It was a wonderful night up on deck, filled with all the majesty and beauty
of starlight and a tropic calm.
The Pacific slept; a vast, vague swell flowing from far away down south under
the night, lifted the *Northumberland* on its undulations to the rattling sound
of the reef points and the occasional creak of the rudder; whilst overhead, near
the fiery arch of the Milky Way, hung the Southern Cross like a broken kite.
Stars in the sky, stars in the sea, stars by the million and the million; so
many lamps ablaze that the firmament filled the mind with the idea of a vast and
populous city yet from all that living and flashing splendour not a sound.
Down in the cabin--or saloon, as it was called by courtesy--were seated the
three passengers of the ship; one reading at the table, two playing on the
The man at the table, Arthur Lestrange, was seated with his large,
deep-sunken eyes fixed on a book. He was most evidently in consumption--very
near, indeed, to reaping the result of that last and most desperate remedy, a
long sea voyage.
Emmeline Lestrange, his little niece--eight years of age, a mysterious mite,
small for her age, with thoughts of her own, wide pupilled eyes that seemed the
doors for visions, and a face that seemed just to have peeped into this world
for a moment ere it was as suddenly withdrawn sat in a corner nursing something
in her arms, and rocking herself to the tune of her own thoughts.
Dick, Lestrange's little son, eight and a bit, was somewhere under the table.
They were Bostonians, bound for San Francisco, or rather for the sun and
splendour of Los Angeles, where Lestrange had bought a small estate, hoping
there to enjoy the life whose lease would be renewed by the long sea voyage.
As he sat reading, the cabin door opened, and appeared an angular female
form. This was Mrs. Stannard, the stewardess, and Mrs. Stannard meant
"Dicky," said Mr. Lestrange, closing his book, and raising the table cloth a
few inches, "bedtime."
"Oh, not yet, daddy!" came a sleep-freighted voice from under the table; "I
ain't ready. I dunno want to go to bed, I-- Hi yow!"
Stannard, who knew her work, had stooped under the table, seized him by the
foot, and hauled him out kicking and fighting and blubbering all at the same
As for Emmeline, she having glanced up and recognised the inevitable, rose to
her feet, and, holding the hideous rag-doll she had been nursing, head down and
dangling in one hand, she stood waiting till Dicky, after a few last perfunctory
bellows, suddenly dried his eyes and held up a tear-wet face for his father to
kiss. Then she presented her brow solemnly to her uncle, received a kiss, and
vanished, led by the hand into a cabin on the port side of the saloon.
Mr. Lestrange returned to his book, but he had not read for long when the
cabin door was opened, and Emmeline, in her nightdress, reappeared, holding a
brown paper parcel in her hand, a parcel of about the same size as the book you
"My box," said she; and as she spoke, holding it up as if to prove its
safety, the little plain face altered to the face of an angel.
She had smiled.
When Emmeline Lestrange smiled it was absolutely as if the light of Paradise
had suddenly flashed upon her face: the happiest form of childish beauty
suddenly appeared before your eyes, dazzled them and was gone.
Then she vanished with her box, and Mr. Lestrange resumed his book.
This box of Emmeline's, I may say in parenthesis, had given more trouble
aboard ship than all of the rest of the passengers' luggage put together.
It had been presented to her on her departure from Boston by a lady friend,
and what it contained was a dark secret to all on board, save its owner and her
uncle; she was a woman, or, at all events, the beginning of a woman, yet she
kept this secret to herself--a fact which you will please note.
The trouble of the thing was that it was frequently being lost. Suspecting
herself, maybe, as an unpractical dreamer in a world filled with robbers, she
would cart it about with her for safety, sit down behind a coil of rope and fall
into a fit of abstraction; be recalled to life by the evolutions of the crew
reefing or furling or what not, rise to superintend the operations--and then
suddenly find she had lost her box.
Then she would absolutely haunt the ship. Wide-eyed and distressed of face
she would wander hither and thither, peeping into the galley, peeping down the
forescuttle, never uttering a word or wail, searching like an uneasy ghost, but
She seemed ashamed to tell of her loss, ashamed to let any one know of it;
but every one knew of it directly they saw her, to use Mr. Button's expression,
"on the wandher," and every one hunted for it.
Strangely enough it was Paddy Button who usually found it. He who was always
doing the wrong thing in the eyes of men, generally did the right thing in the
eyes of children. Children, in fact, when they could get at Mr. Button, went for
him *con amore*. He was as attractive to them as a Punch and Judy show or a
German band - almost.
Mr. Lestrange after a while closed the book he was reading, looked around him
The cabin of the *Northumberland* was a cheerful enough place, pierced by the
polished shaft of the mizzen mast, carpeted with an Axminster carpet, and
garnished with mirrors let into the white pine panelling. Lestrange was staring
at the reflection of his own face in one of these mirrors fixed just opposite to
where he sat.
His emaciation was terrible, and it was just perhaps at this moment that he
first recognised the fact that he must not only die, but die soon.
He turned from the mirror and sat for a while with his chin resting upon his
hand, and his eyes fixed on an ink spot upon the table-cloth; then he arose, and
crossing the cabin climbed laboriously up the companionway to the deck.
As he leaned against the bulwark rail to recover his breath, the splendour
and beauty of the Southern night struck him to the heart with a cruel pang. He
took his seat on a deck chair and gazed up at the Milky Way, that great
triumphal arch built of suns that the dawn would sweep away like a dream.
In the Milky Way, near the Southern Cross, occurs a terrible circular abyss,
the Coal Sack. So sharply defined is it, so suggestive of a void and bottomless
cavern, that the contemplation of it afflicts the imaginative mind with vertigo.
To the naked eye it is as black and as dismal as death, but the smallest
telescope reveals it beautiful and populous with stars.
Lestrange's eyes travelled from this mystery to the burning cross, and the
nameless and numberless stars reaching to the sea-line, where they paled and
vanished in the light of the rising moon. Then he became aware of a figure
promenading the quarter-deck. It was the "Old Man."
A sea captain is always the "old man," be his age what it may. Captain Le
Farges' age might have been forty-five. He was a sailor of the Jean Bart type,
of French descent, but a naturalised American.
"I don't know where the wind's gone," said the captain as he drew near the
man in the deck chair. "I guess it's blown a hole in the firmament, and escaped
somewheres to the back of beyond."
"It's been a long voyage," said Lestrange; "and I'm thinking, Captain, it
will be a very long voyage for me. My port's not 'Frisco; I feel it."
"Don't you be thinking that sort of thing," said the other, taking his seat
in a chair close by. "There's no manner of use forecastin' the weather a month
ahead. Now we're in warm latitoods, your glass will rise steady, and you'll be
as right and spry as any one of us, before we fetch the Golden Gates."
"I'm thinking about the children," said Lestrange, seeming not to hear the
captain's words. "Should anything happen to me before we reach port, I should
like you to do something for me. It's only this: dispose of my body
without--without the children knowing. It has been in my mind to ask you this
for some days. Captain, those children know nothing of death."
Le Farge moved uneasily in his chair.
"Little Emmeline's mother died when she was two. Her father--my brother--died
before she was born. Dicky never knew a mother; she died giving him birth. My
God, Captain, death has laid a heavy hand on my family; can you wonder that I
have hid his very name from those two creatures that I love!"
"Ay, ay," said Le Farge, "it's sad! it's sad!"
"When I was quite a child," went on Lestrange, "a child no older than Dicky,
my nurse used to terrify me with tales about dead people. I was told I'd go to
hell when I died if I wasn't a good child. I cannot tell you how much that has
poisoned my life, for the thoughts we think in childhood, Captain, are the
fathers of the thoughts we think when we are grown up. And can a diseased father
have healthy children?"
"I guess not."
"So I just said, when these two tiny creatures came into my care, that I
would do all in my power to protect them from the terrors of life--or rather, I
should say, from the terror of death. I don't know whether I have done right,
but I have done it for the best. They had a cat, and one day Dicky came in to me
and said: 'Father, pussy's in the garden asleep, and I can't wake her.' So I
just took him out for a walk; there was a circus in the town, and I took him to
it. It so filled his mind that he quite forgot the cat. Next day he asked for
her. I did not tell him she was buried in the garden, I just said she must have
run away. In a week he had forgotten all about her--children soon forget."
"Ay, that's true," said the sea captain. "But 'pears to me they must learn
some time they've got to die."
"Should I pay the penalty before we reach land, and be cast into that great,
vast sea, I would not wish the children's dreams to be haunted by the thought:
just tell them I've gone on board another ship. You will take them back to
Boston; I have here, in a letter, the name of a lady who will care for them.
Dicky will be well off, as far as worldly goods are concerned, and so will
Emmeline. Just tell them I've gone on board another ship-- children soon
"I'll do what you ask," said the seaman.
The moon was over the horizon now, and the *Northumberland* lay adrift in a
river of silver. Every spar was distinct, every reef point on the great sails,
and the decks Iay like spaces of frost cut by shadows black as ebony.
As the two men sat without speaking, thinking their own thoughts, a little
white figure emerged from the saloon hatch. It was Emmeline. She was a professed
sleepwalker--a past mistress of the art.
Scarcely had she stepped into dreamland than she had lost her precious box,
and now she was hunting for it on the decks of the *Northumberland*.
Mr. Lestrange put his finger to his lips, took off his shoes and silently
followed her. She searched behind a coil of rope, she tried to open the galley
door; hither and thither she wandered, wide-eyed and troubled of face, till at
last, in the shadow of the hencoop, she found her visionary treasure. Then back
she came, holding, up her little nightdress with one hand, so as not to trip,
and vanished down the saloon companion very hurriedly, as if anxious to get back
to bed, her uncle close behind, with one hand outstretched so as to catch her in
case she stumbled.