CHAPTER VIII.

MISSING.

The threatening aspect which the heavens had assumed, turned out to be nothing more after all than a violent squall, which caused the _Pandora_ to fly along at her topmost speed for a few hours, and then died away as quickly as it had sprung up, leaving a calm behind it. The wet sails beat with loud flaps against the masts in time to the roll of the vessel; the sheets and tacks were limp and slack; and the weather shrouds, which had made their lanyards and dead-eyes creak and groan, could be shaken with the hand--whilst the fine old ship, which had behaved so gallantly under her widespread canvas, lay like a log on the ocean, and refused even to steer. The wheel was jammed hard down, sheets flattened, and everything done to help her, but it was of no avail. All the coaxing of her officers would not induce her to behave like a lady, and she drifted along idly, with her nose heading every point except the one she was wanted to follow. The _Pandora_ was a true woman that night--wilful and headstrong, and refusing all assistance. She declined to answer her rudder--even the head-sails had no control over her--and her mizen had to be hauled up, since it only made her the more perverse and cantankerous. When all the sailors’ efforts had failed, and they had given her up--at all events, for the present--as a hopeless job, a massive sheet of cloud appeared in the eastward. It was like its predecessor in shape and consistency, but of a brighter shade--a greyish, half-mourning hue--and as it crept slowly towards them, like the mighty simoom of the Desert of Sahara, it shut out the surrounding scene from view. The moon and stars that were reflected on the still waters were soon enveloped in its dingy mantle, and before daybreak, the _Pandora_ was hidden by a raw, penetrating mist.

It was a wintry fog, that carried on its breath the seeds of sickness and mortality; that made itself felt through the thickest garments, and attacked the joints with stiffness and cramp; that made the night humid, close, and unhealthy, and the day dark and cheerless; that compelled the stewards to screw down the port-holes, lest the vapour should fill their only refuge with its disease-inspiring breath; that mildewed the dry provisions, and rotted the vegetables that hung in the long-boat, and transformed the warm grasp of the friend of your bosom into a cold and clammy touch. When the passengers essayed to make their toilets, they had to light their lamps, and discovered that their glasses were dim, and their clothes damp with moisture; nor could the pleasures of the breakfast-table send a glow through their benumbed bodies, nor restore the geniality of their tempers.

Captain Robarts, who has not as yet figured prominently in this history, simply because he never sought the society of his passengers, or concerned himself about their comforts, was that day more bearish and blunt (if possible) than usual. He was anxious about their safety. He was not quite certain as to their exact position on the chart, and he saw that he would have to work the vessel out by dead reckoning, instead of the surer method of ascertaining his longitude by the meridian altitude. He felt sure that he was not many miles from the coast, but if he had been able to shoot the sun, his mind would have been more at ease, and he would not have retreated to his private cabin, and, after irritably slamming the door, have solaced himself with so many ‘nips’ from a mysterious flask which he kept in a cupboard at the head of his bunk.

‘A gentleman from the second cabin wishes to speak to you, sir,’ said the steward, after knocking several times for admittance.

Captain Robarts opened his cabin door and beckoned the man to enter, much to the disappointment of several curious listeners, who had hoped to hear all about the wants of the gentleman from the second cabin. A few minutes afterwards the chief steward left the saloon, and returned, accompanied by Will Farrell, who was ushered in to the presence of the captain.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Captain Robarts. ‘I understand you have a communication to make to me. I am ready to hear it.’

Will Farrell stood before him, white and trembling, hardly knowing how to begin. At last he stammered out that it was ‘very serious.’

‘Well, well, sir! I can’t afford to waste my time over you. Let me know it, if you please,’ replied the captain impatiently.

‘One of the steerage passengers--a woman--is missing, sir!’ said Farrell, in a trembling voice.

‘Indeed; and how did you find it out?’

‘She--she--was my friend, sir--we were to have married each other, and she was quite safe last night at nine o’clock, because I spoke to her, and bid her “good-night.” But this morning she’s missing. No one’s seen her, and the steward says she didn’t sleep in her bunk last night.’

‘And why did not the steward, whose duty it is, inform me of this himself?’

This question took poor Will Farrell completely aback. He had come in his grief and trouble to consult the chief person in the ship, but the terrible news he conveyed did not seem to move the hard, unfeeling heart of the man before him one whit. The steerage steward was an uncouth being, working his passage out to New Zealand, and Farrell had begged leave of him to go and inform the skipper that Maggie Greet was missing. But he had not expected so cold a reception. He had thought the captain would immediately employ every available means to discover the whereabouts of his passenger,--that the ship would be thoroughly searched from hold to galley, and that if the mystery were not solved by it, a meeting would be at once convened to inquire into the cause of Maggie’s disappearance.

When Captain Robarts saw that Farrell preserved silence, he continued,--

‘What is the woman’s name?’

‘Greet, sir, Maggie Greet,’ was the answer, given in a choking voice.

‘Very good! That’ll do! The matter shall be investigated,’ and rising from his seat, the old sea-dog opened the door, and showed his visitor the way out.

It was not long after that Mr Sparkes was sent for, and ordered to report, as quickly as possible, on the particulars of the case, and enter a full description of the woman, with that of her friends, and when and where she was last seen, with all _et ceteras_ in his day-book for the benefit of the skipper, who would have to jot it down in his official log. That Maggie Greet had been only a steerage passenger, rendered her disappearance of far less consequence than if she had belonged to the saloon; still Captain Robarts thought it worth while to consult Mr Fowler on the subject, and that worthy was consequently summoned to a private interview in his cabin.

‘What is it all about?’ cried the passengers _en masse_, as Sparkes delivered the skipper’s message.

‘Only a steerage female passenger missing,’ replied the young officer airily.

‘_Only_,’ repeated Mr Fowler; ‘only the chance of death for somebody.’

‘But does nobody know where she has gone?’ asked Alice Leyton stupidly.

‘No! or we shouldn’t be looking for her. Stumbled overboard, perhaps, in the squall. It was a roughish night. Mr Fowler, the captain would like to speak to you about it at once.’

‘All right; I will go to him,’ and he went.

The captain had soon repeated all he had been able to gather of the case.

‘You’d better leave it to me,’ said Fowler; ‘it’s either an accident or foul play, and in either case I’ll keep my eyes open, and see what I can make of it.’

‘There’s no suspicion whatever of foul play. The young man Farrell, who was to marry the girl, says she was safe at nine last night, and left him to go to her berth, but has not been seen since.’

‘And how does he account for himself since that time?’

‘Why, you don’t suspect _him_, surely,’ said the captain; ‘he is simply overcome with grief.’

‘Yes; I have seen them overcome with grief before. Never mind, captain. I have my suspicions of more than one person aboard this vessel, and perhaps this little accident may be the wind-up of it all. I’ll make things clear, if possible, before we touch port.’

‘How will you set to work?’

‘By putting two and two together. This young woman was rather strange in her ways, you know, captain.’

‘Was she? I didn’t know her, even by sight.’

‘There were two of them, and they were always with this man Farrell, and always wrapped up in shawls, so that their faces couldn’t be seen. They never came out till the evening, either, and then they’d slink away towards the forecastle. All they seemed to wish was to avoid their fellow-creatures.’

‘Perhaps it was some family trouble.’

‘Perhaps it was, and it’ll prove a case of _felo de se_. Though she was as sturdy a damsel (this one that’s missing) as ever I saw, and not at all like a romantic suicide. But one never knows what they’ll do, if there’s a man in the case. I remember an affair something like this one taking place in the _Wangarrie_, bound for Auckland. There was a lady of title on board, who had been confined to her berth for some days. Well, the stewardess had not left her above five minutes one afternoon when she was gone. She crawled out of one of the square stern windows in her _robe de nuit_, and dropped into the briny.’

‘But this woman could not have gone out of the ports.’

‘No, I suppose they’re too small in the ’tween decks. I’ll go down there in the dog watch, and take a look round. But she may have jumped overboard during the squall, and no one have been the wiser; or she may have been _pushed_ over.’

‘You can’t get the idea that it was intentional out of your head, Mr Fowler.’

‘No, sir; and sha’n’t, either, until I prove it to have been otherwise. For, as I said before, I haven’t been sleeping on the voyage, and I have my suspicions. But I’ll clear out now, captain; I see you are busy with your chart,’ and with a curt nod, Mr Fowler went about his business.

Before noon every soul on board the _Pandora_ had heard and discussed the terrible news, but all were equally at a loss to account for it. Some agreed with Mr Fowler that poor Maggie must have been a little insane. Others suspected (though they dared not say so) the unfortunate Farrell, who (with Iris Harland) was overcome with grief for Maggie’s loss, and believed his tears were only shed to avert suspicion from himself. Godfrey Harland was forced to mix with his fellow-passengers, and hear all their comments on the subject, for he dreaded doing anything unusual so as to attract the general notice. He was very active, therefore, in arguing the point, and suggesting possible solutions of the mystery, though he stuck faithfully himself to one opinion, that _if_ the unhappy girl had had a lover, _he_ was the person who should know most about it.

In every part of the vessel the unfortunate accident was commented on. In the forecastle, the galley, and the house amidships; in the second cabin, the smoke-room, and on the poop deck it formed the sole topic of conversation.

The wretched Farrell, with eyes bleared and swollen from weeping, was bowed down under a sense of his loss. It was in vain that Iris implored him to take courage, to bear his trouble like a man, to remember how brave poor dear Maggie was, and how she would have been the first to condemn his utter prostration of mind and body. There was a deeper grief than the loss of his promised wife underlying his condition. Both his suspicions, and those of Iris, pointed to Godfrey Harland, though they feared to say so, even to each other. Maggie had purposely sent Iris to sleep, and Farrell remembered afterwards that she had carried her mistress’s missing cloak and shawl upon her arm. What had she taken them for, unless she intended to go on deck, and why should she go on deck but to meet Harland, instead of his wife? The case seemed clear to both of them, and yet they were so helpless to take their revenge. They did not even know where she had gone to, or if Harland had kept the appointment he made with his wife. Farrell would neither eat nor drink. His dinner and tea were carried away untouched, while he sat in his berth with his face buried in his hands, trying to find some solution to the awful mystery.

As the night watches were set, he was roused from the stupor into which he had fallen, by the advent of Mr Fowler, who, having tapped at his door, entered without further ceremony.

‘Come, come, Farrell!’ he commenced kindly, as he laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, ‘you mustn’t give way like this. Let me send for some liquor for you. Here, steward! bring Mr Farrell a brandy-and-soda,’ and when it came he forced Will to drink it.

‘It is very kind of you, Mr Fowler, to take the trouble to come and visit me,’ Will said, as he tried to stop his gasping sobs. ‘Few have done it, except Miss Douglas. I daresay you are surprised at my being so overcome by this loss; but it was so sudden--so unexpected--we were so full of hope and anticipation that--’

‘Yes, yes, my boy! I quite understand,’ replied Fowler. ‘It was very dreadful--very dreadful, indeed. But have you any idea how it happened?’

‘Not the slightest--at least, no certainty. The last time I saw her I was sitting down here, playing cards with my friend Perry, and she told me the wind had made her sleepy, and she should go to bed. I wished her good-night, and that was the last of it.’

‘She was a steerage passenger, I understand. How came she to be in the second cabin?’

‘Well, sir, there’s a lady here, Miss Douglas, who was a friend of hers. Maggie was--well, I don’t know why I should mind saying it--but my poor girl was in her service in England, and followed her across the sea, and used to come in here and look after her sometimes. Miss Douglas was ill last night, and Maggie had given her a sleeping-draught and put her to bed.’

‘Pardon the digression, Mr Farrell, but what made Miss Douglas ill?’

Will Farrell’s eyes flashed. He would have blurted out the whole truth concerning Godfrey Harland to all the ship at that moment. Only one motive restrained him--the thought of Iris. But he clenched his fist as he answered,--

‘A scoundrel had been talking to her and upsetting the poor thing. She isn’t strong.’

‘And this scoundrel--excuse me--is also an enemy of yours, Mr Farrell?’

‘I didn’t say so, Mr Fowler.’

‘No, but I guessed it from the clenching of your hand as you mentioned him. And now let me tell you that I strongly suspect there is foul play somewhere, and I want you to assist me in clearing it up.’

‘I suspect it too, sir--more, I _believe_ it, only I can’t give a reason why. But if I tell you my suspicions, _how_ can you clear the matter up?’

‘Because my name of Fowler is assumed for professional purposes only. My real title is Mark Rendle, of Scotland Yard, and if things are not all square here, and _you_ will help me, I will bring the murderer to justice.’

‘I’m your man!’ cried Farrell, as he stretched out his hand.

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