Then he turned his eyes away toward the coast which lay on the west, and
affected profound indifference to what was passing around him. One
would have thought him a stranger to the whole affair. But Glenarvan was
determined to be patient. Powerful motives urged him to find out certain
details concerning the mysterious life of Ayrton, especially those
which related to Harry Grant and the BRITANNIA. He therefore resumed his
interrogations, speaking with extreme gentleness and firmly restraining
his violent irritation against him.
“I think, Ayrton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to reply to
certain questions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought
I to call you Ayrton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the
quartermaster of the BRITANNIA?”
Ayrton remained impassive, gazing at the coast, deaf to every question.
Glenarvan’s eyes kindled, as he said again:
“Will you tell me how you left the BRITANNIA, and why you are in
Australia?”
The same silence, the same impassibility.
“Listen to me, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan; “it is to your interest to
speak. Frankness is the only resource left to you, and it may stand
you in good stead. For the last time, I ask you, will you reply to my
questions?”
Ayrton turned his head toward Glenarvan, and looked into his eyes.
“My Lord,” he said, “it is not for me to answer. Justice may witness
against me, but I am not going to witness against myself.”
“Proof will be easy,” said Glenarvan.
“Easy, my Lord,” repeated Ayrton, in a mocking tone. “Your honor makes
rather a bold assertion there, it seems to me. For my own part, I
venture to affirm that the best judge in the Temple would be puzzled
what to make of me. Who will say why I came to Australia, when Captain
Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce
placarded by the police, when the police have never had me in their
hands, and my companions are at liberty? Who can damage me except
yourself, by bringing forward a single crime against me, or even a
blameable action? Who will affirm that I intended to take possession of
this ship and deliver it into the hands of the convicts? No one, I
tell you, no one. You have your suspicions, but you need certainties to
condemn a man, and certainties you have none. Until there is a proof to
the contrary, I am Ayrton, quartermaster of the BRITANNIA.”
Ayrton had become animated while he was speaking, but soon relapsed into
his former indifference.
He, no doubt, expected that his reply would close the examination, but
Glenarvan commenced again, and said:
“Ayrton, I am not a Crown prosecutor charged with your indictment. That
is no business of mine. It is important that our respective situations
should be clearly defined. I am not asking you anything that could
compromise you. That is for justice to do. But you know what I am
searching for, and a single word may put me on the track I have lost.
Will you speak?”
Ayrton shook his head like a man determined to be silent.
“Will you tell me where Captain Grant is?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Will you tell me where the BRITANNIA was wrecked?”
“No, neither the one nor the other.”
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, in almost beseeching tones, “if you know where
Harry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor children, who are
waiting for you to speak the word?”
Ayrton hesitated. His features contracted, and he muttered in a low
voice, “I cannot, my Lord.”
Then he added with vehemence, as if reproaching himself for a momentary
weakness:
“No, I will not speak. Have me hanged, if you choose.”
“Hanged!” exclaimed Glenarvan, overcome by a sudden feeling of anger.
But immediately mastering himself, he added in a grave voice:
“Ayrton, there is neither judge nor executioner here. At the first
port we touch at, you will be given up into the hands of the English
authorities.”
“That is what I demand,” was the quartermaster’s reply.
Then he turned away and quietly walked back to his cabin, which served
as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with orders to watch
his slightest movement. The witnesses of this examination retired from
the scene indignant and despairing.
As Glenarvan could make no way against Ayrton’s obstinacy, what was to
be done now? Plainly no course remained but to carry out the plan
formed at Eden, of returning to Europe and giving up for the time
this unsuccessful enterprise, for the traces of the BRITANNIA seemed
irrevocably lost, and the document did not appear to allow any fresh
interpretation. On the 37th parallel there was not even another country,
and the DUNCAN had only to turn and go back.
After Glenarvan had consulted his friends, he talked over the question
of returning, more particularly with the captain. John examined the coal
bunkers, and found there was only enough to last fifteen days longer at
the outside. It was necessary, therefore, to put in at the nearest port
for a fresh supply.
John proposed that he should steer for the Bay of Talcahuano, where the
DUNCAN had once before been revictualed before she commenced her voyage
of circumnavigation. It was a direct route across, and lay exactly along
the 37th parallel. From thence the yacht, being amply provisioned, might
go south, double Cape Horn, and get back to Scotland by the Atlantic
route.
This plan was adopted, and orders were given to the engineer to get up
the steam. Half an hour afterward the beak-head of the yacht was turned
toward Talcahuano, over a sea worthy of being called the Pacific, and
at six P. M. the last mountains of New Zealand had disappeared in warm,
hazy mist on the horizon.
The return voyage was fairly commenced. A sad voyage, for the courageous
searching party to come back to the port without bringing home Harry
Grant with them! The crew, so joyous at departure and so hopeful, were
coming back to Europe defeated and discouraged. There was not one among
the brave fellows whose heart did not swell at the thought of seeing his
own country once more; and yet there was not one among them either who
would not have been willing to brave the perils of the sea for a long
time still if they could but find Captain Grant.
Consequently, the hurrahs which greeted the return of Lord Glenarvan to
the yacht soon gave place to dejection. Instead of the close intercourse
which had formerly existed among the passengers, and the lively
conversations which had cheered the voyage, each one kept apart from the
others in the solitude of his own cabin, and it was seldom that anyone
appeared on the deck of the DUNCAN.
Paganel, who generally shared in an exaggerated form the feelings
of those about him, whether painful or joyous--a man who could have
invented hope if necessary--even Paganel was gloomy and taciturn. He was
seldom visible; his natural loquacity and French vivacity gave place
to silence and dejection. He seemed even more downhearted than his
companions. If Glenarvan spoke at all of renewing the search, he shook
his head like a man who has given up all hope, and whose convictions
concerning the fate of the shipwrecked men appeared settled. It was
quite evident he believed them irrevocably lost.
And yet there was a man on board who could have spoken the decisive
word, and refused to break his silence. This was Ayrton. There was no
doubt the fellow knew, if not the present whereabouts of the captain, at
least the place of shipwreck. But it was evident that were Grant found,
he would be a witness against him. Hence his persistent silence, which
gave rise to great indignation on board, especially among the crew, who
would have liked to deal summarily with him.
Glenarvan repeatedly renewed his attempts with the quartermaster, but
promises and threats were alike useless. Ayrton’s obstinacy was so
great, and so inexplicable, that the Major began to believe he had
nothing to reveal. His opinion was shared, moreover, by the geographer,
as it corroborated his own notion about Harry Grant.
But if Ayrton knew nothing, why did he not confess his ignorance? It
could not be turned against him. His silence increased the difficulty
of forming any new plan. Was the presence of the quartermaster on
the Australian continent a proof of Harry Grant’s being there? It was
settled that they must get this information out of Ayrton.
Lady Helena, seeing her husband’s ill-success, asked his permission to
try her powers against the obstinacy of the quartermaster. When a man
had failed, a woman perhaps, with her gentler influence, might succeed.
Is there not a constant repetition going on of the story of the fable
where the storm, blow as it will, cannot tear the cloak from the
shoulders of the traveler, while the first warm rays of sunshine make
him throw it off immediately?
Glenarvan, knowing his young wife’s good sense, allowed her to act as
she pleased.
The same day (the 5th of March), Ayrton was conducted to Lady Helena’s
saloon. Mary Grant was to be present at the interview, for the influence
of the young girl might be considerable, and Lady Helena would not lose
any chance of success.
For a whole hour the two ladies were closeted with the quartermaster,
but nothing transpired about their interview. What had been said,
what arguments they used to win the secret from the convict, or what
questions were asked, remained unknown; but when they left Ayrton, they
did not seem to have succeeded, as the expression on their faces denoted
discouragement.
In consequence of this, when the quartermaster was being taken back to
his cabin, the sailors met him with violent menaces. He took no notice
except by shrugging his shoulders, which so increased their rage, that
John Mangles and Glenarvan had to interfere, and could only repress it
with difficulty.
But Lady Helena would not own herself vanquished. She resolved to
struggle to the last with this pitiless man, and went next day herself
to his cabin to avoid exposing him again to the vindictiveness of the
crew.
The good and gentle Scotchwoman stayed alone with the convict leader
for two long hours. Glenarvan in a state of extreme nervous anxiety,
remained outside the cabin, alternately resolved to exhaust completely
this last chance of success, alternately resolved to rush in and snatch
his wife from so painful a situation.
But this time when Lady Helena reappeared, her look was full of hope.
Had she succeeded in extracting the secret, and awakening in that
adamant heart a last faint touch of pity?
McNabbs, who first saw her, could not restrain a gesture of incredulity.
However the report soon spread among the sailors that the quartermaster
had yielded to the persuasions of Lady Helena. The effect was
electrical. The entire crew assembled on deck far quicker than Tom
Austin’s whistle could have brought them together.
Glenarvan had hastened up to his wife and eagerly asked:
“Has he spoken?”
“No,” replied Lady Helena, “but he has yielded to my entreaties, and
wishes to see you.”
“Ah, dear Helena, you have succeeded!”
“I hope so, Edward.”
“Have you made him any promise that I must ratify?”
“Only one; that you will do all in your power to mitigate his
punishment.”
“Very well, dear Helena. Let Ayrton come immediately.”
Lady Helena retired to her cabin with Mary Grant, and the quartermaster
was brought into the saloon where Lord Glenarvan was expecting him.
CHAPTER XVIII A DISCOURAGING CONFESSION
As soon as the quartermaster was brought into the presence of Lord
Glenarvan, his keepers withdrew.
“You wanted to speak to me, Ayrton?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
“Did you wish for a private interview?”
“Yes, but I think if Major McNabbs and Mr. Paganel were present it would
be better.”
“For whom?”
“For myself.”
Ayrton spoke quite calmly and firmly. Glenarvan looked at him for an
instant, and then sent to summon McNabbs and Paganel, who came at once.
“We are all ready to listen to you,” said Glenarvan, when his two
friends had taken their place at the saloon table.
Ayrton collected himself, for an instant, and then said:
“My Lord, it is usual for witnesses to be present at every contract or
transaction between two parties. That is why I desire the presence of
Messrs. Paganel and McNabbs, for it is, properly speaking, a bargain
which I propose to make.”
Glenarvan, accustomed to Ayrton’s ways, exhibited no surprise, though
any bargaining between this man and himself seemed strange.
“What is the bargain?” he said.
“This,” replied Ayrton. “You wish to obtain from me certain facts which
may be useful to you. I wish to obtain from you certain advantages which
would be valuable to me. It is giving for giving, my Lord. Do you agree
to this or not?”
“What are the facts?” asked Paganel eagerly.
“No,” said Glenarvan. “What are the advantages?”
Ayrton bowed in token that he understood Glenarvan’s distinction.
“These,” he said, “are the advantages I ask. It is still your intention,
I suppose, to deliver me up to the English authorities?”
“Yes, Ayrton, it is only justice.”
“I don’t say it is not,” replied the quartermaster quietly. “Then of
course you would never consent to set me at liberty.”
Glenarvan hesitated before replying to a question so plainly put. On the
answer he gave, perhaps the fate of Harry Grant might depend!
However, a feeling of duty toward human justice compelled him to say:
“No, Ayrton, I cannot set you at liberty.”
“I do not ask it,” said the quartermaster proudly.
“Then, what is it you want?”
“A middle place, my Lord, between the gibbet that awaits me and the
liberty which you cannot grant me.”
“And that is--”
“To allow me to be left on one of the uninhabited islands of the
Pacific, with such things as are absolute necessaries. I will manage as
best I can, and will repent if I have time.”
Glenarvan, quite unprepared for such a proposal, looked at his two
friends in silence. But after a brief reflection, he replied:
“Ayrton, if I agree to your request, you will tell me all I have an
interest in knowing.”
“Yes, my Lord, that is to say, all I know about Captain Grant and the
BRITANNIA.”
“The whole truth?”
“The whole.”
“But what guarantee have I?”
“Oh, I see what you are uneasy about. You need a guarantee for me, for
the truth of a criminal. That’s natural. But what can you have under the
circumstances. There is no help for it, you must either take my offer or
leave it.”
“I will trust to you, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, simply.
“And you do right, my Lord. Besides, if I deceive you, vengeance is in
your own power.”
“How?”
“You can come and take me again from where you left me, as I shall have
no means of getting away from the island.”
Ayrton had an answer for everything. He anticipated the difficulties
and furnished unanswerable arguments against himself. It was evident he
intended to affect perfect good faith in the business. It was impossible
to show more complete confidence. And yet he was prepared to go still
further in disinterestedness.
“My Lord and gentlemen,” he added, “I wish to convince you of the fact
that I am playing cards on the table. I have no wish to deceive you, and
I am going to give you a fresh proof of my sincerity in this matter. I
deal frankly with you, because I reckon on your honor.”
“Speak, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“My Lord, I have not your promise yet to accede to my proposal, and yet
I do not scruple to tell you that I know very little about Harry Grant.”
“Very little,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, the details I am in a position to give you relate to
myself. They are entirely personal, and will not do much to help you to
recover the lost traces of Captain Grant.”
Keen disappointment was depicted on the faces of Glenarvan and the
Major. They thought the quartermaster in the possession of an important
secret, and he declared that his communications would be very nearly
barren. Paganel’s countenance remained unmoved.
Somehow or other, this avowal of Ayrton, and surrender of himself, so to
speak, unconditionally, singularly touched his auditors, especially when
the quartermaster added:
“So I tell you beforehand, the bargain will be more to my profit than
yours.”
“It does not signify,” replied Glenarvan. “I accept your proposal,
Ayrton. I give you my word to land you on one of the islands of the
Pacific Ocean.”
“All right, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
Was this strange man glad of this decision? One might have doubted it,
for his impassive countenance betokened no emotion whatever. It seemed
as if he were acting for someone else rather than himself.
“I am ready to answer,” he said.
“We have no questions to put to you,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us all you
know, Ayrton, and begin by declaring who you are.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Ayrton, “I am really Tom Ayrton, the quartermaster
of the BRITANNIA. I left Glasgow on Harry Grant’s ship on the 12th of
March, 1861. For fourteen months I cruised with him in the Pacific in
search of an advantageous spot for founding a Scotch colony. Harry Grant
was the man to carry out grand projects, but serious disputes often
arose between us. His temper and mine could not agree. I cannot bend,
and with Harry Grant, when once his resolution is taken, any resistance
is impossible, my Lord. He has an iron will both for himself and others.
“But in spite of that, I dared to rebel, and I tried to get the crew to
join me, and to take possession of the vessel. Whether I was to blame
or not is of no consequence. Be that as it may, Harry Grant had no
scruples, and on the 8th of April, 1862, he left me behind on the west
coast of Australia.”
“Of Australia!” said the Major, interrupting Ayrton in his narrative.
“Then of course you had quitted the BRITANNIA before she touched at
Callao, which was her last date?”
“Yes,” replied the quartermaster, “for the BRITANNIA did not touch
there while I was on board. And how I came to speak of Callao at Paddy
O’Moore’s farm was that I learned the circumstances from your recital.”
“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“I found myself abandoned on a nearly desert coast, but only forty miles
from the penal settlement at Perth, the capital of Western Australia. As
I was wandering there along the shore, I met a band of convicts who had
just escaped, and I joined myself to them. You will dispense, my
Lord, with any account of my life for two years and a half. This much,
however, I must tell you, that I became the leader of the gang, under
the name of Ben Joyce. In September, 1864, I introduced myself at the
Irish farm, where I engaged myself as a servant in my real name, Ayrton.
I waited there till I should get some chance of seizing a ship. This was
my one idea. Two months afterward the DUNCAN arrived. During your visit
to the farm you related Captain Grant’s history, and I learned then
facts of which I was not previously aware--that the BRITANNIA had
touched at Callao, and that her latest news was dated June, 1862, two
months after my disembarkation, and also about the document and the loss
of the ship somewhere along the 37th parallel; and, lastly, the
strong reasons you had for supposing Harry Grant was on the Australian
continent. Without the least hesitation I determined to appropriate the
DUNCAN, a matchless vessel, able to outdistance the swiftest ships in
the British Navy. But serious injuries had to be repaired. I therefore
let it go to Melbourne, and joined myself to you in my true character
as quartermaster, offering to guide you to the scene of the shipwreck,
fictitiously placed by me on the east coast of Australia. It was in this
way, followed or sometimes preceded by my gang of convicts, I directed
your expedition toward the province of Victoria. My men committed a
bootless crime at Camden Bridge; since the DUNCAN, if brought to the
coast, could not escape me, and with the yacht once mine, I was master
of the ocean. I led you in this way unsuspectingly as far as the Snowy
River. The horses and bullocks dropped dead one by one, poisoned by the
gastrolobium. I dragged the wagon into the marshes, where it got half
buried. At my instance--but you know the rest, my Lord, and you may be
sure that but for the blunder of Mr. Paganel, I should now command the
DUNCAN. Such is my history, gentlemen. My disclosures, unfortunately,
cannot put you on the track of Harry Grant, and you perceive that you
have made but a poor bargain by coming to my terms.”
The quartermaster said no more, but crossed his arms in his usual
fashion and waited. Glenarvan and his friends kept silence. They felt
that this strange criminal had spoken the whole truth. He had only
missed his coveted prize, the DUNCAN, through a cause independent of
his will. His accomplices had gone to Twofold Bay, as was proved by
the convict blouse found by Glenarvan. Faithful to the orders of
their chief, they had kept watch on the yacht, and at length, weary of
waiting, had returned to the old haunt of robbers and incendiaries in
the country parts of New South Wales.
The Major put the first question, his object being to verify the dates
of the BRITANNIA.
“You are sure then,” he said, “that it was on the 8th of April you were
left on the west coast of Australia?”
“On that very day,” replied Ayrton.
“And do you know what projects Harry Grant had in view at the time?”
“In an indefinite way I do.”
“Say all you can, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “the least indication may set
us in the right course.”
“I only know this much, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, “that
Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. Now, as this part of the
programme was not carried out while I was on board, it is not impossible
that on leaving Callao the BRITANNIA went to reconnoiter New Zealand.
This would agree with the date assigned by the document to the
shipwreck--the 27th of June, 1862.”
“Clearly,” said Paganel.
“But,” objected Glenarvan, “there is nothing in the fragmentary words in
the document that could apply to New Zealand.”
“That I cannot answer,” said the quartermaster.
“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “you have kept your word, and I will
keep mine. We have to decide now on what island of the Pacific Ocean you
are to be left?”
“It matters little, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Return to your cabin,” said Glenarvan, “and wait our decision.”
The quartermaster withdrew, guarded by the two sailors.
“That villain might have been a man,” said the Major.
“Yes,” returned Glenarvan; “he is a strong, clear-headed fellow. Why was
it that he must needs turn his powers to such evil account?”
“But Harry Grant?”
“I must fear he is irrevocably lost. Poor children! Who can tell them
where their father is?”
“I can!” replied Paganel. “Yes; I can!” One could not help remarking
that the geographer, so loquacious and impatient usually, had scarcely
spoken during Ayrton’s examination. He listened without opening his
mouth. But this speech of his now was worth many others, and it made
Glenarvan spring to his feet, crying out: “You, Paganel! you know where
Captain Grant is?”
“Yes, as far as can be known.”
“How do you know?”
“From that infernal document.”
“Ah!” said the Major, in a tone of the most profound incredulity.
“Hear me first, and shrug your shoulders afterward,” said Paganel. “I
did not speak sooner, because you would not have believed me. Besides,
it was useless; and I only speak to-day because Ayrton’s opinion just
supports my own.”
“Then it is New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“Listen and judge,” replied Paganel. “It is not without reason, or,
rather, I had a reason for making the blunder which has saved our
lives. When I was in the very act of writing the letter to Glenarvan’s
dictation, the word ZEALAND was swimming in my brain. This is why. You
remember we were in the wagon. McNabbs had just apprised Lady Helena
about the convicts; he had given her the number of the -Australian and
New Zealand Gazette- which contained the account of the catastrophe at
Camden Bridge. Now, just as I was writing, the newspaper was lying on
the ground, folded in such a manner that only two syllables of the
title were visible; these two syllables were ALAND. What a sudden light
flashed on my mind. ALAND was one of the words in the English document,
one that hitherto we had translated -a terre-, and which must have been
the termination of the proper noun, ZEALAND.”
“Indeed!” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, with profound conviction; “this meaning
had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my wits were exercised
naturally on the French document, as it was most complete, and in that
this important word was wanting.”
“Oh, oh!” said the Major; “your imagination goes too far, Paganel; and
you forget your former deductions.”
“Go on, Major; I am ready to answer you.”
“Well, then, what do you make of your word AUSTRA?”
“What it was at first. It merely means southern countries.”
“Well, and this syllable, INDI, which was first the root of the INDIANS,
and second the root of the word -indigenes?-”
“Well, the third and last time,” replied Paganel, “it will be the first
syllable of the word INDIGENCE.”
“And CONTIN?” cried McNabbs. “Does that still mean CONTINENT?”
“No; since New Zealand is only an island.”
“What then?” asked Glenarvan.
“My dear lord,” replied Paganel, “I am going to translate the document
according to my third interpretation, and you shall judge. I only make
two observations beforehand. First, forget as much as possible preceding
interpretations, and divest your mind of all preconceived notions.
Second, certain parts may appear to you strained, and it is possible
that I translate them badly; but they are of no importance; among
others, the word AGONIE, which chokes me; but I cannot find any other
explanation. Besides, my interpretation was founded on the French
document; and don’t forget it was written by an Englishman, who could
not be familiar with the idioms of the French language. Now then, having
said this much, I will begin.”
And slowly articulating each syllable, he repeated the following
sentences:
“LE 27th JUIN, 1862, -le trois-mats Britannia-, de -Glasgow, a sombre-
apres une longue AGONIE dans les mers AUSTRALES sur les cotes de la
Nouvelle ZELANDE--in English -Zealand. Deux matelots- et le -Capitaine
Grant- ont pu y ABORDER. La CONTINUellement en PRoie a une CRUELle
INDIgence, ils ont -jete ce document- par---de lon-gitude ET 37 degrees
11’ de LATItude. -Venex a leur- secours, ou ils sont PERDUS!” (On the
27th of June, 1865, the three-mast vessel BRITANNIA, of Glasgow, has
foundered after a long AGOnie in the Southern Seas, on the coast of
New Zealand. Two sailors and Captain Grant have succeeded in landing.
Continually a prey to cruel indigence, they have thrown this document
into the sea in--longitude and 37 degrees 11’ latitude. Come to their
help, or they are lost.)
Paganel stopped. His interpretation was admissible. But precisely
because it appeared as likely as the preceding, it might be as false.
Glenarvan and the Major did not then try and discuss it. However,
since no traces of the BRITANNIA had yet been met with, either on the
Patagonian or Australian coasts, at the points where these countries are
crossed by the 37th parallel, the chances were in favor of New Zealand.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell me why you have kept this
interpretation secret for nearly two months?”
“Because I did not wish to buoy you up again with vain hopes. Besides,
we were going to Auckland, to the very spot indicated by the latitude of
the document.”
“But since then, when we were dragged out of the route, why did you not
speak?”
“Because, however just the interpretation, it could do nothing for the
deliverance of the captain.”
“Why not, Paganel?”
“Because, admitting that the captain was wrecked on the New Zealand
coast, now that two years have passed and he has not reappeared, he must
have perished by shipwreck or by the New Zealanders.”
“Then you are of the opinion,” said Glenarvan, “that--”
“That vestiges of the wreck might be found; but that the survivors of
the BRITANNIA have, beyond doubt, perished.”
“Keep all this silent, friends,” said Glenarvan, “and let me choose
a fitting moment to communicate these sad tidings to Captain Grant’s
children.”
CHAPTER XIX A CRY IN THE NIGHT
THE crew soon heard that no light had been thrown on the situation
of Captain Grant by the revelations of Ayrton, and it caused profound
disappointment among them, for they had counted on the quartermaster,
and the quartermaster knew nothing which could put the DUNCAN on the
right track.
The yacht therefore continued her course. They had yet to select the
island for Ayrton’s banishment.
Paganel and John Mangles consulted the charts on board, and exactly
on the 37th parallel found a little isle marked by the name of Maria
Theresa, a sunken rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, 3,500 miles
from the American coast, and 1,500 miles from New Zealand. The nearest
land on the north was the Archipelago of Pomotou, under the protectorate
of France; on the south there was nothing but the eternal ice-belt of
the Polar Sea. No ship would come to reconnoiter this solitary isle. No
echoes from the world would ever reach it. The storm birds only would
rest awhile on it during their long flight, and in many charts the rock
was not even marked.
If ever complete isolation was to be found on earth, it was on this
little out-of-the-way island. Ayrton was informed of its situation, and
expressed his willingness to live there apart from his fellows. The head
of the vessel was in consequence turned toward it immediately.
Two days later, at two o’clock, the man on watch signaled land on the
horizon. This was Maria Theresa, a low, elongated island, scarcely
raised above the waves, and looking like an enormous whale. It was still
thirty miles distant from the yacht, whose stem was rapidly cutting her
way over the water at the rate of sixteen knots an hour.
Gradually the form of the island grew more distinct on the horizon. The
orb of day sinking in the west, threw up its peculiar outlines in sharp
relief. A few peaks of no great elevation stood out here and there,
tipped with sunlight. At five o’clock John Mangles could discern a light
smoke rising from it.
“Is it a volcano?” he asked of Paganel, who was gazing at this new land
through his telescope.
“I don’t know what to think,” replied the geographer; “Maria Theresa
is a spot little known; nevertheless, it would not be surprising if its
origin were due to some submarine upheaval, and consequently it may be
volcanic.”
“But in that case,” said Glenarvan, “is there not reason to fear that if
an eruption produced it, an eruption may carry it away?”
“That is not possible,” replied Paganel. “We know of its existence for
several centuries, which is our security. When the Isle Julia emerged
from the Mediterranean, it did not remain long above the waves, and
disappeared a few months after its birth.”
“Very good,” said Glenarvan. “Do you think, John, we can get there
to-night?”
“No, your honor, I must not risk the DUNCAN in the dark, for I am
unacquainted with the coast. I will keep under steam, but go very
slowly, and to-morrow, at daybreak, we can send off a boat.”
At eight o’clock in the evening, Maria Theresa, though five miles to
leeward, appeared only an elongated shadow, scarcely visible. The DUNCAN
was always getting nearer.
At nine o’clock, a bright glare became visible, and flames shot up
through the darkness. The light was steady and continued.
“That confirms the supposition of a volcano,” said Paganel, observing it
attentively.
“Yet,” replied John Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the
noise which always accompanies an eruption, and the east wind brings no
sound whatever to our ear.”
“That’s true,” said Paganel. “It is a volcano that blazes, but does
not speak. The gleam seems intermittent too, sometimes, like that of a
lighthouse.”
“You are right,” said John Mangles, “and yet we are not on a lighted
coast.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “another fire? On the shore this time! Look! It
moves! It has changed its place!”
John was not mistaken. A fresh fire had appeared, which seemed to die
out now and then, and suddenly flare up again.
“Is the island inhabited then?” said Glenarvan.
“By savages, evidently,” replied Paganel.
“But in that case, we cannot leave the quartermaster there.”
“No,” replied the Major, “he would be too bad a gift even to bestow on
savages.”
“We must find some other uninhabited island,” said Glenarvan, who could
not help smiling at the delicacy of McNabbs. “I promised Ayrton his
life, and I mean to keep my promise.”
“At all events, don’t let us trust them,” added Paganel. “The New
Zealanders have the barbarous custom of deceiving ships by moving
lights, like the wreckers on the Cornish coast in former times. Now the
natives of Maria Theresa may have heard of this proceeding.”
“Keep her off a point,” called out John to the man at the helm.
“To-morrow at sunrise we shall know what we’re about.”
At eleven o’clock, the passengers and John Mangles retired to their
cabins. In the forepart of the yacht the man on watch was pacing the
deck, while aft, there was no one but the man at the wheel.
At this moment Mary Grant and Robert came on the poop.
The two children of the captain, leaning over the rail, gazed sadly at
the phosphorescent waves and the luminous wake of the DUNCAN. Mary was
thinking of her brother’s future, and Robert of his sister’s. Their
father was uppermost in the minds of both. Was this idolized parent
still in existence? Must they give him up? But no, for what would life
be without him? What would become of them without him? What would have
become of them already, but for Lord Glenarvan and Lady Helena?
The young boy, old above his years through trouble, divined the thoughts
that troubled his sister, and taking her hand in his own, said, “Mary,
we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father gave us. Keep
your courage up and no matter what befalls you, let us show this
obstinate courage which can rise above everything. Up to this time,
sister, you have been working for me, it is my turn now, and I will work
for you.”
“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.
“I must tell you something,” resumed Robert. “You mustn’t be vexed,
Mary!”
“Why should I be vexed, my child?”
“And you will let me do it?”
“What do you mean?” said Mary, getting uneasy.
“Sister, I am going to be a sailor!”
“You are going to leave me!” cried the young girl, pressing her
brother’s hand.
“Yes, sister; I want to be a sailor, like my father and Captain John.
Mary, dear Mary, Captain John has not lost all hope, he says. You have
confidence in his devotion to us, and so have I. He is going to make a
grand sailor out of me some day, he has promised me he will; and then
we are going to look for our father together. Tell me you are willing,
sister mine. What our father would have done for us it is our duty,
mine, at least, to do for him. My life has one purpose to which it
should be entirely consecrated--that is to search, and never cease
searching for my father, who would never have given us up. Ah, Mary, how
good our father was!”
“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, he was
already a glory to our country, and that he would have been numbered
among our great men if fate had not arrested his course.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Robert.
Mary put her arm around the boy, and hugged him fondly as he felt her
tears fall on his forehead.
“Mary, Mary!” he cried, “it doesn’t matter what our friends say, I still
hope, and will always hope. A man like my father doesn’t die till he has
finished his work.”
Mary Grant could not reply. Sobs choked her voice. A thousand feelings
struggled in her breast at the news that fresh attempts were about to be
made to recover Harry Grant, and that the devotion of the captain was so
unbounded.
“And does Mr. John still hope?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Robert. “He is a brother that will never forsake us,
never! I will be a sailor, you’ll say yes, won’t you, sister? And let me
join him in looking for my father. I am sure you are willing.”
“Yes, I am willing,” said Mary. “But the separation!” she murmured.
“You will not be alone, Mary, I know that. My friend John told me so.
Lady Helena will not let you leave her. You are a woman; you can and
should accept her kindness. To refuse would be ungrateful, but a man, my
father has said a hundred times, must make his own way.”
“But what will become of our own dear home in Dundee, so full of
memories?”
“We will keep it, little sister! All that is settled, and settled so
well, by our friend John, and also by Lord Glenarvan. He is to keep you
at Malcolm Castle as if you were his daughter. My Lord told my friend
John so, and he told me. You will be at home there, and have someone to
speak to about our father, while you are waiting till John and I bring
him back to you some day. Ah! what a grand day that will be!” exclaimed
Robert, his face glowing with enthusiasm.
“My boy, my brother,” replied Mary, “how happy my father would be if he
could hear you. How much you are like him, dear Robert, like our dear,
dear father. When you grow up you’ll be just himself.”
“I hope I may,” said Robert, blushing with filial and sacred pride.
“But how shall we requite Lord and Lady Glenarvan?” said Mary Grant.
“Oh, that will not be difficult,” replied Robert, with boyish
confidence. “We will love and revere them, and we will tell them so; and
we will give them plenty of kisses, and some day, when we can get the
chance, we will die for them.”
“We’ll live for them, on the contrary,” replied the young girl, covering
her brother’s forehead with kisses. “They will like that better, and so
shall I.”
The two children then relapsed into silence, gazing out into the dark
night, and giving way to long reveries, interrupted occasionally by a
question or remark from one to the other. A long swell undulated the
surface of the calm sea, and the screw turned up a luminous furrow in
the darkness.
A strange and altogether supernatural incident now occurred. The brother
and sister, by some of those magnetic communications which link souls
mysteriously together, were the subjects at the same time and the same
instant of the same hallucination.
Out of the midst of these waves, with their alternations of light
and shadow, a deep plaintive voice sent up a cry, the tones of which
thrilled through every fiber of their being.
“Come! come!” were the words which fell on their ears.
They both started up and leaned over the railing, and peered into the
gloom with questioning eyes.
“Mary, you heard that? You heard that?” cried Robert.
But they saw nothing but the long shadow that stretched before them.
“Robert,” said Mary, pale with emotion, “I thought--yes, I thought as
you did, that--We must both be ill with fever, Robert.”
A second time the cry reached them, and this time the illusion was so
great, that they both exclaimed simultaneously, “My father! My father!”
It was too much for Mary. Overcome with emotion, she fell fainting into
Robert’s arms.
“Help!” shouted Robert. “My sister! my father! Help! Help!”
The man at the wheel darted forward to lift up the girl. The sailors on
watch ran to assist, and John Mangles, Lady Helena, and Glenarvan were
hastily roused from sleep.
“My sister is dying, and my father is there!” exclaimed Robert, pointing
to the waves.
They were wholly at a loss to understand him.
“Yes!” he repeated, “my father is there! I heard my father’s voice; Mary
heard it too!”
Just at this moment, Mary Grant recovering consciousness, but wandering
and excited, called out, “My father! my father is there!”
And the poor girl started up, and leaning over the side of the yacht,
wanted to throw herself into the sea.
“My Lord--Lady Helena!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “I tell you
my father is there! I can declare that I heard his voice come out of the
waves like a wail, as if it were a last adieu.”
The young girl went off again into convulsions and spasms, which became
so violent that she had to be carried to her cabin, where Lady Helena
lavished every care on her. Robert kept on repeating, “My father! my
father is there! I am sure of it, my Lord!”
The spectators of this painful scene saw that the captain’s children
were laboring under an hallucination. But how were they to be
undeceived?
Glenarvan made an attempt, however. He took Robert’s hand, and said,
“You say you heard your father’s voice, my dear boy?”
“Yes, my Lord; there, in the middle of the waves. He cried out, ‘Come!
come!’”
“And did you recognize his voice?”
“Yes, I recognized it immediately. Yes, yes; I can swear to it! My
sister heard it, and recognized it as well. How could we both be
deceived? My Lord, do let us go to my father’s help. A boat! a boat!”
Glenarvan saw it was impossible to undeceive the poor boy, but he tried
once more by saying to the man at the wheel:
“Hawkins, you were at the wheel, were you not, when Miss Mary was so
strangely attacked?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Hawkins.
“And you heard nothing, and saw nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Now Robert, see?”
“If it had been Hawkins’s father,” returned the boy, with indomitable
energy, “Hawkins would not say he had heard nothing. It was my father,
my lord! my father.”
Sobs choked his voice; he became pale and silent, and presently fell
down insensible, like his sister.
Glenarvan had him carried to his bed, where he lay in a deep swoon.
“Poor orphans,” said John Mangles. “It is a terrible trial they have to
bear!”
“Yes,” said Glenarvan; “excessive grief has produced the same
hallucination in both of them, and at the same time.”
“In both of them!” muttered Paganel; “that’s strange, and pure science
would say inadmissible.”
He leaned over the side of the vessel, and listened attentively, making
a sign to the rest to keep still.
But profound silence reigned around. Paganel shouted his loudest. No
response came.
“It is strange,” repeated the geographer, going back to his cabin.
“Close sympathy in thought and grief does not suffice to explain this
phenomenon.”
Next day, March 4, at 5 A. M., at dawn, the passengers, including Mary
and Robert, who would not stay behind, were all assembled on the poop,
each one eager to examine the land they had only caught a glimpse of the
night before.
The yacht was coasting along the island at the distance of about a mile,
and its smallest details could be seen by the eye.
Suddenly Robert gave a loud cry, and exclaimed he could see two men
running about and gesticulating, and a third was waving a flag.
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