CHAPTER XII.

A GAME OF DOMINOES.

‘Good-evening, Mr Harland. You are a stranger here,’ said Farrell, as he entered. ‘I thought you were going to slight your humble friend (meaning myself) throughout the voyage, but--’

‘So you have met before,’ interrupted Mr Pemberton, who was of the party.

‘Oh, yes, we _have_ met before--many years ago,’ drawled Harland.

‘When we were clerks in the same office,’ put in Farrell.

‘Quite a boyish acquaintance,’ said the other, with an uneasy laugh, for Farrell’s manner had annoyed him.

‘Many people say that boyish acquaintances last the longest, and are the least soon forgotten,’ remarked Pemberton.

‘I don’t think Mr Harland and I shall forget each other in a hurry,’ laughed Farrell sarcastically. ‘The memory of Mr Horace--I mean of the office and all that occurred there, will follow me to my grave!’

‘Come, come! Let us get to business!’ interposed Pemberton, seeing that the two men were at daggers-drawn with one another, though for what cause was a mystery to him. ‘Shall we make up a four at dominoes?’

‘I am agreeable!’ returned Farrell.

‘And so am I,’ said Harland; ‘will the ladies join us?’

‘I am afraid not,’ answered Farrell. ‘The deck is too wet for them; but I will ask, if you like.’

To his entreaties at the doors of the ladies’ berths he received nothing but negatives. Miss Douglas was already in bed, Miss Grant was afraid of the damp, and Mrs Medlicott was nursing a sick child. But a volunteer was soon found in the person of Bob Perry.

‘What do you play for?’ inquired Harland, when they had turned up the two highest and lowest, and Farrell and Pemberton had been elected partners. ‘What do you say to threepence each on the pips that stand out?’

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Perry, ‘that is too much. It may run up to a matter of five shillings a game, and I can’t afford it.’

‘Well, we can’t play for _love_,’ sneered Harland; ‘never you mind, Perry, I’ll stand bail for both of us.’

‘I object to that,’ said Farrell. ‘I do not wish to play for such high stakes any more than Mr Perry. I am simply playing to make the time pass, and don’t want to make or lose money by the game. You forget, Mr Harland, that we are not all like yourself, on a trip _for pleasure_!’

He emphasised the words unpleasantly, and Harland swore under his breath, but answered nothing.

‘Suppose we play for threepence a game,’ suggested Mr Pemberton. ‘As Farrell says, we don’t want to make money by the stones. All that is necessary to give zest to the victory is a small stake that shall benefit the winner without breaking his companions.’

‘All right,’ assented Harland, in anything but a good humour; ‘go ahead. Double six begins. But, stop a minute. Before we start, we will toss for drinks round.’

To this proposition the other men were not strong-minded enough to object, and the silver coins were spun in the air, and clinked upon the table, resulting, luckily for them, in Godfrey Harland having to pay the forfeit, and the steward was despatched to the bar with the orders.

The game was finished, and the players tossed again, and the stones were divided, and so it went on until five bells was struck, which was the signal for all the ship lights to be extinguished.

‘Lights out, please!’ sung out the third officer at the booby hatch.

‘In one minute, Mr Sparkes,’ replied Harland. ‘Let us finish the game, there’s a good fellow.’

‘It is against the rule,’ said the junior mate; ‘I cannot disobey my orders.’

‘Come down and have a glass of whisky, then,’ urged Mr Pemberton; ‘we have more than half a bottle left.’

To this invitation Mr Richard Sparkes did not reply that he could not disobey orders, but glancing aft to satisfy himself that the ‘old man’ was not on deck, he quickly descended the companion, and stepping up to the table, muttered his thanks, and swallowed the intoxicating draught.

‘You understand, don’t you, Sparkes,’ said Harland; ‘we shan’t be a minute, old man. Just shut down the hatch, and cover it with a tarpaulin, and if that d--d inquisitive second mate of yours discovers the glim, I’ll take the blame on myself.’

Whereupon, without another word, the third officer left them to their pursuits. When the game had come to a conclusion, Pemberton signified his intention to turn in, and bidding them good-night, went to his cabin. Bob Perry, who was half-seas over, also retired, and the two belligerents were alone together. It was for this that Farrell had taken a hand at the game. It was to this end he had worked to find himself cheek-by-jowl with the man he hated more deadlily than he had ever done before. He thirsted to put a spoke in Harland’s wheel,--to alarm him thoroughly,--to show a little of his own hand, but not too much, and make him uncomfortable for the remainder of the voyage.

‘Drink up and have some more,’ said Harland, breaking the silence that ensued on the departure of their companions.

‘I don’t care for any. I have had enough,’ replied Farrell, lying back in his chair. ‘Well, our journey will soon be over now. What do you intend to do when we reach Lyttleton?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ returned Harland. ‘I shall enjoy myself as long as I find anything worth enjoying, and then, perhaps, take a trip over to America, and visit some of my friends there.’

‘But I thought you had taken service under Mr Vansittart, and were bound to remain with him?’ said Farrell.

Godfrey Harland opened his eyes with astonishment.

‘Then you are under a great delusion. I have certainly promised to be the guest of the Vansittarts for a short time, and circumstances may arise to detain me longer, but there is no obligation in the matter, unless it be on _my_ side.’

‘Oh! indeed. People say otherwise on board. I have heard it stated confidently that you are Mr Vansittart’s land-agent, and that he has been imprudent enough to take you without references.’

‘D--n their impertinence!’ growled Harland, ‘prying into other people’s affairs. I should like to know the name of the person who has been spreading these false reports about me.’

‘_I_ shall not tell you,’ retorted Farrell. ‘It is quite immaterial to me whether you keep Mr Vansittart, or Mr Vansittart keeps you, but I should think the latter by far the most probable of the two. And is it true that you intend to marry his daughter?’

‘It is no business of yours if I do.’

‘Certainly not. It’s no business of mine if you turn Mormon, which, I suppose, is the next thing you’ll think of.’

‘What do you mean by making that remark?’ said Harland, turning pale.

‘Only that English laws are in force in the colonies, and a man is only allowed to have one wife at a time.’

‘What would you insinuate, you scoundrel?’ demanded Harland, beginning to feel alarmed.

‘Softly--softly,’ said Will Farrell, ‘don’t raise your voice. Some one might overhear you. I never insinuate, as I think I informed you at our last meeting; I always speak my mind, and if you wish me to do so now, I will. I will go further, and take our fellow-passengers into my confidence, if you desire to become notorious amongst them.’

‘What would you tell them?’ demanded Harland, livid with passion.

‘That you have a wife already, and cannot marry Miss Vansittart.’

‘It is a lie! I was never married to her.’

Farrell was staggered for a moment by this bold assertion. What if it were true. The man before him was villain enough for anything, and the first thing a woman tries to hide is her own shame. Yet Maggie had said that Iris was his wife, and he did not believe that Maggie would tell an untruth.

‘That is easily settled,’ he answered quickly; ‘we can appeal to Mrs Harland.’

‘You cannot. She is dead.’

‘That is a lie!’ cried Farrell fiercely, ‘as great a lie as the other. I _know_ your wife to be alive.’

‘Where have you seen her?’

‘I shall not tell you.’

‘I will _make_ you!’ exclaimed Harland, advancing upon him.

But Farrell was prepared for the attack.

‘Dare to lay a finger on me,’ he said, ‘and the whole ship shall hear your story.’

‘What story have you to tell them?’ repeated his adversary.

‘One that would make two or three columns of the most interesting reading in the daily papers, Mr Horace Cain. Only a little incident that occurred a few years since (how many was it--_ten_?) at Starling’s Bank. A forged cheque--the warrant for an arrest--a fruitless search--an escape to America--and what _I_ should call a most imprudent return. I should point out the hero of the piece to them--it would be quite a melodrama. Virtue triumphant, vice in the background, and the blue fire of their indignation over all.’

‘And who would believe your story?’ sneered Harland.

‘I would _make_ them believe it,’ resumed Farrell, in a sadder and more earnest voice. ‘I would point to myself as its best proof,--to _me_ whom your bad example ruined--whom your cowardice left in the lurch--on whom the stigma of your villainy fell like a curse, rising up like the deadly nightshade to poison every home I tried to make for myself. Godfrey Harland (as you choose to call yourself), you have been my bad genius from the day we met. You tempted me to evil, and left me to bear the brunt of your own misdemeanour. You have ruined others beside myself--(I know more of your doings than you think of). But your day is ended. Before you blight another life, as you have done mine, I will blazon the miserable truth to the world.’

‘Where would your proofs be?’ cried Harland; ‘and who would credit your simple word. I’d soon hash your goose for you, my fine fellow. A low second-class passenger attempting to blackguard a gentleman! I’d tell them you had tried to extort money from me, and failed, and they would accept my statement much sooner than yours; and in all probability you would receive an injunction from the captain to keep the peace, or be put under arrest. Why, you’re not sober now, you useless, drunken “ne’er-do-weel.” Don’t you presume on your former knowledge to speak to me again. I have done with you from this moment.’

And Harland rose to leave the spot.

‘And don’t you dare to venture down here again,’ replied Farrell, trembling with excitement, ‘or I will carry out my threat, and expose you before the whole ship’s company, as Mr Horace Cain, the for--’

‘Take care what you say,’ interrupted Harland, in a hoarse voice, ‘or I shall not be able to control my temper. I have stood your insults long enough.’

‘Not longer than I have submitted to yours. And I have a double debt to discharge to you now, Mr Harland. You think that I know nothing,--that I am powerless to damage your character. What about Maggie Greet, who served your deserted wife in England?’

At that name, Godfrey Harland felt his limbs tremble. The thought of Maggie Greet had always had more power to sting his hardened conscience than that of his wife. He was more afraid of her than of Iris, and less certain of her keeping his secrets.

‘I don’t know to whom you allude,’ he replied, attempting to brave it out. ‘Was she the “slavey?” You really cannot expect me to remember the names of those sort of people.’

‘And yet she remembers _you_,’ said Farrell sarcastically. ‘How strange. And she remembers the wrong you did her into the bargain. Stranger still, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, enough of this cursed twaddle!’ cried Harland, who was most anxious to get away. ‘You are talking of a lot of things of which you know nothing. I am off to bed now. Let us thoroughly understand each other. If you presume to speak to me again, I shall cut you dead.’

‘And if you come down to the second cabin again, I’ll break every bone in your body,’ retorted Farrell. ‘And when I get you on shore, my boy, we’ll have it out, whoever is by to see, and let the best man win.’

Harland was on the top rung of the ladder, and as he heard Will Farrell’s parting threat he turned pale with fear, and the beads of perspiration stood on his forehead like dew.

What if any one should have overheard his words. He pushed up the hatch, and alighting on the deck, staggered to his cabin, and threw himself upon the berth in a state bordering on despair.

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