Hurricane Island by H. B. Marriott Watson (free novels to read .TXT) 📕

thought, or as one rapt out of himself into some sentimental ecstasy at the sounds of that divine music. Here we felt, more or less, that we were in Liberty Hall, and, to do him justice, Prince Frederic encouraged us to feel this. It was understood that the saloon was open to all, and it became a resort for such of us as were off duty in those days--a resort that would have been improved by more light; for the windows were all barred and shuttered, and only the skylights admitted the day.

The weather was now grown much colder, for we were off the coast of Patagonia, and Holgate appeared to be bent on doubling the Horn and getting into the Pacific. In the wilds of that wide domain there would be more chances for this crew of scoundrels to find refuge and security from the arm of the law. Was it for this he was waiting? And yet that was no argument against an immediate attack, for it was clear that he might get the business over, deal with us as he chose, and make for his destination afterwards and at his leisure. Nor could it be that he doubted as to the issue of the struggle, for his forces outnumbered ours greatly, and, if I knew anything of men, Holgate was utterly without fear. But, on the other hand, he had a great deal of discretion. The only conclusion that emerged from these considerations was the certainty that in the end Holgate had decreed our fate. _That_ had been settled when Day fell, perhaps even before that, and when poor McCrae was shot by his engines. We were doomed to death.

If any doubt as to our fate dwelt in Princess Alix's mind she did not show it. She was a girl of spirit and energy, and she had neat hands. Thus her time was spent in such work as she deemed useful in the circumstances, or such as occupied her mind healthily. She made a handsome fur cap for herself against the biting wind, which now came snapping off the icy highlands of the coast, and she sketched, and designed, and photographed. Above all, she was cheerful and self-reliant. There was not much in common between the brother and the sister save perhaps their aloofness from strangers. I questioned much if the Princess had any of her brother's sentimentality. She had all her brother's decision and fire, however, as I was to see exemplified more than once.

It was on the third of our quiet afternoons that I was sitting in the corridor with a volume in my hand, conscious merely of the many sounds in that silence, and scarcely aware of what I read. The voyage seemed to partake of the nature of that fabled voyage of the ancient mariner. Some strange doom hung over us all, and yet the sky smiled, as it did that moment, and the cold breath of the blue sea was inspiring in one's nostrils like wine in the blood. I was aware in this dream that a door had opened and shut, and that the Princess had come into the corridor. She sat on a chair not far from me and plied her needles in a way that struck me now, as I roused myself, as very homely and pleasant. I shot a glance at her. She was very simply dressed in what, for all I know, may have been a very extravagant fashion. She had the knitted waistcoat she was making (I concluded for her brother) across her knee, and I had a full view of her as she swayed and moved about her task. Those flowing lines, that sweet ripeness, the excellent beauty of her face, impressed me newly. She met my glance, and smiled.

"What do you find interests you, Dr. Phillimore?" she asked in her pleasant voice.

"I was reading, or pretending to read, a book of poems," I answered.

"Poems," she replied, plying her needles, and then in a little, "It is strange you should be reading poems and I knitting here."

"It puzzles me," said I. I rose and went to the window behind her which was not shuttered, and for the light from which she had seated herself there. The crisp sparkle of the sea rose to eyes and ears. When I turned, Princess Alix had ceased from her work and was looking towards me.

"You wonder why?" she asked.

"I have made many guesses, but have never satisfied myself yet why the mutiny is not pushed to its logical conclusion."

"Which would mea----" she said thoughtfully.

"Which would mean," I interrupted quickly, "the possession of the treasure."

There was something deeply significant in her gaze, something that was brave, and appealed, and winced at the same time. She went on slowly with her knitting.

"He is waiting his time," she remarked in a low voice.

"He will wait too long," I said with a little laugh.

"Do you think so?" she asked, and, laying down her work, went to the window as I had done. "It is cold."

"We are off an icy shore," I said.

"Yes, I found it on the map this morning," she nodded. "We are close to the Straits of Magellan!"

At that moment the sound of the piano sailed through the door at the end of the corridor. She turned her head slightly, and then moved away restlessly. She went to the chair on which I had been sitting and picked up my Tennyson.

"I know him pretty well," she remarked, turning the pages. She halted where I had inserted a marker.

"'The Princess,'" she said slowly. She drummed her fingers on the leaf, read for a minute or two, and dropped the book lightly. "We have no literature in comparison with yours, Dr. Phillimore; but we have sometimes done better than that."

"Oh, not than the lyrics," I protested lightly. "_Ask me no more_----"

The music from without broke into louder evidence, and she turned frowning towards the door.

"Do you know, Dr. Phillimore," she asked hesitatingly, "if Mr. Morland is in his room?"

"He went after lunch," I answered. She stood considering.

"Mademoiselle has a beautiful voice," I said tentatively.

"Oh, yes," she assented. "It is of good quality and training." Her tone was curt, as if she were unwilling to continue the conversation, but she still listened.

Einsam Wandelt dein Freund im Fruehlings garten.

It seemed to me that I could almost hear the words in that uplifted music. The song has always been a passionate fancy of mine, beguiling the heart of rock to romance. Sentiment is on wing in every corner of one's consciousness when that song rises in its fulness and falls in its cadences on one's ears and deeper senses.

In der Spiegelnden Fluth, in Schnee der Alpen....
... strahlt dein Bildniss.

I could see Mademoiselle Trebizond at the piano with the vision of the mind, her soul enrapt, her features transfigured. She was a figment of the emotions. And the Princess and I listened, she with a little dubitating look of perplexity, paying me no heed now, and I singularly moved. I walked down the corridor, past where Princess Alix stood, and as I went by I could have put out my arm and drawn her to me. She was wonderful in her beauty and her pride.

Deutlich schimmert auf jedem purpur blaettchen.

But I went by and opened the door that gave upon the saloon stairs. Instantly the flood of music rolled into the room in a tide, and, glancing back, I saw the Princess stir. She came towards me.

"A voice is a beautiful machine," she said uncertainly as the notes died away.

I could not answer; but she may have read an answer in my eyes. She passed me just as the singer broke into something new, and entered the music gallery. A shaft of light struck out her figure boldly. I walked round to the second door at the head of the stairs. Right away in the corner was Mademoiselle, and by her Sir John Barraclough lounged on the sofa, stroking his moustache uneasily. But my eyes lingered on the two not at all, for they were drawn forthwith to another sight which filled me with astonishment. The barriers had been removed from several of the windows, the windows themselves were open, and I could discern the figures of men gathered without on the deck.

With an exclamation I ran forward, interrupting the mellifluous course of Schubert's Serenade, and Barraclough started to his feet.

"What is it?" he asked abruptly.

Mademoiselle turned on her stool and regarded me with curiosity, and behind the Princess was approaching slowly.

"The windows, man!" said I.

Mademoiselle burst into laughter. "It was so dark," she said prettily, "I could not see plainly. I must always have light when I play. And I made Sir John open them."

Barraclough fidgeted, but turned a cold face on me.

"What's all the fuss about?" he asked surlily.

I pointed to the figures which we could see through the open windows.

"Well, that's my business," he said shortly. "I'm in command, and I'm not a fool." As he spoke he fingered his revolver.

"Oh, do not be afraid. It is all right," said Mademoiselle cheerfully. "See, we will have more open. I will play them something. They are listening to my music. It will soothe them."

She cast a look at Sir John from her laughing dark eyes, and let her hands down on the keys with a bang, breaking into a jolly air of the boulevards.

"Stay," she cried, stopping quickly, "but I know one of your English tunes suitable for the sea. How do you call it? Tom-bolling!"

As she spoke she swerved softly into that favourite air, the English words running oddly from her lips.

"'Ere a sheer 'ulk lies poor Tom Bo-olling..."

From the deck came a burst of applause. She laughed in delight, and winked up at me.

"I can do more with them than your guns," she said boldly, and was sailing into the next verse when the Princess intervened.

"Mademoiselle," she said in French, "you are inconveniencing the officers. They have much to do."

Mademoiselle turned about angrily and met the Princess' gaze. She seemed about to fly out in a tempest, but as suddenly checked herself, leaving only a little frown on her forehead to witness to her annoyance. She had been engaged in a little triumph that suited her vanity, and she had been called away from it. I really do not think there was anything more than that in it--not then, at any rate. She rose.

"You are a tyrant, my princess," she said, and nodding sweetly to Barraclough and myself, left the gallery.

Princess Alix followed, her face pale and still. More than ever was I convinced that, whatever feelings the lady had inspired in the Prince, his sister was not party to them.


CHAPTER XII

IN THE SALOON

I think it was from that hour that I began to get on badly with Barraclough. It was in his power as acting captain, no doubt, to remit certain precautions, but the remission of those precautions was not to the credit of his head. He had been beguiled by the Siren, and she, doubtless, by her vanity or her freakishness. When she had gone he turned on me.

"What the devil do you want