University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
FOLLOWS THE FORTUNES OF MLISS.

Mliss awoke to semi-consciousness one day under
the influence of what seemed an interminable
dream. Her faculties were still in that confused
condition which defies the utmost effort of the
will. The surroundings amid which she found
herself were new and strange. She was lying in
a narrow bed which seemed more like a coffin
than the luxurious couch with which her latest
memories were connected. The room was dark,
but a slanting shaft of light entered from above
and diffused itself faintly throughout the gloomy
inclosure. This shaft of light had given her
much trouble. Sometimes it faded into the
dimmest twilight, to brighten again into something
like winter sunshine. Her imagination
had likened this light to an aperture in a tomb
over which a chance covering would fall, shutting
out the world between which and herself
it was the only connection. She had closed
her eyes and resigned herself to death which
seemed so near only to be conscious a moment
later that the darkness was colored by a glimpse
from without. This changing, fitful light was
all that bound her to life. A profound sense
of weariness assured her that she was not yet
dead, and at times she had an unpleasant suspicion
that she had been entombed alive, and
that the aperture through which the light came
was reserved by her enemies through which to watch
the slow progress or death. But her mind refused to
follow a thread of thought. She knew not how she
came to be thus imprisoned. She had no idea of the
time that had elapsed since she had been somewhere
else. In the moments when life was the strongest
she had a faint remembrance of being lifted in some
one's arms and of the rumbling of carriage wheels.
These pictures of memory were faint and transient.
They were mingled with other pictures of the past in
which her drunken father and her ragged self were
prominent figures. They were mingled also with the
mocking face of the woman she had called her
mother.

By slow degrees, as when one wakes from feverish
sleep, the fact of existence became more palpable. By
a steady concentration of her faculties she convinced
herself that the enclosure in which she was confined
was not a tomb. There was something in the wall on
one side that looked like a door. There was something
at her head which looked like a table. On this
latter something there were dishes and glass vials
suggestive of food and medicine. A chair stood at the
side of her narrow bed. Some clothes hung against
the wall. The shaft of light came in through a hole in

the wall above her bed. She was sensible also of motion.
The room seemed suspended in the air and
swayed by the wind. A sound of moving water awoke
upon her senses, not as something new but as something
she had heard all the time but could not make
out. Presently it occurred to her that she was in a
ship and that the ship was moving in the water. Her
mind gaming strength began to ask questions. Was
Mr. Gray also on the ship! Was Regina on the ship?
Had the house flooded off and turned into a ship, or
had she floated off and left those she loved behind?

After a time the door of her room opened, and the
wrinkled face of an aged woman appeared in the aperture.
The face was new to Mliss, and pleased her
only as it formed a link to humanity. She lay still,
with half-closed eyes, and the woman entered. The
woman stood over her a minute felt her hands and
feet. Then she made a sign to some one outside, and
a man approached Mliss recognized the man who
had met Mrs. Smith and herself at the boat on their
arrival in San Francisco—the man who had called
Mrs. Smith “Nellie.” Some whispered conversation
passed between the two, from which Mliss learned
that she had made an unexpected and undesired return
to life. Mliss pretended not to hear. Her determination
to live was not shaken by the knowledge
that her death would be acceptable if it came as the
apparent result of natural causes.

In the next three days Mliss rapidly recovered health
and strength. She had been kept under the influence
of powerful drugs but not otherwise ill. Her hardy
constitution, inured in childhood to physical hardship
and mental distress, resisted the effects of poisons
that would have proved fatal to another. She understood
that she had been spirited away from her guardian,
and was in the hands of Mrs. Smith's friends,
but she quietly awaited a development of their immediate
and ultimate purpose. She asked no questions
and made no complaints. But by degrees she learned
that she was a passenger on board the Sea Nymph,
that the vessel would touch at Valparaiso on the way
to New York, that O'Niel was supposed to be her
uncle, and that he had taken passage for Valparaiso,
with the proviso that if he should so decide he might
retain his stateroom on the voyage from Valparaiso to
New York. No effort was made to restrict her intercourse
with other passengers or with the officers of
the ship, nor did any one seem to know that she was
brought on board against her own will.

One day Mliss observed reclining on the quarter-deck
a gentleman she had not before seen. He was
apparently thirty-five years of age, a handsome, full-bearded
face, deep, calm, powerful eyes, and tranquil
yet serious countenance. Something in his listless
air, in his motionless attitude, in the grave repose of
his manner indicated a man living within himself, a
strong nature held in check. He spoke to no one and
apparently saw no one. He smoked incessantly lighting
cigar after cigar heedless of wind or sun, or the
glances that were from time to time directed toward
him.

Mliss was fascinated by the expression of his face,
the absolute repose of his manner. It is only strong
natures that acquire this masterful self-control that
puts mankind at a distance. This man might be imagined,
calm amid a hurricane, treading with cool,
firm step over a slumbering volcano. He might be
imagined leading a forlorn hope, steadily aproaching
a grave dug before his own eyes, turning neither to
the right or left, disdaining to utter a word when a
word would avert the impending fate. In the ardent
eyes of the child who hovered near him he seemed a
hero. Mliss recollected the time when she had been
jeered at, taunted as a kind of hereditary outcast,
looked down upon by people she in her misery despised
and it seemed as if this man looked as she then
felt. By what instinct she arrived at this conclusion
she knew not, but she would have staked her life, just
then not much valued, that the man was an outcast
hunted from the face of the earth.

For some days Mliss saw little of the stranger.
Once on a magnificent tropical night she stole on deck
for a breath of fresh air, and beheld him half extended
on the deck, alone silent, the moonlight bathing
his splendid face and tingeing with silver his rich
blonde beard. The child drew away, but the picture
was impressed on her mind.

As the Sea Nymph approached the equator she lost
the trade winds that had carried her steadily before
them. For three or four days she lay lazily in the
motionless sea, the sails flapping in the heavy tropical
air, the taper masts describing the are of a circle as
the ship rolled in the long swells which alone betokened
the restless nature of the element on which she rested.
The days were sultry and enervating, the nights warm
and gorgeous. The stars looked down from their far-off
throne with a brilliancy never witnessed in other
zones. The illimitable heavens were mirrored in the
scarcely less illimitable sea. The slow and regular roll
of the waves was like the broathing of a sleeping giant.
There was visible the slumbering power that might
awake to terrific action.

One night Mliss was awakened by a sound more appalling
than the heaviest thunder clap she had ever
heard. As the roar ceased to reverberate there followed
the crash of heavy bodies falling upon deck,
the hurried trampling of feet, the ominous whistle of
the wind and the yelling of human voices. She
leaped from her berth, hastily dressed herself and
crawled on deck. The spectacle she beheld was indescribably
grand. The sky was of that velvety blackness
which realizes the terrible import of that little
word, nothing. Its utter blackness shut out the idea
of anything beyond. This opaque density was invaded
by three lines of irradescent fire. The playful
gleams of the fire threw a livid glare over the forms of
men struggling with waves of something white. A
minute's scrutiny sufficed to inform Mliss that the
lines of fire were the masts of the ship bent to an
angle with the sea and seemingly enveloped in a flame
that burned but did not consume. The wind whistled
through the rigging like an infuriated demon, slashing,
teating, screeching and all the time the phosphorescent
fire shone on the masts and yard arms and
outlined with its glow the form of the deck. To her
inexperienced eyes the ship seemed sailing in a flame.
Looking over the bulwark she saw through the darkness
a surface of while which she supposed must be
the sea. Suddenly a long dazzling flash of lightning
cast a vivid illumination over the scene. The ship was
careened over almost upon her beam ends and men

were cutting free broken yards and the remnants of
tattered sails.

The flash, brief as it was, revealed to Mliss a tall
motionless figure, and a serene face which she recognized
as that of her imagined outcast. He was
leaning carelessly against the bulwarks, his cigar
between his lips, surveying the scene as he would a
moon-lit landscape. The flash that revealed him to
Mliss, revealed also Mliss to him. The flash expired
as suddenly as it came—a deafening report followed,
and as the sound rolled off into space the play of the
phosphorescent fire outlining the ship's form alone
showed that she still floated upon the angry bosom of
the sea. Mliss had now become conscious that the
stranger had moved nearer and laid his hand on her
arm.

“Better go below,” he said; “we'll have a shower
shortly.”

“It's too grand,” she answered. “I wouldn't miss
it for the world.”

At she spoke the clouds seemed to open. It was not
rain, it was a deluge. The phosphorescent fire still
shone, and made in every stream a rainbow. The
shower lasted but two minutes, but a broad stream
ran down the slauting deck, and poured like a torrent
into the sea.

Suddenly the black clouds broke and floated away.
The wind ceased, and the stars looked down serene as
ever. The white foam danced upon the waves, but it
was broken into floating crests, and the story it told
was of a danger past.

The stranger stood near Mliss and still retained his
hold upon her arm.

“The squall is over,” he said, “and no great harm
done. Were you afraid?”

“A little. I thought the ship was on fire.”

“The fire you saw was electricity. Iron attracts it,
and when the night is dark it makes a pretty sight.”

“I never saw anything so grand. Will there be another
squall?”

“Very likely; but hardly such another as this. We
were in the midst of a thunder cloud.”

“I have seen thunder clouds come down on the
mountains, but I nexer was at sea before.”

“Then you have lived in the mountains?”

“Always, until within a few months.”

“May I ask in what locality?”

“In Red Mountain; the settlement is known as
Smith's Pocket.”

“Indeed! I was there once some years ago. I knew
Smith pretty well.”

Mliss returned no reply. She had ceased to feel
shame for her dissolute father, but experience had
taught her the danger of too free communication with
stranger.

Her companion continued

“Smith was a better man than people who knew him
later gave him the creditof being.”

“When did you know him?”

“In early days; about '50, I think.”

“Did you see him when you visited Red Mountain?”

“Yes; but the poor fellow had gone to the dogs.
People helped him along; people always do.”

“Not all people,” said Mliss.

“You are right; not all people. But you are drenched.
You'll catch cold, even in this climate, if you
don't take care of yourself.”

“Good-night, then. I'll go below.”

“Good-night.”

The stranger turned away, and Mliss, as she descended
to the cabin, looked back and saw him standing
in his old place by the bulwark, lighting his cigar.

There were no more squalls that night. By degrees
the ship drifted into the latitude in which the southern
trade winds prevailed, and proceeded on her voyage.
The stranger and Mliss became good friends. In time
they became confidential. The novelty of the position
in which Mliss was placed awakened an interest he
might not otherwise have felt.

Meantime O'Neil was engaging himself in a way peculiar
to himself. O'Neil was well supplied with money.
He found two or three fellow passengers who were not
so rich as to be unwilling to add to their possessions.
A friendly game of poker had been proposed early on
the voyage, and the proposition had been accepted.
The game continued with such interruptions as the
laws of nature imposed during the entire voyage.
Chance so arranged affairs that what one won to-day
he lost to-morrow. All the players were experts, and
all cheats of the worst description. They quarreled
frequently, but their quarrels ended in more play.
O'Neil apparently forgot the very existence of Mliss.
Content with the knowledge that she could not escape,
he let her amuse herself as opportunity or inclination
prompted.

In due time the Sea Nymph entered the harbor of
Valparaiso. Poker players settled accounts and arranged
for a continuation of the game ashore. Mliss
bade her new friend good-bye. O'Neil came and took
her under his protection. They entered a boat and
were rowed ashore. O'Neil took his charge to an obscure
hotel, and arranged for her board. For three
days he did not come near her. The fourth he came.
He had been drinking, and was in a bad humor. The
goddess who presides over the faro tables at Valparaiso
had been less friendly than the divinity of his
favorite game of “draw.” He had lost his ready cash,
and a letter of credit which he possessed would only
be honored when certain formalities had been observed,
in accordance with instructions the bank had
received by letter. These instructions were to the
effect that the letter of credit which O'Neil might
present, was only to be honored when O'Neil produced
evidence of his marriage with Mliss.

O'Neil was anxious to produce such evidence without
delay. He did not like Mliss, but he anticipated
with some satisfaction the opportunity marriage would
afford to avenge upon the now helpless girl some
slights she had put upon him on her arrival in the
city. He had made friendly advances at that time
which she had repulsed. Her mother had offered
him an opportunity to be revenged, and he had accepted
it.

O'Neil entered the young girl's room inflamed with
drink, mad from loss at play, yet elated with a consciousness
of power. She was a stranger in a city the
language of which was unknown to her. She had no
means of livelihood nor knowledge of labor by which
means of livelihood could be obtained. In a word, she
was helpless, and he her master.

Mliss understood that the man had some purpose in

separating her from her friends. Precisely what that
purpose was she could not divine. That it was a part
of a scheme of Mrs. Smith to obtain possession of the
fortune for which she had striven so long, Mliss had
no doubt. That the possibility of her death had been
anticipated with satisfaction she was well aware, but in
the event of her surviving she had no means of knowing
what measure it was proposed to take.

The hotel in which she lived was one little frequented
by Americans. It was a two-story building,
broad and low, with thick walls and prison-like windows.
A row of orange trees grew so close to the
house that their golden fruit hung in clusters before
her window. On the turf without dark featured men
were lounging, smoking their cigarettes, telling
stories, and cccasionally singing in the sweet and sonorous
language of Spain.

The isolation of Mliss seemed complete. For four
days she had not heard a word she could understand,
or spoken a word understood by those she addressed.
And now came to her the only man on whom she had
a claim for protection with a threat on his brow, and
passion in his eyes.

Mliss received him coldly, or rather she did not receive
him at all. He had a certain right to come where
she was, and this right she did not dispute. She met
his eye without fear, and silently waited for him to
speak.

“You're a cool one, you little hell-cat. Do you know
what I brought you to this cursed town for?”

“No,” she answered.

“It's time you did. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen? Rather young to be married, eh?”

“I am not going to be married!”

“I'll bet you are. That's what I brought you here
for.”

The black eyes of the young girl emitted a sudden
flash, and her red lips tightened over her white teeth.

“You needn't make a fuss,” continued O'Neil; “you
can't help yourself if you want to. Your mother put
me up to it, and she's so fixed things that we can't
either of us touch a dollar of your money until the
ceremony is performed.”

“Then you'll never touch a dollar of my money.
O'Neil, never. And I tell you now if you put your
hand on me I'll kill you.”

The concentrated purpose of these low-spoken
words sobered the wretch. He drew back instantly.
She was a girl, small, fragile, but her spirit was indomitable,
and her muscles like steel. A lighter and
weaker hand than hers might drive a dagger to a
strong man's heart.

“Come, Mliss,” he said, coaxingly, “listen to reason.
We are five thousand miles from anywhere. I
haven't got a dollar, neither have you. What are we
going to do?”

The change of tone only provoked a contemptuous
smile. She made no reply.

O'Neil took from his pocketbook a letter of credit
for two thousand dollars, and laid it before Mliss.

“If you sign this as my wife,” he said, “we can
draw the money and go where we please.
We can travel for pleasure. We can go to New York,
and some of these days we can go back to San Francisco.”

The young girl was not tempted. She did not deign
even to look at the paper. Her pale, dark face showed
no signs of relenting.

“What do you say, Mliss? I won't be a hard husband.
I'll promise not to bother you with my company
when you don't want it. I'll let you have your
own way in everything. You shall have fine dresses
and jewelry, and everything you want.”

The man had fallen into a wheedling tone that only
intensified the contempt Mliss had felt for him. If, in
the recesses of her brave little heart she had experienced
a fear of him, she feared him no longer.

“What do you say?” he repeated.

“I say no,” she answered quietly.

Her firmness revived his passion. He approached
nearer, his small eyes glittering, his face purple and
pale in spots, and said in a hoarse tone of voice:

“Look here, you young fool. It's fixed between
your mother and me that I am to marry you. But it
was understood that if you should die on the voyage,
or die after you arrived here, that I am to have a share of
the money. Now,” he continued, extending his hand,
“if I should take your throat between my thumb and
forefinger, and pressed it with half my strength, in
five minutes you'd be in—”

Mliss had arisen at his approach, and slowly retreated
toward the window. Still facing him, and
ready to spring to avoid his touch, she leaned against
the window sill, and with one hand behind her waved
her handkerchief.

“Don't touch me,” said Mliss, “don't kill me. I'll
give you money. I'll—”

“Will you marry me?” demanded O'Niel.

The young girl hesitated. O'Neil repeated the
question. He advanced again in a threatening attitude,
and Mliss sprang aside. At the same moment
sound of hurried footsteps was heard in the passage,
and the door thrown open without ceremony revealed
the athletic figure and calm pale face of the stranger
of the Sea Nymph.”

O'Neil stood for a moment dumb with aston'shment.

“Colonel Wade, he gasped, at length; “I thought
you was—dead.”

“The report was incorrect,” coolly replied the individual
addressed. “I am alive, and in my usual robust
health.”

Colonel Wade bowed to Mliss as he had finished
speaking, and advanced into the room.

“Let us understand each other O'Neil,” he said, in
a calm, courteous tone. “I was a passenger on the
Sea Nymph, though for reasons of my own I did
not mingle much with my fellow passengers. Chance
led me to form the acquaintance of this young lady,
and I leaned from her something of her history. Anticipating
the time might come when she would need
a protector, I offered myself as such and was accepted.
Since we arrived in this city I have not lost sight of
her. The time we looked forward to seems to have arrived.
She is at liberty to choose between us. If she
chooses you, I pledge you my word not to interfere
with your design; if she chooses me, you will be so
kind as to adopt the same line of conduct.”

“This is not fair, Colonel,” protested O'Neil; “the
girl belongs to me.”

“Is she your daughter?”

“No.”

“Your niece?”

“No.”

“Your wife?”

“No.”

“Then, so far an you are concerned, she belongs to
the man to whom she choose to give herself. You, apparently,
are not that man. You thrust yourself upon
her, and I offer her my protection. If you feel aggrieved,
you can seek redress. There is one thing in
favor of this country—gentlemen can settle their little
difficulties in an expeditious manner. But let us not
quarrel in advance. The young lady may choose to
remain with you when she learns who I am.”

“Shall I tell her who you are?”

“I should rather you should tell her than tell her
myself. She has not yet arrived at an age when men
think themselves justified in deceiving women. Tell
her who I am.”

“Mliss, this man who comes between you and me,
is under sentence of death.”

“Pardon me,” coolly interrupted the other; “in
California I was under sentence of death. I escaped.
In Valparaiso I am not.”

“What did he do?” asked Mliss, addressing O'Neil.

“Killed a man.”

“What for?”

“He accused him of cheating at cards.”

“State the case fairly, O'Neil. There was a quarrel.
The man I shot drew his pistol, and I drew mine.
His ball grazed my temple, mine entered his. It was
a question of expertness in aim. The real trouble
was, I am a gambler by profession, my antagonist a
more or less honest miner. He would have won my
money if he could, just as you, O'Neil, have tried to
win it. He lost his money, and losing his money, he
lost his temper. I was tried for killing him—tried by
a mob—convicted of murder, but the night before I
was to have been hanged I made my escape. It cost
me all I bad, but I am here.”

“What do you want with the girl?”

“I hardly know. I believe I am actuated by the
desire to experience the sensation that arises from
the performance of a virtuous action. The child has
had a hard life. Men and women have conspired to
degrade her, to tender her life unhappy. Her helplessness
appeals to me. Her courage inspires a certain
admiration. If she was a man I would let her
fight her own battles—as she is a child. I propose,
with her consent, to tight them for her. What do you
say, Mliss? Will you go with me, or remain with
him?”

“I will go with you.”

“Are you willing to trust yourself with such a man
as I?”

“I am willing to trust myself with you.”

The colonel bent his handsome head and touched
the child's brow with his lips.

“Understand, O'Neil, if you cross the path of this
child hereafter, you cross mine.”

O'Neil inclined his head in submission. Colonel
Wade and Mliss passed out, hand in hand.