THE next day, Saturday, 30th of March, the weather was fine, and the sea calm; our progress was more rapid, and the Great Eastern, was now going at the rate of twelve knots an hour.
The wind had set south, and the first officer ordered the mizen and the top-mast sails to be hoisted, so that the ship was perfectly steady. Under this fine sunny sky the upper decks again became crowded; ladies appeared in fresh costumes, some walking about, others sitting down—I was going to say on the grass-plats beneath the shady trees—and the children resumed their interrupted games. With a few soldiers in uniform, strutting about with their hands in their pockets, one might have fancied oneself on a French promenade.
At noon, the weather being favourable, Captain Anderson and two officers went on to the bridge, in order to take the sun’s altitude; each held a sextant in his hand, and from time to time scanned the southern horizon, towards which their horizon-glasses were inclined.
“Noon,” exclaimed the Captain, after a short time.
Immediately a steersman rang a bell on the bridge, and all the watches on board were regulated by the statement which had just been made.
Half-an-hour later, the following observation was posted up;—
Lat 51° 10´ N.
Long. 24° 13´ W.
Course, 227 miles. Distance 550.
We had thus made two hundred and twenty-seven miles since noon the day before.
I did not see Fabian once during the day. Several times, uneasy about his absence, I passed his cabin, and was convinced that he had not left it.
He must have wished to avoid the crowd on deck, and evidently sought to isolate himself from this tumult. I met Captain Corsican, and for an hour we walked on the poop. He often spoke of Fabian, and I could not help telling him what had passed between Fabian and myself the evening before.
“Yes,” said Captain Corsican, with an emotion he did not try to disguise. “Two years ago Fabian had the right to think himself the happiest of men, and now he is the most unhappy.” Archibald Corsican told me, in a few words, that at Bombay Fabian had known a charming young girl, a Miss Hodges. He loved her, and was beloved by her. Nothing seemed to hinder a marriage between Miss Hodges and Captain MacElwin; when, by her father’s consent, the young girl’s hand was sought by the son of a merchant at Calcutta. It was an old business affair, and Hodges, a harsh, obstinate, and unfeeling man, who happened at this time to be in a delicate position with his Calcutta correspondent, thinking that the marriage would settle everything well, sacrificed his daughter to the interests of his fortune. The poor child could not resist; they put her hand into that of the man she did not and could not love, and who, from all appearance, had no love for her. It was a mere business transaction, and a barbarous deed. The husband carried off his wife the day after they were married, and since then Fabian has never seen her whom he has always loved.
This story showed me clearly that the grief which seemed to oppress Fabian was indeed serious.
“What was the young girl’s name?” asked I of Captain Corsican.
“Ellen Hodges,” replied he.
“Ellen,—that name explains the letters which Fabian thought he saw yesterday in the ship’s track. And what is the name of this poor young woman’s husband? said I to the Captain.
“Harry Drake.”
“Drake!” cried I, “but that man is on board.”
“He here!” exclaimed Corsican, seizing my hand, and looking straight at me.
“Yes,” I replied, “he is on board.”
“Heaven grant that they may not meet!” said the Captain gravely. “Happily they do not know each other, at least Fabian does not know Harry Drake; but that name uttered in his hearing would be enough to cause an outburst.”
I then related to Captain Corsican what I knew of Harry Drake, that is to say, what Dr. Dean Pitferge had told me of him. I described him such as he was, an insolent, noisy adventurer, already ruined by gambling, and other vices, and ready to do anything to get money; at this moment Harry Drake passed close to us; I pointed him out to the Captain, whose eyes suddenly grew animated, and he made an angry gesture, which I arrested.
“Yes,” said he, “there is the face of a villain. But where is he going?”
“To America, they say, to try and get by chance what he does not care to work for.”
“Poor Ellen!” murmured the Captain; “where is she now?”
“Perhaps this wretch has abandoned her, or why should she not be on board?” said Corsican, looking at me.
This idea crossed my mind for the first time, but I rejected it. No; Ellen was not, could not be on board; she could not have escaped Dr. Pitferge’s inquisitive eye. No! she cannot have accompanied Drake on this voyage!
“May what you say be true, sir!” replied Captain Corsican; “for the sight of that poor victim reduced to so much misery would be a terrible blow to Fabian: I do not know what would happen, for Fabian is a man who would kill Drake like a dog. I ask you, as a proof of your friendship, never to lose sight of him; so that if anything should happen, one of us may be near, to throw ourselves between him and his enemy. You understand a duel must not take place between these two men. Alas! neither here nor elsewhere. A woman cannot marry her husband’s murderer, however unworthy that husband may have been.”
I well understood Captain Corsican’s reason. Fabian could not be his own justiciary. It was foreseeing, from a distance, coming events, but how is it that the uncertainty of human things is so little taken into account? A presentiment was boding in my mind. Could it be possible, that in this common life on board, in this every-day mingling together, that Drake’s noisy personality could remain unnoticed by Fabian? An accident, a trifle, a mere name uttered, would it not bring them face to face? Ah! how I longed to hasten the speed of the steamer which carried them both! Before leaving Captain Corsican I promised to keep a watch on our friend, and to observe Drake, whom on his part he engaged not to lose sight of; then he shook my hand, and we parted.
Towards evening a dense mist swept over the ocean, and the darkness was intense. The brilliantly-lighted saloons contrasted singularly with the blackness of the night. Waltzes and ballad songs followed each other; all received with frantic applause, and even hurrahs were not wanting, when the actor from T———, sitting at the piano, bawled his songs with the self-possession of a strolling player.