CHAPTER XI.

A DISCOVERY.

The _Pandora_ was a full-rigged, three-masted ship, built by the famous firm of Oswald & Company, of Glasgow and Sunderland. Her registered tonnage was 1500 tons. Her hull, lower masts, topmasts, and lower yards were built completely of iron, and her standing rigging was composed of the same material. She carried six sails on her fore and mizen masts respectively, and seven on her main. She had six topsails, six topgallantsails, and a main skipsail. She was a heavy ship to work, as nearly all her running rigging was of chain, or wire, except the hauling part, and the larger ropes, such as the topsail halliards that were of coir, and brought forth many an expressive epithet from the sailors, whose hands were often sore after a night in the doldrums. The beautiful rake of her lofty masts, the delicate curve of her narrow beam, her sharp, fish-like bows, and nicely-rounded stern, gave her a stately appearance as she rode on the waters, and suggested exciting races in heavy squalls, and a fast sea passage, with little pay to receive. Yet she was not an exceedingly fast ship. She had made the run in ninety days, and her log had told sixteen knots; but, all the same, she was a clipper, and if she had had an enterprising captain, would have held her own with most ships, and shown her heels to not a few. But the commander of the _Pandora_ did not believe in ‘cracking-on,’ and his vessel had never had a chance of showing her ability. As soon as a squall appeared to windward, he clewed up his smaller sails, and would not dream of bumping with crowded sail into a head sea if the least sign of danger attended him. In this respect he was right, since his first thought was ever for the safety of his passengers and crew.

There is intense pleasure as well as excitement in sailing with a jolly, straight-forward, fearless man, who knows exactly how much sail his vessel can carry till the last minute, who drives through the squalls, sending the seas dashing over his weather bulwarks, and gushing through his lee scuppers, shivering his leeches when an extra gust bursts upon him, glorying to watch the splendid behaviour of his ship as she bends to his command. But Captain Robarts was a very different sort of man from this.

It had been the intention of the pilot who had taken over charge of the _Pandora_ at Gravesend to have come to an anchor off Southend, but as the breeze chopped round to the southward, and seemed likely to remain for some time in that direction, the vessel continued her course. The fore and aft sails were run up, and the topsails loosed, and before ten o’clock the Nore Light was passed, and she was towed out into the open sea. All that night the two vessels pursued their journey together, and early the next morning brought up with a head-wind in the Downs. Some of the passengers had already succumbed to the long, steady roll of the _Pandora_, as she swayed from side to side, sometimes dipping her martingale deep into the swells, and rising gracefully again before making another plunge. The smell of the new paint and varnish, the ‘swash’ of the water as it rushed against the sides of the ship, the swinging of the trays and lamps that were suspended to a brass rod, no less than the long sweeping rock of their new cradle, all combined to produce a queer sensation in their throats, which gave them a difficulty in swallowing, and a dizziness in their heads, which prevented their walking about lest their unseaworthy legs should bring them to the ground. But the captain of the _Pandora_ steadily paced the weather side, heedless of the groans of his unfortunate passengers, and thinking only of the wind that had compelled the pilot to drop the anchor in that unlucky hour. Uneasily he moved to and fro, occasionally giving vent to an unmusical grunt, as his eyes roved along the horizon, and over the South Foreland and Walmer Castle.

Captain Robarts was a man of stunted growth of much the same build as his chief officer, but both broader and shorter. His figure approached insignificance, and his features were coarse and forbidding. His hands, horny from manual labour and hairy and freckled from exposure, were generally carried well down in the pockets of his monkey-jacket, from which he seldom extricated them. He was a good navigator and a diligent officer, but he was not a smart sailor. Had his duties required activity, he would have failed in fulfilling them, but as his sole work was to prick out the chart and give his orders, little fault could be found with him on that score. In manner he was voted on all sides to be a bear. He never addressed his passengers except when absolutely obliged to do so, confining his conversation to the officers of the vessel; and if any lady or gentleman ventured to ask him a question on the most ordinary subject, his answer was generally conveyed by a low grunt, as he turned away to the sacred precincts of the bridge, where none but those on business were allowed to follow him.

He professed to be a very religious man, and was in the habit of sending the steward round with a bundle of tracts for distribution, in the hopes thereby of counteracting the evil influence of flirtation and yellow-backed novels. He objected strongly to the use of tobacco, and, in fact, to every sort of indulgence in which he took no pleasure himself. But he was very partial to his glass of grog, and a cask of choice pine-apple rum was kept in the spirit-room expressly for his use. Every evening before he turned in, the steward brought the captain a glass of his favourite mixture, and during stiff gales and wintry nights he often drank a little more than was good for him, as was evidenced by a glowing blush at the end of his nose. His orders were given in an abrupt, gruff voice--indeed he was at all times a man of few words, and often directed the helmsman by the action of his hands; and at the dinner-table he sat like a dummy in his chair of office, leaving the steward to look after the wants of the passengers. That afternoon Captain Robarts continued his silent constitutional until the dinner-bell rang, and then dived below to take the edge off his appetite; and while the saloon dinner was going on, Vernon Blythe took his station on the look-out. He had not been there long before a dilapidated figure staggered, with uncertain footsteps, to the spare hencoops, which were lashed on either side, and mournfully sat down. It was the shade of Harold Greenwood, but what a contrast to his _debonnair_ appearance of the morning. His face was ashen pale, and the corners of his mouth drawn down. There was a melancholy look about his eyes, and his crimped hair, now straight as a Skye terrier’s, hung down upon his forehead. He wore his hat upon the back of his head, and he had left his Malacca cane below. One end of his watch-chain, with the button-hook attached to it, dangled in front of him, in place of his eyeglass, which had been smashed when the treacherous ship gave a heavy roll, and threw him against the bulkhead, and the pink silk handkerchief was fast losing its festive appearance under its frequent calls to duty to wipe its owner’s mouth. A smile crossed Jack’s face as he caught sight of the unhappy youth, and approaching him, he said kindly,--

‘If you don’t feel well, Mr Greenwood, you had better go to the lee side of the vessel. You mustn’t stay here.’

‘Oh! I’m quite well, thank you. I’m used to this sort of thing, don’t you know?’ replied Greenwood quickly. ‘But it’s doosid hot in the saloon, and I feel a little queer, don’t you know? It’s that new paint, and--’

‘I quite understand,’ said Blythe; ‘but you’ll soon get used to it.’

‘Oh! I _am_ used to it--have been all my life--you know. But, I say, do you think she will roll any more than she’s doing at present? For it’s really very uncomfortable. I suppose the captain did not expect to have had such bad weather when he started.’

‘_Bad weather!_’ exclaimed Jack, ‘why, my dear fellow, you don’t know what you’re talking about. This is _splendid_ weather. A fresh head-wind and a heavy ground swell! We couldn’t have had it better if it had been made to order.’

‘Oh!--I see,’ groaned Mr Greenwood. ‘Well, if this is _good_ weather, I hope it won’t get any better, that’s all. I think I will take your advice, Mr Blythe, and go over to the lee side, if you will tell me where it is.’

‘Why, it’s the _other_ side, of course,’ replied Jack good-humouredly; ‘and I’d put my head a little over the taffrail, if I were you, and take a good look at the fishes. I am sure you will feel the better for it afterwards.’

‘Do you really?’ said Greenwood, with open eyes. ‘Well, you ought to know, so I will try it. Not that I feel ill, Mr Blythe, for I enjoy this sort of thing uncommonly, only I think the other side looks more comfortable than this. There’s so much wind here, it makes me quite giddy.’ And so, by dint of clutching the pinrail of the mizen-mast, and making a dart for the rigging, the unhappy youth managed to reach the opposite coop in safety.

When Jack turned his head again to look at him, he saw that he had taken his advice, and hung his head well over the taffrail, where he appeared to be looking for something in the water, with his mouth wide open, and his eyes full of tears. Jack laughed till the tears came into his own, to see the little boastful dandy thus hung out to dry.

In the second cabin and steerage the passengers were suffering the same tortures as their wealthier fellow-voyagers in the saloon. They had not to contend against the horrors of new paint and varnish, for their bulkheads were built of plain white wood, but their proximity to the cargo in the lower hold and the ’tween-decks rendered the creaking and groaning of the heavy merchandise very audible, and rendered it difficult for them to forget their troubles in sleep. Will Farrell, who was not subject to _mal-de-mer_, was untiring in his endeavours to help those who had succumbed to it. He did not forget Maggie in the steerage, and between ‘chaffing’ and feeding, he soon managed to bring her round again. The poor girl had been very ill at first, but she was a stout-hearted little woman, and when she heard that her mistress was much worse than herself, and steadily refused to take either medicine or food, she made a strenuous effort to go to her assistance, and she succeeded. She found Iris nearly prostrate, and broken down in mind and body. She was exhausted by sickness, but had resolutely refused to see the doctor, lest by some means he might find out who she was. The fact is, the poor child was quite ready to lie down and die. She would have been thankful not to get up again. There seemed nothing left for her to live for. The excitement of getting ready to follow her husband was over. Nothing remained now but a constant dread of detection, and when the terrible sea-sickness came to try her physical powers, all attempt at resistance seemed to abandon her, and she sunk under it. Maggie found her with a stone-cold body, and a pulse at its lowest ebb. The passengers were all alarmed about her, but she had steadily declined their proffered kindnesses, and, above all, she would not let Dr Lennard be informed of her condition. But when Maggie saw her, she asked no one’s leave, but went to find him at once. As she emerged from the cabin, with the tears running down her cheeks, she met Vernon Blythe.

‘Why! what’s the matter?’ he inquired, with a true sailor’s ready interest in every woman, high or low.

‘Oh, please, sir! can you tell me where to find the doctor? My poor, dear lady is _so_ ill.’

‘_Your lady!_ Let me see. Are you not the person who came on board with Miss Douglas?’

‘Yes, sir, and she is so bad with the sickness. She’s as cold as ice, and can hardly move a limb. And I’ve been sick myself till now, and ain’t half right yet, or I’d have fetched the doctor to her before. But he must come now, sir, as quick as he can, for the poor dear is just as bad as she can be.’

‘I will fetch him for her at once!’ exclaimed Jack, who had not forgotten his strange interest in the mysterious second-class passenger.

In another minute he had unearthed Dr Lennard from the smoking-room, where he was playing chess with the third officer, and carried him off to his patient. As they entered the cabin together, Maggie had disappeared to take up her watch beside Iris’s berth.

‘Which is Miss Douglas’s berth?’ inquired the doctor, addressing the assembled company.

‘Number twelve,’ replied Farrell eagerly.

‘This is it, doctor,’ said Jack, as he unlatched the door to let the medical officer pass in.

Iris’s berth was a lower one, facing the entrance. As Jack opened the door, he saw her plainly, lying back upon her pillows, with closed eyes, and loosened hair; and as he saw her, he started violently, and muttered something very like an oath beneath his breath.

‘Hullo, Jack! what’s up?’ exclaimed Dr Lennard jestingly; ‘seen a ghost, eh?’

‘Nothing, doctor, nothing,’ he answered, in a muffled voice; ‘that is the lady,’ and closing the cabin door hastily upon him, he leant against it for a moment, to recover himself.

At first his heart called out that he _must_ be mistaken--that it was only a chance likeness he had seen lying on the pillows within that door. But his reason told him he was _not_, and that there could not be two faces in this world like the one that had been enshrined in his heart ever since he first beheld it. This then was the reason of his strange interest in Miss Douglas. His eyes had been too dull to recognise her, but his instincts had been stronger than his sight.

Dr Lennard might well ask him if he had seen a ghost. How the good doctor would ‘chaff’ him if he told him he had indeed seen the ghost of his early love--the memory of his life, sweet Iris Hetherley.

As Vernon Blythe left the cabin to return to his duty, he staggered like a drunken man.

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