you would not! Say no more about it, love; but tell me of your own father, who cannot come under my severe category because I do not know him; and tell me of that wonderful brother whom you idolize so much, and whom I have never seen.”

“My father and my brother,” murmured the minister’s daughter, as at the memory of cherished home affections—“my dear father and dear brother! Ah! Britomarte, if you had known them you would never have been a man-hater! When you do know them you will cease to be one!”

“Then a miracle will be performed,” said the beauty. “But tell me, are they coming to the commencement?”

“I am not sure. That is to say, I know that one of them will come to fetch me home, for my father wrote to say so; but I am not sure which. Perhaps both may come. I hope they may. I want my dear father to be present to-day. A triumph is no triumph to me unless he witnesses it; and oh! I am so impatient to see my dear brother. I have not seen him, you know, since he left us, five years ago, for Gottengen.”

“Your brother is studying for holy orders, I think you told me.”

“Oh, yes. He has a genuine call to the ministry of the gospel if ever any man had one in this world. He has sacrificed the most brilliant prospects of earthly success to obey that call.”

“How is that, my dear?”

“Oh, why you know he is my father’s only son, and except myself, his only child, for there are but two of us, my brother and myself. Justin is ten years older than I am, however, since I was but sixteen in May, and he will be twenty-six in August.”

“Yes; but about the sacrifice he made, my dear?”

“I am telling you. My dear brother and myself are the only children of the house of Rosenthal. My father’s family is not what is called a marrying family. Father has two bachelor brothers, who are the great woolen importers. Uncle Friedrich has the Berlin house and Uncle Wilhelm the New York house. They offered to take Justin into the business, and bring him up as their successor, but he felt this call to preach the gospel, and he declined their offer.”

“It was a great sacrifice,” said Britomarte.

“It was; but our dear father encouraged him to make it. Oh, there are very few like our father; and Justin is worthy to be his son! He has come home to stay now! And he is to be ordained this coming autumn! Oh, Britomarte, you must come and visit them, and go with me to see his ordination.”

“I shall be pleased to do so, my dear! Listen! Yes, the bell is ringing! We must go and take our places on the platform. I suppose many of the friends of the pupils have arrived. What a pity it is they cannot see their charges until after the ceremonies,” said Britomarte, rising to retrace her steps towards the college buildings.

“Yes; it is a pity; but I suppose their earlier meeting is prohibited to prevent confusion and delay. I saw Alba’s parents roll by in their open barouche as I came down here. And there are Elfie’s father and two uncles riding up on horseback. And my dear father and brother, or both, will be here presently. But, Britomarte, who is coming for you?”

“No one. No one ever does come, nor do I wish that any should. I am contented, darling.”

“You are self-reliant! But, dear Britomarte, I will be near you, so do remember that one will watch your ordeal with as much interest as father, mother, sister and brother, all combined, could do; and will mourn over your defeat, or rejoice over your victory, more than over her own.”

“I do believe it, my darling! And therefore I take pleasure in assuring you that you shall have cause only for rejoicing. I shall achieve a victory, Erminie.”

“Yes! I never doubted that! I was always sure of that. What is your theme, dear Britomarte? You will not object to tell me, now that the reading is so near.”

“My dearest, I should not have objected to tell you at any period, if you had asked me to do so. My theme is the ‘Civil and Political Rights of Woman.’”

“What a tremendous subject! Britomarte, dear, you will be sent to Coventry by all the professors.”

“Perhaps! But do you think I shall go there?” laughed the beauty.

By this time they were approaching the college through the roseries, as the terraces, adorned principally with these beautiful flowers, were called. On the upper terrace they made a turn to the left, to avoid the carriages that were continually rolling up to the front entrance, depositing their freights and rolling off again.

The two friends entered a side door, and found themselves in a large ante-room, in which were assembled all their schoolmates in the festive school uniform of pure white muslin dresses, pink ribbons and rose wreaths.

And among them walked Alba Goldsborough, the blond beauty and wealthy heiress, and Elfrida Fielding, the bright little brunette country girl. These two girls walked apart, with their arms around each other’s waists, conversing in confidential whispers.

“They are still talking of Britomarte!” said Erminie, indignantly, to herself, and as she looked at them her suspicion was confirmed; for as soon as they saw her with Britomarte they ceased to talk, and began to look embarrassed. But before the quartet of friends could meet, the great folding doors, separating the ante-room from the exhibition hall, were thrown open, and two of the teachers appeared to marshal the pupils to the scene of their approaching ordeal.

Promptly and quietly they fell into line and marched into the hall—a spacious room of the Corinthian order of architecture, fitted up as a temple of the muses—the nine muses being represented by nine statues supporting the arches separating the platform from the part of the hall occupied by the audience.

This platform was provided with rows of benches covered with crimson cloth, for the accommodation of the pupils.

Up the side stairs leading to this platform the line of pupils marched. They seated themselves on the benches in good order, and then surveyed the scene before them.

The hall was crowded with a large number of spectators, among which were to be seen distinguished learned professors, noted preachers and the heads of neighboring colleges. But the great mass of the audience consisted of the parents and guardians, friends and relatives of pupils and teachers.

Alberta Goldsborough, the wealthy heiress, recognized her stately papa and fashionable mamma, and saluted them with a cold, young-ladyish bow as she sank into her seat.

Elfrida descried, seated away back in an obscure corner, the three honest country gentlemen whom she saucily designated “one pap and two unks.” And she audaciously kissed her hand to them with a loud smack as she popped into her place.

Erminie discerned, near the middle of the crowd, her revered father and idolized brother, and exchanged with them a bow and smile of recognition and joy. But, oh, fate of Tantalus! though she had not seen her father for ten months, nor her brother for five years, she could not either approach or speak to them; she could not even turn to Britomarte and point them out; she could only bow and smile, for silence and decorum were rigidly enforced upon the pupils on the commencement day at Bellemont College.

Britomarte, with her sad eyes wandering over the assemblage, saw not one familiar face. But Britomarte was almost alone in the world.

The ceremonies of the day began.

Now, as there is nothing in this wearisome world half so wearisome to an uninterested spectator as a school exhibition or a college commencement, and as this anniversary at Bellemont partook of both characters, I will spare my readers the details of the proceedings and discuss the whole affair with as few words as possible.

Professors preached and pupils prosed on the platform; while the spectators fanned themselves vigorously, or yawned behind fans of every description, from the plain palmleaf to the scented sandalwood, in the hall.

Teachers and scholars were alike in the highest state of exultation and—the deepest degree of fatigue.

The audience politely pronounced the affair to be very interesting and—heartily wished it over.

In fact the exercises of the day were only redeemed from the most ordinary monotony by the reading of Britomarte Conyers’ theme—“The Civil and Political Rights of Women.”

At Bellemont College the themes were not read by the writers, because in that immaculate institution it was deemed unladylike for a young lady to stand upon a platform before a mixed audience and read her own composition aloud, and it was also thought that the embarrassment which a young writer would be likely to feel in such a position would seriously mar the delivery and detract from the effect of her theme. So it was arranged that all the themes should be read aloud by the professor of elocution to the institution, whose highly cultivated style would certainly improve the poorest composition, and do full justice to the richest. He “lent to the words of the poet the music of his voice.”

He read with great effect Britomarte Conyers’ essay on the “Civil and Political Rights of Women,” in which the author bravely asserted not only the rights of married women to the control of their own property and custody of their own children, but the rights of all women to a competition with men in all the paths of industry and a share with them in all the chances of success—in the mechanical arts, in learned professions, in commercial business, in municipal and national government, in the camp, the field, the ship; in the Senate, in the Cabinet, on the Bench, and in the Presidential chair. She supported her argument with the names and examples of the noteworthy women of all ages and countries—women, who, in despite of the obstacles of law, precedent and prejudice, had distinguished themselves in every field of enterprise ever illustrated by men. It was altogether a clear, warm, strong, brilliant article; and, like all works of genius, it received an almost equal share of enthusiastic praise and extravagant blame. It was excessively admired for the strength, beauty and ingenuity of its argument, and bitterly censured for the heterodoxy of its doctrines.

Among those who listened to the reading was Justin Rosenthal, the brother of Erminie, who, seated beside his father, gave the most earnest attention to the argument.

At its conclusion, he turned to the elder Rosenthal, and said:

“That is the most original, outspoken and morally courageous assertion of right against might that has been made since the immortal Declaration of Independence! And that it should have been written by a schoolgirl seems almost incredible. A rare, fine spirit—a pure, noble heart—a clear, strong intellect she has. I wonder who she is?”

“I do not know,” replied Dr. Rosenthal, for Erminie’s father was a D. D.—“I do not know; but I do know that her argument, though ingenious, is wrong from beginning to end.”

Later on was announced the name of the successful candidate for the medal to be awarded for the best English theme. The medal was awarded to Britomarte Conyers, for her essay on the “Civil and Political Rights of Woman.”

“Britomarte Conyers, then, is the author of that theme you admire so much, and is the young lady you are so curious to see. I congratulate you, Justin! Miss Conyers is your sister’s most intimate friend. You will have an opportunity not only of seeing her, but of forming her acquaintance under the most auspicious circumstances,” said Dr. Rosenthal.

“Nay,” smiled Justin, “I do not know that I care to follow up any such acquaintance with the young champion of womankind. I merely wish to see and judge her as a rather singular specimen of her sex.”

It was at the school ball of the evening that Justin Rosenthal was presented to Britomarte Conyers, whose personal beauty and grace made as deep an impression on his heart as her genius had made upon his mind. At the same time and place Colonel Eastworth, a distinguished son of South Carolina, was introduced to Erminie. And thus two of our young friends met the persons who were destined to exercise the most powerful influence over their future lives.

The next morning the school broke up for the midsummer holidays, and the pupils went their several ways. Elfrida Fielding went with her father and uncles to Sunnyslopes. Alberta Goldsborough accompanied her parents to the Rainbows, their waterside villa. And the Rosenthals, with Colonel Eastworth and Britomarte Conyers, embarked on the steamer bound for Washington.

CHAPTER III.
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER.

The barouche containing Dr. Rosenthal and his party reached the steamer in such good season that the two young ladies had time to go down into the cabin and choose their berths from among those left vacant, and to make all arrangements for their comfort during the voyage. They took two berths in a stateroom together, unpacked their traveling bags, laid their toilet articles in order upon the little shelf below the tiny looking-glass, and then returned to the deck.

They sat down on the side that still looked toward Bellemont College, whose white walls arose from amidst green foliage on the crest of a gentle hill at a short distance up the river. Half in joy at work accomplished and freedom gained, half in regret at leaving the school where they had been so happy for so many years, and teachers whom they had loved so well, the young friends gazed upon their late home.

The gentlemen of their party meanwhile walked up and down the deck, wondering when the steamer would start, and betraying all the impatience and restlessness of their restless and impatient sex, until, as they passed near the two young ladies, Justin Rosenthal left his companions, and, with a bow and a smile, as if asking permission, or apologizing for taking it for granted, seated himself beside Miss Conyers.

Britomarte would have given a year of her life to have repressed the blush that mantled over her cheek and brow as Justin took the seat beside her.

His first words were well chosen to set her at ease.

“The scenery of James River is quite new to me, Miss Conyers. We came down from Washington by railroad to Richmond, and thence by stagecoach to Bellemont. I look upon this fine river for the first time,” he said, not, as before, fixing his eyes upon her, but letting them rove over the bright waters of the James and the verdant hills beyond.

Britomarte only bowed in reply. She would have given another year of her life for the power of controlling the unusual tremor that seized her frame and made it dangerous to trust her voice for a steady answer in words.

Justin, still letting his eyes rove over the river, and rest here and there upon particular points of interest in the scenery, spoke of the beautiful effects of the shining light and shade as the clouds floated over the sun’s disk and their shadows passed over the hills.

And Britomarte merely answered “yes” or “no,” until, indignant at the influence that was growing upon her, she suddenly erected her haughtly little head with an impatient shake, and said:

That she could not appreciate the minutiae of river scenery; that only the ocean in its grandeur and might could awaken her admiration.

At this moment Dr. Rosenthal called to his son, and Justin, with a bow, left the side of Britomarte.

“Why, Britty, dearest! I always thought you loved river scenery,” said Erminie, when they were left alone together.

“So I do, as a general thing, but I don’t care about it to-day,” answered Miss Conyers.

“Well, Britty, dear, I never knew you to be capricious before.”

“Nature has given me no immunity from the common weaknesses of humankind.”

Erminie looked so hurt at the curtness of her friend’s words and manner, that Britomarte suddenly took her hand and tenderly caressed it.

Erminie, touched by this new proof of love, was encouraged to press Britomarte to go home with her to the parsonage.

Miss Conyers caressed her and thanked her, but reiterated her resolution to go to Witch Elms.

“Ah! don’t, ah! don’t—don’t go to that horrid place, dear Britomarte! You don’t know what it is! They say—that the place is haunted.”

“Of course, they say every isolated old country house is haunted.”

“But—forgive me once again, dear Britomarte—are you expected or desired there?”

“I do not know. My old aunt has never written to me. The half-yearly payments for the schooling, for which I am indebted to her, always have been forwarded by her agent in Washington. On each occasion I have written to her a letter of thanks, but I have never received an answer.”

Just then a boy rushed up with a letter for Britomarte.

She opened it wonderingly, and turned to the signature.

Her face was suddenly blanched to the hue of death, and she reeled, as though about to fall.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, what is it? Any bad news?” anxiously exclaimed Erminie.

But Miss Conyers raised her hand with a silencing gesture, and arose to go down below. She trembled so much as she moved, that Erminie started forward to attend her. But with a repelling motion the pallid girl stopped her friend, and hurried alone on her way.

All the morning the Thetis steamed down the river. At the dinner hour Erminie was very glad of the excuse to go down into the stateroom she occupied in common with Britomarte, to take off her bonnet and mantle, and brush her hair, to go to the public table.

She opened the door timidly.

Miss Conyers was lying on the upper berth, with the curtains drawn down before her.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, how are you? Can I do anything for you?” murmured Erminie, stealing to the berth and cautiously lifting a corner of the curtain.

“No! don’t speak to me! leave me!” was all that Miss Conyers replied, and in a voice so hoarse as to be nearly inaudible.

Pale with pity and with awe, Erminie dropped the curtain, and sank into the one chair their little den boasted.

She sat there quite still, and forgetting to prepare for dinner until the bell clanged out its invitation to the table and aroused her from her trance of trouble.

Then she hastily arose, threw off her bonnet, shook back her auburn ringlets, and hurried out to join her father and his friends, who were on their way to the dining-room.

Much concern was expressed by them that Miss Conyers was not able to come to dinner.

Once again in the course of that afternoon Erminie went to the stateroom to implore Britomarte to take some refreshment.

Then Miss Conyers suddenly drew the curtain back, and turned upon the intruder a face so pale and ghastly in its grief and horror that Erminie shrank back appalled.

“Don’t you see that it takes the whole power of my will to hold body and soul together until I get to New York?” she demanded, in a voice husky with suffering.

“To New York!” repeated the panic-stricken girl.

“Yes—I can do no more. I cannot eat, or drink, or talk—much. I can only manage to live until I get there. Leave me.”

“Oh! Heaven of heavens, what has happened to you, Britomarte!” exclaimed Erminie, as she turned, unwillingly, to leave the stateroom.

Miss Conyers did not divulge what had upset her, but pleaded headaches for absenting herself from the table. Erminie was unable to comfort her, nor was she taken into the confidence of the sullen and solitary mourner.

In due time the Thetis landed at her pier at Washington.

And the great bustle of arrival ensued.

“My dear Miss Conyers,” said Dr. Rosenthal, “I understand from my daughter that you have positively declined making us a visit; but now, at the last moment, let me prevail with you to make us all happy by consenting to go home with us at least for a day and night, if no longer, to rest before you go farther.”

“I thank you very much—more than I can express. But it is not in my power to accept your kind invitation. Urgent business compels me immediately to go to New York. I know that a train leaves in an hour from this. And I must drive to the station instantly.”

Miss Conyers embraced Erminie, who was bathed in tears, and then turned to shake hands with Mr. Justin Rosenthal.

But, raising his hat with a grave bow, Justin said:

“I will see you to the station. Eastworth and my father are a sufficient bodyguard to Erminie.”

And before the beautiful man-hater could object, he had taken her hand and was leading her from the boat.

He placed her in a carriage, entered and took a seat by her side, and gave the order to drive to the Baltimore railway station.

All this was done in spite of Britomarte’s tacit protest. He did not, however, obtrude his conversation upon her. The drive was finished in silence.

On their arrival at the station, he procured her ticket, checked her baggage, and then placed her in one of the most comfortable seats in the ladies’ car.

Even then he did not leave her, but remained stationed by her until the shrill, unearthly whistle of the engine warned him to leave.

Then, bending over her, he took her hand and whispered low:

“Miss Conyers, I never utter vain or hasty words. What I speak now, I speak earnestly from the depths of my heart. In me you have a friend through good report and evil report, through life and death, through time and eternity. I have never spoken these words to any human being before this; I never shall speak them to any other after this. Good-by; we shall meet again in a happier hour.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE WITCH OF WITCH ELMS.

After seeing Britomarte well on her way, Justin walked thoughtfully home to the parsonage.

Days passed; but no news came of Miss Conyers. Eastworth remained at the parsonage, wooing the minister’s daughter—never with compromising words, but with glances more eloquent and tones more expressive than words could ever be. For if his words were only, “The day is beautiful,” his tone said, “I love you!” his glance said, “For you are more beautiful than the summer’s day.” And Erminie! how entirely she believed in him; how devotedly she loved him; how disinterestedly she worshiped him.

“If I could in any way add to his fame, or honor, or happiness, how blessed I should be! And oh! if he should go away without ever telling me what I could do to please him, how wretched I should become! Ah! he may meet more beautiful, more accomplished and more distinguished women in the great world than ever I can hope to be; but he will never meet with one who could love him more than I do!”

Such reveries as these, scarcely taking the form of words, even in her thoughts, engaged the young girl constantly.

In the midst of this trouble came letters from the Goldsboroughs. One from Papa Goldsborough to Papa Rosenthal, inviting him, his family and his guest to come down to the Rainbows on a visit for the season; and another from Alberta to Erminie, urging her to use her influence with her father to induce him to accept the invitation and be at the Rainbows to spend the approaching Fourth of July.

No interference on the part of Erminie was needed. Dr. Rosenthal, with the concurrence of his son and his guest, wrote to Mrs. Goldsborough to say that he and his party would be at the Rainbows on the evening of the third proximo. And as this letter was dated on the thirtieth of June, there were but two days left to prepare for the journey.

As soon as this letter was written and posted and fairly on its way, Erminie went to look for her brother in the library, where, in study, he passed his mornings.

“Justin, do I interrupt you?” she inquired, in a deprecating tone, as she opened the door and found him at his books.

“No, my dear, you never do,” replied Justin, closing the volume in his hand and drawing forward a chair for his sister.

“Justin, I want you to do something for me this afternoon, please,” she said, as she seated herself.

“What is it, dear?”

“Oh, Justin, it is now four weeks since Britty went away, and we have heard nothing from her, and we do not know where to address her.”

“Well, my dear?”

“And to-morrow evening we start for the Rainbows, to be absent from the city for the whole remainder of the season.”

“Yes.”

“But, Justin, I cannot, indeed I cannot bear to go away without first trying to find out something about my dear Britomarte.”

“Well?”

“And so I wish you, if you please, to get a carriage and take me across Benning’s Bridge to Witch Elms, to ask about her.”

Justin could refuse his sister nothing, so the carriage was ordered and Witch Elms was reached after a tedious drive through a heavy rainstorm. The entrance was stoutly barred, but the travelers were at last admitted and shown into a wide parlor, the door being instantly shut and locked upon them.

Justin, amazed by this proceeding, began to search around for another exit.

The person who had admitted them had left them in total darkness, so it was no easy matter making one’s way about. At last Justin came to a flight of stairs leading upward, and bidding his sister take his arm, they ascended.

On reaching the upper hall, Justin whispered:

“Listen; do you hear anything?”

There was an unmistakable murmur proceeding from some dark room in their vicinity, and then an angry voice spoke aloud:

“Why the foul fiend, then, didn’t you take them in to see the old woman?”

The muttering voice made some reply, to which the loud voice responded:

“Bosh! What danger? That’s all over now. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest settled that. Suicide. Nothing more likely. After that there was nothing more to be said.”

A blaze of lightning that flashed through every chink and crevice of the shut-up old house, and a crash of thunder that overwhelmed all other sounds, stopped the talk of the unseen companions.

Then the muttering voice was heard again, saying something offensive to the interlocutor, though inaudible to the listeners, for the loud voice replied:

“Drinking; no, I have not been drinking! At least not more than is good for me! The moment any one takes a deep breath and shows a little fearlessness, you think they’ve been—drinking! Go and look after the people you have left in the hall so long, and take them up to see the old woman. That is, if she wants to see them. You must humor her; but as for the girl——”

Again the murmuring voice intervened, but the loud voice broke in:

“I tell you she must be got out of the way! Now go look after these visitors below.”

A sound of shuffling feet was heard, and Justin whispered to Erminie:

“Little sister, there’s something wrong here, but we must not seem to have been listening.” And, so saying, he hurried her down the stairs, as fast as the darkness would permit him to do with safety. Arrived at the foot, he waited some few minutes, and then he sang out as loud as he could:

“Hallo! waiter! porter! footman! major-domo! man of all work! whatever or whoever you are! where are you? Come, let us in; or let us out!”

“I am here, set fire to you! Couldn’t you be quiet for five minutes, while I was gone to tell the old lady?” answered a growling voice from the hall above. And at the same time a person, bearing a dim light, began to descend the stairs.

He was a man of about thirty years of age, of gigantic height; but with a small head, and closely-cut black hair, and a beardless, or else closely-shaven, dark-complexioned face; a man you would not like to meet on a lonely road on a dark night. He was dressed from head to foot in a closely-fitting suit of the dust-colored coarse cloth that has since become so well known as the uniform of the Confederate army.

“Couldn’t you be easy for five minutes, while I was gone?” he growled, as he reached the foot of the stairs.

“Your minutes are very long ones, friend!” laughed Justin.

“You want to see the old lady, you say?”

“I wish to see Miss Pole.”

“Come along, then,” said the man, stopping to snuff the candle with his fingers, and then leading the way upstairs.

Justin, still holding his sister closely under his arm, reascended the stairs.

By the light of the candle carried by the man before him, he saw that this part of the old house seemed entirely unfurnished. The floors were bare and rough, and broken here and there, and the walls were disfigured by torn paper and fallen plastering.

This hall of the third story was neatly papered and comfortably carpeted, and well lighted by a small, clear lamp hanging from the ceiling. A large window at the end of this hall was also curtained.

The smooth-chinned giant in the dust-colored clothes opened the nearest door to the right, and said:

“Go in there.”

With Erminie tucked under one arm, and his hat in his hand, Justin entered the room.

It was a neatly-furnished sitting-room, lighted, like the hall, by a small, clear lamp, hanging from the ceiling.

Under this lamp stood a large, round center-table, covered with flowered green cloth, and laden with books, bookmarks, hand-screens, smelling-bottles, a small open workbox, and, in short, all the paraphernalia of a lady’s table.

Beside it, in a large resting-chair, with her feet upon a foot-cushion, reclined a very old lady, bent with age, and trembling with palsy. She was wrapped in a light-colored French chintz dressing-gown, and her shaking head was covered with a fine lace cap, whose deep borders softly shaded her silver hair and withered face.

“You’ve come to see me?” inquired the old lady, in a shrill and quivering voice.

“Yes, madam; I hope to see you in your usual health,” said the young man, bending his head.

“To business, sir,” snapped the old lady. “I suppose you come from Trent, my agent?”

“No, madam; I——”

“Then, what did you come for? I receive no visitors except upon business,” interrupted the old lady, impatiently.

“Pardon us, madam. We are friends of your niece; and not having heard from her for some weeks, and being on the point of leaving the city for the season, we came here to inquire about her.”

“About—whom?” demanded Miss Pole, in a shrill, impatient voice, as she began to tremble with excitement.

“Your niece, Miss Conyers.”

Shaking violently, the old lady moved her hand to the bell and rang it.

The weird handmaid appeared.

“Nan, Nan, show these people downstairs, and tell Dole to see ’em out! and to mind how he sends unwelcome visitors to me again!” exclaimed the old lady, shaking more and more violently with growing excitement.

“I hope I have given you no cause for offense, madam,” said Justin, deprecatingly.

“Offense! off—offense!” stammered the old lady, with her head nodding fast between palsy and anger. “How dare you mention the name of Britomarte Conyers in my presence?—a toad! a beast! a snake!” And at every epithet she spat with spite. “Show ’em out! show ’em out! show ’em out, Nan!”

“I am very sorry, madam, to hear you speak in this intemperate manner of your niece. I have the highest respect for Miss Conyers,” said Justin, gravely.

“Go! go! go!” sputtered the old creature, letting fall her cane, and seizing a book, which, with all her trembling strength, she launched at the offender. But, of course, the missile fell wide of its mark.

Erminie, shocked, amazed and terrified, clung to the arm of her brother.

“I wish you a better spirit, Miss Pole,” said Justin; and, bowing as courteously as if he were leaving the presence of a queen, who had conferred upon him a grace, he passed out of the room with his sister.

CHAPTER V.
THE RAINBOWS.

Next day the party sailed down the Chesapeake to the Goldsworths’ seaside home, a beautiful spot on the eastern shore called the “Rainbows.” Here they were received by Albert Goldsworth, who bade them a hearty welcome.

Erminie was surprised and delighted to learn that Elfrida Fielding and Britomarte Conyers had promised to join the party by the end of the week.

The meeting between Britomarte and Erminie was a very affecting one. Miss Conyers was clothed in deep mourning, but gave no reply to the inquiries made by the others respecting her black dress.

When pressed by Erminie she simply said:

“Darling, I have lost some one; I have suffered; but my heart is not broken, else I should not be here. That is all that I can tell you, for there is good reason why I cannot tell you more. I hate mystery, my pet; but this mystery—and I acknowledge that it is one—is none of mine. Ask me no more.”

Miss Conyers was certainly the most brilliant woman in the circle of beauties gathered together at the Rainbows. Nothing but her poverty, obscurity, and the mystery underlying her life, prevented her from being the belle of the seaside villa. But poor, obscure and even questionable as was her social position, she excited the admiration of the men, the jealousy of the women, and the interest of all.

Justin Rosenthal loved Britomarte Conyers with a depth and earnestness of affection and a singleness and persistence of purpose very rarely experienced in this world of many distracting attractions and conflicting interests.

To win her as his wife was just now the first object of his existence, an object which he determined to accomplish before he should undertake any other enterprise— so as to get the affair off his mind, he said, and also that they two might commence the work of the world together as man and woman should.

And Britomarte? Well, it would have been almost impossible for any other woman, and it was difficult even for her, to conceal from the deeply-interested, keenly-searching eyes of her lover the true state of her affections. Britomarte loved Justin; but she combated that love with all the strength of her strong will.

The summer was fading into autumn; the season was waning to its close; the guests at the Rainbows were preparing to leave—many being anxious to get back to town to be present at the milliners’ great openings and examine the new styles in fall bonnets.

In truth, Mr. and Mrs. Goldsborough were not very sorry to see their party breaking up. It had not, indeed, afforded them that full measure of satisfaction which their princely hospitality deserved. Two circumstances especially annoyed them—the growing friendship between their sole heiress, the fair Alberta, and the Signior Vittorio, a penniless young Italian professor, who was also a guest at the house, on the one hand, and the manifest attachment between their nephew Albert and Farmer Fielding’s pretty daughter.

And very much relieved they were when the sensitive young Italian—who was neither adventurer nor fortune-hunter, nor willing to be considered such—feeling the social atmosphere near the presence of his entertainers rather chilly, took the hint that his welcome was worn out and bowed his adieus; and also when Farmer Fielding placed his little girl on her pony and carried her off to Sunnyslopes.

Elfrida had entreated Britomarte to go with her to her mountain home, urging that the country was ever most beautiful in the autumn, when all the woods were clothed in colors more gorgeous than the robes of Solomon in all his glory.

Miss Conyers had declined the invitation with thanks and with the explanation that her plans for the autumn were fixed.

So Elfrida, with a sigh, left her friend.

But what of Britomarte? Where would she go from this temporary home? Not certainly to Witch Elms, since there the doors were fast closed against her entrance. Where, then, could she go? What means had she to go anywhere? What, then, were the plans of which she spoke? And how would she carry them out? Who could tell? Not even her lover!

Justin knew well enough what his own plans were, and how he should carry them out.

Three days before the day appointed for his own party to leave the Rainbows, Justin sought a private interview with Britomarte. He knew where to find her; for by this time he was well acquainted with all her favorite haunts. It was late in the afternoon, and he was sure she would be found on “Lond’s Rock,” a point of land between Crystal Creek and Bennett’s Bay, extending out into the Chesapeake—a solitary desert, though so near the peopled villa, and only frequented by the lonely girl.

So down a narrow path leading through the thick woods that lay below the house, he wandered till he came out upon the bluff overhanging the beach. Along the bushy bluff, now burnished bright in the late sunshine of the waning summer and the fading day, he went toward the tip of that long point, extending like a giant’s arm out to the sea.

As he approached, he saw that she was sitting on the rock, with her hands clasped upon her knees, her face turned seaward, and her black dress was very conspicuous upon the glistening white stone at the extremity of the point.

So absorbed was she in thought that she remained totally unconscious of Justin’s proximity until he picked up her bonnet, which had fallen to the ground, and handed it to her, saying:

“Excuse me, Miss Conyers, but the tide is creeping in, and, if left there, it will get wet; and even you, if you remain here much longer, may be cut off from return, for you must be aware that at high water this point of land is covered by the sea, with the exception of this rock which, for the time, becomes an island.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rosenthal. I know that; but there is an hour of grace left. Pray, did you come here to remind me that twice a day Lond’s Rock becomes an isolated fastness?” said Miss Conyers, raising her large, brilliant, dark-gray orbs to his face.

“No, Miss Conyers; it was for something more serious—more important—more imminent, indeed, than that,” said Justin, gravely, seating himself beside her. “It would be bad,” he continued, “if the rising tide, before you should become aware of it, should cover the point and cut you off from the land, and leave you alone upon this rock for twelve hours of darkness; but the evil would be temporary. You are brave enough to overlive it, and the night would end in morning, and your road lie open for your return. Britomarte! dear Britomarte!—there is an isolation more to be dreaded for you, because more fraught with fatal consequences, than that I have named could be!” said Justin, trying to regulate the deep emotions of that passion which was thrilling in every inflection of his earnest voice. “Oh! Britomarte——”

“Hush! do hush, and go away!” she exclaimed, hastily interrupting him.

“No, no—I must speak! I have been silent long enough! Dear Britomarte, you must hear me now! You cannot have mistaken the meaning of my devotion to you in all the months we have passed together here. You——”

“Nor could you have failed to perceive that such devotion was very unacceptable to me! I thank you, of course. It was very complimentary to me, no doubt, and I—was very much honored, indeed. But, as I said before, it was unacceptable, and you must have perceived that it was so.”

“Britomarte, I love you. Oh! that I could make you feel the real meaning of the phrase when uttered by truthful lips. All of life, or death—all of heaven or hell—seem to hang upon the words, I love you! Britomarte, from the first moment that I saw you, something in your face powerfully attracted me. It was not your beauty, dearest, though you are beautiful; it was something deeper than that. It was the soul looking from the face! I love you with my whole heart and soul, once and forever! And if it were possible that I should lose you, Britomarte, I should never love again! And now, lady, I have unveiled my heart before you. I love you as men loved in those old heroic days when for woman’s smile solemn vows were made and deadly perils braved. Now tell me, dearest, dearest—what I can do to deserve——” His voice faltered for a single instant, and she took swift advantage of the pause to answer hastily, and even harshly:

“You can do nothing! I never can accept your suit! Pray, to begin with, are you aware that I am a girl of very obscure birth?”

“That is nothing to me, beloved——”

“That I have not a penny——”

“I have more than enough for both, Britomarte!”

“And, worse than all, that the shadow of a great shame is thought to rest upon my life!”

“How should that affect your personal merit, or my appreciation of it? Come, darling, come! I never can be less than your lover! let me be more! accept me for your husband!”

“For my master, you mean! that is what ‘husband’ signifies in your laws!” said the man-hater, coldly turning away, as once more Woman’s Rights throttled and threw down woman’s love.

“No! Heaven forbid! I could no more be a tyrant than I could be a slave! My soul abhors both! And if in your own soul there is one quality that attracts me more than all the others, it is your impassioned love of liberty. I sympathize with it, my beloved! I have no wish to rule over you as a master! I could not, indeed, endure the love of a slave! Or if one must serve, let it be the stronger. I wish only to cherish you as my beloved wife, to honor you as my liege lady! Come, darling!”

But Woman’s Rights had her heel upon the neck of woman’s love, and Britomarte coldly answered, as she walked away:

“I do not know, for my part, how, in this age and country, with the old barbarous laws of marriage still in force, any sane, honest man can look a woman in the face, and seriously ask her to be his wife! For their own honor, I wonder men do not set about and remodel their disgraceful laws before they do anything else! As for me, if these days were like the ‘old heroic days’ of which you just now spoke, when men braved deadly perils and wrought great works for woman’s smile, I would have every woman lay upon her suitor the holy task of reforming the laws as the only possible condition of her favor!”

“I will take up the gauntlet you have thrown down,” he said. “I will look into these offensive statutes that were made, by the by, some centuries before I was born, and for which, therefore, I do not see that I can be held individually responsible——”

“But you are responsible for them,” warmly interrupted Britomarte. “Every man who lives under them, marries under them, sees women robbed and oppressed under them, without rising up to oppose them, is as much responsible for them as if he, and he only, had originally enacted them!”

“Granted that this is in a measure true! It shall be so with me no longer,” smiled Justin. “I will examine these, and wherever I conscientiously believe they need reform, I will labor zealously with pen and tongue to reform them. But, in the meantime, as I cannot give my whole mind to any subject—not even to that—until my heart is set at rest, Britomarte, dear Britomarte! be my wife! and we will labor together lovingly, zealously, in all good works!”

“I cannot!—I will not! Do not ask me again! In the ‘old heroic days’ you are so fond of quoting, a true knight performed his task before he ventured to sue for his reward.”

“And then?—and then, Britomarte?”

“He did not always get it,” answered the man-hater.

Justin bowed gravely to her and smiled quietly to himself.

They were walking away from Lond’s Rock, where, indeed, they had already lingered too long; for the tide was now rising rapidly, threatening to cut off their retreat from the main.

CHAPTER VI.
BRITOMARTE’S PLAN.

“But what then will you do, my child? I am an humble minister of God, even in his beneficent aspect of Father to the fatherless. As such I invite your confidence; trust in me.”

These words were spoken by the old Lutheran clergyman to the beautiful man-hater, as he bent kindly over her, holding her hand, on the morning after their departure from the Rainbows.

They were on board the Leviathan and within a few miles of Washington.

He had been urging upon her the oft-repeated, oft-rejected invitation to make his house her home. For the last time she gratefully declined the offered hospitality.

“But what then will you do, my child?” he resumed, seeing that she remained silent and thoughtful. “Your old grandaunt has most unnaturally renounced you; nor indeed, if she had not, would Witch Elms be a desirable home for you. The people that Miss Pole retains around her, and the rumors that are afloat about the place, make it particularly objectionable as a residence for a young girl”

“I will become a missionary,” answered Britomarte, stoutly, and neither prayers or commands could move her from this resolve.

The Board of Foreign Missions were in want of teachers to join a company of missionaries whom they were about to send out to Farther India, and she had made up her mind to offer her services.

Britomarte, after leaving Dr. Rosenthal, went down into the cabin to put up her effects, to be ready for landing.

Erminie was already there, engaged in making similar preparations; but as soon as she saw Britomarte she threw herself into her friend’s arms and burst into a passion of tears. The prospect of separation from her queen was almost insupportable to the minister’s gentle child.

“If it were only in pity for me, Britty, you might not leave me! I have no mother, nor sister, nor any one in the world but you! In mercy to me you might come with me!”

“My darling—no one? Why, you have your father, your brother, and your lover,” said Miss Conyers, gently caressing her.

“Oh! I mean no woman! It is so sad for a girl to have no woman friend. I feel it so. And yet it is not for myself either that I grieve, but for you who have neither father, brother, nor lover, as I have!”

“No, thank Heaven!” exclaimed the man-hater, fervently; and then, with a softened manner, she added: “But about your lover, my darling, since you are afflicted with such a nuisance—tell me, before we part.”

“Yes, I wished to do so. I have no secrets from you, dear Britomarte. Well, then—we—we are engaged,” murmured Erminie, with hesitation and blushes.

“You and—Colonel Eastworth,” muttered Britomarte, slowly and in dismay. “Erminie, darling, it is customary to congratulate a friend on these occasions; but I—I cannot do it.”

“Oh, Britomarte! you will surely wish me joy!”

“With all my heart and soul, I pray you may have lifelong happiness, my dearest one!” said Miss Conyers, with a quivering voice.

“My dears, my dears, are you ready to go on shore?” called Dr. Rosenthal from the head of the cabin stairs.

“Yes, papa dear!—Oh, dear Britomarte, think again! come home with me!” pleaded Erminie.

“No, my darling! We must part here. Give me your parting kiss in this cabin, not on deck before all the men,” said Miss Conyers.

Erminie threw herself into the arms of Britomarte, and clung long and wildly to her bosom, until a second and a third summons from Dr. Rosenthal compelled her to let go her hold.

Then the two friends went up the stairs together.

The three gentlemen were waiting to escort them on shore.

Dr. Rosenthal placed his daughter in the carriage that was waiting for her; but when he would have led Britomarte to the same place, she courteously thanked him, and said that her way lay in another direction, and that she would go on foot.

Justin came forward and said:

“You will let me see you safe to the place where you are going?”

“No, thank you,” she replied.

Justin argued, pleaded, insisted, but all to no purpose. And at last she said:

“Mr. Rosenthal, since you compel me to say it, your attendance would be an intrusion.”

“Then I have nothing more to urge, Miss Conyers. We will meet again.”

“‘At Philippi,’ ghost of Cæsar? Good-by, Mr. Rosenthal,” laughed Britomarte, waving her hand.

Justin bowed and left her, to enter the carriage where his party were waiting.

And Britomarte watched the carriage drive off and roll out of sight, and then she drew her black veil before her face, and walked on her way alone.

CHAPTER VII.
BRITOMARTE EMBARKS.

Britomarte possessed a few jewels of value. These she had never worn or shown. She now took them to a jeweler on Pennsylvania avenue, and sold them for enough to defray her expenses to the city from whose port the missionary company was to sail.

On arriving at that city, she found a cheap boarding-house, and then sought out the secretary of the Board of Foreign Missions, and offered her services to go as teacher with the company they were about to send to Farther India.

The secretary required testimonials, which Britomarte immediately submitted. And then, after a little business and investigation, her services were accepted.

Miss Conyers then devoted all her time and attention to making preparations for a sea voyage that was to last several months.

The missionaries were to sail on the first of October, in the great East Indiaman, Sultana, bound from Boston to Calcutta; but their destination was Cambodia.

When her preparations were completed, Britomarte wrote to her friend Erminie, informing her of all the particulars of the projected mission, and asking her for the last news of their own fellow-graduates.

Quickly as the post could return, Miss Conyers received an answer from the affectionate girl.

And now that the missionary measure seemed irrevocable, Erminie did not distress her friend by any vain lamentations over her own loss. Little womanlike, she praised, glorified, and rejoiced over her friend, and bade her Godspeed. She wrote that her brother Justin had just been ordained a minister of the Gospel, and that he was to leave them soon for distant duty; but she did not say where he was going.

“So, then, our paths diverge forever, thank Heaven!” exclaimed the man-hater, as she read this part of the letter, but, indeed, her heaving bosom, and quivering lips, and tearful eyes did not look very much like thankfulness.

Erminie farther stated that Colonel Eastworth had taken apartments at a first-class hotel in the city, with the intention of passing the ensuing winter there.

Of their late classmates, Erminie wrote:

“There is the mischief to play down in Henrico. It seems Vittorio Corsoni sued for the hand of Alberta Goldsborough, which was indignantly refused him by her father. Next he was refused admittance to the house by her mother; after which Miss Goldsborough, chancing to meet her lover in the streets of Richmond, coolly informed him that if they could not see each other in her own home, they could do so at the houses of their mutual friends, and at the same time announced that she should spend that evening with her schoolmate, Eleanora Lee. That evening you may be sure that the Signior Vittorio lounged into Judge Lee’s drawing-room to pay his respects to a former patron.

“In this manner they contrived to meet everywhere where they were both acquainted, until at last, oh, Britomarte, they eloped! You don’t know how shocked I was to hear it, and how ashamed I am to have to tell you! But you asked me for news, and I will keep back nothing.

“They made for the nearest point to cross into Maryland, where they could be legally married, notwithstanding she was under age. But Mr. Goldsborough, with two of her uncles, pursued and overtook them before they had crossed the boundary and seized both, as he had a right to do.

“Vittorio, they say, was dreadfully agitated, and even drew his sword-cane in defense of his ladylove. But Alberta was as cool as ever, and bade him put up his sword and yield for the time being; for that, though their marriage was delayed, it was not prevented.

“Mr. Goldsborough talked of prosecuting Vittorio in a criminal court for stealing an heiress and minor. But Alberta calmly assured her father that in doing so he would only be degrading his future son-in-law, and by consequence his only daughter, for that she was resolved to give her hand to Vittorio upon the very first opportunity after she should become of age.

“Whether or not this announcement influenced Mr. Goldsborough’s conduct I do not know; it is certain, however, that he did not prosecute Signior Vittorio; but he brought Alberta here, and placed her as a parlor boarder in the Convent of the Visitation, where, behind grates and bars, she is secure from a second escapade.

“Mr. Goldsborough did not call on us until he had left his daughter in the convent, and then he only stayed long enough to tell us these facts before he left for Richmond. I called at the convent to see Alberta, but was refused a sight of her. She is, in truth, no less than an honorable prisoner there.

“And that is not all the trouble in Henrico County. I have a letter from Elfrida Fielding, in which she tells me all her secrets with the utmost candor, requesting me also to tell you, whom she supposes to be somewhere in our reach.

“Now, who would have thought that wild little monkey, Elfie, would have acted, in similar circumstances, with so much more prudence and good sense and good feeling than has been displayed by our model young lady? Yet so it was.

“Elfie has had a proposal from—whom do you think?—young Mr. Albert Goldsborough, who was intended for his cousin; but as she ran away with the flute-playing Italian, of course he could not be considered bound to her; so he followed the bent of his inclinations, and offered his hand to Elfie Fielding.

“The proposal was in every point of view a most eligible one for Elfie, and much better, she says, than she had any reason to expect. The young suitor was handsome, amiable, intelligent, and possessed a large fortune, and last and most, he had the favor of his intended—but—he differed in politics with Elfie’s ‘pap and two unks.’

“Now you know what it is to differ in politics in these days—you have read how gray-haired Senators take each other by the throat in the Senate Chamber. You have seen how it sets father against son, and mother against daughter; how it parts lovers and divides families; pray Heaven it may not some day come nigh to divide the Union!

“Elfie’s ‘pap and two unks’ are enlightened, far-seeing and progressive men. Elfie’s lover is a conservative, and believes in the eternal stability of ‘institutions’ and the infallibility of the powers that be, etc. Elfie’s lover, had he lived in the first year of the Christian era in Judea, would have been a Jew, and helped to crucify Christ. Had he lived in England at the time of the civil wars, he would have been a royalist. Or had his presence enriched the earth at the time of our own Revolution, he would have been a Tory.

“Now, you know, of course, it is an irreconcilable difference between Elfie’s ‘pap and two unks’ on the one hand, and her lover on the other. But Elfie won’t run away with him, as he wishes her to do. She tells him plainly that he must convert her ‘pap and two unks,’ or be converted by them, before she will endow him with her hand and the reversion of the old gig, the blind mare, niggers, and other personals to which she is heiress; for, though she don’t care a pin for politics herself, she will have peace in the family.

“I have here quoted Elfie’s own words. Now, who would have given that little monkey credit for so much wisdom and goodness?

“And in the meantime you see Mr. Goldsborough has his hands full between his cool, determined daughter and his self-willed, refractory nephew; both of whom, instead of marrying each other, and keeping the family estates together, to please their friends, have taken the liberty to choose partners for life to please themselves.

“But after all, as these marriages are not yet consummated, who knows but that young Mr. Goldsborough may ‘see his own interest,’ as the phrase goes, and persuade Alberta to ‘see her own duty,’ as the other phrase goes, and that they may yet marry and unite the two great branches of the great house of Goldsborough.

“But, oh, I am wrong to write so lightly on such sacred subjects. How hard it is, dear Britomarte, to keep from sinning with one’s tongue and pen! I hope that all these lovers will be true to themselves, and to God, who is the Inspirer of all pure love. I hope they will wait patiently until they win their parents’ consent and the reward of forbearance.”

There was much more of Erminie’s letter, too much to quote. Sometimes the effervescent spirits of her youth would break forth in some such little jest as the above, and then she would quickly repent and piously rebuke herself for such levity.

Her letter closed in one deep, fervent, heartfelt aspiration for Britomarte’s happiness.

Britomarte’s tears fell fast over this letter. This man-hater would like to have persuaded herself that she wept over the thought of the lifelong separation from her bosom friend, or over the frailties of Alberta, or over the troubles of Elfie, or over anything or anybody rather than over the memory of Justin Rosenthal. Erminie had written freely of Alberta and Elfrida and their lovers; but she had mentioned her brother only to say that he had been ordained and was going away. And Britomarte could scarcely forgive her friend for such negligence. The name that was written in the letter, “Justin,” she pressed again and again to her lips, while her tears dropped slowly and heavily upon the paper. Suddenly, with a start, she recollected herself, and to punish herself for a moment’s weakness, she deliberately tore up the letter and threw it away.

In the omnibus that was to take her to her steamer she was introduced in form to Mr. Ely and Mr. Breton and their wives. These, with herself, were the five missionaries that were to go out to Farther India.

The two young women were crying behind their veils. They were strangers to each other, and all but strangers to their husbands. One had come from the West, and one from the South, to marry these young men, and go out with them to India. They had now been married but a few hours, after an acquaintance with their intended husbands of but a few days. In a fever of enthusiasm they had left all the familiar scenes and all the dear friends of their childhood and youth, to join their hands with strangers, and go out to a foreign land, to live and labor among heathen. No wonder they wept bitterly behind their veils as the omnibus rattled over the stony street and under the drizzling sky.

On the pier was a crowd of the church members, consisting of men, women and children, in omnibuses, in cabs, and on foot, the latter having large umbrellas hoisted, all waiting to see the missionaries off.

Beside the pier was chained a large boat, waiting to take the voyagers to that magnificent three-decker East Indiaman that rode at anchor about half a mile out in the harbor.

In less than fifteen minutes they were alongside of the great behemoth of a ship that lay upon the waters like some stupendous monster of the deep.

An officer stood upon the deck as if waiting to welcome them, and some sailors were letting down a rope ladder from the lofty deck to the boat. But to attempt to climb up the side of that ship by that means seemed like trying to crawl up the front of a three-story house by the rainpipe. The two brides were frightened nearly out of their senses at the bare thought.

But Britomarte volunteered to go first, and she set her foot on the lowest, slack rung of the ladder, and took hold of the side ropes and began to climb; Mr. Breton followed close behind her, to keep her from falling, and also to keep her skirts in order, and Captain McKenzie bending from the deck and holding down his hand to help her up on board.

So Miss Conyers safely boarded the ship and soon the whole party stood on deck and waved a last adieu.

Two brother ministers who had so far accompanied the voyagers went back in the smaller boat; but before she had reached the pier, the signal gun was fired and the Sultana stood out to sea.

CHAPTER VIII.
A LOVER’S PERSISTENCE.

It was the fifth day out at sea; Britomarte had a stiff attack of mal-de-mer, but had not been so sick as to be unable to enjoy the witticisms of the Irish stewardess, Judith Riordon, or the pleasantries of the good-natured Captain McKenzie; but the spell of dirty weather that had ensued after crossing the bar was now over, and Britomarte climbed the stairs, made her way carefully across the deck and seated herself on one of the coils of rope stowed against the bulwarks.

Her eyes wandered over the scene.

What a grand, sublime and glorious round it was! This boundless sky! One vast circle of air above; one vast circle of water below. Not a bird to be seen in all the air; not a sail to be seen on all the sea.

Their own lonely ship was the center of this circle and the only one within it. The solitude of this scene was even more stupendous than its vastness.

Gazing, Britomarte sank into thought, then into dream, then almost into trance.

What past life was the beautiful man-hater living over again in that self-forgotten reverie?

Whatever it was, it wrapt her whole soul in an abstraction so profound, that she did not hear the approach of a footstep, though that step rang clearly and firmly upon the deck; nor did she see the form that stood beside her, though that form sheltered her from the flying spray that had begun to wet her clothing; nor did she become conscious of the intruder’s presence until he stooped to her ear and breathed her name:

“Miss Conyers!”

She started and looked up.

Justin Rosenthal stood before her, looking tenderly down into her face.

In the first shock of surprise she gazed at him with widely-dilated eyes, as though he had been an apparition from the unseen world; and she seemed to think that she was in a dream, or that she had lost her reason. Then, as the certainty, the reality of the presence rapidly grew upon her—as she became conscious that it was he, himself, Justin Rosenthal, her lover and her beloved, that was standing before her—an overwhelming rush of joy filled her soul; and before she had time to control her countenance, this joy beamed and radiated from every feature of her beautiful face! It was as if the womanhood kept bound and captive in the lowest depths of her heart by pride and principle had suddenly burst her chains and looked forth in liberty and light. It was but for one instant this womanhood showed itself, for in the next the man-hater reasserted her supremacy, and put a strong guard upon her countenance.

“Well?” said Justin, answering her various changes of countenance with a trusting smile.

“You here!” she exclaimed.

“Yes.”

It was but a word, calmly spoken; but it told everything.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, sternly.

But that assumption of sternness came too late. He had seen the transient flash of an exceeding great joy on her face, and even if he had ever entertained any doubts of her real feeling toward him, those doubts were now forever dispelled.

He seated himself beside her, and then answered:

“You ask me why I am here. I am here because I love you, have faith in you, and hope to win you as my wife.”

“As your slave, you mean! How dare you!” exclaimed the marriage renouncer, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes.

“No, no, Britomarte; but as my wife and equal; and if not so, as my wife and liege lady, for if one must serve, let it be the stronger. I have said all this to you before.”

“So this, then, is the ‘distant duty’ you were to go upon when you were ordained and went from home,” said Miss Conyers, sarcastically.

“Yes.”

“And Erminie never explained! It was not like her to be so reserved with me.”

“My sister was in honor bound to keep my secret.”

“But why should your action in this matter have been kept a secret? It seems to me that honorable actions need never be kept so.”

“That is a mistake. Sometimes they must. My intended voyage was kept a secret because I thought, if you discovered that I was to be your fellow-voyager, you would never embark on this enterprise.”

“That I never should have done.”

“And your valuable services would have been lost to the mission,” said Justin, with a slight smile.

Her eyes flashed fire. She came down upon him with a trenchant scorn in her next words.

“We sailed on Tuesday. This is Saturday, the fifth day out, and we have not seen anything of you until this morning! Pray, do you consider it conduct worthy of a gentleman to come secretly upon the ship, and remain in hiding like a fugitive convict for four or five days?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Justin, good-humoredly, “but you are wrong in your premises. I did not come secretly on the ship. I engaged myself as clerk to the captain, who is an old friend of our family. The first day, it is true, I kept out of sight, lest, if you happened to see me, you might take flight and go back on the pilot-boat.”

“I verily believe that I should have done so.”

“Certainly you would; and, as I said before, your valuable services would have been lost to the mission. To obviate such a misfortune, I have kept out of your sight, and in the captain’s office, where I occupied myself in arranging his books and papers until the pilot went back. After which, as it was quite impossible you should swim back to the mainland, I did not mind showing myself at the table. But, unfortunately, you were seasick, and I could not see you until this morning.”

“But was it right, was it manly, was it honorable, to follow me in this manner?” scornfully questioned the man-hater.

“Yes, Miss Conyers, it was all that,” said Justin, gravely. “I told you in the beginning that I loved you with my whole heart and soul, for time and for eternity; that I should make it the first object of my life to win you, letting wait all other business that might be incompatible with the pursuit of that object. I do not say I could not live without you, for I have a sound, strong constitution, and could endure a great deal of suffering for a great length of time. But I do say that I do not choose to live without you. So much do I love you, so hopeful I am of winning you.”

“You are very arrogant and presumptuous to say so!” with which she left him.

Justin, though he had embarked on the same ship with Britomarte, had no intention of playing the bore. It was enough for him just then that she was near. She rarely spoke to him, and only then with the most frigid politeness.

So the days passed away without incident, till, one morning, the lookout announced land in sight, and everybody rushed on deck, but only the faintest speck could be discerned on the horizon.

In an hour, with the aid of the glass, they made out Table Mount, and in two hours they could see the whole line of coast, with its bold headlands and deeply-indented inlets. A few hours more of sailing brought them to the entrance of Table Bay, under the shadow of Table Mount.

The ship dropped anchor just as the sun touched the horizon. The sailors were all busy with the rigging. The missionary party hurried forward to view the novel scene; but Miss Conyers, though belonging to them, walked aft, and leaned over the taffrail, to bid good-night to the last sun of the old year, as he sank beneath the wave.

Justin Rosenthal followed her, and stood by her side for a few minutes, watching in reverent silence the rich crimson light fading from the western horizon; and then he said, quietly:

“It is gone! Will you please to take my arm and allow me to lead you forward? The captain will not send a boat on shore to-night; but to-morrow morning we shall all have an opportunity of visiting the colony. In the meantime, the view of the town and its vicinity, from this anchorage, is well worth looking at. Will you come?”

“Thank you—yes,” said Miss Conyers; and she permitted him to draw her hand within his arm, and take her forward, where all her companions were grouped together, gazing upon the new sights before them.

The view, as Justin Rosenthal had truly said, was well worth looking at. First of all, the bay into which they had put was vast enough to accommodate any number of ships, and, indeed, a very considerable number rode at anchor within it. Before them lay Cape Town, nestled at the foot of Table Mount, whose perpendicular sides rose up behind it; while on either hand, like giant sentinels to guard the entrance of the port, stood the barren crags of Lion’s Head and Devil’s Peak. A little back from the shores were sunny, green hills and shady grove trees, among which, half hidden, stood beautiful villas, built in the old Dutch style, with flat roofs and painted walls and broad terraces.

The newly-arrived voyagers remained on deck, gazing on this scene with never-tiring interest, until the short, bright twilight of those latitudes suddenly sank into night, and the stars came out in the purple-black heavens, and the lights shone in the streets and houses of Cape Town. Then they went below to the supper that had long been waiting; and afterward they turned in for the night.

As soon as they were awake in the morning, the whole party arose and dressed, and hurried up on deck to take another look at the harbor, the shipping, the town and the mountain.

“So this is Africa!” exclaimed Mrs. Ely, gazing in open-mouthed wonder upon the scene before them; “and only think—as long as we have been expecting to get here, now that we are here, I feel as if I was in a dream. Africa! Why, law, you know, though I always studied the map of Africa at school, and read about it in geography, I never seemed to realize there was such a place. It always seemed to me only like a place in a story, just as the Happy Valley, or the Cave of Despair. And I am sure it is as strange for me to be standing here, looking at it, as if I suddenly saw before me the Island of Calm Delight, or any other place that was only in a book. How queer! Africa!”

“I think your feeling is a more common one than would be generally acknowledged,” replied her husband. “Until it is presented to our senses, the Real, like the Ideal, only exists, for us, in our imaginations.”

“What astounds me,” said Mrs. Breton, “is to see here, at the most southern extremity of the most barbarous grand division of the earth, a town with houses, and a harbor with shipping, so much like the seaports of our own Christian and civilized native country. Why, law, only for that great mountain behind the town, and those two great rocks to the right and left, that stand like Gog and Magog to guard the port, one might think we were in New York Bay, and looking in upon some of the old Dutch quarters of the city.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Breton; “for harbors and shipping have a certain general resemblance all over the world. So also do seaport towns. And this town, with its Dutch style of building, does certainly resemble some of the older portions of New York. But it resembles still more the seaports of Holland, with canals running through the middle of all the principal streets, as you never see in ours.”

“Oh! canals running down the middle of the streets! How queer! Like Venice.”

“Oh, no, not Venice; for the streets of Venice are all canals—the walls of the houses rising straight up from the edge of the water. But here the canals only run down through the middle of the most important streets, and there are beautiful sidewalks, well shaded by lofty trees, before the rows of houses, each side. But you will see all these things when you go on shore. And there is the breakfast bell.”

While the others talked, Miss Conyers and Mr. Rosenthal stood side by side, perfectly silent, and letting their eyes rove over the sea and land. And now they turned and followed their companions into the saloon.

While they were breakfasting, the sailors were getting out the yawl boat, so that when they came on deck again, they found it waiting. They made haste to prepare themselves, and were soon ready. The gentlemen handed the ladies carefully down into the boat. The captain, who was going on shore with his passengers, joined them; and the sailors laid themselves to their oars and pushed off the boat.

“In African waters—only think!” said Mrs. Breton, who did not seem to be able to get over her astonishment at finding herself in such a, to her, mythical place.

They rowed cautiously past British men-of-war, past East India merchantmen, past Dutch traders, past Chinese junks and the shipping of all nations that rode at anchor in the harbor; and then past the fortifications, and past the custom-house, near which they landed.

As they brought nothing into the town but what they wore on their persons or carried in their hands, they had no business with the receivers of duty; so they went on into the town. First they found the usual crowd that day and night haunt the piers of seaports—only in this place the crowd was smaller as to number and greater as to variety than is commonly to be met with, for here were English, Dutch and Portuguese colonists, and Hottentot, Kaffir and other natives, besides a sprinkling of strangers and visitors from all parts of the world.

Through this crowd they went up a narrow street, and turned into a broad avenue, beautifully shaded with poplar, oak and pine trees, and built up on each side with handsome houses in the Dutch style of architecture, having gayly painted fronts, flat roofs and broad terraces.

Here the captain paused to point out to them the way to the South African College, and left them, and went in pursuit of his own business.

Mr. Ely and Mr. Breton had letters of introduction to Professor John of that institution, and thitherward the whole party turned their steps. It was a long but pleasant walk. The novelty of everything around them, and the strangeness of seeing so many old familiar objects of their own native land and home mixed up with so much that was new and foreign, beguiled the time, so that they were unconscious of fatigue until they reached the college building.

The professor was within, and received them in his private study—a comfortable room, carpeted, curtained, and fitted up with chairs and tables, desks and bookcases, like any European or American gentleman’s library.

Professor John was a pleasant little old man, in a dressing-gown, cap and slippers. And very cordially he arose and welcomed the party to Africa.

“To Africa!” echoed Mrs. Ely, who seemed in a chronic state of amazement—“it seems like saying—‘to the moon.’”

“Well, my dear young lady, it is rather an outlandish place, and in the same quarter of the globe as the mountains of the moon!” said the Professor, who was something of a humorist.

He offered them refreshments, consisting of the rich Constantia wine of the colony, and biscuits, cold fowl, cake, fruit, and so forth. And, when they had eaten and drank and rested, he showed them over the college—into the library, museum, classrooms, refectories and dormitories. And, when they returned to his study, he sent a messenger to procure a carriage to take them around the town.

CHAPTER IX.
A VILLA IN CAPE COLONY.

From the South African College they drove out of town in the direction of the Wynbey Hill to a beautiful villa in the English style of architecture, closely shaded, with the brilliant native trees of the colony grouped with the imported old familiar trees of the mother country, and surrounded with gardens laid out in the English fashion. To the owner of this lovely home, the Rev. Mr. Burney, of the Presbyterian Church, Mr. Ely bore letters of introduction for himself and his whole party. And when their carriage had rolled through the beautifully ornamented grounds and up the poplar-shaded drive to the front of the villa, he left his companions in their seats and alighted and went in to present his credentials to the master of the house.

He was welcomed by Mr. Burney with that cordial hospitality which must be peculiar, I think, to colonists all over the world; but is perhaps most peculiar to those of the Cape of Good Hope.

He insisted that Mr. Ely should immediately bring in his whole party; and to enforce the execution of his plan, went with that gentleman to the carriage and put his head in at the window and shook hands with all its occupants, and then had them all out of it and in his own drawing-room before they knew what they were about.

Then he sent for his wife and daughters and presented them to his visitors.

“Mrs. Burney, Miss Burney, Miss Mary Burney.”

And then he presented his visitors to his family:

“The Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Ely, my dears. The Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Breton. The Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal.”

—“Miss Conyers—the young lady’s name is Conyers,” whispered Mrs. Breton, in a panic.

But of all the hurried, low-toned explanation the unfortunate host heard only the names, and he corrected his mistake and made matters worse by exclaiming:

“Bless my life and soul, yes! I beg your pardon, sir and madam.” Then, turning again to his family group, he presented the young people over again as—“My dears, the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Conyers.”

Britomarte’s cheeks were scarlet. But Justin smiled with perfect self-possession and some little amusement as he shook hands all around, saying as he did so:

“I am not so happy. The young lady by my side is Miss Conyers; but it is not the fault of Justin Rosenthal, at your service, that she is so.”

The good minister uttered another:

“Bless my life and soul!” And then he laughed and stretched forth his hand, saying: “But you see the mistake was so natural on my part. Here is a party of missionaries on the way to India! And here is one young couple and here is another young couple; and here are two more young people, and what so natural as to take them for a third young couple? But I beg your pardon, Miss Conyers, I am sure!”

“And he ‘won’t do so no more!’—will you, papa dear?” said Miss Mary, who seemed to be the privileged romp of the family.

“Indeed I will not; until you give me the right,” laughed the minister.

Miss Conyers responded by a grave, severe bow; she could not easily recover her equanimity.

But Justin begged to assure his host that he, for his part, suffered under no sense of injury.

Mr. Burney laughingly replied that he should imagine he did not.

And so the affair passed off.

When the party were all seated comfortably in the easy chairs and on the sofas of the drawing-room, that looked so exactly like their drawing-rooms at home that they could almost have supposed themselves transported by magic back to America, their host, with his hands upon his knees and his head bent eagerly forward, said:

“Your ship will be in port here some days, I hope?”

“No. We sail on Saturday.”

“Bless my life and soul!” exclaimed this good man, who was given to imploring benedictions upon his own head. “You sail on Saturday, and this is Thursday. Well, well! You must make the most of your time and we must make the most of you. You must remain with us while the ship is in port. Not a word now! I will take no denial.”

Nor did he, and, indeed, it required very little persuasion to induce the voyagers to share Mr. Burney’s hospitality. The intervening days were spent delightfully in sight-seeing, and it was with real regret they bade the good people adieu and returned to the ship.

For two weeks they were blessed with fine weather and a fair wind.

Then, when the moon was at the full, there were indications of a change. The wind gradually died away, or rose and blew in fitful puffs, and sank again. The ship, with all her canvas spread whenever it could catch the faintest breeze, made little or no progress. The weather grew intolerably hot and oppressive. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky with consuming fierceness. The ladies were driven from the deck to seek shelter from the burning heat in the deep shades of the cabin, where they remained all day, or at least while the sun was above the horizon. After sunset they ventured upon deck to seek a breath of fresh air, which they very seldom found even there, for the atmosphere seemed oppressed with some deadly element that made it almost unfit for inhalation. And even the reflected light of the moon seemed to be reflected heat as well, and Mrs. Breton declared it looked as hot, and felt as hot, as ever the sun did in her own native clime.

The crisis came; the wind fell lower and still lower; and then the fitful puffs that had served to carry the ship forward a knot or two an hour, ceased altogether; the sea sank; and the ship lay like a log upon the glassy sea, under the burning sky.

Day and night for nearly a week this dead calm continued with most depressing monotony.

The heavens wore an ominous aspect. The sun had set, and every ray of his light had faded from the western horizon; yet the whole sky seemed to be illumined with supernatural light—a bronze-colored glare that made the moon and stars look pale and dim, and that was reflected by the sea, until the whole sphere seemed smouldering on the eve of bursting into a conflagration; while ever, at short intervals, came that low, deep, distant sigh, moan or sob, across the waters. As if in sympathetic answer to this mysterious sound of distress, the ship began to creak, groan and roll. And the whole circle of the sea began to boil up into a white foam.

The seamen also were very active and busy. Some were reefing the topsails; some were setting storm staysails; others were closing the portholes; and others again were securing the fastenings of the lifeboats.

“There’s something wrong a-brewing,” said Mrs. Ely to Miss Conyers, as they walked after Mrs. Breton, who had hurried to the stern where the anxious men stood grouped around the wheelhouse.

“What is coming, Captain McKenzie?” inquired Miss Conyers.

“Not much, I hope, my dear young lady; but I would recommend you and your companions to go down into the cabin.”

Even while the captain spoke, the dull bronze-colored glare grew darker and darker, and in the gloom the ripples of the sea gleamed in phosphorescent light, and the air was filled with a sulphurous odor.

“Will there be a hurricane?” Miss Conyers was about to ask, but in pity for Martha Breton, who was an exceedingly timid woman, she forbore the question.

“Oh, take me down, please! I know there’s something dreadful at hand; and I don’t see my husband anywhere at all! Please, take me down!” pleaded poor Martha.

Miss Conyers would have much preferred to remain on deck to watch the coming of the hurricane that she felt was almost upon them; but in compassion to her trembling friend she drew poor Martha’s arm within her own, and led her towards the cabin. They had scarcely reached the top of the ladder before the wind suddenly arose out of the northwest with a great blast, and then as suddenly fell, leaving the ship rolling from the impetus.

Miss Conyers hurried her helpless companion down the ladder and into the cabin.

“Oh, Britomarte, I know! I know! The captain and all of them expect a terrible storm! I saw it in their faces! and see how hard the sailors are at work making preparations to meet it! And only think, they have not even thought of supper, though it is past the hour! Not that I care for supper now! I am too frightened; but I know if there were not great danger, they would not forget it, or neglect to serve it!—and, oh! what a blast was there!” cried Martha Breton, as another gust of wind suddenly sprang up and blew with great violence for a few moments, and then again as suddenly subsided.

“You had better let me help you into your stateroom; where you can lie down on your berth and be quiet; and no doubt presently the stewardess will bring us some tea, which I will take in to you,” said Miss Conyers.

Meanwhile on deck all was anxious preparation to meet the danger. Some of the men were aloft, relieving the masts from everything that could cumber the action of the ship or be reft away by the wind. Others were seeing to the chains. Others again were clearing the deck from the lumber sent down from aloft. The captain, with two men, were at the wheel. The wind that had at first sprung up in fierce and fitful gusts now blew steadily, but with great and increasing violence, from the northeast, driving the ship furiously through the boiling waves. The sea, risen to a great height, dashed over the decks at intervals, carrying off all light matter that had been left there, and threatening at every return to wash off the crew. So strong and fierce was the wind, so high and heavy the sea, that it was all the man at the wheel could do to keep the helm.

As the night advanced the tempest increased in fury; the wind blew in fiercer blasts, howling and shrieking around the ship, as if all the accursed spirits in Tartarus had been let loose; had there been a square of canvas up, it must have been split to pieces; the very masts were bent like reeds. “Alps on Alps” of waves arose and broke in death-dealing blows upon the deck; scarcely any hour passed in which some unfortunate seaman was not torn from his holdings and swept overboard, and the utmost precautions taken could not prevent the waves rushing into the cabin, to the unutterable horror of Mrs. Breton, who could only gasp and sob, while even Mrs. Ely exclaimed in affright:

“We shall be drowned! Oh, my Heavens, we shall be drowned! drowned here in the cabin like blind kittens in a tub!”

“Ah, thin, bad luck to the kittens. I wish meself they were drowned entirely, for sure it was thimselves as brought this hurricane upon us, as the saymen foretold!” exclaimed Judith, the stewardess, who had only heard, in the din, something about drowning and kittens. At every wave that came rushing in, Mrs. Breton went into a spasm, and Mrs. Ely cried out for mercy, though before the words had left her lips, the wave had left the cabin.

At last one, heavier than any that had preceded it broke into the cabin, prostrating all its inmates, and then rushed out again.

“We are lost! Heaven and earth, we are lost!” cried Mrs. Ely, as soon as she could get her breath.

“Ah, be calm, we are immortal spirits; we cannot be lost! Think of that, and brace yourself to bear whatever comes! At worst it will be but a stormy passage to the other world!” said Miss Conyers, earnestly.

But her companions were unnerved beyond all hope of being strengthened.

And still, as the awful night deepened, the wind blew in more furious gusts, bending the masts like rods, the sea rose in higher waves, beating the ship with mortal blows; the thunder rolled in louder peals, and the lightning blazed with a more deadly glare. The ship was driven furiously through the darkness, and clear out of her course, and no one on board had any distinct idea of where she was.

So the night of horrors wore on.

“Oh, for daylight! oh, Heaven, for daylight!” was the frequently aspirated prayer in the dark cabin. And, “Oh, for daylight! oh, God, for daylight!” was the unuttered prayer on the quivering deck.

CHAPTER X.
THE ROCKS.

All things have an end. That awful night passed at last. Daylight came, slowly enough, through the heaped black clouds that rolled upon the heaving waves below and reached unknown heights in the sky above.

So darkly and gloomily came the morning, that it seemed not so much the dawning of the day as the fading of the black darkness. Night grew paler in the cabin, and the scared inmates could see in the waning darkness the wan faces of their companions rising up and down with the tossing of the ship.

And soon after daylight came that startling cry from the man on the lookout—that cry which is so often a sound of rapture or of despair, because it is a herald of life or of death. Ah, Heaven! it was now a knell of doom.

“Land ho!”

“Where away?”

“On her lee bows!”

“Thank Heaven!” fervently breathed Mrs. Ely, to whom the words conveyed no other idea than that of a good landing place, where they could all leave the dreadful ship, and go on shore in safety.

Mrs. Breton lifted her prostrate head, and ventured to draw a long breath.

Miss Conyers never moved or spoke; too well she knew the deadly meaning of the words she had heard—“Land ho!” “On her lee bows!”—when the ship was being driven before the wind at such a furious rate. Silent and breathless she sat, and waited for what should come next.

The voice of the captain rang clearly out above the roar of wind and wave.

“Luff! Luff!”

Too late! Another instant and the doomed ship was lifted high on the top of an enormous wave, and carried forward and cast down with a tremendous shock that crashed and tore through all her timbers from keel to quarter-deck, while she shuddered in a death agony, impaled upon the horns of the hidden rocks!

The passengers in the cabin were tossed up and thrown down by the concussion. They were jarred and shaken, but not seriously hurt. They quickly recovered themselves; and all the women except Miss Conyers were surprised and pleased to find that the ship, which had been tossing and pitching with such tremendous force for the last twelve hours had now become nearly motionless.

But there was a great deal of rushing about and calling out among the men on deck, and Mr. Ely and Mr. Breton started and ran up to see what it all meant.

“What is the matter? Have we landed anywhere? Oh, I suppose of course we have, but with what a stunning shock! It is bad enough when a river steamer strikes the pier too suddenly; but I declare this quite knocked the breath out of my body; and, besides, it was so unexpected! I didn’t know that ships ever did come quite up to piers, and I did not even know we were near any place. What port is it likely to be, do you know, Miss Conyers?” inquired Mrs. Ely.

“I do not know where we are. We shall hear presently, I suppose,” replied Britomarte. But too well she knew where they were not—in any place of safety.

“Anyhow, I am very glad to be still. I know that,” answered Mary Ely.

Martha Breton, who was often frightened out of her senses by slight or imaginary dangers, was now quite cheerful in the midst of the real and appalling peril of which she was fortunately unconscious. She got off the floor and into a chair and began to smooth her disordered hair and dress and to call out to Judith to light the lamps; for though it was daylight, it was still very dark in the cabin.

“And you know we have got to dress and go on shore,” added poor Martha.

“Ah, bedad, yes! sure we’ve got to go somewhere,” wailed Judith; but she got up and lighted the cabin lamps.

Meanwhile the commotion on deck increased. Suddenly again the captain’s voice was heard above all other sounds:

“Launch the lifeboats!”

And the rushing of many feet on the deck increased, mingled with the rushing of many waters around the ship.

“Lord betune us and harm, the lifeboats! Mary, star of the say,” and so forth, and so forth, said Judith, wailing lamentations and muttering litanies.

“Are we to go on shore in the boats? I thought the ship itself had landed and touched the pier,” said Mrs. Ely, rising to go to her stateroom to put on her bonnet.

“Well, I suppose we shall know what port we have touched sooner or later,” laughed Mrs. Breton, so glad to know that the ship stood still, and to believe that she was about to leave it for the shore.

Britomarte neither spoke nor moved. She knew, if her companions did not, that death was imminent.

The commotion on deck grew furious; it seemed almost as if a mutiny had sprung up among the seamen; too well she knew the meaning of that commotion; the crew were seizing the lifeboats. Again the voice of the captain was heard near the companionway:

“Mr. Bates! see to getting the women in the cabin up on deck immediately—they must first be saved!”

Miss Conyers made no reply.

“Saved! Heaven of Heavens! From what? From what are we to be saved, Britomarte?” exclaimed Mrs. Breton, suddenly seized with terror.

“How strangely you look, Britomarte! Your face is as white and as hard as marble! Oh, dear! oh, dear! what is the matter? What has happened? What are we to be saved from? Tell me! tell me quickly!” cried Martha Breton, wringing her hands in the extremity of distress.

“Oh, Heaven, do you not know, then? The ship is wrecked on the rocks! The crew are leaving her in the lifeboats!” said Miss Conyers, solemnly.

“Oh, no, no, no! Oh, don’t say that! Oh, mercy!” screamed Mrs. Breton, wild with horror and despair.

“Be firm! For Heaven’s sake, be firm! Be a woman! Let these men see that we can brave death with the best of them!” said Britomarte, for you see the ruling passion was “strong in death.”

“I don’t care what they see! Oh, dear! oh, dear!” wailed the poor woman.

“What is all this fuss about?” cried Mrs. Ely, coming out of her stateroom equipped in bonnet and shawl for her landing.

Before any one could answer her, there was a rush of many feet down the companion ladder, and several men entered the cabin, which was still too dark to enable the occupants to recognize the new comers. But Judith hurried out of Mrs. Breton’s stateroom with a lighted lantern, and then they saw that the visitors were Justin Rosenthal, Terrence Riordan, and the two young missionaries.

Mr. Ely and Mr. Breton each rushed to the rescue of his wife.

Riordan hurried his daughter up the companion ladder.

Justin Rosenthal came to the side of Britomarte Conyers.

His face was very pale, but his voice was firm as he hastily addressed her.

“The ship is a total wreck; the crew are about to abandon her, but they have consented to save the women. Let me take you to the lifeboats.”

“I will go with you on deck,” she answered, calmly giving him her hand.

The other women of the cabin had been taken away by the men that had come for them.

Justin and Britomarte now followed them up on deck.

But oh! what a scene of unparalleled horror and desolation met their appalled sight! The sun was just struggling up above the horizon through masses of black and ragged clouds; the thunder and lightning had ceased, and the wind had died away, but the infuriated sea still foamed with rage, and rose in mighty waves, and roared above the ship and fell in thunder over her decks. The ship, a mere shattered wreck, lay impaled upon the sharp rocks that had penetrated her keel; her bows were under water, and the waves dashed over her every minute, threatening to divide her amidships, but fortunately, her stern was lifted high out of the sea, and wedged in a ravine or crevice of the rocks; heavy clouds and fogs rested on the tempestuous ocean, and no one could see where the land lay, if indeed there was any land near, or anything else but this chain of sunken rocks which had proved a reef of death to the fated ship.

The lifeboats were all launched, and the crew were crowding into them.

Captain McKenzie stood, pale and stern, by the starboard gangway, seeing to the lowering of the women into the boats. Mrs. Ely and Mrs. Breton were let down into one, and Judith Riordan into the other.

“Hand the other girleen down! Sure we’ll save the women, the craytures! but as for the other passengers, faix they must take their chance along with the ould ship itself! troth, they’d swamp us all if we was to have thim in here,” said Mike Mullony, the carpenter’s mate, who, in this hour of confusion, worse than chaos, and horror worse than death, had seized the command of the boat he was in.

On hearing these dreadful words that doomed their husbands to death, the two unhappy young wives began to scream and sob and pray to the crew; and to stretch out their arms in an agony of yearning to those beloved ones who had grown so dear to them on their voyage, and who now stood fixed and livid with despair upon the quaking deck.

Sick at heart at this sight, Miss Conyers turned away and walked as rapidly as she could up the inclined plane formed by the leaning quarter-deck, to the stern of the ship, where she stopped, looking down upon the “hell of waters” beneath her.

Justin Rosenthal stepped hastily after her and stood by her side.

He stood for a moment silent, livid, and breathing hard, like an animal spent in a long chase; but in his eyes burned the intense fire of a love victorious over horror and despair. Then he suddenly seized her hand and nearly crushed it in his convulsive grip, as he whispered hoarsely, in a voice vibrating with the strong passion of his soul—stronger than death and the grave:

“Woman! spirit! we are on the immediate brink of eternity! I love you more than life in this world or the next! I love you more than all created things in earth or heaven! Tell me, in this last mortal hour! tell me before we part—Britomarte—that you love me!”

She looked him in the face and met his eye; she raised her hand and pointed upward, as she answered in a low and thrilling voice:

“We shall meet there! I will tell you then!”

Her answer seemed to satisfy him; a ray of joy inspired and exalted his countenance; once more he crushed her hand in all too strong a grasp, and then he stooped and said.

“Come! your companions are all in the boats. Let me take you to them.”

“And you?”

“They are leaving me in the ship! no matter! Come!”

“Why do they leave you?”

“There is no room in the boats! Come! come! there is not an instant to be lost!”

“No! I will not enter the lifeboat! I will remain with the wreck! I am not afraid of death at all,” she answered, with that iron resolution that he seldom ever saw in any other human being.

“But it is your duty to try and save your life! Heaven and earth! there is no time to argue this point! The ship is doomed! the boats are leaving her! Come!” he rapidly and eagerly exclaimed.

“My mind is made up! I will share the fate of—the ship!” she answered, calmly.

“Then I will save you whether you will or not!” he cried, hastily laying hands on her.

“Stop! Don’t dare to use force with me, Mr. Rosenthal!” she exclaimed, in a tone that made his hands fall from her person as if they had been struck off.

“But Heaven of Heavens! there is no time—not an instant of time for persuasion! The ship is sinking, I tell you!” he cried, breathing hard.

“Then I will sink with—the ship,” she persisted.

“But why? oh, why?” he demanded, quickly, scarcely able all the while to keep his hands off her. “Why? why?” he pleaded. Perhaps he hoped that in this last awful hour she would give him a supreme proof of love, and say that she was resolved to stay to share his fate. And perhaps “to share his fate” was her strongest motive for wishing to remain on the wreck; but if so, she gave a weaker one; she said:

“Because I would rather at once sink with the ship, and meet a quick and easy death, than take the chance of life amid the horrors of the lifeboats. I will stay here, and wait my fate.”

“Then, before Heaven, I will not permit you to do so! You are mine by the right of the strongest love man ever felt for woman, and I will dispose of my own as I please,” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her, and lifting her up as easily as a child would lift a kitten. He bore her down to the starboard gangway, from which the last lifeboat was just putting off.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Men! seamen! some of you help to lower her down! Some of you take her as I let her go! Riordan!—Mullony!—hold up your arms!”

“Bedad, and meself will do that same! Let her go!” exclaimed Mike, standing up in the boat, and spreading his arms, to receive the form that Justin was preparing to lower down.

Too proud, or too fragile to struggle with superior force, up to this instant Britomarte had been quiet enough; but now, as he was letting her go, she turned with a half-suppressed cry and clung to his breast. But he tore her away from that hold, and dropped her into the strong arms of Mike Mullony. And then, stepping back upon the deck, he waved his hand for them to push off.

But oh! what a cry of unspeakable anguish came up from that boat, as Britomarte started to her feet, and stretched forth her arms yearningly, longingly toward him, exclaiming:

“Justin! With you! Take me! My beloved! my beloved!”

But he waved his hand to Mike to take charge of her, and turned away, white as death.

And it was an insensible form that Mike Mullony laid gently in the lap of Judith Riordan, who, with his own wife, Biddy, were the only other women in that boat; Mrs. Ely and Mrs. Breton being in the other one.

While Britomarte lay still in that swoon, the boat was put off from the side of the ship. There were on board of her, besides the crew and the women, the ship’s doctor and the supercargo. And oh! in the midst of all their selfish anxiety for the preservation of their own lives, and their natural sorrow for their companions left behind to perish, what grief they also felt in abandoning the brave ship that had so gallantly borne them through such a waste of waters; the good ship that had so safely brought them through such tremendous storms, and that had only succumbed at last to the overwhelming power of winds and waves! Aye, they grieved remorsefully for her, as for a human being, deserted at her utmost need, and left alone to die.

When Britomarte recovered from the deep, deathlike swoon that had held her life in abeyance, the boat was some distance from the ship. Her senses and memory returned instantly with her consciousness. Her first thought was of her lover—her first act to raise herself on her elbow, and with her eyes to sweep the horizon in search of the abandoned wreck.

Yes, there it was yet—distant and dimly seen—but certainly there, with the bows under water, and the stern wedged up in the crevice of the sunken rocks, and the sea breaking over it as before; while all above were dark and driving clouds, and all below foaming and heaving waves. The boat made very little headway over this heavy sea. Britomarte never took her eyes from the wreck. As she gazed on all that remained of the good ship, the sun suddenly burst through a black cloud; and some shining object on the stranded stern caught the rays and lighted up the wreck, like a star of hope.

“Save him! oh, God of Mercy, save him!” was the perpetual, though unuttered cry of her heart.

“Spake to me, ma’am! Look at me!” said Judith Riordan, coaxingly. “Don’t be setting your eyes out on sticks, and twisting your head around like Lot’s wife, looking after that wreck. God save the craytures that were left behind, for we could do nothing for thim! Sure this boat wouldn’t howld another sowl! And the other boats were as heavy laden, and they left the ship first. And Lord knows what’s become of them, for I don’t see one of them! though troth, this fog to the landward swallows up every object, so it does. Ah, well, thin, sure I have been praying for the poor sinners left on the wreck, and saying the litany of the ‘Star of the Say’ ever since we left thim there! And I’ll aven go at it again.”

And Judith opened her little book and went at it again, muttering her litanies in a half audible voice.

Miss Conyers paid no sort of attention to her. She also was breathing earnest prayers for the salvation of one left to perish, while she strained her eyes for a sight of the wreck that was often hidden from her view by the rising of some great wave that threatened to carry it down, and as often loomed again through fog and spray to assure her of its continued existence.

“Oh! if it can but hold together for a few days, some ship may pass and take him off! Oh, if this dreadful sea would but subside! Oh, God have mercy on me and save him!”

Such was the constant burden of her thoughts and prayers.

There might have been others left on the wreck with Justin Rosenthal, but she scarcely remembered their existence; she thought only of him!

There was appalling danger surrounding herself and her companions in the boat, but she hardly cared for it; she suffered only for him!

Now, in this awful hour of doom, all the depths of her soul had been opened up, and she knew how strongly, how ardently, how devotedly she really loved him—how entirely he possessed her life!

Meanwhile, the danger to the boat and its crew was imminent. The sea ran high and heavy, threatening every instant to swallow them up. The shore, toward which they were blindly struggling, was covered with clouds and fogs that might hide, for aught they knew, more frightful perils than those from which they were trying to escape.

What this shore was, no one had the least idea. For twenty-four hours before the storm, no observation had been taken and no reckoning made; and during the storm, the ship had been driven some hundreds of miles out of her course, so that no one knew on what rocks she was wrecked, or to what land this struggling boat was tending. The wind, that had fallen at sunrise, now started up from another quarter, and blew directly off the fog-hidden land. This soon cleared away all the mist and revealed a rugged, rock-bound coast, more terrific in its aspect than the sea itself.

And the sea was growing darker and wilder every instant, and the boat was tossed like a cockle shell on the mad waves. They lowered the little sail to prevent the wind capsizing the boat, and they took to the oars and worked hard through the heavy seas along the shores, keeping as well as they could off the rocks, and watching for some opening to effect a landing.

One of the men had a pocket compass in his possession, and he took it out and set it, and saw that they were rowing northward.

The sun was sinking down through a bank of clouds behind the land, when the boat’s crew, still striving with the wild waves and rowing northward, saw that they were coming to a point that seemed to be the most northern extremity of some island.

“If we can once round that point,” said one of the sailors, “we can get under the lee shore, and may manage to make a landing.”

“We must give it a wide berth, then, if we double it at all; the current around that point would suck the boat down to destruction in no time,” said another seaman.

They turned a little off and struck out to sea, meaning to give the point with its fatal maelstrom “the wide berth” that their comrade recommended.

The sun went down and night gathered, and all was hidden from her view.

The boat’s crew labored on through the darkness of the night, the beating of the wind and the roughness of the sea, striving to round that point and get under the lee short of the land. But as night deepened the sky grew darker, the wind higher, and the sea wilder. It was a miracle that the boat lived from moment to moment, through several hours of that dread death struggle, but while they strove for life, they expected only death. They made what blind preparations they could to meet the greater calamity, when the boat itself should be lost. The men were strong swimmers, as well as good sailors and good oarsmen. Some of them took the oars, while others fastened what life-preservers they had at hand on the persons of the helpless women.

Miss Conyers objected.

“Pray, don’t,” she said. “It will be but a prolongation of the death agony. I had rather drown at once and have it all over, than beat about for hours in this wild, dark sea, and perish miserably at last.”

“Bedad, though, there’s a chance of life at last! And sure I promised the masther to thry and save ye, and faix I’ll do it! Help me here, Terry!” said Mike Mullony, and with the assistance of Terry Riordan, the father of the Irish stewardess, he invested Miss Conyers with the life-preserver.

Not an instant too soon!

There came roaring onward an enormous wave that lifted itself high above and fell with annihilating force upon them. And in an instant the boat was gone, and the souls that had intrusted themselves to her were struggling in the mad sea.

Britomarte almost lost her senses in this shock of doom; and then she found herself in the wild waters, kept up indeed by the life-preserver, but dashed hither and thither, a helpless creature, at the mercy of the waves. And the night was appalling with the howling of the wind and the roaring of the waters and the shrieks of the drowning men and women!

In this scene of horror unutterable, Britomarte was beaten about, now driven out to sea, now dashed in towards the land; and through all one sublime thought exalted her soul above all the despair of the situation:

“We are immortal souls and cannot be destroyed! We are spirits and must live forever!”

At last she felt herself lifted up by an enormous wave, that, roaring as in triumph over its prey, bore her forward with great velocity and threw her with deadly force upon the shore; and with the shock she lost her consciousness.

CHAPTER XI.
LADY ROBINSON CRUSOE.

When Britomarte awoke from that deadly state of insensibility into which the tremendous mental and physical shock had cast her, her recovery seemed like coming back to life in the grave. At first she did not know what sort of creature she was, or what state of existence she had come into. Neither memory nor thought was present with her. There was only a bodily sense of uneasiness, as the air again inflated her collapsed lungs, and the vital current resumed its flow through her damp, chilled and heavy limbs; and a mortal sense of vague despair, impossible to analyze.

Instinctively she turned over and tried to rise; faintly she perceived that the palms of her hands were deep in the moist sand, and that they went deeper as she bore her weight upon them in her efforts to get up. And thus she discovered that she was on the ground.

At length, after several fruitless attempts, she succeeded in lifting herself to a sitting position. And then she looked blindly around. But nothing was to be seen. All was dark as pitch. And nothing was to be heard except the thunder of the sea upon the coast—a sound that impressed her senses like some dimly remembered knell of doom.

She put her hands up to her head, and tried to struggle forth from this state of mental dullness and confusion. She tried to think and remember who she was, what had happened, and how she came to this hades of darkness and desolation! In vain! as well might a newborn infant try to recall the events of its pre-existence, supposing it ever to have had one. With all her striving to come forth from chaos, she could only arrive at a dim, mysterious consciousness of infinite loss and eternal despair. Was she a disembodied spirit, then? Was this really hell? Had she come to it? And for what sin? No, but such spirits had not flesh and blood, as she felt too sensibly that she had.

What then?

The ceaseless beating of the waves upon the shore was a familiar and suggestive sound, and troubled her with glimpses of memory that flitted in and out of her mind like ghosts in a graveyard.

It was a trifle that at last struck the electric chain of association, and restored her to herself. In her blind movements, she touched the inflated life-preserver that was fastened around her waist. And instantly, with a shock of returning life, the whole scene of the catastrophe flashed upon her memory. And she knew that she was cast away upon that dreary coast on which the lifeboat had been struggling all day long, and far into the night, and on which it had finally been wrecked!

But whether this coast was a part of the mainland or of an island; whether it was barren, or clothed with vegetation; whether it was uninhabited, or peopled with cannibals, she did not know and she did not care; or what deadly perils and cruel sufferings from the ruthless savages, or from protracted starvation might await her there, she did not know and did not care.

Instantly, with the flash of memory had come the knowledge of her one great sorrow, the loss of her lover and her beloved! Yes, in this awful hour of doom, Britomarte knew that she loved Justin with an earnestness that outweighed her hatred of his whole sex and her devotion to the sacred rights of her own.

And the cry of her broken heart arose wildly on the dark air, amid the profound stillness of that strange land!—a cry of bitter anguish, not for the fate of all her late companions, too probably perished in the sea; not for the feeling of her own horrible state of danger and desolation worse than death, but for despair at the loss of him whom she loved as only such souls as hers have power to love.

“Gone! gone! gone! Gone out of my way forever! Oh, this is the sorrow I dreaded worse than all others in this dark world! the only sorrow I ever really dreaded! life without him! And now he is gone forever, without one good word from me to let him know how I loved him! Ah! Heaven, how I loved him!” She wrung her hands and tore her beautiful hair, and then flung her arms on high, and cried out again, in the frenzy of longing:

“Justin! Justin! My lover! My beloved! Where are you? Where are you in all space? Are you near me? Can you hear me? Oh, is there no way of piercing the veil? of getting to you, or drawing you to me? Oh, come to me! Oh, hear me! I am telling you what no power could have ever drawn from my lips, Justin, while you were in the flesh! Justin! I am telling you how I loved you! How I loved you! I meant to have died with you on the wreck! I did, Justin! I did, though I would not confess I loved you! I meant to have died with you! Oh, why did you not let me? I cannot, cannot outlive you! Once you said, though you loved me so much, you could live without me, because you were so strong to suffer! But I! oh, now I know that I am not strong. I cannot live without you! and with the memory of my bitter unkindness to you! Justin! Justin! Oh, spirit! wherever you live in boundless space, speak to my spirit!”

She was indeed almost insane in her frenzy of grief, remorse and despair. And but for her deep religious principles, in her fierce anguish she would have run down through the darkness and cast herself headlong into the sea, that she still heard thundering upon the beach.

At last, exhausted by mental and physical trials, she sank down upon the ground and covered her face with her hands, and sat there in mute despair during the remaining dark hours of the night.

Day dawned in that strange place at last.

She lifted up her bowed head and looked around, feeling in the midst of all her misery the same sort of weird curiosity that causes a criminal on his way to the scaffold to look with attention at every object of interest in the range of his vision.

She saw the eastern horizon growing red behind a grove of tall, dark trees, but what sort of trees they were she could not tell. She arose to her feet and stretched her chilled and benumbed limbs and took off her life-preserver. Her clothing had dried upon her, but it had a harsh feeling and a stiff set and a scent of the sea water. Her hair, too, was loose and flowing; combs and pins had been lost in her recent battle with the waves. But she cared little for all these circumstances. A feverish thirst consumed her and she walked on in search of some spring or stream of fresh water.

Day broadened over the unknown land, showing her an undulating and variegated country of hill and valley, plain and forest. The ground was covered with a coarse, rank verdure, and starred with many strange wild flowers. She merely glanced at these as she rambled inland in quest of a fountain to quench her burning thirst.

She walked some distance, fearless and careless of what unknown wild beasts or wilder men might intercept her progress and destroy her life. She often sank exhausted on the ground; and arose and recommenced her journey, driven onward by the fiery thirst that seemed to scorch up her very lifeblood.

She came to that grove of tall dark trees behind which she had seen the sun rise in the morning. She found them to be a grove of cocoa palms, and as she entered under their umbrella-like shades she was startled by a chattering over her head; and at the same time a missile was launched at her, that missed its mark and rolled at her feet.

She stooped and picked it up. It was a cocoanut. Raising her eyes at the same time, she saw a monkey perched in the tree above her, grinning and chattering with mischievous delight, and preparing to launch another nut at her. So she hurried from under that tree and out of the way as fast as she could. She carried off the monkey’s gift with her, thinking that if she could not find fresh water, she would try to break the nut and drink the sweet milk.

She passed through the grove of cocoa palms and came out upon a gently declining plain that descended to the seaside; so she knew that she must have crossed the narrow point of land and come out at the part opposite to that upon which she had been first thrown.

The upper part of this plain was covered with a thick growth of what seemed to be a coarse reed or bamboo, or what might be a species of sugar cane. Britomarte had never seen the sugar cane growing, and so she could not judge of it. She broke off one of the straight stems and placed it to her lips and found it to contain a sweet juice, which she sucked with avidity to moisten her dried lips. But this only seemed to increase her thirst; and as yet she had found no fresh water, nor could she hope to find any so near the seashore; but with a fragment of rock she contrived to break the cocoanut and drink the milk. Still that did not quench her thirst; so she once more turned her steps from the sea and walked inland, though by another route than that by which she had come.

She entered another thicket of unfamiliar trees, which were not, however, cocoa palms, but some unknown growth of that country. It was a picturesque thicket, with rocks and grottoes, clothed with luxuriant vegetation that grew in the crevices or wherever there was a root hold of soil.

Suddenly she heard a welcome sound, the gurgling of some spring or stream of water. Following the sound, she came to a rock, from a fissure in which trickled a small, clear fountain. She hastily made a scoop of her hand, and caught and quaffed the precious liquid eagerly. And when she had quenched her feverish thirst, she bathed her face and hands, and dried them with her handkerchief, which she found safe in her pocket. While she was so employed she heard a sudden rush and whirr of wings, and looking up, she saw that a large flock of strange birds, of beautiful plumage, had made a descent and settled among the branches of the trees over her head. She watched them for a little while, and then passed out of the thicket, up upon a sort of tableland that occupied the center between the two shores of this long peninsula, as she supposed it to be. She walked on she knew not, cared not whither. Her burning thirst sated, and that physical suffering allayed, she again experienced heavy mental trouble. She walked on in a purposeless way, until, happening to glance downward she saw before her a strange looking little animal, in size and shape not unlike our young native pig. But on being observed, it started and scampered away. She went on and crossed the elevated plain and came to another thicket and passed through it and came out upon the sea coast again. And here she sat down in the collapse of despair.

“It is only to wander here until I shall be massacred by the savage natives, or destroyed by scarcely more savage beasts of prey, or else until I drag out a miserable remnant of existence, and perish slowly of famine and exposure, or of sorrow and despair, more terrible than physical suffering! How long will my strength hold out to live and suffer? Not long, I hope and pray, since it would be to no perceptible good end! Ah, well, it cannot last forever! ‘Time and the hours wear out the weariest day!’ This is a dreary season; but this also will pass away. Time is but a small portion of eternity, and flesh but a transient condition of the spirit; I am an immortal spirit, living in eternity, and I cannot die or be lost; and sometime—somewhere—I shall meet him! Let me think of that and be strong!”

While thus she reasoned herself out of her despondency and nerved herself to endure the horror and desolation of her condition—a horror and desolation not even to be imagined by any one who has only known misery in the midst of their own kind, in the reach of human sympathy—she suddenly heard a cry—a sharp, wild, piercing cry, between a howl and a shriek and a wail—a cry of anguish and defiance and ferocity!

She started and listened.

It was repeated again, wilder, higher, fiercer than before.

She hoped—she truly did—that it came from some rapacious beast of prey, mad with hunger, which would set upon her and make short work of her and of the “dreary season” she dreaded so much.

It was reiterated in almost human tones.

How intently she bent her head and listened.

“Ow-oo! ow-oo! ow-oo!” it screamed.

Human tones, yet not articulate sounds.

“Och-hone! och-hone! och-hone!” it hallooed.

A sudden light dawned on Britomarte’s mind. She knew that these last sounds were never heard off the “Gem iv the Say,” except from some “exile of Erin.” She immediately arose and hurried down the beach in the direction from which the cries proceeded.

And there, upon the sands, dangerously near to the water’s edge, lay the form of Judith Riordan. The life-preserver was still around her waist, but she lay flat upon her back, with her feet and hands raised, kicking and fighting the air, and her voice lifted and howling dismally. And with good reason; for she seemed unable to get up and run away from the spot, and the tide was coming in rapidly, and with every advancing wave threatening to overwhelm and drown her.

Miss Conyers hurried to her side and knelt down, exclaiming eagerly:

“Oh, Judith! Judith Riordan! Thanks to Heaven that you are saved!”

“Yis, thanks to Hivin, and small thanks to any of yez, laving me here be meself to be drowned entirely. And where are the lave of yez, at all, at all?” demanded the Irish woman, crossly.

“The rest of us? Oh, Judith, I don’t know. You are the first one that I have seen! Oh, Judith! I fear—I greatly fear—that all the others have——”

A huge wave came rolling and roaring onward, breaking at their feet and showering them with spray.

“Ah, bad luck till ye thin, why don’t you drag me out of this, itself? Sure the next one will carry me off entirely!” screamed Judith.

“Oh! Judith, poor girl, can’t you help yourself at all? Are you so badly hurt as all that?” inquired Miss Conyers, as she took hold of the woman’s shoulders, and putting all her strength to the effort, slowly and laboriously dragged her a few feet from the water’s edge and let her down a moment, while she, Britomarte, stopped to breathe and recover.

“Am I hurt so bad as that? ye ask me. Ye betther believe that same! Sure and I’m thinking ivery bone in me body is broke, so I do! Ah, bedad, here come another say. Sure if I’d been left where I was, it would have took me off entirely. Och! drag me further out iv this——”

Even while she spoke, the advancing wave broke, and tumbled down, a shattered avalanche of water, at their feet, covering them with a shower of spray.

When it had fallen back, Britomarte once more took hold of her companion, and with painful efforts succeeded in dragging her still a few feet farther on, where she was safe from the tide.

CHAPTER XII.
LEFT TO HIS FATE.

And now let us see what in the meantime had become of Justin, left with his few unfortunate companions to perish on the deserted wreck.

After he had forcibly torn Britomarte from him and dropped her into the outstretched arms of Mike Mullony, and had heard her last despairing cry, and had waved his hand for the lifeboat to be pushed off—he abruptly turned away that he might not have his resolution shaken by the imploring words and gestures of her whom he loved more than life; for he did not know that with the cry still upon her lips she had swooned away in the arms that had received her.

He climbed with difficulty up the inclined plane of the half-submerged quarter-deck to the stern, which was lifted out of the water and wedged tightly in a cleft of the rock at an angle of about forty-five degrees, more or less.

There he turned and stood nearly waist-deep in water, holding onto the shrouds of the mizzen mast to keep from being carried off by the waves.

The sea that continued to break over the wreck with tremendous shocks, did not, however, rise far above the foot of the mizzen mast; though every wave that thundered over the quaking deck shook the wreck to its keel, and nearly swept the man from his holdings.

Yet there he stood, intently watching the receding lifeboat and silently praying for her safety, as she labored through the heavy sea.

And even when she was lost to sight, in the deep fog that enveloped the distant, unknown shore, he continued to gaze after her, until an enormous wave broke over the ship, burying him up to the neck in water and almost tearing him from the holdings where he clung with all his strength.

As the wave fell back a terrible cry arose from the sea.

Justin, clinging still to the shrouds, bent his head forward to see whence it came. And to his horror and grief, he saw a man’s hand and arm strike up for an instant through the foaming wave and then sink out of sight.

“Great Heaven! Who is it? Which of my friends has been swept off?” cried Justin, gazing in sorrow upon a calamity that he was powerless to prevent.

But the arm arose no more, and Justin turned his head to look over the portion of the deck that was still above water to see what had become of his companions.

There were but three of them—Mr. Ely and Mr. Breton, whom the sailors had refused to receive on the heavily-laden lifeboats, and Captain McKenzie, whom they would willingly have taken off, but that he regarded it as a point of honor to remain with the passengers whom he was unable to rescue.

Justin, looking all over the deck, saw nothing of these men. Until the moment he had heard the cry of the drowning man, he had been so much absorbed in watching the fate of the lifeboat which contained all that he loved most on earth, that he had quite forgotten his companions in misfortune. Now, however, he looked around for them with great anxiety. One of them was lost—carried off the deck by that last great wave—that was certain; but which one? Was it either of the two young missionaries who with himself had been abandoned to destruction, or was it the brave and loyal McKenzie, who voluntarily shared the fate of those whom he could not save?

It was impossible as yet to tell; for, look as he might, Justin could see neither of his companions.

He tried to think when and where he had seen them last, and he recollected that it was on the starboard gangway, where the three stood near together when the first lifeboat, containing, besides a portion of the crew, the two young missionary ladies, was preparing to leave the ship. He himself had turned away and followed Britomarte to the stern, and his whole attention had been given to her until he lowered her into the second lifeboat. And after that he had seen no more either of the missionaries or the captain.

Now what had become of them? One was drowned; but where were the others? Justin asked himself the question, and looked about for the answer in vain. They were nowhere in sight. They were not on deck, that also was certain. It was possible that the two survivors might be in the cabin, which from the position of the wreck was as yet a place of safety. He called aloud with all the strength of his sonorous voice, which rang out clearly above the thunder of the waves:

“Ely!—Breton!—McKenzie!”

“And but the sounding sea replied,

And fast the waves rolled on.”

“McKenzie!—Breton!—Ely!” he called again; but called in vain.

“Oh, the roaring of the sea drowns my voice, I suppose, so that they cannot hear me; but as soon as it is safe to let go these shrouds, if the wreck holds together, I will go down into the cabin and look for them. Great Heavens! Now I think of it, it must have been McKenzie who was lost. He must have remained on deck. He never would have hidden himself in the cabin,” thought Justin, with an accession of sorrow, for he esteemed the brave and loyal captain far more than he did the well-meaning but rather weak-minded young missionaries.

In his eager look after his companions, he had ceased to watch the waves, and so he had not observed that the sea arose no higher; that the last great wave was the climax of its swell, and that now it seemed to be gradually subsiding.

His anxiety to search the cabin was now greater than ever; for he “hoped even against hope” to find the good and brave Captain McKenzie safe within its shelter. He waited and watched his opportunity to try to reach the cabin.

When the sea had gone down a little, and the waves came with less force, but long before it was quite safe for him to leave his holding, he let go the shrouds, and began to climb the inclined deck, holding by anything that he could lay his hands on, until he reached the cabin door. It was a feat of gymnastics to get down the companion ladder, and when he had safely reached the bottom, he inadvertently lost his footing, and slid all the way down the leaning floor, until he was stopped by the opposite partition.

There he arose to his feet, stood ankle deep in water, and looked around. But he could see nothing; it was nearly dark in the cabin, the dead lights being up, as they had been put at the commencement of the storm. He listened; but he could hear nothing except the beating of the waves that still broke over the wreck, though with decreasing force. Again he called out:

“McKenzie! Breton! Ely! Where are you? For Heaven’s sake, answer!”

But there was no reply. His anxiety became intolerable.

He climbed the leaning floor again, and scaled the companion ladder, and with great difficulty succeeded in taking down the dead-lights and letting daylight into the cabin.

Then he returned to the cabin, and clearly saw its condition.

From the foot of the ladder, the floor inclined at an angle of about forty-five degrees. The highest part near the ladder was free from water, commenced around the pedestal of the center-table, and became deeper as the floor was lower, until at the partition wall it was two feet deep. The chairs and all the movable furniture had slidden down the sloping floor, and lay half submerged and piled against the wall. The doors of the staterooms were open, and the furniture within them was in the utmost confusion. And yet everything there—the women’s clothing, hanging on the pegs or dropped upon the berth; the little workbasket fallen upside down upon the floor; the scattered books, the flute—all was suggestive of life; but it was of desolate life, for all was chaos—still life, for not a living creature was to be seen.

A shock of alarm, almost of conviction, that his three companions had been lost, struck like an icebolt through his heart. He went into all the staterooms, one by one.

They all exhibited the wild disorder he had partly seen through the open doors; not only that of small sleeping apartments hastily evacuated, but that consequent upon the hurricane. The two staterooms to the right and left of the companion ladder, being in the highest part of the leaning cabin, were comparatively dry; the other two, lower down, were partly submerged.

No human being was to be found, either; but on the upper berth of the spare staterooms lay Judith Riordan’s cat, quietly and comfortably nursing her three kittens. On seeing Justin’s face leaning over, she began to purr with delight. What a contrast was this picture to all the desolation around?

But Justin turned away, sick at heart, to prosecute further what he felt would be a vain search for his missing friends.

The dining cabin was on the deck above, but it had been so continually swept through by the tremendous seas which had broken over the ship, that it seemed scarcely possible any living creature should have found refuge there; yet as a forlorn hope, he went thither to seek them.

And what a scene of destruction met him there!

The sea, that had fallen considerably, no longer swept through it, but everything was shaken together in the maddest medley. The table which had been laid for the supper which poor Mrs. Breton so greatly lamented the loss of, was standing in its place, for it was a fixture, and the glasses that were fitted in the swinging rack above the table were also safe, but everything else was thrown out of place and smashed to atoms, or piled up in the lowest part of the leaning floor. In the highest part of this cabin were two doors, leading into two large staterooms; the right-hand one as you stood facing them was the captain’s private room, the left-hand one was the doctor’s. Justin opened the door of the captain’s room, but found it unoccupied. A sound of pitiful whining and barking came from the doctor’s room. Justin opened the door, and found the doctor’s little dog, who leaped upon him with the wildest demonstrations of delight, but otherwise this room, like the captain’s, was unoccupied.

And now the anxious dread became a fatal certainty—his companions were all three lost!—swept from the deck by that last overwhelming wave! But yet, stay—one hope remained. They were not on the wreck, that was certain; but they might have been taken off at the last moment by the first lifeboat that had left the ship. They might have been so taken off without his knowledge, for he had left them standing on the starboard gangway, near the boat in which the two young wives were wildly pleading with the crew to save their husbands; the two young missionaries shaking with agitation in this crisis of their fate, and the captain pale with passion, and stern in his determination to share the fate of his abandoned ship and passengers. So he had left them to follow Britomarte and take her to the other boat, and he had not seen them since!

They might have been saved by the relenting boat’s crew, but, if so, who was the castaway that he had seen and heard in the uplifted arm and voice for one instant before he—the castaway—was whelmed in the sea?

Again came the overpowering conviction—it was the brave McKenzie who was lost. The young missionaries had probably been taken off at the prayers of their wives; for sailors have a soft place in their hearts, or heads, for the woes of women, and will risk much to alleviate them; and so they had probably consented to risk the swamping of their heavily-laden boat by the additional weight of the two young husbands rather than listen to the sobs and cries of the two heartbroken young wives. But Captain McKenzie had chosen to remain on the wreck with his one abandoned passenger—Justin Rosenthal; and he—the gallant McKenzie—had been swept off the deck and was lost!

Such was the conclusion that Justin came to. And at the thought he sat down and dropped his head upon his hands and sobbed aloud; for, you see, as I have often said before, the bravest are always the tenderest.

The doctor’s little dog, unable to endure such an appalling sight, to him, as a man’s distress, jumped and whined around him in sympathetic grief and terror.

At length Justin lifted up his bowed head and tried to bring reason and religion to the relief of his great regret. He reflected that the death of so good a man could but have been a quick passage to eternal bliss—a blessed fate compared to that which awaited himself, left to perish slowly on the abandoned wreck, or that which attended the fugitives in the boats, exposed to battle with the elements, and perhaps with hunger and thirst for days, upon the bare chance of saving their lives.

Somewhat strengthened by the first clause of his reflections upon the eternal destiny of the brave and good captain, and very much distracted by the counter-irritant of his anxiety for the fate of the lifeboats, Justin Rosenthal arose to leave the dining cabin, the little dog jumping and barking around him.

Just as he went out on deck, the sun broke through a mass of black clouds, and striking upon the brasses of the stern, lighted up the whole wreck in a perfect blaze of glory.

It was the same “star of hope” that had been seen by Britomarte, from the lifeboats, just before the wreck disappeared from her view in the distance. For it must be remembered that the wreck, being much the larger object of the two, and being hoisted high upon the rocks, was visible to the boat’s crew long after the boat was lost to Justin’s sight.

By noon the sea had fallen so much that the whole length of the deck from stem to stern was above the water; and Justin was enabled to take note of the actual condition of the ship.

She remained in the same position, her stern lifted high and wedged tight in the crevice of the rocks, and her deck inclined at a great angle. Her bows were very much broken and her keel was gored by the sharp points of the rocks upon which she had struck and where she was fast fixed. Her hold must have been full of water, which would have sunk her but for the fact that she was high and fast upon the rocks; that with the rise and fall of the waves the large leaks let out the water as easily as they let it in.

Justin went down to the lower deck and examined the forecastle, which he found in an even greater state of chaos than the cabin and the saloon had been. Everything was saturated with sea water.

From there he went into the storeroom, which he found in the same condition. All the provisions that could be hurt by salt water were totally ruined—except a few articles that, being in water-tight receptacles, remained uninjured.

Feeling faint from long fasting, Justin broke open a tin canister of biscuits and sat down to satisfy his hunger upon that dry fare. The little dog that had trotted after him wherever he went, as if afraid of being left behind, now stopped and stood on his hind legs and began to beg as his poor master, a little Dutch doctor, had taught him to do. Then, perceiving that his new master did not notice him, he began to expostulate in short, impatient barks.

Justin threw him some biscuits, and, leaving him to nibble them, went to the upper deck.

How rapidly the sea had fallen! The jagged rocks upon which the bows of the ship rested were laid bare. The wind had changed, and blew directly off that distant, unknown shore, rolling the fogs out to sea and towards the wreck. While Justin strained his eyes to make out, if he could, what sort of shore it was, he felt something rub against his ankles and heard a mew.

He glanced down and saw the poor cat, who was rubbing her furry sides against his limbs, and mewing piteously, and gazing up into his face with that helpless, appealing look with which the brute creation in their need seem to pray to the human for relief.

“Poor little animal!” said Justin, stooping, and gently stroking her fur. “Poor little companion in wretchedness! You look up in my face with your perplexed eyes, as if you think I have the power, and ought to have the will, to help you. But you are half famished, and I have nothing but a biscuit to give you. And, as you are not granivorous, it is not your natural food.”

And he broke up the biscuit and scattered the pieces on the deck.

And pussy, granivorous though she was not, pounced upon the fragments as if they had been so many young mice, and devoured them all before she returned to her kittens.

Then Justin found his way to the cabin, and threw himself upon one of the berths in Britomarte’s abandoned stateroom.

For some hours he lay, not sleeping, but thinking of her, and praying for her safety. Then, as even convicts sometimes sleep the night before their execution, he, Justin, notwithstanding his own great personal peril, and his excessive anxiety for Britomarte’s fate, fell asleep, and slept long and well.

CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE ISLAND.

When he turned out of his berth next morning he noticed that the cabin was entirely free from water, from which circumstance he judged that the waves had quite subsided.

He climbed up on deck to take a look at the prospects there. He found that the ship was high and dry upon the rocks, and that the water in her hold had run out.

The sky was perfectly clear and beautifully blue; and the sun shone down upon a sea as calm as the inland lake.

In the pure atmosphere the distant land could be distinctly seen, with its rugged white line of rock-bound coast in strong relief between the deep blue sky and deep blue sea.

But as Justin dropped his eyes upon the intervening space between the land and the wreck, an exclamation of surprise and joy escaped him.

What he saw there was rescue! was safety! It was what could not have been seen at any other period since the gale, for at no other such period had the sea been so low as it was now. What he saw, then, was an extremely long and narrow chain of rocks, reaching out from the distant shore to the point upon which the ship had been wrecked. It was a natural causeway, extending from the land far out into the sea. When the sea was high, this causeway was deeply covered with water, and thus the ship, when driven so far out of her course, had struck upon it and had been wrecked. But now the sea had fallen; and the causeway was above water; so that any expert walker and climber might pass over it almost dry shod to the land.

Justin was not one of the sort who stand idle and indulge in speculations while there is anything to do. He knew that the first thing for him to do was to try to reach the shore by that causeway.

He knew that there was no danger of the ship breaking up just yet; unless there should be another hurricane, which was not to be expected, at least until the next change of the moon. He knew also that while she held together, the ship afforded a safer place of refuge than the unknown land might offer; for on the ship there was nothing to injure him; while on the land he might fall into the hands of cannibals. And in that case what could one man do against a whole tribe? Still, he considered, that unless he would perish in the sea when the ship should break up, that unknown land, with all its hidden dangers, must sooner or later be his destination; and he thought the sooner he ventured upon it the better.

With this resolution he went into the captain’s private cabin to look for a small telescope, which he felt sure was there, and which he wished to use in surveying the causeway and the shore. He found it and came out. The little dog jumped down from the doctor’s berth, where he had nestled himself in his accustomed place to sleep, and began barking and jumping up and wagging his tail by way of a morning greeting to his new master.

Justin patted his head, and then went out on deck, followed by his little four-footed companion.

The ship had struck at right angles with the chain of rocks, so that the starboard gangway was towards the shore. There Justin stood and, adjusted his glass to view the far-reaching causeway and the distant land.

But, even with the aid of his telescope, he could discover little more than he knew before. He could only more distinctly ascertain that the causeway was a chain of rocks leading to the shore—a road that would be covered with water at high tide, and be entirely bare at low tide; and that the distant land presented only a rock-bound and forbidding aspect.

While he was still gazing, he felt something claw at his boots, mewing pitifully; and the next instant he heard a shrill barking, and spitting, and clapper-clawing. And he looked down to see the cat and dog engaged in a fierce combat, in which the fur flew plenteously.

Justin separated them, lifting the cat up in his arms, and giving the dog an admonishing kick. Then he took them both down into the storeroom and fed them apart.

While he was busy in this humane duty, he was greeted by a dismal sound—a prolonged “Ooom-mow!” that he knew must come from the captain’s cow. He followed the sound until it led him to her pen, which was between decks in the stern, a position that had saved her from being drowned, as the stern was lifted at such a high angle upon the rocks. Justin had no sooner reached the cowpen, than he was greeted by a perfect babel of noises from the animals confined in that part of the ship. The hens clucked, the ducks quacked, the sheep baa’d, and, above all, the pigs squealed as if they would have squealed themselves to death, and their hearers to deafness.

All these animals had been saved by their position from drowning, but they were in great danger of starving.

Justin went back to the storeroom, and found an ax, and broke open several boxes of grain; and then went to the fresh water butts, and drew water, and mixed food, and carried it to the pens, and fed the famished creatures.

Then he set a pan of milk in the cabin for the cat. After which he filled a little basket with a day’s provisions for himself, and put a pair of revolvers in one pocket and a small telescope and a pocket compass in the other. Then he put on a broad-brimmed hat, and took in his hand a stout walking-stick, called the dog to follow him, and went carefully down the leaning deck to the bows of the ship, that were nearly on a level with the rocks. With one bound he sprang from the ship to the causeway. The little dog jumped after him.

The causeway was high and dry above the sea, and long and narrow in its course, and irregular and rugged in its aspect.

Walking on it would have been very dangerous, either to a reckless or a timid pedestrian.

But Justin was at the same time careful and fearless, and he and his little companion went on safely enough, though often slowly and with difficulty; for often a deep chasm cut the causeway across, and then Justin would be obliged to stop and consider the best way of getting over it, and then, with the aid of his walking-stick, he would have to descend very carefully down one side, and using his stick for a leaping pole, throw himself across the isthmus at the bottom, and then as carefully ascend the other side.

Sometimes the little dog would follow him well enough, tripping down the first side, swimming the isthmus at the bottom, and climbing up the other side; but at other times when the sides were very steep or the stream at the bottom very rapid, the little dog would come to a dead halt, and stand whining miserably, and Justin would have to turn back, and take him up in his arms, and carry him over.

Thus Justin was two hours in going the distance between the ship and the shore.

As he neared the shore, the causeway became wider and higher, until it began to assume the aspect of a cape or promontory, and so it continued to rise and widen until, almost unawares, Justin, with his dog, found himself ascending a rocky hill, in character almost a barren mountain.

In this ascent he found his walking-stick of great service in getting a purchase upon the difficult ground; but he found his little dog a great trouble to him; for he—the dog—was tired, and would often stop and whine as persistently to be taken up and carried as any spoiled child.

And Justin always indulged him, for he was much too kind-hearted to leave his little four-footed companion behind. Another hour’s painful toil brought Justin to the top of the mountain, which he judged to be about a thousand feet above the level of the sea. The summit was as bare of vegetation as the ascent from the causeway had been; so that Justin, from his point of observation, had a very extended view of the landscape. He took out his telescope, adjusted it, and took a sweeping view around the horizon.

He found that the land was on all sides surrounded by the sea, and that he was on an island oblong in shape, and as well as he could judge, about twenty miles in length by about ten in its utmost width.

The lofty hill, or mountain, upon which he stood, was the highest point upon the island, and was situated near the southern end—the long causeway upon which the ship had been wrecked being the extreme southern point. And, though this mountain was barren on the side descending towards the interior, it was fringed with beautiful trees and gemmed with sparkling fountains. The center of the island was very luxuriant in tropical vegetation. Towards the extreme north the land descended and narrowed to a sandy neck of not more than a mile in width from sea to sea; but this neck was thickly wooded with the tall and graceful cocoa palms.

Having observed so much, and the time being now about two hours after noon, Justin, who was “sharp set,” from his long and toilsome walk along the causeway and up the mountain, sat down and emptied his basket in preparation for his midday meal. It was but a simple luncheon of cold bacon, ship biscuit and milk, but he and his little dog enjoyed it very much.

Having finished his meal, he began to descend the mountain, with the purpose of exploring the island as far as he could that afternoon, and of spending the night upon it, if he should find a convenient place of repose.

He designed to return on the next morning to the ship to feed the animals and make preparations for bringing away all that was likely to be useful to him in this strange land, which he foresaw would probably be his home for as long as he should live in this world.

With the aid of his stick he slowly descended the difficult mountain side. About half way down he stopped at a fountain to assuage his thirst. The little dog, who had kept close to his heels, followed his example, and lapped lower down the stream.

Then Justin resumed his journey, and continued it without interruption until, near the base of the mountain, the little dog startled a covey of splendid oriental birds that burst up from their cover, deafening him with their explosive cries, and dazzling him with their gorgeous colors, so that the whole thing affected him something like the sudden letting-off of fireworks would have done. The little dog took the affair as a personal affront, and continued to bark himself hoarse long after the winged fireworks had disappeared in the distance. Justin pacified him at length, and they went on. As they reached the foot of the mountain, the sun sank behind the horizon.

Justin sat down to rest and reflect.

“Night before last on the deck of the ship, scudding before a terrible hurricane; last night alone upon the wreck, in the midst of the stormy sea; to-night on an unknown and what seems to be an uninhabited island. What next, I wonder! Well, I earnestly thank God that my life has been preserved! But what has become of her—of Britomarte, whom I forced to leave the ship? Oh, would to Heaven I had permitted her to remain! She would have been even now by my side! And now—where is she? Where? Shall I ever meet her again on this side of the grave? Ah, Heaven, who can answer any of those questions?” he groaned, and unable longer to sit still, he got up and walked forward, still followed by his faithful little four-footed friend. He walked on and on through the woods at the foot of the mountain, while twilight deepened into night, and the stars came out in the purple-black sky; then he sat down and rested for a little time, while the dog coiled itself up and went to sleep at his feet. Then he got up again and resumed his walk, followed still by his sleepy but loyal little adherent.

He walked on until the moon arose, when he discovered that he had come out upon the seacoast, through the grove of cocoa palms that he had seen from the mountain top.

CHAPTER XIV.
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT.

Britomarte conducted her frightened companion to the thicket of woods and grottoes where she had found the spring.

She made her sit down on a fragment of rock under a spreading tree, and then she went to the spring and found a large leaf, which she doubled up in the form of a cup, and caught some water, which she brought to the woman, who drank it eagerly.

“Ah, thin! bless the Lord for giving us water itself! Sure, there’s nothing like it, at all at all, whin the thirst is upon one!” said Judith, gratefully, drawing a long breath.

Britomarte brought some wild plums and cocoanuts which she saw growing, and gave them to Judith.

At first the woman was too frightened by the chattering of monkeys and the growls of hidden forest fiends to open her mouth; but Britomarte overcame her fears and she ate and drank with avidity.

Miss Conyers made a meal of the plums she had gathered.

But Judith, now that her appetite was satisfied, found another source of trouble.

“Sure, the sun is setting, and it will soon be dark! And Lord kape us, where will we slape?”

“It is a lovely summer evening, Judith. And there is a deep, dry grotto in the thicket that we have left. We will stay here through the twilight, and through the dark hours before moonrise, and then we will go to the grotto and sleep.”

And there they sat through the short twilight, and through the long, dark hours that intervened before the moon arose. The moon arose, a glorious, golden globe, illumining with its rich, soft light the broad expanse of sea, and the strange, wild land, with its stately palm trees.

Britomarte sat gazing with something like calm enjoyment upon the exceeding beauty of the scene. Sleeping, or forgotten in this quiet hour, seemed all her sorrows.

Judith gradually fell to nodding and snoring.

She was awakened with a vengeance.

A grim footstep came crunching through the pebbles on the beach.

With a scream, Judith started to her feet.

Miss Conyers also arose and listened.

And almost at the same instant Justin Rosenthal appeared before them.

“Lord kape us—it’s his sperit!” gasped Judith, who was too panic-stricken to turn and fly; but stood with her face blanched as white as snow, and her mouth and eyes distended with terror.

Almost as much amazed stood Justin and Britomarte, gazing upon each other in incredulous astonishment and unspeakable joy! For an instant they stood thus, and then their joy broke forth:

“Saved! Oh, thank God! thank God!” exclaimed Justin, holding out his arms toward her.

She extended her hands. She could not speak; the overwhelming tide of joy had deprived her of the power.

But he caught her to his bosom; and she dropped her head upon his shoulders, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.

“Oh, my own! my own!” he cried; “my beloved! my peerless treasure! This is the very happiest moment of my life! How cheaply purchased with shipwreck and the loss of everything else!”

Still she sobbed upon his shoulder, unable to make any other reply.

“You are with me! I have you, and I care for nothing that can befall me that does not part us!” he continued.

“And I’m left out in the cowld entirely,” said Judith, who had gradually recovered from her panic, and recognized the apparition as Mr. Rosenthal in the flesh.

“Britomarte! Love! love! Do you know how happy I am? Speak to me, love! I have not heard the sound of your voice yet, except in sobs. Speak to me, my own, only love!” whispered Justin.

“Oh, I am so glad, so glad, that you are saved! Oh, thank God! thank God! Oh, in what words can I thank God enough!” exclaimed Britomarte, with an emotion that shook her whole delicate frame.

He caught her closer to his bosom, and bent down his head over hers until his lips touched her forehead and his auburn locks mingled with her dark brown tresses.

“God bless you for every sweet word you have spoken, oh, my dearest! my dearest!” he murmured.

But it was not until her great passion of joy had somewhat exhausted itself that she recollected herself, and gently attempted to withdraw from his embrace.

But of course he held her fast; until at length she said, ever so kindly, but ever so firmly:

“Let me go, please. I am not quite sane, I think. Oh, I am so glad, so glad you are safe! Thank God with all my heart and soul! Oh, thank Him forever and ever! I do not care that I am shipwrecked on this foreign shore now!” she added, earnestly.

“Nor I; not one whit. I rather like it,” agreed Justin, as he sat her down upon a ledge of rocks and took a seat by her side.

“No more would I, if I had Fore Top Tom foreninst me, and daddy, and could get me tay, and toast, and mate, and granes rigalar,” muttered Judith, dropping into her old place.

“I was so overjoyed to see you safe, that I forgot to ask how you were saved, or where your companions are,” said Justin.

“My companions! Ah, Mr. Rosenthal, how selfish I was to forget them for a moment! They are all lost! Our boat foundered in that last gale! Only myself and Judith Riordan chanced to be saved by having life preservers on, and by being cast ashore by a wave. Our companions are lost!” said Britomarte, solemnly.

“Lost!” repeated Justin, gravely.

And a deep silence fell between them—a reverential silence in tribute to the dead, taken away so awfully; a long silence, broken at length by the voice of Judith, who, reminded of her losses, recommenced her howling.

“Lost!” again repeated Justin. “Well, God’s will be done. All our grief will not restore them to us. And, much as I lament the calamity, I am too happy in this hour of reunion with you to feel inconsolable at any circumstance whatever.”

“How were you saved? Though I am so glad to see you saved that I have scarcely room to feel curious about the manner,” said Miss Conyers.

“When the storm was over, and the wind and the waves had fallen, the ship was left high and dry upon the rocks, in a crevice of which the stern was tightly wedged. These rocks formed the extremity of a long chain, or natural causeway, extending from the land far out into the sea. When the subsiding of the sea left this chain bare, I passed over it to the land. And here I am—your lover and servant, to work for you and defend you, through life and unto death!”

“Again and again, and forever and forever, thank God that you are safe! But for the rest——”

She paused and hesitated.

“Yes, for the rest—for the rest, Britomarte?” he eagerly repeated.

“Do not speak of it now, or here! It would be scarcely generous or like yourself to do so.”

“It would not be like myself to do anything repugnant to your feelings!” said Justin, a little abashed; then recovering his self-possession and dignity, he added, slowly and thoughtfully, as if he weighed every word before he uttered it:

“We three persons—being two women and one man—are cast here upon this unknown and uninhabited island, where we may remain for years, or even for the term of our natural lives; for, however little we do know of it, we know that it is out of the course of ships, since our own ship was driven very far out of her course before she was wrecked upon its shores. There are no habitations here, nor any of the commonest conveniences of human life. All these have to be provided by labor—hard manual labor, such as women cannot perform—such as men only can accomplish. This being so, Miss Conyers, while ever we remain together on this island, whether it be for years or for our lives, I will serve you with all the honor a subject owes his queen, and all the love a brother bears his sister. Let us close hands upon that.”

“Willingly,” said Britomarte, giving her hand. “Be—not my subject, for that savors too much of the old folly—but be my brother, and as my brother I will love and honor you infinitely! I will pray God to bless you always.”

“Agreed! But this compact is to last so long as we remain on this island,” said Justin.

“Yes.”

“And when we are rescued, if ever we should be; when I see you among your friends again—if ever I should see you so—then, Britomarte—then I shall sue for some nearer and dearer tie than that which unites the most loving brother and sister!”

“Mr. Rosenthal! Justin! why will you advert to this forbidden subject? I esteem and honor you beyond all men, because you are an exceptional man! but I tell you I esteem and honor you only as a good and noble brother! In no other light can I ever regard you. You know what my principles are, and what my frequent declarations have been: that I never will become the wife of any man while the present unjust laws of marriage prevail,” said Miss Conyers, earnestly.

And while she spoke these cold words, the sound of other words—uttered in her wild agony, at that bitter moment of parting were echoing through his memory—“Justin! Justin! With you! My beloved! My beloved!”

And he saw again the outstretched arms and the wild, appealing gaze with which she hid uttered them. Had she forgotten them? or did she wish to ignore them? He could not tell. But he felt, of course, that honor and delicacy forbade him to allude to them, or even to the joy with which he received them—all these circumstances being “proof as strong as Holy Writ” that she loved him as no sister ever loved a brother.

Now he answered her cold words as calmly as she had spoken them:

“While we remain on this island I will never even ask you for a promise or a hope of the sort; and this is the last time I will ever allude to the subject. But now you should have some repose. I can understand why you should deem it prudent to watch the night out rather than sleep, in this strange land, which might, for aught you knew, be infested with wild beasts; but now that I am here to defend you, there is no reason why you should not sleep in peace.”

“I was not afraid to go to sleep,” replied Miss Conyers, a little proudly; “but my companion here refused to go into the shelter that I proposed, and I did not think it right to leave her alone.”

“It was like you to think of others first; but now you can both seek shelter and sleep while I watch. There is a fine grotto that I passed in my rambles over the island, which I think would afford you a safe place of refuge for to-night. To-morrow better shelter shall be provided.”

“I thank you earnestly,” said Miss Conyers. “That grotto was the place of shelter I first wished to go to. Come, Judith.”

“Sure, and I’ll not budge a fut unless the gentleman promises to stand at the hole all night to keep off the wild bastes!” said the woman, defiantly.

“I promise that, Judith. I had a good night’s rest on the wreck last night, and so I can very well afford to lose this night’s sleep,” replied Mr. Rosenthal.

Britomarte objected strongly to Justin’s proposed watching; but he succeeded in convincing her that he could watch without inconvenience. And so they all went to the grotto in the thicket.

Justin spread his greatcoat on the floor to make a bed for Britomarte, and then he bade her good-night, and went out and took up his stand as sentinel before her rude bower.

CHAPTER XV.
MAKING THE BEST OF IT.

With the earliest dawn of morning Justin withdrew from his post and went and gathered some loose, dry sticks, and piled them up before the hole of the grotto, and but a short distance from it. Then he took some matches that he had brought in his pocket, and kindled a fire to protect Britomarte and her attendant from the approach of any beast of prey; for it is well known that no wild animal will ever venture to come near a fire.

Then leaving his sleeping charge, he took up his stout walking staff and hurried away as fast as he could go in the direction of the causeway. His wish and intention was to go to the ship and procure some provisions for Britomarte’s breakfast, and to return with them to the grotto before she should awake and miss him from his post.

Knowing now the way so well, and being relieved from the trouble of looking after the little dog, that he had left sleeping at the feet of Britomarte, he made much faster progress over the distance between the island and the ship than he made on the preceding day.

He plunged straight ahead through the thicket, without the slightest regard to briers and brambles. He passed over the mountain with more haste than care; but finally he reached the landward end of the causeway with safety as well as with swiftness.

Then he set out to walk across the causeway to the ship. He hurried on without much respect to discretion, dropping himself down the steeps; with the aid of his walkingstaff, which he used as a leaping pole, flinging himself across the chasms; and running on all the level places until he reached the ship and jumped upon the leaning bows, which were down upon the level of the causeway.

He found the ship very much in the same condition in which he had left it, and in which it might remain for an indefinite length of time.

He found also plenty of work to do, and he hastened to do it. First of all, the poor cat met him on the deck, with every demonstration of delight a dumb creature could make. That was his welcome. But, of course, she had lapped up all the milk he had left for her in the cabin, and she wanted more.

He went immediately to the pens to look after the condition of the animals, and he found that they also had consumed all the provender he had placed there for them, and they were clamorous for a new supply. He hastened to the storeroom and mixed mashes and brought to the pens and fed all the creatures plentifully. Then he milked the cow and fed the cat. For even in his eager impatience to get back to the island with provisions for his own suffering love, he could not neglect the sacred duty of relieving the wants of these poor dumb brutes, which were so utterly helpless and dependent upon his kindness.

These duties faithfully discharged, he passed into the storeroom to attend to the business upon which he had especially come. He looked up a large basket with a cover, and he proceeded to fill it with parcels of tea, coffee, sugar, biscuit, butter, bacon, pepper and salt, and a bottle of milk. Next he went to the pens again and found the hens’ nests, and collected about a dozen fresh eggs, which he also added to his store.

Then he ascended to the dining-saloon, and from the mounds of debris there he picked out a few knives, forks and spoons, and cups, saucers and plates, that had escaped the general crash, and put them in with the provisions. And he took a tablecloth and folded it and laid it over all the contents of the basket, which was now quite full, and upon which he shut down and fastened the cover.

Next he went down into the caboose and looked up a teakettle, a fryingpan, a teapot and a coffeeboiler, and tied them together by the handles and hung them upon a pair of tongs, which he slung over his left shoulder. And with his heavy basket of provisions on his left arm, and the handle of the tongs in his left hand, and his stout walkingstaff grasped in his right hand, he left the wreck and set out upon his return to the island.

Britomarte was up and about when he returned.

“Good-morning, sister; I hope you rested well,” was his cheerful, smiling greeting, as he carefully set the basket down and dropped the cooking utensils, and stretched his cramped arms.

“Thanks to your kind guardianship, very well,” said Britomarte, cordially.

“You are staring at that basket, Judith,” said Justin, laughing. “Well, I have been to the ship, and brought off some provisions for breakfast. The greater part of the ship’s stores are spoiled by the wetting they got in the storm; but still there is a considerable quantity, which, from its position, escaped injury.”

The breakfast was very leisurely eaten. It was a pleasure to linger over that tête-à-tête meal; and it was prolonged as much as possible.

When it was over, Britomarte and Justin withdrew from it, leaving Judith to her undisputed privilege of washing up the service.

“The first thing to be done,” said Justin, as they walked apart, “is to provide shelter. There is no time to be lost before it is done. The grotto, it is true, is better than the open sky, and it is well enough at night.”

This grotto was at the inland base of that long mountain that Justin crossed in coming from the causeway to the center of the island. It was entered by a hole about seven feet high by three broad. Around this hole, and up the entire side of the mountain, the whole surface was richly clothed with a thicket of shrubs and saplings wherever they could find root hold in the soil between the rocks, and it presented a most beautiful appearance. In front of the grotto was the small natural opening in the woods, where our little party had made their fire and eaten their breakfast.

Passing in through this hole of the rock, or doorway of the grotto, as it might be called, Justin and Britomarte found themselves in a spacious cave, of oval form and great natural beauty. The floor was nearly level, and the walls rose in the form of a dome, in the top of which was a fissure that let in the sun; and floor and walls were all of the most brilliant white stone, that reflected back the sunlight with the lustre of frosted silver. The whole size of the place was about that of a large family drawing-room.

“It is a palace for a fairy!—a bower for a queen!” said Justin, in admiration.

And then they turned and left the grotto to look after Judith.

CHAPTER XVI.
SAVING THE STORES.

“The next thing to do,” said Justin, as they joined Judith at the fire, “is to get all the stores from the wreck. After I have secured them I may bring away as much of everything else that may be useful to us as I can move before the ship breaks up.”

“It is a great labor that you propose for yourself,” said Britomarte, gravely.

“An absolutely necessary labor, and therefore to be undertaken and accomplished,” replied Justin, smiling.

“You must let us take our share of the work.”

“My dear—sister, I mean—the task will be much too laborious for you. The causeway over which all these things have to be brought is no macadamized avenue, I assure you.”

“For all that, Justin, you traversed it; and you know that I must make the attempt. If I fail, I will very quietly yield the point and leave all the labor to yourself alone.”

“Well, well,” said Justin, laughing. “You are ‘queen o’er yourself,’ and all things else here. You must work your own will.”

“And sure, here’s meself, wid me two hands to the fore, ready to fetch and carry wid the best iv yez!”

“Thank you, Judith, I had certainly counted on your help,” said Mr. Rosenthal. “And now—sister—shall we set forth?” he inquired, turning toward Britomarte.

“If you please,” said Miss Conyers.

Justin looked up through the trees toward the blazing sky. For though this was January, yet they were in a climate where that month answers to our July.

“It is very hot and growing hotter; and I dare say you did not bring a bonnet with you when you landed on this island?” he inquired, with a droll look.

“I dare say I did not,” smiled Britomarte.

But Judith took up the matter in grand gravity.

“Bonnet?” she echoed. “Sure mine was lost itself in a fray fight wid the say!—Bonnet? Faix, it was all I could do at all, at all, to kape the hair itself on me head, let alone bonnets!”

“Then we must improvise some defense for your heads against this sun,” said Mr. Rosenthal, looking around. “Ah! I have it! the palm leaves! nothing could be better!” he exclaimed, starting off in a run through the thicket toward the grove of cocoa palms.

“Ah! sure, what would we do without him, at all, at all! Troth, we hadn’t aven a dacent meal’s victuals till he come to our relaif, so we hadn’t. Sure, we’d perish intirely only for him,” said Judith, looking gratefully in the direction where Justin had disappeared.

The man-hater did not reply. There was no controverting Judith’s words. Perhaps also they expressed Britomarte’s own thoughts. What, indeed, though one was brave and the other strong, could these two women have done for self-preservation, left alone on this desert island, without the help of the one man Providence had sent to their assistance?

Justin soon returned, bearing large palm leaves, which, with some natural dexterity, he doubled and shaped into a rude sort of hoods, more remarkable for utility than for beauty.

“There,” he said; “they are not in the latest Parisian style of ladies’ bonnets, I am afraid, but they will keep the sun off, and to do that is the purpose for which they were formed. I hope we may all answer the end of our creation as well.”

When they were about to start, the little dog, seeing symptoms of a move, began jumping and frisking around them, to testify his approbation of the journey and his willingness to share it.

“No, you don’t, my fine little fellow. I have had enough of crossing the causeway with you. I had rather carry a two-year-old child at once. We’ll leave you here,” said Justin, looking about for some means of confining the dog.

To “leave him” there was easier to say than to do. They might have tied him to a tree, only they had neither rope nor chain. Or they might have shut him up in the grotto, only they had no door to close against his exit.

At length a bright idea struck Justin. He took his handkerchief from his pocket, rubbed it well upon his own face and hands and laid it down on the ground, and called the little dog, and said:

“Fidelle! Fidelle!—watch it!”

And the loyal little creature ran and put his forepaws upon it and stood looking “faithful unto death” with all his might.

“Come—we can go now,” said Justin. “Our way leads up the mountain, immediately over the roof of your grotto, sister; and the ascent is steep and rugged; and although you are not a very ancient lady, I think that you will find this staff serviceable; indeed, indispensible,” he added, handing to Miss Conyers a stick that he had cut for her use in climbing, and which she received with a smile of thanks.

He gave Judith a similar staff, and then they all set forth.

They ascended the mountain in a much shorter time than might have been expected.

When they reached the tableland on the summit, Justin found a fragment of rock that would do for a seat, and advised Britomarte to sit down and rest.

Then he took out his telescope and adjusted it, and invited her to take a survey of their little kingdom—“For this island is our kingdom, my sister!—

“‘We are monarchs of all we survey—

Our rights there is none to dispute;

From the center all round to the sea

We are lords of the bird and the brute.’

“But how much happier we are than was poor, solitary Robinson Crusoe, or his prototype, old Alexander Selkirk!” said Justin, placing the telescope in her hands, as she arose and stood beside him. “Rest the glass upon my shoulder to steady it, and then look,” he added, placing himself in a convenient position as a telescope-stand.

She adjusted the instrument according to his advice, pointing it toward the wreck, which she saw distinctly wedged in the cleft of the rock at the end of the causeway.

“Poor ship! I lament her fate almost as if she were a human being doomed to death. For, of course, she is doomed. She must break up sooner or later,” said Britomarte.

“Yes, sooner or later,” replied Justin, contemplatively; “and it seems even the greater pity, because, as she lays now, she is really not injured beyond repair, were the means of repairing her at hand. However, she will hold together the longer for being hurt no worse.”

Britomarte now lifted the end of the telescope from Justin’s shoulder, and, taking it in both her own hands, supported it thus while she made a survey of the whole circle of the horizon. Some minutes passed in this review, during which no one spoke. Britomarte was the first to break silence.

“A wilderness surrounded by the sea; a desert in the midst of the ocean! It is magnificent—it is sublime in its utter isolation and perfect solitude!” she said, lowering her glass.

“It is,” answered Justin, relieving her of the telescope. “Yet let Providence give me the time, strength, and opportunity and this wilderness shall bloom and blossom as the rose, this desert become a beautiful home. This island shall be a new Eden, of which we shall be the new Adam and Eve. Yes! for all that has come and gone, we shall be very happy here—Sister!”

He brought himself up with a jerk by this last word. His fancy had been running away with him, until he saw the clouds gathering upon the man-hater’s brow, when he suddenly pulled up with—“Sister!”

“Shall we go on?” asked Britomarte.

“Certainly, if you are rested,” replied Justin.

And they resumed their journey, going down the mountain side toward the causeway.

“I think that we had all the necessaries and comforts, and many of the luxuries and elegancies of life on board of our ship, had we not?” inquired Justin as they went on.

“Yes, of course; but you have some reason for asking that question, or rather for reminding me of those things. Now, what is your reason?” inquired Miss Conyers.

“Merely to follow up your answer by assuring you that you shall have all those necessaries, comforts, and perhaps luxuries and elegancies still.”

Britomarte looked up at him inquiringly.

“Nearly all these things remain yet upon the wreck. If it will only hold together for a month, I can, by diligence, convey them all to the land, and store them here. There is a chest of carpenter’s tools in the forecastle; and there are building materials enough on the island. I can build you a very fair little house, and furnish it comfortably with the furniture I shall rescue from the cabin and staterooms of the wreck. There is also a large assortment of grain and garden seeds, which poor Ely was carrying out with him to try the experiment of growing them on Indian soil. I will try the more promising experiment of planting them on your island. And then there are the animals to stock your farm! The cow, the pigs, the sheep, and the poultry—if I can only get them over the causeway. This—the removal of the animals—will certainly be the most difficult part of our enterprise. But if it is to be effected by any amount of labor and perseverence, I will effect it.”

“Sure, sir, did ye say as Cuddie is saved, the crayture?” inquired Judith, who was tugging on after them as fast as she could.

“Cuddie!” echoed Mr. Rosenthal, with an air of perplexity.

“Yes, sir, sure—Cuddie, the captain’s cow itself, the crayture! I was asking you, is she saved, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” laughed Justin; “I milked her this morning for your breakfast, you know, Judith. And oh! by the way, I fed your cat and kittens, too, Judith. They, also, are quite safe.”

“Ah, thin, bad luck to thim! Are they safe itself, afther bringing their betthers to ruin sure! Faix! I wish they’d been drowned, so I do, the day I brought them on the ship to bring destruction on us all! Ah, bedad! we’ll lave them where they are, and not bring a bit of them off at all, at all!”

“But that would be cruel, Judith. And as for myself, I shall not leave the smallest living creature to perish on the ship, if any effort of mine will save it.”

“Ah, thin, sure would ye bring thim divil’s imps on the land to bring us to disthruction over agin!”

“People can’t be brought to destruction ‘over again,’ my good girl.”

“Oh, can’t they though, nather! Sure ourselves was brought to disthruction once be the shipwrack, and we may be brought to disthruction over again be wild bastes or ilse be cannibals! Whist! Lord kape us! where are yez a-going to at all, at all?” gasped Judith, breaking off suddenly in her discourse, and stopping short in her progress upon the brink of one of those chasms that cut the causeway across.

“Don’t be frightened, Judith. Stand just where you are until I help Miss Conyers over to the other side, and then I will come back for you,” said Justin, who was carefully supporting Britomarte in her difficult descent down one side of the steep.

When he had lifted her across the stream at the bottom, and helped her to climb the other side, and seen her safe upon the top, he returned to fetch Judith.

“Troth, I’ve heard tell iv the divil’s highway, but niver saw it before; and sure this must be itself!” said Judith, as she gave her hand to Mr. Rosenthal, and clambered awkwardly down the descent.

When he had convoyed Judith safely to the other side of the chasm they all three resumed their walk. Several of these chasms they crossed in the same manner. And finally they reached the ship, which remained in the state in which Justin had left it.

Mr. Rosenthal handed Miss Conyers on deck, and then helped Judith up beside her.

Britomarte looked around with sorrowful reminiscences of that dire calamity which had separated her from all her late companions.

“I never expected to tread these planks again! It seems strange to be here! It seems almost wrong to be here! as if we had no right to be alive, now that all our fellow-voyagers are lost! I cannot rejoice in being saved, remembering their destruction!” she murmured, sadly.

“We do not know that they have been destroyed. I think it highly probable that the boat which first left the ship’s side—the boat containing the missionary party—was saved,” said Justin, with the purpose of consoling her.

“Why do you think so?”

“Because it was the most seaworthy boat of the two, and it was manned by a more knowing crew, and finally, because they had sense enough to sail for the open sea instead of making for that fatal rock-bound coast upon which your boat was wrecked.”

“Oh, Heaven grant they may have been saved!” fervently exclaimed Britomarte.

“Oh, the poor ould ship! Oh, me poor ould daddy! Oh, me darlint Fore Top Tom! Are yez all lost intirely? Drowned in the dape say? Oh, me fine ship! Oh, me good daddy! Oh, me gay Tom! Ow-oo! Ow-oo! Ow-oo!” cried Judith, sitting down upon the deck, flinging her apron over her head, rocking herself to and fro, and howling dismally.

And as she was howling, not only from an acute feeling of grief, but also from a profound sense of propriety, there was not the least use of any one’s attempting to console her.

Britomarte laid her hand gently upon the woman’s head, and kept it there a moment as a tacit assurance of sympathy, and then passed on.

To get into the cabin she was obliged first to climb up the leaning deck, and then go round to the companion ladder and climb down.

Justin helped her as much as she would allow him to do.

Looking around upon the empty cabin and the vacant staterooms, lately the home of herself and her fellow-voyagers, she was almost overwhelmed by the realization of the awful calamity that had befallen them.

She wondered why it was that she could not weep! but she really could not! the feeling of awe overpowered the feeling of grief, and, besides, the pressure of necessity was upon her—the necessity of immediate action.

She went into the stateroom and changed all her clothing, and from her good stock of wearing apparel, which she found in excellent preservation, she selected two more changes; then she took her sewing materials—needles, thread, scissors and thimble, and her little toilet service—combs, brushes, soap and towels, and she rolled all these articles up together in a compact little parcel, and tied it up with pocket handkerchiefs. And while doing this, she experienced a feeling of compunction for taking off anything for her own individual comfort only, when so much needed to be carried off for the general good. But then, again, she reflected that the common decencies of life, no less than her own inclination, made it absolutely necessary that she should provide herself with the means of personal neatness and cleanliness.

By the time she had made up her little parcel, Judith, who had finished her performance on deck, and so satisfied her sense of what was expected from her, came stumbling down the companion ladder.

And Judith’s cat and kittens, recognizing their mistress, jumped out of the spare stateroom and ran up to her, purring and lifting their little tails, and rubbing their sides against her feet.

But Judith made short work with them all.

“Ah, thin, get out iv me way, ye divil’s bastes. Sure, if it wasn’t bad luck to kill cats, I’d haive the whole iv yez into the say, so I would!” she cried, lifting them one by one upon her foot, and tossing them away as fast and as far as she could.

And then she went in turn to all the staterooms except Britomarte’s.

“Sure, I suppose I may help meself to everything that you doesn’t want here? For, sure, what you won’t take lies betwane meself and the say. And if meself don’t take it, the say will. And the rightful owners will niver want it at all, at all! Say, ma’am!”

“Judith,” said Miss Conyers, doubtfully, “if I understand what you mean by so many ‘selfs,’ you are asking my leave to take what you want from this cabin?”

“Sure, yes, ma’am, that’s just what I mane itself!”

“Then I have no right either to give or withhold leave. Here we have equal privileges, and you must do as you please; or, rather, you must act according to the dictates of your own conscience.”

“Sure, ma’am, I know betther than that intirely. Sure, I’m not going to act according to the dictates iv what’s-its-name, nor anything else, at all, at all. I’m going to do as ye bid me. Faix, meself knows we are both depinding on the gintleman to save us from perishing intirely. And, troth, ye can wind the gintleman around yer finger, so ye can; and so, bedad, it behooves me to do as ye say, since he’s king and you’re quane.”

“So,” thought the man-hater to herself, “what power I possess in virtue of superior intellect and education goes for nothing with this, my only female companion; but what power I possess, through my interest with this one able-bodied male creature, is all in all, because, forsooth, we are both dependent upon him (with his physical superiority) to save us from perishing. Why, the physical superiority is a quality he possesses in common with the ox and the ass! Yes; but the ox and the ass have not physical superiority united to intellectual power as he has. A drove of oxen or asses could not save us, as this one man can! Bah! nature has been very unjust to women, and that is the sacred truth! She should have given us strong bodies to match our strong hearts and heads!”

“And ye have niver tould me whether or no I may take what I like,” said Judith.

“Then I tell you now: Judith, help yourself.”

“Thanky, ma’am! Sure, it’s a privilege I nivir had before in all me life; but, thanks to the shipwrack, I have it now! Sure, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” said Judith, going into Mrs. Ely’s room and beginning to rummage over that poor woman’s finery with great satisfaction.