Soon after we had made up our minds to move toward the south, I came
home from a visit to the bankers, and joyfully told Euphemia that I had
met Baxter.

"Baxter?" said she, inquiringly; "who is he?"

"I used to go to school with him," I said; "and to think that I should
meet him here!"

"I never heard you mention him before," she remarked.

"No," I answered; "it must be fifteen or sixteen years since I have
seen him, and really it is a great pleasure to meet him here. He is a
capital fellow. He was very glad to see me."

"I should think," said Euphemia, "if you like each other so much that
you would have exchanged visits in America, or, at least, have
corresponded."

"Oh, it is a very different thing at home," I said; "but here it is
delightful to meet an old school friend like Baxter. He is coming to
see us this evening."

That evening Baxter came. He was delighted to meet Euphemia, and
inquired with much solicitude about our plans and movements. He had
never heard of my marriage, and, for years, had not known whether I was
dead or alive. Now he took the keenest interest in me and mine. We were
a little sorry to find that this was not Baxter's first visit to
Europe. He had been here several times; and, as he expressed it, "had
knocked about a good deal over the Continent." He was dreadfully
familiar with everything, and talked about some places we were longing
to see in a way that considerably dampened our enthusiasm. In fact,
there was about him an air of superiority which, though tempered by
much kindliness, was not altogether agreeable. He highly approved our
idea of leaving Paris. "The city is nothing now," he said. "You ought
to see it in May." We said we had heard that, and then spoke of Italy.
"You mustn't go there in the winter," he said. "You don't see the
country at its best. May is the time for Italy. Then it is neither too
hot nor too cold, and you will find out what an Italian sky is." We
said that we hoped to be in England in the spring, and he agreed that
we were right there. "England is never so lovely as in May."

"Well!" exclaimed Euphemia; "it seems to me, from all I hear, that we
ought to take about twelve years to see Europe. We should leave the
United States every April, spend May in some one place, and go back in
June. And this we ought to do each year until we have seen all the
places in May. This might do very well for any one who had plenty of
money, and who liked the ocean, but I don't think we could stand it. As
for me," she continued, "I would like to spend these months, so cold
and disagreeable here, in the sunny lands of Southern France. I want to
see the vineyards and the olive groves, and the dark-eyed  maidens
singing in the fields. I long for the soft skies of Provence, and to
hear the musical dialect in which Frederic Mistral wrote his 'Miréio.'"

"That sounds very well," said Baxter, "but in all those southern
countries you must be prepared in winter for the rigors of the climate.
The sun is pretty warm sometimes at this season, but as soon as you get
out of it you will freeze to death if you are not careful. The only way
to keep warm is to be in the sun, out of the wind, and that won't work
on rainy days, and winter is the rainy season, you know. In the houses
it is as cold as ice, and the fires don't amount to anything. You
might as well light a bundle of wooden tooth-picks and put it in the
fire-place. If you could sleep all the time you might be comfortable,
for they give you a feather-bed to cover yourself with. Outside  you
may do well enough if you keep up a steady walking, but indoors you
will have hard work to keep warm. You must wear chest-protectors. They
sell them down there--great big ones, made of rabbit-skins;  and a nice
thing for a man to have to wear in the house is a pair of cloth bags
lined with fur. They would keep his feet and legs warm when he isn't
walking. It is well, too, to have a pair of smaller fur bags for your
hands when you are in the house. You can have a little hole in the end
of one of them through which you can stick a pen-holder, and then you
can write letters. An india-rubber bag, filled with hot water, to lower
down your back, is a great comfort. You haven't any idea how cold your
spine gets in those warm countries. And, if I were you, I'd avoid a
place where you see them carting coal stoves around. Those are the
worst spots. And you need not expect to get one of the stoves, not
while they can sell you wood at two sticks for a franc. You had better
go to some place where they are not accustomed to having tourists. In
the regular resorts they are afraid to make any show of keeping warm,
for fear people will think they are in the habit of having cold
weather. And in Italy you've got to be precious careful, or you'll be
taken sick. And another thing. I suppose you brought a great deal of
baggage with you. You, for instance," said our friend, turning to me,
"packed up, I suppose, a heavy overcoat for cold weather, and a lighter
one, and a good winter suit, and a good summer one, besides another for
spring and fall, and an old suit to lie about in in the orange groves,
and a dress suit, besides such convenient articles as old boots for
tramping in, pocket-lanterns, and so forth."

Strange to say, I had all these, besides many other things of a similar
kind, and I could not help admitting it.

"Well," said Baxter, "you'd better get rid of the most of that as soon
as you can, for if you travel with that sort of heavy weight in the
Mediterranean countries, you might as well write home and get your
house mortgaged. All along the lines of travel, in the south of Europe,
you find the hotels piled up with American baggage left there by
travellers, who'll never send for it. It reminds one of the rows of ox
skeletons that used to mark out the roads to California. But I guess
you'll be able to stick it out. Good bye. Let me hear from you."

When Baxter left us, we could not but feel a little down-hearted, and
Euphemia turned to her guide-book to see if his remarks were
corroborated there.

"Well, there is one comfort," she exclaimed at last; "this book says
that in Naples epidemics are not so deadly as they are in some other
places, and if the traveller observes about a page of directions, which
are given here, and consults a physician the moment he feels himself
out of order, it is quite possible to ward off attacks of fever. That
is encouraging, and I think we might as well go on."

"Yes," said I, "and here, in this newspaper, a hotel in Venice
advertises that its situation enables it to avoid the odors of the
Grand Canal; and an undertaker in Nice advertises that he will forward
the corpses of tourists to all parts of Europe and America. I think
there is a chance of our getting back, either dead or alive, and so I
also say, let us go on."

But before we left Paris, we determined to go to the Grand Opera, which
we had not yet visited, and Euphemia proposed that we should take
Pomona with us. The poor girl was looking wretched and woe-begone,  and
needed to have her mind diverted from her trouble. Jonas, at the best
of times, could not be persuaded to any amusement of this sort, but
Pomona agreed to go. We had no idea of dressing for the boxes, and we
took good front seats in the upper circle, where we could see the whole
interior of the splendid house. As soon as the performance commenced,
the old dramatic fire began to burn in Pomona. Her eyes sparkled as
they had not done for many a day, and she really looked like her own
bright self. The opera was "Le Prophète," and, as none of us had ever
seen anything produced on so magnificent a scale, we were greatly
interested, especially in the act which opens with that wonderful
winter scene in the forest, with hundreds of people scattered about
under the great trees, with horses and sleighs and the frozen river in
the background where the skaters came gliding on. The grouping was
picturesque and artistic; the scale of the scene was immense; there was
a vast concourse of people on the stage; the dances were beautiful; the
merry skaters graceful; the music was inspiring.

Suddenly, above the voices of the chorus, above the drums and bass
strings of the orchestra, above the highest notes of the sopranos,
above the great chandelier itself, came two notes distinct and plain,
and the words to which they were set, were:--

"Ma-ma!"

Like a shot Pomona was on her feet. With arms outspread and her whole
figure dilating until she seemed twice as large as usual, I thought she
was about to spring over the balcony into the house below. I clutched
her, and Euphemia and I, both upon our feet, followed her gaze and saw
upon the stage a little girl in gay array, and upturned face. It was
the lost Corinne.

Without a word, Pomona made a sudden turn, sprang up the steps behind
her, and out upon the lobby, Euphemia and I close behind her. Around
and down the steps we swept, from lobby to lobby, amazing the
cloak-keepers and attendants, but stopping for nothing; down the grand
staircase like an avalanche, almost into the arms of the astonished
military sentinels, who, startled from their soldier-like propriety,
sprang, muskets in hand, toward us. It was only then that I was able to
speak to Pomona, and breathlessly ask her where she was going.

"To the stage-door!" she cried, making a motion to hurl to the ground
the soldier before her. But there was no need to go to any stage-door.
In a moment there rushed along the corridor a lady, dressed apparently
in all the colors of the rainbow, and bearing in her arms a child.
There was a quick swoop, and in another moment Pomona had the child.
But clinging to its garments, the lady cried, in excellent English, but
with some foreign tinge:--

"Where is my child you stole?"

"Stole your grandmother!" briefly ejaculated Pomona. And then, in grand
forgetfulness of everything but her great joy, she folded her arms
around her child, and standing like a statue of motherly content, she
seemed, in our eyes, to rise to the regions of the caryatides and the
ceiling frescos. Not another word she spoke, and amid the confusion of
questions and exclamations, and the wild demands of the lady, Euphemia
and I contrived to make her understand the true state of the case, and
that her child was probably at our lodgings. Then there were great
exclamations and quick commands; and, directly, four of us were in a
carriage whirling to our hotel. All the way, Pomona sat silent with her
child clasped tightly, while Euphemia and I kept up an earnest but
unsatisfactory conversation with the lady; for, as to this strange
affair, we could tell each other but little. We learned from the lady,
who was an assistant soprano at the Grand Opera, how Corinne came to
her in Paris, and how she had always kept her with her, even dressing
her up, and taking her on the stage in that great act where as many
men, women, and children as possible were brought upon the scene. When
she heard the cry of Corinne, she knew the child had seen its mother,
and then, whether the opera went on or not, it mattered not to her.

When the carriage stopped, the three women sprang out at once, and how
they all got through the door, I cannot tell. There was such a
tremendous ring at the gate of the court that the old _concierge_, who
opened it by pulling a wire in his little den somewhere  in the rear,
must have been dreadfully startled in his sleep. We rushed through the
court and up the stairs past our apartments to Pomona's room; and there
in the open doorway stood Jonas, his coat off, his sandy hair in wild
confusion, his face radiant, and in his hands Little Kensington in her
nightgown.

"I knew by the row on the stairs you'd brought her home," he exclaimed,
as Little Kensington was snatched from him and Corinne was put into his
arms.

We left Jonas and Pomona to their wild delight, and I accompanied the
equally happy lady to the opera house, where I took occasion to reclaim
the wraps which we had left behind in our sudden flight.

When the police of Paris were told to give up their search for an
absconding nurse accompanied by a child, and to look for one without
such encumbrance, they found her. From this woman was obtained much of
the story I have told, and a good deal more was drawn out, little by
little, from Corinne, who took especial pleasure in telling, in brief
sentences, how she had ousted the lazy baby from the carriage, and how
she had scratched her own legs in getting in.

"What I'm proud of," said Pomona, "is that she did it all herself. It
wasn't none of your common stealin's an' findin's; an' it aint
everywhere you'll see a child that kin git itself lost back of Prince
Albert's monnyment, an' git itself found at the operer in Paris, an'
attend to both ends of the case itself. An', after all, them two high
notes of hern was more good than Perkins's Indelible Dab."




DERELICT.


A TALE OF THE WAYWARD SEA.


I.

On the 25th of May, 1887, I sat alone upon the deck of the _Sparhawk_,
a three-masted schooner, built, according to a description in the
cabin, at Sackport, Me. I was not only alone on the deck, but I was
alone on the ship. The _Sparhawk_ was a "derelict"; that is, if a
vessel with a man on board of her can be said to be totally abandoned.

I had now been on board the schooner for eight days. How long before
that she had been drifting about at the mercy of the winds and currents
I did not then know, but I discovered afterward that during a cyclone
early in April she had been abandoned by her entire crew, and had since
been reported five times to the hydrographic office of the Navy
Department in Washington, and her positions and probable courses duly
marked on the pilot chart.

She had now become one of that little fleet abandoned at sea for one
cause or another, and floating about this way and that, as the wild
winds blew or the ocean currents ran. Voyaging without purpose, as if
manned by the spirits of ignorant landsmen, sometimes backward and
forward over comparatively small ocean spaces, and sometimes drifting
for many months and over thousands of miles, these derelicts form, at
night and in fog, one of the dangers most to be feared by those who
sail upon the sea.

As I said before, I came on board the abandoned _Sparhawk_ on the 17th
of May, and very glad indeed was I to get my feet again on solid
planking. Three days previously the small steamer _Thespia_, from
Havana  to New York, on which I had been a passenger, had been burned
at sea, and all on board had left her in the boats.

What became of the other boats I do not know, but the one in which I
found myself in company with five other men, all Cuban cigarmakers, was
nearly upset by a heavy wave during the second night we were out, and
we were all thrown into the sea. As none of the Cubans could swim, they
were all lost, but I succeeded in reaching the boat, which had righted
itself, though half full of water.

There was nothing in the boat but two oars which had not slipped out of
their rowlocks, a leather scoop which had been tied to a thwart, and
the aforementioned  water.

Before morning I had nearly baled out the boat, and fortunate it was
for me that up to the time of the upset we had had enough to eat and
drink, for otherwise I should not have had strength for that work and
for what followed.

Not long after daybreak I sighted the _Sparhawk_, and immediately began
to make such signals as I could. The vessel appeared to be but a few
miles distant, and I could not determine whether she was approaching me
or going away from me. I could see no sign that my signals had been
noticed, and began frantically to row toward her. After a quarter of an
hour of violent exertion, I did not appear to be much nearer to her;
but, observing her more closely, I could see, even with my landsman's
eyes, that something was the matter with her. Portions of her mast and
rigging were gone, and one large sail at her stern appeared to be
fluttering in the wind.

But it mattered not to me what had happened to her. She was a ship
afloat, and I must reach her. Tired, hungry, and thirsty I rowed and
rowed, but it was not until long after noon that I reached her. She
must have been much farther from me than I had supposed.

With a great deal of trouble I managed to clamber on board, and found
the ship deserted. I had suspected  that this would be the case, for as
I had drawn near I would have seen some sign that my approach was
noticed had there been anybody on board to perceive  it. But I found
food and water, and when I was no longer hungry or thirsty I threw
myself in a berth, and slept until the sun was high the next day.

I had now been on the derelict vessel for eight days. Why she had been
deserted and left to her fate I was not seaman enough to know. It is
true that her masts and rigging were in a doleful condition, but she
did not appear to be leaking, and rode well upon the sea. There was
plenty of food and water on board, and comfortable accommodations. I
afterwards learned that during the terrible cyclone which had overtaken
her, she had been on her beam ends for an hour before the crew left her
in the boats.

For the first day or two of my sojourn on the _Sparhawk_  I was as
happy as a man could be under the circumstances. I thought myself to
be perfectly safe, and believed it could not be long before I would be
picked up. Of course I did not know my latitude and longitude, but I
felt sure that the part of the Atlantic in which I was must be
frequently crossed by steamers and other vessels.

About the fourth day I began to feel uneasy. I had seen but three
sails, and these had taken no notice of the signal which I had hung as
high in the mizzen-mast  as I had dared to climb. It was, indeed, no
wonder that the signal had attracted no attention among the fluttering
shreds of sails about it.

I believe that one ship must have approached quite near me. I had been
below some time, looking over the books in the captain's room, and when
I came on deck I saw the stern of the ship, perhaps a mile or two
distant, and sailing away. Of course my shouts and wavings were of no
avail. She had probably recognized  the derelict _Sparhawk_ and had
made a note of her present position, in order to report to the
hydrographic office.

The weather had been fair for the most part of the time, the sea
moderately smooth, and when the wind was strong, the great sail on the
mizzen-mast, which remained hoisted and which I had tightened up a
little, acted after the manner of the long end of a weather-vane, and
kept the ship's head to the sea.

Thus it will be seen that I was not in a bad plight; but although I
appreciated this, I grew more and more troubled and uneasy. For several
days I had not seen a sail, and if I should see one how could I attract
attention? It must be that the condition of the vessel  indicated that
there was no one on board. Had I known that the _Sparhawk_ was already
entered upon the list of derelicts, I should have been hopeless indeed.

At first I hung out a lantern as a night signal, but on the second
night it was broken by the wind, and I could find only one other in
good condition. The ship's lights must have been blown away in the
storm, together with her boats and much of her rigging. I would not
hang out the only lantern left me, for fear it should come to grief,
and that I should be left in the dark at night in that great vessel.
Had I known that I was on a vessel which had been regularly relegated
to the ranks of the forsaken, I should better have appreciated the
importance of allowing passing vessels to see that there was a light on
board the _Sparhawk_, and, therefore, in all probability a life.

As day after day had passed, I had become more and more disheartened.
It seemed to me that I was in a part of the great ocean avoided by
vessels of every kind, that I was not in the track of anything going
anywhere. Every day there seemed to be less and less wind, and when I
had been on board a week, the _Sparhawk_ was gently rising and falling
on a smooth sea in a dead calm. Hour after hour I swept the horizon
with the captain's glass, but only once did I see anything to encourage
me. This was what appeared  like a long line of black smoke against the
distant  sky, which might have been left by a passing steamer; but,
were this the case, I never saw the steamer.

Happily, there were plenty of provisions on board of a plain kind. I
found spirits and wine, and even medicines, and in the captain's room
there were pipes, tobacco, and some books.

This comparative comfort gave me a new and strange kind of despair. I
began to fear that I might become contented to live out my life alone
in the midst of this lonely ocean. In that case, what sort of a man
should I become?

It was about 8.30 by the captain's chronometer, when I came on deck on
the morning of the 25th of May. I had become a late riser, for what was
the good of rising early when there was nothing to rise for? I had
scarcely raised my eyes above the rail of the ship when, to my utter
amazement, I perceived a vessel not a mile away. The sight was so
unexpected, and the surprise was so great, that my heart almost stopped
beating as I stood and gazed at her.

She was a medium-sized iron steamer, and lay upon the sea in a peculiar
fashion, her head being much lower than her stern, the latter elevated
so much that I could see part of the blades of her motionless
propeller. She presented the appearance of a ship which was just about
to plunge, bow foremost, into the depths of the ocean, or which had
just risen, stern foremost, from those depths.

With the exception of her position, and the fact that no smoke-stack
was visible, she seemed, to my eyes, to be in good enough trim. She had
probably been in collision with something, and her forward compartments
had filled. Deserted by her crew, she had become a derelict, and,
drifting about in her desolation,  had fallen in with another derelict
as desolate as herself. The fact that I was on board the _Sparhawk_
did not, in my eyes, make that vessel any the less forsaken and
forlorn.

The coming of this steamer gave me no comfort. Two derelicts, in their
saddening effects upon the spirits, would be twice as bad as one, and,
more than that, there was danger, should a storm arise, that they would
dash into each other and both go to the bottom. Despairing as I had
become, I did not want to go to the bottom.

As I gazed upon the steamer I could see that she was gradually
approaching me. There was a little breeze this morning, and so much of
her hull stood out of the water that it caught a good deal of the wind.
The _Sparhawk_, on the contrary, was but little affected by the breeze,
for apart from the fact that the great sail kept her head always to the
wind, she was heavily laden with sugar and molasses and sat deep in the
water. The other was not coming directly toward me, but would probably
pass at a considerable distance. I did not at all desire that she
should come near the _Sparhawk_.

Suddenly my heart gave a jump. I could distinctly see on the stern of
the steamer the flutter of something white. It was waved! Somebody must
be waving it!

Hitherto I had not thought of the spyglass, for with my naked eyes I
could see all that I cared to see of the vessel, but now I dashed below
to get it. When I brought it to bear upon the steamer I saw plainly
that the white object was waved by some one, and that some one was a
woman. I could see above the rail the upper part of her body, her
uncovered head, her uplifted arm wildly waving.

Presently the waving ceased, and then the thought suddenly struck me
that, receiving no response, she had in despair given up signalling.
Cursing my stupidity,  I jerked my handkerchief from my pocket, and,
climbing a little way into the rigging, I began to wave it madly.
Almost instantly her waving recommenced. I soon stopped signalling, and
so did she. No more of that was needed. I sprang to the deck and took
up the glass.

The woman was gone, but in a few moments she reappeared armed with a
glass. This action filled me with amazement. Could it be possible that
the woman was alone on the steamer, and that there was no one else to
signal and to look out? The thing was incredible,  and yet, if there
were men on board, why did they not show themselves? And why did not
one of them wave the signal and use the glass?

The steamer was steadily but very slowly nearing the _Sparhawk_, when
the woman removed the glass and stood up waist high above the rail of
the steamer Now I could see her much better; I fancied I could almost
discern her features. She was not old; she was well shaped; her bluish
gray dress fitted her snugly. Holding the rail with one hand she stood
up very erect, which must have been somewhat difficult, considering the
inclination of the deck. For a moment I fancied I had seen or known
some one whose habit it was to stand up very erect as this woman stood
upon the steamer. The notion was banished as absurd.

Wondering what I should do, what instant action I should take, I laid
down my glass, and as I did so the woman immediately put up hers. Her
object was plain enough; she wanted to observe me, which she could not
well do when a view of my face was obstructed  by the glass and my
outstretched arms. I was sorry that I had not sooner given her that
opportunity,  and for some moments I stood and faced her, waving my hat
as I did so.

I was wild with excitement. What should I do? What could I do? There
were no boats on the _Sparhawk_,  and what had become of the one in
which I reached her I did not know. Thinking of nothing but getting on
board the vessel, I had forgotten to make the boat fast, and when I
went to look for it a day or two afterward it was gone. On the steamer,
however, I saw a boat hanging from davits near the stern. There was
hope in that.

But there might be no need for a boat. Under the influence of the
gentle breeze, the steamer was steadily drawing nearer to the
_Sparhawk_. Perhaps they might touch each other. But this idea was soon
dispelled, for I could see that the wind would carry the steamer past
me, although, perhaps, at no great distance. Then my hopes sprang back
to the boat hanging from her davits.

But before these hopes could take shape the woman and her glass died
out of sight behind the rail of the steamer. In about a minute she
reappeared, stood up erect, and applied a speaking-trumpet to her
mouth. It was possible that a high, shrill voice might have been heard
from one vessel to the other, but it was plain enough that this was a
woman who took no useless  chances. I, too, must be prepared to hail as
well as to be hailed. Quickly I secured a speaking-trumpet from the
captain's room, and stood up at my post.

Across the water came the monosyllable, "Ho!" and back I shouted,
"Hallo!"

Then came these words, as clear and distinct as any I ever heard in my
life: "Are you Mr. Rockwell?"

This question almost took away my senses. Was this reality? or had a
spirit risen from this lonely ocean to summon me somewhere? Was this
the way people died? Rockwell? Yes, my name was Rockwell. At least it
had been. I was sure of nothing now.

Again came the voice across the sea. "Why don't you answer?" it said.

I raised my trumpet to my lips. At first I could make no sound, but,
controlling my agitation a little, I shouted: "Yes!"

Instantly the woman disappeared, and for ten minutes  I saw her no
more. During that time I did nothing but stand and look at the steamer,
which was moving more slowly than before, for the reason that the wind
was dying away. She was now, however, nearly opposite me, and so near
that if the wind should cease entirely, conversation might be held
without the aid of trumpets. I earnestly hoped this might be the case,
for I had now recovered the possession  of my senses, and greatly
desired to hear the natural voice of that young woman on the steamer.

As soon as she reappeared I made a trial of the power of my voice.
Laying down the trumpet I shouted: "Who are you?"

Back came the answer, clear, high, and perfectly audible: "I am Mary
Phillips."

Mary Phillips! it seemed to me that I remembered the name. I was
certainly familiar with the erect attitude, and I fancied I recognized
the features of the speaker. But this was all; I could not place her.

Before I could say anything she hailed again: "Don't you remember me?"
she cried, "I lived in Forty-second Street."

The middle of a wild and desolate ocean and a voice from Forty-second
Street! What manner of conjecture  was this? I clasped my head in my
hands and tried to think. Suddenly a memory came to me: a wild,
surging, raging memory.

"With what person did you live in Forty-second Street?" I yelled across
the water.

"Miss Bertha Nugent," she replied.

A fire seemed to blaze within me. Standing on tiptoe  I fairly
screamed: "Bertha Nugent! Where is she?"

The answer came back: "Here!" And when I heard it my legs gave way
beneath me and I fell to the deck. I must have remained for some
minutes half lying, half seated, on the deck. I was nearly stupefied by
the statement I had heard.

I will now say a few words concerning Miss Bertha Nugent. She was a
lady whom I had known well in New York, and who, for more than a year,
I had loved well, although I never told her so. Whether or not she
suspected my passion was a question about which I had never been able
to satisfy myself. Sometimes I had one opinion; sometimes another.
Before I had taken any steps to assure myself positively in regard to
this point, Miss Nugent went abroad with a party of friends, and for
eight months I had neither seen nor heard from her.

During that time I had not ceased to berate myself for my inexcusable
procrastination. As she went away without knowing my feelings toward
her, of course there could be no correspondence. Whatever she might
have suspected, or whatever she might have expected, there was nothing
between us.

But on my part my love for Bertha had grown day by day. Hating the city
and even the country where I had seen her and loved her and where now
she was not, I travelled here and there, and during the winter went to
the West Indies. There I had remained until the weather had become too
warm for a longer sojourn, and then I had taken passage in the
_Thespia_ for New York. I knew that Bertha would return to the city in
the spring or summer, and I wished to be there when she arrived. If,
when I met her, I found her free, there would be no more delay. My life
thenceforth  would be black or white. And now here she was near me in a
half-wrecked steamer on the wide Atlantic, with no companion, as I
knew, but her maid, Mary Phillips.

I now had a very distinct recollection of Mary Phillips. In my visits
to the Nugent household in Forty-second Street I had frequently seen
this young woman. Two or three times when Miss Nugent had not been at
home, I had had slight interviews with her. She always treated me with
a certain cordiality, and I had some reason to think that if Miss
Nugent really suspected my feelings, Mary Phillips had given her some
hints on the subject.

Mary Phillips was an exceedingly bright and quick young woman, and I am
quite sure that she could see into the state of a man's feelings as
well as any one. Bertha had given me many instances of her maid's
facilities for adapting herself to circumstances, and I was now
thankful from the bottom of my heart that Bertha had this woman with
her.

I was recovering from the stupefaction into which my sudden emotions
had plunged me, when a hail came across the water, first in Mary
Phillips's natural voice, and then through a speaking-trumpet. I stood
up and answered.

"I was wondering," cried Mary Phillips, "what had become of you; I
thought perhaps you had gone down to breakfast." In answer I called to
her to tell me where Miss Nugent was, how she was, how she came to be
in this surprising situation, and how many people there were on board
the steamer.

"Miss Nugent has not been at all well," answered Mary, "but she
brightened up as soon as I told her you were here. She cannot come on
deck very well, because the pitch of the ship makes the stairs so
steep. But I am going to give her her breakfast now, and after she has
eaten something she may be stronger, and I will try to get her on
deck."

Brightened up when she knew I was near! That was glorious! That
brightened up creation.

By this time I needed food also, but I did not remain below to eat it.
I brought my breakfast on deck, keeping my eyes all the time fixed upon
Bertha's  steamer. The distance between us did not seem to have varied.
How I longed for a little breeze that might bring us together! Bertha
was on that vessel, trusting, perhaps, entirely to me: and what could I
do if some breeze did not bring us together? I looked about for
something on which I might float to her; but if I made a raft I was not
sure that I could steer or propel it, and I might float away and become
a third derelict. Once I thought of boldly springing into the water,
and swimming to her; but the distance  was considerable, my swimming
powers were only moderate, and there might be sharks. The risk was too
great. But surely we would come together. Even if no kind wind arose,
there was that strange attraction which draws to each other the bubbles
on a cup of tea. If bubbles, why not ships?

It was not long before nearly one-half of Mary Phillips appeared above
the rail. "Miss Nugent aas come on deck," she cried, "and she wants to
see you. She can't stand up very long, because everything is so
sliding."

Before my trembling lips could frame an answer, she had bobbed out of
sight, and presently reappeared supporting another person, and that
other person was Bertha Nugent.

I could discern her features perfectly. She was thinner and paler than
when I had last seen her, but her beauty was all there. The same smile
which I had seen so often was upon her face as she waved her
handkerchief to me. I waved my hat in return, but I tried two or three
times before I could speak loud enough for her to hear me. Then I threw
into my words all the good cheer and hope that I could.

She did not attempt to answer, but smiled more brightly than before.
Her expression seemed to indicate  that, apart from the extraordinary
pleasure of meeting a friend on this waste of waters, she was glad that
I was that friend.

"She can't speak loud enough for you to hear her," called out Mary
Phillips, "but she says that now you are here she thinks everything
will be all right. She wants to know if you are alone on your ship, and
if you can come to us."

I explained my situation, but said I did not doubt but the two ships
would gradually drift together. "Is there no one to lower your boat?" I
asked.

"No one but me," answered Mary, "and I don't believe I am up to that
sort of thing. Miss Nugent says I must not touch it for fear I might
fall overboard."

"Do you mean to say," I cried, "that there is nobody but you two on
board that steamer?"

"No other living soul!" said Mary, "and I'll tell you how it all
happened."

Then she told their story. The friends with whom Miss Nugent had
travelled had determined to go to Egypt, but as she did not wish to
accompany them, she had remained in Spain and Algiers during the early
spring, and, eleven days before, she and Mary Phillips had started from
Marseilles for home in the steamer _La Fidélité_. Five days ago, the
steamer had collided in the night with something, Mary did not know
what, and her front part was filled with water. Everybody was sure that
the vessel would soon sink, and the captain, crew, and passengers--all
French--went  away in boats.

"Is it possible" I yelled, "that they deserted you two women?"

Mary Phillips replied that this was not the case. They had been
implored to go in the boats, but the night was dark, the sea was rough
and pitchy, and she was sure the boat would upset before they had gone
a hundred yards. Miss Nugent and she both agreed that it was much safer
to remain on a large vessel like the _Fidélité_, even if she was half
full of water, than to go out on the dark and stormy water in a
miserable little shell of a boat. The captain got down on his knees and
implored them to go, but they were resolute. He then declared that he
would force them into the craft, but Mary Phillips declared that if he
tried that, she would shoot him; she had a pistol ready. Then, when
they had all got in the boats but the captain, two of the men jumped on
board again, threw their arms around him and carried him off, vowing
that he should not lose his life on account of a pair of senseless
Americans. A boat would be left, the men said, which they might use if
they chose; but, of course, this was more a piece of sentiment than
anything else.

"And now you see," cried Mary Phillips, "I was right, and they were
wrong. This steamer has not sunk; and I have no manner of doubt that
every soul who went away in those boats is now at the bottom of the
sea."

This was indeed a wonderful story; and the fact that Bertha Nugent was
on board a derelict vessel and should happen to fall in with me on
board of another, was one of those events which corroborate the trite
and hackneyed adage, that truth is stranger than fiction.

It was surprising how plainly I could hear Mary Phillips across the
smooth, still water. The ships did not now seem to be moving at all;
but soon they would be nearer, and then I could talk with Bertha. And
soon after (it must be so) I would be with her.

I inquired if they had food and whatever else they needed; and Mary
Phillips replied that, with the exception of the slanting position of
the ship, they were very comfortable; that she did the cooking; and
that Miss Nugent said that they lived a great deal better than when the
ship's cook cooked.

Mary also informed me that she had arranged a very nice couch for Miss
Nugent on the afterdeck; that she was lying there now, and felt better;
that she wanted to know which I thought the safer ship of the two; and
that whenever a little wind arose, and the vessels were blown nearer
each other, she wished to get up and talk to me herself.

I answered that I thought both the ships were safe enough, and should
be delighted to talk with Miss Nugent, but in my heart I could not
believe that a vessel with her bow as low as that of the _Fidélité_
could be safe in bad weather, to say nothing of the possibility of, at
any time, the water bursting into other compartments of the ship. The
_Sparhawk_ I believed to be in much better condition. Despite the fact
that she was utterly helpless as far as sailing qualities were
concerned, the greater part of her masts and rigging being in a
wretched condition, and her rudder useless, she did not appear to be
damaged. I had no reason to believe that she leaked, and she floated
well, although, as I have said, she lay rather deep in the water.

If the thing were possible, I intended to get Bertha on board the
_Sparhawk_, where there was hope that we could all remain safely until
we were rescued. With this purpose in view, the moment Mary Phillips
disappeared, I went below and prepared the captain's cabin for Bertha
and her maid. I carried to the forward part of the vessel all the
pipes, bottles, and glasses, and such other things as were not suitable
for a lady's apartment, and thoroughly aired the cabin, making it as
neat and comfortable as circumstances permitted. The very thought of
offering hospitality to Bertha was a joy.

I proposed to myself several plans to be used in various contingencies.
If the two vessels approached near enough, I would throw a line to _La
Fidélité_, and Mary Phillips would make it fast, I knew. Then with a
windlass I might draw the two vessels together. Then I would spring on
board the steamer, and when I had transferred Bertha and Mary to the
_Sparhawk_, would cut loose _La Fidélité_ to drift where she pleased.

It was possible that I might convey from one vessel to the other some
articles of luxury or necessity, but on this point I would not come to
any definite conclusion. I would consult Mary Phillips on the subject.

Another plan was that if we did not approach very close, I would
endeavor to throw a long, light line to the steamer, and Mary Phillips
would attach it to the boat which hung from the davits. Into this she
would put a pair of oars and lower it as well as she could; then I
would haul it to the _Sparhawk_, row over to the steamer, and transfer
Bertha and Mary to my vessel. It was possible that we should not have
to be very near each other for me to carry out this plan. Had I been a
seaman, I might have thought of some other plan better than these. But
I was not a seaman.

I did not waste any time in the cabin, although I was very desirous to
make it as pleasant as possible for the reception of Bertha, but when I
returned to the deck I was astonished to find that the steamer was
farther away than it had been when I went below. There was a slight
breeze from the east, which had nearly turned the _Sparhawk_ about with
her bow to the wind, but was gently carrying _La Fidélité_ before it.

I seized the speaking-trumpet, and with all my power, hailed the
steamer; and in return there came to me a single sound, the sound of
the vowel O. I could see two handkerchiefs fluttering upon the stern.
In ten minutes these were scarcely discernible.

Half-crazed, I stood and gazed, and gazed, and gazed at the distant
steamer. The wind died away, and I could perceive that she was not
becoming more distant. Then I began to hope. Another wind might spring
up which would bring her back.

And in an hour or two the other wind did spring up; I felt it in my
face, and slowly the _Sparhawk_ turned her bow toward it, and,
enrapturing sight! the steamer, with my Bertha on board, began to move
slowly back to me! The wind which was now blowing came from the
southwest, and _La Fidélité_, which before had lain to the southward of
the _Sparhawk_, was passing to the north of my vessel. Nearer and
nearer she came, and my whole soul was engaged in the hope that she
might not pass too far north.

But I soon saw that unless the wind changed, the steamer would probably
pass within hailing distance.

Soon I could see Mary Phillips on deck, speaking-trumpet  in hand; and
seizing my trumpet, I hailed when as I thought we were near enough. I
eagerly inquired after Bertha, and the high voice of Mary Phillips came
across the water, telling me that Miss Nugent was not feeling at all
well. This uncertain state of affairs was making her feel very nervous.
"Can she come on deck?" I cried. "Can she use a speaking-trumpet? If I
could talk to her, I might encourage her."

"She needs it," answered Mary, "but she cannot speak through the
trumpet; she tried it, and it made her head ache. She is here on deck,
and I am going to help her stand up as soon as we get nearer. Perhaps
she may be able to speak to you."

The two vessels were now near enough for a high-pitched  conversation
without the assistance of trumpets,  and Mary Phillips assisted Bertha
to the side of the steamer, where I could distinctly see her. I shouted
as hearty a greeting as ever was sent across the water, bidding her to
keep up a good heart, for help of some kind must surely come to us. She
tried to answer me, but her voice was not strong enough. Then she shook
her head, by which I understood that she did not agree with me in my
hopeful predictions. I called back to her that in all this drifting
about the two vessels must certainly come together, and then, with the
assistance of the steamer's boat, we could certainly devise some way of
getting out of this annoying  plight. She smiled, apparently at the
mildness of this expression, and again shook her head. She now seemed
tired, for her position by the rail was not an easy one to maintain,
and her maid assisted her to her couch on the deck. Then stood, up Mary
Phillips, speaking loud and promptly:--

"She has a message for you," she said, "which she wanted to give to you
herself, but she cannot do it. She thinks--but I tell her it is of no
use thinking that way--that we are bound to be lost. You may be saved
because your ship seems in a better condition  than ours, and she does
not believe that the two vessels will ever come together; so she wants
me to tell you that if you get home and she never does, that she wishes
her share in the Forty-second Street house to go to her married sister,
and to be used for the education of the children. She doesn't want it
divided  up in the ordinary way, because each one will get so little,
and it will do no good. Do you think that will be a good will?"

"Don't speak of wills!" I shouted; "there is no need of a will. She
will get home in safety and attend to her own affairs."

"I think so, too," cried Mary Phillips; "but I had to tell you what she
said. And now she wants to know if you have any message to send to your
parents, for we might blow off somewhere and be picked up, while this
might not happen to you. But I don't believe in that sort of thing any
more than in the other."

I shouted back my disbelief in the necessity of any such messages, when
Mary Phillips seized her trumpet and cried that she did not hear me.

Alas! the breeze was still blowing, and the steamer was moving away to
the northeast. Through my trumpet I repeated my words, and then Mary
said something which I could not hear. The wind was against her. I
shouted to her to speak louder, and she must have screamed with all her
force, but I could only hear some words to the effect that we were
bound to come together again, and she waved her handkerchief cheerily.

Then the steamer moved farther and farther away, and speaking-trumpets
were of no avail. I seized the glass, and watched _La Fidélité_, until
she was nothing but a black spot upon the sea.

The wind grew lighter, and finally died away, and the black spot
remained upon the horizon. I did not take my eyes from it until night
drew on and blotted it out. I had not thought of advising Mary Phillips
to hang out a light, and she was probably not sufficiently  accustomed
to the ways of ships to think of doing it herself, although there could
be no doubt that there were lanterns suitable for the purpose on the
steamer. Had there been a light upon that vessel, I should have watched
the glimmer all night. As it was, I slept upon the deck, waking
frequently to peer out into the darkness, and to listen for a hail from
a speaking-trumpet.

In the morning there was a black spot upon the horizon. I fancied that
it was a little nearer than when I last saw it; but in the course of
the forenoon it faded away altogether. Then despair seized upon me, and
I cared not whether I lived or died. I forgot to eat, and threw myself
upon the deck, where I remained  for several hours, upbraiding myself
for my monstrous, unpardonable folly in neglecting the opportunities
which were now lost.

Over and over again I told myself bitterly, that when I had been near
enough to the vessel which bore Bertha Nugent to converse with Mary
Phillips without  the aid of a speaking-trumpet, I should have tried to
reach that vessel, no matter what the danger or the difficulties. I
should have launched a raft--I should have tried to swim--I should have
done something.

And more than that, even had it been impossible for me to reach the
steamer, I should have endeavored to reach Bertha's heart. I should
have told her that I loved her. Whether she were lost or I were lost,
or both of us, she should have known I loved her. She might not have
been able to answer me, but she could have heard me. For that terrible
mistake, that crime, there was no pardon. Now every chance was gone.
What reason was there to suppose that these two derelicts ever again
would drift together?

In the afternoon I rose languidly and looked about me. I saw something
on the horizon, and seizing the glass, I knew it to be _La Fidélité_. I
could recognize the slant of the hull, of the masts.

Now hope blazed up again. If she were nearer, she must come nearer
still. I recovered my ordinary state of mind sufficiently to know that
I was hungry, and that I must eat to be strong and ready for what might
happen.

Upon one thing I was determined. If Bertha should ever again be brought
near enough to hear me, I would tell her that I loved her. The object
of life, however much of it might be left me, should be to make Bertha
know that I loved her. If I swam toward the vessel, or floated on a
plank, I must get near enough to tell her that I loved her.

But there was no wind, and the apparent size of the steamer did not
increase. This was a region or season  of calms or fitful winds. During
the rest of the day the distant vessel continued to be a black speck
upon the smooth and gently rolling sea. Again I spent the night on
deck, but I did not wake to listen or watch. I was worn out and slept
heavily.

The day was bright when I was awakened by a chilly feeling: a strong
breeze was blowing over me. I sprang to my feet. There was quite a
heavy sea; the vessel was rolling and pitching beneath me, and not far
away, not more than a mile, _La Fidélité_ was coming straight toward
me. Lightly laden, and with a great part of her hull high out of water,
the high wind was driving her before it, while my vessel, her bow to
the breeze, was moving at a much slower rate.

As I looked at the rapidly approaching steamer, it seemed as if she
certainly must run into the _Sparhawk_. But for that I cared not. All
that I now hoped for was that Bertha should come to me. Whether one
vessel sank or the other, or whether both went down together, I should
be with Bertha, I would live or die with her. Mary Phillips stood full
in view on the stern of the oncoming steamer, a speaking-trumpet  in
her hand. I could now see that it was not probable that the two vessels
would collide. The steamer would pass me, but probably very near.
Before  I could make up my mind what I should do in this momentous
emergency, Mary Phillips hailed me.