A Queen of Atlantis E-Book

Frank Aubrey

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

There is a long tradition among the romances of the 19th and early 20th century of the „lost race” novel concerning explorers who stumble onto a culture exists hidden from the outside world. „A Queen of Atlantis: A Romance of the Caribbean” is a novel among the most famous „lost race” novels written by Frank Aubrey. This story relates the discovery of a telepathic race living in the Sargasso Sea. A wonderful tale of the mythical continent, told with outstanding imaginative ingenuity, chronicling the adventures of the near-immortal Monella. Most desirable, all the expected thrills of an Atlantean thriller plus some: flying damsels; immortals; a satisfying variety of monsters including the „frightful shape, with its maddening leer and its blood-curdling scream” that welcomes us to the book.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. DREAMS AND FANCIES

II. LEFT TO DIE IN THE SARGASSO SEA

III. A MARINE GRAVEYARD

IV. THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND

V. A DESERTED CITY

VI. THE VAMPIRE

VII. MONELLA

VIII. A GAME OF BLUFF

IX. "QUEEN OF ATLANTIS!"

X. "A LAND OF STRANGE ROMANCE!"

XI. PRINCESS IDELIA

XII. PRINCE ROKTA

XIII. THE GROTTOES OF A THOUSAND LIGHTS

XIV. MONELLA FIGHTS THE VAMPIRE

XV. VANINA'S RESCUE

XVI. A NIGHT SURPRISE

XVII. "ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS"

XVIII. A GREAT NAVAL BATTLE

XIX. KING KARA

XX. PRINCESS MORVEENA

XXI. THE LAST OF THE GREAT CUTTLES

XXII. "THE WOOD OF A HUNDRED DEATHS."

XXIII. IN THE LAND OF THE FLOWER-DWELLERS

XXIV. SOME SECRETS OF THE WOODS AND FLOWERS

XXV. "VANINA DEAD!"

XXVI. MORVEENA AND WYDALE

XXVII. IN THE CATACOMBS OF THE LIVING-DEAD

XXVIII. VANINA AND WYDALE

XXIX. IN "THE GOLDEN DEATH-CAGE."

XXX. THE END

I. DREAMS AND FANCIES

“DEAR little boat! Gallant, saucy, little ship! Splendid, dashing, Saucy Fan! Isn’t this glorious?”

The words were spoken in tones of high enthusiasm by a girl of nineteen or twenty years of age, who stood on the high stern of the brig, Saucy Fan, which was reeling and tossing on the Atlantic rollers nearly half-way out on her voyage from Liverpool to Rio de Janeiro.

“This boat, to-day,” the speaker went on, with a hand on the rail, and swaying easily with the tumbling vessel, “puts me, somehow, in mind of a little thoroughbred mare I used to have in our home in the Argentine. I called her ‘Romping Chit.’ She was such a lovely creature! Without whip or spur she would carry you till she dropped, and she seemed to glory in it all the while. And the Saucy Fan is just the same. She keeps on her way unceasingly, untiringly, struggling up and down the swirling waves just as Romping Chit would canter all day long over the green, rolling pampas. She never showed a sign of fatigue, and was just as full of fun, just as ready to break into a romping gallop at the end, as at the beginning, of the day’s work Don’t you enjoy a day like this, Mr. Wydale?”

Owen Wydale, the person thus addressed, was a well-built, fine-looking young fellow of some twenty-five years. He had a handsome, bronzed face, with dark hair, eyebrows, and moustache; and very clear, steady, grey eyes. His sturdy, well-set figure betokened somewhat of a military training; while the manner in which he managed to keep his balance, with hands quietly clasped behind him, showed that he was not unaccustomed to the sea.

“Just my feeling, Miss Dareville,” he replied. “This sort of thing has always had a great fascination for me.”

Since, however, he looked, while speaking, at his companion, it was not quite clear which “sort of thing” he referred to–the blue sky, the rocking vessel, and the white-crested waves, on the one hand, or the dainty, captivating face and form beside him, on the other.

Nor could it be much wondered at if he thought just then most of the latter, for Vanina Dareville was one of those who seem to have been born to tantalise and drive to distraction the soul of any male mortal upon whom they turn their glance.

She had a rather tall, but exquisitely-moulded figure, such as a sculptor would have chosen as a model for Diana; and a face and head that had a charm, a witchery that were unique. It was not merely, however, that she was beautiful; it was not only that she possessed lustrous brown eyes, and delicately chiselled features; all these gifts, charming and attractive as they are, were immeasurably enchanced by a most unusual, captivating expression; rather, it should be said, expressions. These came and went upon her face, each in turn seeming more seductive, more irresistible than the other. In the pouting lips, round which, as they curled one from the other, dainty little dimples played about, there was a coquettish roguishness that was inexpressibly bewitching.

Yet, with all these was sometimes mingled a suggestion of queenly pride and dignity that conveyed a warning; it would not be well, it seemed to intimate, to incur the look of contempt and scorn with which those same lips could curl, and those large eyes could flash, on those who should be rash enough to merit it. To-day, the eyes were flashing only with innocent mirth; and, with her glowing colour, and the little white teeth that the lips at times disclosed, and that wondrous, inimitable smile that was all her own, made up a startling picture. And it was a picture that held Owen Wydale captive, bound in chains more hard to break than ever were fetters of hardened steel.

She was standing upon a piece of board that raised her just high enough from the deck to keep her feet out of the water which washed it every now and then, and with one hand on the rail she swayed freely to and fro with the motion of the brig; every turn, every pose, replete with rare and exquisite grace.

And her companion, noting all her winsomeness, found it no easy matter to turn his glance away from her to look upon the scene around them which had called forth her expressions of delight; while, she on her side, remained all unconscious of the admiration she inspired, her thoughts and interest being entirely given up to the enjoyment of the moment.

“Look, Mr. Wydale! Look at the water and see how daintily the Saucy Fan dips into one wave and then glides up gracefully over another. Oh! if every day at sea were such as this, I should never wish to go ashore again!”

For some minutes the two stood silently watching the great white-crested billows as they darted past, hissing, and seething, and dashing, and surging against the vessel’s sides, and finally following one another into the line of foam that marked her wake. The strong, warm, invigorating breeze that whistled through the rigging, and whirled the particles of spray into the face, seemed to bear with it a feeling of exhilaration and elation. At intervals, as though in very sport and mischief, and bent upon justifying her name, the Saucy Fan would bury her head in the snowy crest of some soaring, foam-crowned billow, sending up a shower of spray that reflected all the colours of the rainbow, and sparkled in the sunlight before it fell with a crash upon the fore-deck. Then, poising for a moment on the summit of the wave, she would give a coquettish shake, a sort of tremor, before taking the great plunge into the hollow below, mounting the side of the succeeding wave with one of those swinging leaps that all true lovers of the sea know so well, and so delight in. Indeed, the pretty brig, to-day, seemed bent upon a game of romps with the great Atlantic rollers that came sweeping up to her; almost, one might think, in imitation of a school of porpoises that were indulging in fantastic antics not far away. Some distance astern a solitary ship could be discerned, that rose and fell, and bobbed and nodded as though making friendly signs and salutes to its sister-bark in front. Otherwise, there was nothing to be seen on any side but the blue sky and glaring sun above, and the palpitating, heaving bosom of the marine expanse below.

On deck there were only the man at the wheel amidships, the burly skipper who walked to and fro beside him, and a man in oilskins, who lounged in the bow. While the vessel lurched and pitched and the sails strained at their fastenings, the cordage creaked and grated in a wild kind of harmony with the wind that whistled shrilly through the rigging, and, every now and then came the dull, hollow “boom” when a wave struck the bow, followed by the sound of the salt shower that fell pattering upon the deck.

Suddenly Vanina cried, “Look out!” and, with a merry laugh, dexterously ducked under a small canvas awning, just in time to escape a mass of water from a larger wave than usual. It had leaped up suddenly and unexpectedly, just where they were standing, and came rattling on the deck with the patter of a hail-storm. The squall carried away Wydale’s hat, which disappeared over the bulwarks.

A moment afterwards a young boy, clad in waterproofs, emerged from the head of the companion that led down into the main cabin, and came towards them. He was a bright-eyed, curly-headed, good-looking youngster of about thirteen or fourteen years of age, and he looked at the two with a bright smile as he approached. Vanina extended a hand to him, and pushed him well under the shelter of the scanty awning.

“You had better keep close there, Georgy,” she remarked; “we have just had a sea break over us.”

“I know, sister,” the boy replied. “We heard it down in the cabin, and Sydney sent me up to say he thinks the wind is freshening, and that you should come down.”

“I, too, fancy it is getting rougher,” put in Wydale. “Don’t you think we should all do well to seek some better shelter, Miss Dareville?”

“Not I,” the lady answered, with vivacity. “I love it! I think I was born with a love for the sea. But, as for you,” she went on to Wydale, with another merry laugh, “you’ll never make a sailor if you don’t learn to keep a better look-out. You were fairly caught that time, and, if I hadn’t called out, you would have been thrown upon the deck and been wet through. You should keep a sharper eye to windward. You had better go and find another hat.”

“I’ve got one,” Wydale answered, pulling a waterproof cap out of his pocket, and composedly putting it on his head. “The fact is,” he went on, “I was too much engaged–after what you said just now about your little mare–in thinking of you–of how you would look–”

“Well–what?” she asked archly, when he hesitated.

“On horseback–dressed as–as–as an Indian huntress, or– as–a warrior queen,” he went on, laughing.

“Do you mean in a circus?” she demanded, a little stiffly.

“Oh, no, no! In real life–such as it used to be ages and ages ago,” he returned hastily. “In the days when warrior princesses used to carry sword and shield, and ride in their chariots or on their war-horses, into the thick of the battle–and–and–cheer on their soldiers–and–all that sort of thing, you know,” he finished up–a little weakly, as he felt.

She looked earnestly at him, and drew a long, deep breath.

“Ah!” she said presently, “it is singular you should have such thoughts. That’s how I feel myself sometimes. What put that into your head?”

“I scarcely know; something in your manner at times. You have the face–aye–and the figure, too, for it.”

“I hope, all the same, that I don’t look like an Amazon,” she said. “For me, that kind of character has no attraction.”

“No; Diana–or rather, perhaps, say, Boadicea.”

“Leading a horde of savage ‘Ancient Britons’ clad in rough skins! No, thank you! I don’t think that would suit me either.”

“Jeanne d’Arc, then! Surely you will not object to that suggestion?

“Yes, yes! The very thing!” young George put in, with strong approval.

“I’m not good enough,” she answered simply. “I fear I should never make a Jeanne d’Arc?”

“You don’t know what you can do till you try,” George suggested hopefully, and it was asserted in a tone of such conviction that the others laughed.

“We are talking no end of nonsense,” Vanina presently declared; “I wonder what put such ideas into your head?”

“I’m sure I can’t quite explain,” responded Owen; “but it must, I think, as I said just now, be something in your face, or manner, or general air. Now I come to think about it, it is rather an odd notion; yet such ideas seem always to suggest themselves when I look at you.”

Vanina gazed dreamily out upon the waters, and seemed to be musing. And, for a space, there was unbroken silence.

“It is curious,” she said slowly, after a pause, “but I too, have very strange thoughts at times; and dreams–especially dreams.”

“What dreams? asked Owen.

“Dreams,” she went on, still slowly, as though recalling them one by one, “of martial hosts, of armoured knights, and men in mail; of clashing swords, and flashing spears. And often I seem, just as you have suggested, to be myself clad in mail, brandishing a sword or spear, and urging my followers on to battle. And it is all as in the times of long, long ago, ages ago, when there were no cannons, no pistols, no fire-arms of any sort or kind. I often fancy I must have had ancestors–chieftains–who lived and fought in those ancient times, and that they visit me in my dreams, and in them re-enact the scenes in which they bore a part. What strange days those must have been!”

“Perhaps better to think of, and read, and talk about, than to experience in their grim reality,” Owen observed.

“I don’t know; at least the men of those days were brave; or those who were not were soon found out. Men met one another face to face, foot to foot. They did not hide behind shelters and shoot at one another from places a mile or two apart. How strange it would be for us, if we were unexpectedly thrown back into those old times? How should we act? If we were suddenly to find ourselves back in the midst of such a world, what sort of figure should we cut, I wonder? A poor one, I am afraid, men and women too. Our women of to-day would lack the pluck and endurance of those old-time heroines, and, as for the men–how would they fare if their lives depended upon their skill with sword, and shield, and lance?”

Just then another young fellow came up the companion and called out:

“I want to have a word with you, Wydale. Do you mind coming down for a few minutes?” Then he turned and disappeared; and Wydale, with a brief word of apology to the young lady, followed him.

There came now a sort of lull, and the brother and sister remained for a while silently watching the waves that were racing past. Vanina’s thoughts returned to their former channel.

“I was telling Mr. Wydale, Georgy,” she said to her young brother, “how much I enjoy being at sea on a day such as this, and on board a boat like the Saucy Fan. How splendidly she goes through it! Almost like a well-found, well-behaved yacht!”

“Ah!” returned the boy in a low tone, and with a serious face, “that is all very well, sister, when you are a passenger; but you cannot picture to yourself how very different this same vessel appears to you if you are a poor beggar of a cabin boy, as I was once here, you know. You can scarcely believe what a place they made it for me!”

Vanina took his hand, and pressed it tenderly.

“I know, poor boy,” was her reply. “They must have ill-used you indeed, to drive you to–”

“It was just such a day as this,” he went on dreamily, “when I crawled out beyond the bowsprit yonder, the seas breaking over me every minute, to escape from the mate; and when Mr. Wydale came out after me and brought me back. It was a plucky thing for him to do, I can tell you. No one else on the whole ship would have risked it; and that ugly-faced skipper over there, and his mate–who are so meek and mild to you to-day–stood looking on, and would have let the two of us drown for all they cared.”

Vanina shuddered.

“I know, Georgy, dear,” she said fervently. “But let us not talk about it now. It makes me turn quite sick. Certainly I feel we can never, any of us, be sufficiently grateful to Mr. Wydale for what he did for you that day. He must be very brave, and very kind-hearted too.

“Brave? He’s more than that! He’s–he’s–“ and the boy hesitated, and cast about for a simile; then wound up with, “he’s a regular brick!”

Meanwhile, the subject of this little talk was seated in the cabin of the brig, in close conference with the elder brother of the two, one Sydney Dareville. He was a well- built, good-looking man of nearly thirty; had been at one time a sailor, and at another had seen service as an officer in one or other of the endless civil wars that are ever breaking out in the volcanic regions of South America. A little thinner than Wydale, and a little taller, he also exhibited somewhat more of the swagger and dash that characterise the exsoldier adventurer. Ordinarily, one could read in his laughing eyes something of the merry, boyish good-humour of his young brother, mingled with the roguish high spirits that characterised his sister. To-day, however, he was grave, and evidently disturbed in mind.

“Fancies or no fancies,” he was saying, “I cannot put aside these feelings of vague suspicion and distrust that have laid hold of me. In my father’s time all our vessels were manned by honest, decent men. How has it come about that my precious step-father and his present partner should send old and tried servants packing, to put in their places rascals like Durford, our cheerful skipper here, and Foster, his scoundrel of a mate, and the rest of our hang-dog looking crew? Can you explain that to me?”

“That they are a bad lot–at least, with the possible exception of Peter Jennings, the ship’s carpenter–I have good reason to know,” Wydale agreed.

“Still–”

“And what is that vessel behind us?” the other interrupted. “And why does she follow us as she has, taking in sail again and again, as I have seen with my own eyes, to keep in our wake when she had been overhauling us?”

“That may be but a fancy on your part; they may have feared foul weather. It has been squally and unsettled for some days. Of course, I can see what you are hinting at, but really cannot understand what anyone would have to gain by such a crime. The cargo is ours, or ours and your friend Casella’s jointly. The brig itself is partly yours–”

“Aye, this brig carries all I have left in the world to call my own,” Dareville interrupted gloomily.

„–And the insurance is made out in your joint names. Where, then, would be the gain to those you have in your mind?”

Sydney Dareville regarded his companion for a moment fixedly, then with a dry smile replied:

“What have they to gain? Nothing much on the ship and cargo, truly; but–if my sister and young brother were to die before coming of age–my respected step-father would come into–fifty thousand pounds.”

Wydale started, and looked incredulously at the speaker.

“I never heard of that,” he murmured; “you never told me. I had no idea that your sister was–that is, that your brother and sister were–” He hesitated.

“You didn’t know that Vanina was an heiress,” Dareville answered, with a hollow laugh. “Yes, very much so, my friend. And now you can understand why it would suit certain persons very well indeed if the three of us went to Davy Jones’s Locker, as the outcome of this voyage. And you know now why I am distrustful and uneasy, and want you to be watchful and to help me to keep a sharp eye upon all that goes on. Now I must go up and fetch those two young people down. I can hear that the wind is getting up again.” With that he rose and went on deck.

And Owen Wydale, turning over in his mind all that had been said, could not help recalling the talk he had had on deck concerning Vanina Dareville’s dreams.

“Well, they, at least, were but dream-fancies,” he at last said to himself. “Heaven send that these misgivings of Dareville’s may turn out to be fancies, too.”

II. LEFT TO DIE IN THE SARGASSO SEA

OWEN WYDALE’S presence on board the Saucy Fan this voyage had been brought about in a somewhat curious way. On her last voyage, which had been from the Cape to Liverpool, he had shipped at Cape Town as the only passenger, and had had very unpleasant experience of the character of her skipper and crew. He was returning to England after an absence of some years, during which he had knocked about the world a good deal, and had seen life under many varying phases. He had served for a year in the Cape Mounted Rifles, and seen some fighting; he had shot lions and other big game in the depths of the African forest and out on the veldt, and had, in one place and another, met with many strange adventures and hair-breadth escapes. His mother he had never known; his father had died a few years before, leaving to him–his only child–just enough to get along with and no more, and he had lost some of his capital by injudicious speculations in African mines. Hence, at the time referred to, when he was returning to England with a vague idea of settling down to some sort of occupation, motives of economy had induced him to take passage in a small sailing vessel instead of in a steamer.

He had been not long at sea, however, before he found cause to regret having chosen the Saucy Fan; not on account of any fault to be found with the vessel herself, but by reason of the behaviour of the majority of those on board. The skipper, Joseph Durford, and his chief mate, Steve Foster, showed themselves to be blustering bullies, cruel and unscrupulous towards those whom they thought it safe to subject to ill-usage. In particular, they seemed to find a special delight in ill-treating two young boys who had the misfortune to form part of the ships company. One–the younger of the two–was deaf and dumb; but even that affliction did not avail to save him from the brutalities of his tormentors. Wydale soon saw that the vessel was manned by a ruffianly crew, and that, while the skipper and his mate bullied everybody all round, the two lads included, many of the men joined in against the latter to wreak on them, in turn, the revengeful feelings they durst not show towards those above them. The elder of the two boys strenuously tried his utmost to help and shield the younger. Many a blow did he receive that had been aimed at the other; but this chivalrous conduct, so far from exciting sympathy, as one would have expected, would only bring upon him further blows and thrashing. This was especially noticeable in the case of the mate, Steve Foster, who seemed to pass no inconsiderable portion of his time in devising petty cruelties and malicious torments against the two helpless lads.

Wydale viewed these proceedings with indignation and disgust, and had more than one stormy passage with both skipper and mate in consequence. He soon discovered that the two boys had been delicately nurtured; they had, indeed, run away from home, and hidden themselves as stowaways in the brig, just before she had left Rio de Janeiro for the Cape. They, or rather George, the elder–for the other could not speak–obstinately refused to give any account of themselves; and this was one thing–so he said–that excited the ire of the skipper. He grudged, moreover, every mouthful the youngsters ate–he worked on a profit-sharing arrangement with the owners, it appeared, and would lose considerably by their being on board. These, at least were the statements he repeated, again and again, to Wydale; but the latter subsequently found reason to regard them with some doubt. At last, one morning, the little deaf and dumb boy was missing. He had jumped overboard in the night, leaving a pitiful note behind him addressed to his brother saying that he could bear his life no longer, that he was going to join their “dear dead mother,” and concluding with a touching expression of hope that his brother would get on better without him.

“Perhaps they will be kinder to you without me, dear brother,” the poor, ill-used little fellow wrote, “because I am so stupid, and I cannot hear what they say, and do things quick enough.”

And so he had slipped over the vessel’s side in the darkness, and gone for ever from the view alike of those who loved him and those who had made his short young life a burden too great for him to bear.

Over this pathetic tragedy a stormy scene took place between Wydale and the skipper and his mate that almost ended in blows. Wydale’s indignation led him roundly to accuse the two of deliberate murder or what amounted thereto; and he declared his intention of laying information against them for that crime, or manslaughter, so soon as he got ashore. The skipper retorted by threatening to put him in irons, if he did not mind his own business, and refrain from interference between him and those under his control.

One would have thought that the miserable end to which the little stowaway had been driven would have earned for the survivor surcease of ill-usage–and it did for a few days, but for no longer. Then the old persecutions, the tormentings, the ropes-endings began again, as bad as, even worse than, ever. One thing was now noticeable, however; Foster, the mate, was almost alone in the matter. The others had, to some extent at least, felt sufficiently impressed by what had occurred to refrain from further brutal violence. But Foster seemed possessed by an almost insane hatred of the lad; it looked, indeed–as Wydale bluntly told the skipper–as if the man were deliberately trying to drive the boy to follow the example of his unhappy brother.

One day the lad, to escape from his enemy, climbed out beyond the bowsprit on to the jib-boom, where he clung in imminent peril of being washed off, loudly declaring he would drop into the sea, unless a promise were given to ill- treat him no more. Wydale, at great personal risk, climbed out after him and brought him back, just when he was on the point of dropping into the sea. He had, in fact, already fainted, and would have fallen, but that one arm had become jammed between the spar and the foretop mast-stay. In this dangerous position–the seas rising and breaking over him from time to time–the rescuer received aid from one man only, Peter Jennings, the ship’s carpenter; the skipper, his mate, and several of the men standing about looking on and grinning.

After this episode, Wydale took the lad entirely under his protection, paying–though he could ill-afford it–his passage money as a first-class passenger; and thenceforth the boy was no more molested.

Leaving Wydale for the moment, and turning to the three Darevilles, it should be stated that they were the daughter and sons of an Englishman, now dead, who had settled in South America many years before, and had been partly a ship- owner, partly a rancher, with considerable estates in Brazil and Argentina. At his death, Mrs. Dareville–to her sorrow, as it afterwards turned out–married Mr. William Blane, a man of whom little was known beyond the fact that he had made some money in Australia, and had joined the ship-owning firm of Dareville, Armitage, & Co., shortly before Mr. Dareville’s death. After a year or two of unhappiness with her second husband, Mrs. Blane died, leaving to his care her three children by her first husband, vis., Vanina, and two boys, George and Fred, the latter being deaf and dumb. Sydney Dareville, the eldest son, having no great liking for his step-father, and having inherited from his father a sum of money and a small share in the ship-owning business, had left home some time before, and gone away to seek fortune or adventure, as the case might be. Some of his interest in the firm he sold, retaining only a small share.

Vanina was sent to England to finish her education.

She would be entitled, when of age, to a small fortune, her father having left a sum to each of his children on their attaining their majority, with the proviso that the shares of any dying before that event were to go to the survivors. The reason given by her step-father for sending her to England was that she might be educated so as to fit her for the position she would have to fill. But Sydney Dareville declared curtly, when he heard of the arrangement, that Blane merely wished to get her out of the way.

While away she received very unhappy letters from her two younger brothers, complaining of the unkind treatment they met with at the hands of their step-father and a woman to whom he had confided them, and culminating in the announcement that after the tender affection of their mother, his unkindness was more than they could bear, and that they had resolved to run away.

Thus it came about that these two little unfortunates, by some strange chance–if there is such a thing in this world–hid themselves away in the first vessel that opportunity supplied, and this happened to be one of those partly owned by their dreaded step-father. But of that they had no knowledge. They had lived all their lives on the ranch, and had never seen a ship before; and, if they had heard that their late father had been a ship-owner, it had conveyed but the vaguest notion to their young minds. When afterwards they had to face the skipper, they, or rather George–for the other could only speak by the deaf and dumb alphabet– said that their name was Simmons. Beyond that, they obstinately refused to give any account of themselves or of their friends or relatives. How they fared–how the poor little waifs fell out of the frying-pan into the fire–has been told above.

Shortly after the two boys ran away, Sydney Dareville, tired of soldiering, came to Rio and called at the offices of the firm there to see his step-father. He had resolved to sell out a further share in the firm, and invest the proceeds in a trading venture in partnership with a friend who had a commercial connection in the Argentine. He was informed by the Rio agent that Mr. Blane had gone to Liverpool, partly upon business, and partly to arrange for his (Dareville’s) sister to return home. It being part of Dareville’s plan to go, in any case, to England, to select and purchase a ship- load of miscellaneous goods, he followed him by next steamer, instead of going to their home; thus he failed to hear that his two young brothers had levanted, the agent being unaware of it.

Thus also it came about that, when Owen Wydale, with his young protégé–concerning whom he felt very much perplexed, feeling that he could not well afford to take the boy’s whole future upon himself–arrived in Liverpool, the lad’s relatives were already in the town. Yet would he probably have missed them had he not gone to the office of the owners’ agent, a Mr. Ridgway, to lay his complaint against the skipper and his mate. George had told his new friend his real name, and such other particulars as he knew about himself; but they were not clear enough to lead Wydale to suppose that the boy’s step-father was one of the present owners of the vessel, even if he had known or remembered the name of the firm, which he did not. His relations with the skipper had not been such as to lead to much talk between them during the latter part of the voyage. When, therefore, Wydale, accompanied by George, entered Mr. Ridgway’s office, their astonishment was great at finding there Mr. Blane himself. That gentleman looked anything but pleased to see his step-son, and listened but coldly to Wydale’s account of what had happened. In reply to it he merely said he would think the matter over, refunded him the amount he had paid Durford for the lad’s passage, and added that he would take future charge of him himself. George’s terror at this was so extreme that Wydale hesitated as to what he ought to do; but when, a minute or two later, the boy heard that his brother and sister were in the town, he quickly brightened up, and Wydale then formally handed him over to his step-parent’s custody, and returned to his hotel.

There, next day, came George, bringing Sydney and his sister, who thanked him in very different fashion from Mr. Blane’s for his kindness to their brother, and quickly all became on friendly terms.

The two young men had many tastes in common; both had had some military training, and seen actual fighting; each had knocked about the world and met with adventures. Small wonder, therefore, that they soon became not only fast friends, but eventually partners in Dareville’s projected trading venture. It appeared that all Dareville had left of his former interest in the firm consisted of a half share in the Saucy Fan and this he had been unsuccessfully endeavouring to sell to his step-father. Therefore he was in a quandary, not having sufficient capital to pay for his share of the cargo. When Wydale was informed of this, he readily offered to join and go out with him, to seek fortune in the Saucy Fan, by which vessel Dareville had already arranged to take his cargo and his sister out together. Wydale expressed some reluctance to sail again with the present skipper and crew, but Dareville laughed, declaring that he would either keep them in their places, or know the reason why. In any case, he said, he had not the power to interfere with the manning of the vessel; so Wydale reluctantly gave up the point.

But a short time before, he could hardly have conceived it possible that he could have been induced to take another voyage in such company; now he would have made almost any sacrifice to sail in the same ship with Vanina Dareville, whose bright eyes and winning smiles had made a captive of him.

Thus the four young people had embarked together; and at first all had gone on as well as could be hoped for in the circumstances. The skipper gave up the chief cabin entirely to them, and lived in a deckhouse. They had but little occasion to speak either to him or to his mate; but, when they did, those worthies showed themselves exceedingly deferential towards their passenger-part-owner, and those with him. Yet the good little ship had not been long at sea before Sydney Dareville, as has been seen, began to entertain misgivings. Moreover, just before sailing, at a time when it was altogether too late to alter their arrangements, he had come across an old friend who had expressed grave doubts of Durford and “his gang,” as he called them, hinting at dark doings in their former history. But Dareville at the time had kept this to himself, and only mentioned it to Wydale now, because other incidents–each of little moment in itself, yet in the aggregate importing much–had occurred to make him feel uneasy.

This was his state of mind when he left the cabin to fetch the two on deck. He met them already on their way to join him, for the skipper had warned them that a dirty squall was coming up, and the crew were already shortening sail. But, when it came, it proved to be much more than a squall; and it struck the gallant little ship before she was prepared to meet it, threw her, for some minutes, on her beams-ends, and quickly stripped from her some of the canvas she still carried.

For two days, a heavy gale was raging, and the brig drove before the wind under almost bare poles, and going whither, no one in the cabin knew. Scarcely one of them, in fact, stirred out of it. Fortunately, their respective sleeping cabins opened into it; as well as several tiny rooms used as store cupboards, in which were kept a few articles handy for use, such as potted meats, bread and biscuits, a cask of water, and so on. Else might the little party have been starved; for no one came near them, save once or twice the skipper, who shouted down some unintelligible words about the hatchway, and forthwith went away. Once or twice, too, Owen or Sydney would venture on deck to take a look round; but, since nothing was to be seen but a wild waste of tumbling waters and driving spray, they returned quickly to the shelter of the cabin.

On the afternoon of the third day the weather began to moderate, and Wydale and Dareville were able to pass a short time on deck. But the outlook was still dark and gloomy, they reported, on their return; and night closed in on a still raging sea. But most curious–so Dareville thought– there astern, could still be seen the vessel that had seemed to dog them. She must have somehow followed them even through the hurricane.

“I am glad to say,” observed Dareville to his sister, when they had rejoined her, “that I think we shall all be able to take a good rest to-night. The sea is evidently going down, though slowly; and in the morning you should be able to get out of this stuffy place, and be on deck again.”

“That will be a glad change, indeed,” returned Vanina. “I had no idea the cabin of a ship could become so hateful to one. A few days more of this would go far to cure me of my fondness for the sea. I would much rather be on deck and face the weather.”

Presently there were some knocks on the hatch above, and, on going to see the cause, Owen found the ship’s cook bearing a pot filled with steaming coffee.

“Cap’en thought as maybe ye’d like a cup o’ coffee apiece,” he said shortly. “Couldn’t boil nothin’ afore; the sea kep’ puttin’ out the galley fire. You’ve got cups and saucers.”

And with that brief explanation the man handed over the coffee-pot and disappeared.

“H’m! It’s little enough civility Durford has shown us,” Dareville commented, with a laugh; “so I suppose we ought to think the more of this unexpected piece of politeness. Anyway, a cup of coffee’s welcome.”

But its flavour failed to satisfy their expectations.

It was only partly drunk, and voted disappointing, and fully half of it was thrown away. Shortly after the four retired to their respective sleeping berths, to take the first spell of unbroken rest they had enjoyed since the storm began.

In the morning Owen woke suddenly, and with a strange sensation of uneasiness, Almost immediately he heard Dareville’s voice calling and asking whether he was awake. He had not taken off his clothes, so he stepped out at once, and both went into the main cabin. Everything was strangely quiet. The vessel scarcely moved; she merely rose and fell on a slight swell, as though at anchor in a sheltered harbour. But beyond the soft plash of ripples against her side, and a scarcely perceptible creaking of the cordage, no sound was to be heard. No voices, no footsteps on the deck, nothing whatever to denote the presence of human beings. Wydale and Sydney stared blankly at each other; then, with a common impulse, made a rush up the companion and tried to open the hatch. It resisted all their efforts! Plainly the hatches had been fastened down upon them!

“What devil’s-trap is this we have fallen into?” exclaimed Dareville, in mingled fear and anger–fear for his helpless younger brother and sister more than for himself, and wrath at the trick that had been played upon them. Then came a staggering thought. Had the wretches deserted the vessel, having first scuttled her, and left them there to die, stived up in the cabin like caged animals? Even now, while they were wasting precious moments, the vessel might be slowly filling through holes made by the scoundrels!

“Where’s my rifle–and my revolver?” Dareville cried. “If they are within shot when we get on deck, I’ll give them something to remember this business by!”

But, when he went to look for his arms, he found they had disappeared; so had Wydale’s; and every cartridge with them.

Just then Vanina joined them. She read in their averted eyes that something serious had happened. Owen would have said a word to reassure her, and sent her away, perhaps, but Dareville interposed.

“This is no time for mincing matters,” he declared, “and she must know directly; for we must break our way somehow out of here, and my sister is no weak-minded simpleton.”

So he briefly explained what had occurred.

She fully justified his confidence, for she scarcely so much as winced, and her colour never changed. She drew herself up with one of the proud flashes that at times would dart forth from her eyes, as though rebuking Wydale for his anxiety on her account, and said quietly:

“I see. I understand. If you think you can break open the hatch, do so at once. I will go in and talk to George.” And she turned and left them.

Dareville could not repress a gesture of admiration, or of conscious pride, at the behaviour of his sister.

“Told you so,” he muttered, with a glance at Wydale. “She’s a girl in a thousand for pluck.” Then he went on, looking round: “And now, how to get that beast of a doorway open! And be on the look-out! For all it seems so quiet, some cowardly scoundrel may be lurking up there with a pistol to shoot us down the moment we show our heads. I’ve heard of such things before.”

“So’ve I,” said Wydale, between his teeth. “We’ve been two fools, Dareville, and ought to have known better, especially with a lady and a young lad in our charge. Two of us to look after them, and, with all, to fall into such a clumsy trap as this.”

The other made no reply, and they both set to work, though cautiously. It took some time, and they had to break up some of the fitted furniture in the cabin to use as battering- rams before they made much impression. However, no one interfered, and they heard no sound, and, after a time, they were able to raise the hatch a little way, and take a careful look round. Then they pushed it open and emerged on to the deck. Plainly the vessel was deserted; both the boats had gone. There had been three before the storm, and all had now disappeared.

Sydney called to Vanina, who soon appeared, leading by the hand her brother, looking, as was but natural, very pale and scared.

“Confound their impudence!” exclaimed Dareville, gazing around him in astonishment. “What are they up to in all this? What in the name of all that’s diabolical is their little game?”

The air was misty, and they could see no great distance whichever way they looked; but, so far as the view extended, there was nothing but one great field of green; they were surrounded on every side by a mass of seaweed.

Dareville stepped forward and tried the pumps. In a few minutes he came back, looking very thoughtful and perplexed.

“It’s very odd,” he said, “but the vessel’s all right. Seems to be sound as a bell. At any rate, there’s no water to speak of in the hold. They haven’t even tried to scuttle her–so far as I can make out.”

“Then what in the name of all that’s damnable,” asked Owen, “is the meaning of this trickery?”

But Sydney Dareville had had a twelvemonth on board ships some years before, and knew more about the sea of that part of the world than Wydale did, and already an idea was forming in his mind that nearly froze his heart with horror.

Turning to the other two, he said lightly:

“Well, you two will have to play at being cooks now, while we look after the ship. So, go down and see what you can find for breakfast. It’s clear there is no immediate danger.”

Thus reassured, Vanina and her younger brother descended into the cabin and busied themselves in setting it to rights, and doing their best to prepare a meal.

But no sooner had they gone than Dareville took Owen by the arm and led him into the bows of the vessel, so as to be well out of hearing; then he turned and looked at him, his face all white.

“No immediate danger,” he repeated, in a hard, bitter voice. “No; but may the great God above help us!”

“Why?” Owen exclaimed, alarmed. “What do you mean? Where are we?”

“Where are we?” repeated the other between his teeth. “Why, hard and fast in the Sargasso Sea!”

“The Sargasso Sea. But what is that?” asked Wydale wonderingly.

“It is,” said Dareville, in a despairing tone, “a vast tract of ocean adjacent to the Caribbean Sea, a region that has been called–and for only too good reason–the maritime graveyard of half the world. It is a gigantic trap, of such tenacity, that, if a vessel once gets caught in it, never will it let her go. Here, on all sides of us–if it were but clear enough to see–are untold scores of ships that have been caught and imprisoned, and have lain rotting for long ages; and here shall we also be held fast, to starve to death, and then lie and rot, as many and many another doomed wretch has starved, and died, and rotted here.”

III. A MARINE GRAVEYARD

IN the midst of the Atlantic Ocean, in the region lying between the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico on the west, and the west coast of Africa on the east, is a vast expanse, never traversed by ship or steamer, and known as the Sargasso Sea. It would scarcely interest the reader, perhaps, to give here a detailed explanation of the curious system of ocean-currents to which, according to some scientists, the phenomenon owes its existence. Suffice it to say that here is a region extending over an area of many hundreds–some even estimate thousands–of square miles, so choked with seaweed that no vessel or boat can sail, steam, or row in it; and few who once get entangled in it ever return to tell the tale. There are, indeed, accounts of some who have attempted to explore this unknown waste, but none have succeeded in penetrating very far from the outer edge or fringe, and these adventurers experienced such difficulty in regaining the open waters as effectually to deter them from making any further expedition of the kind. In more than one such case, indeed, the explorers almost gave up the hope of ever escaping from the weed’s fatal embrace.

These adventurers describe the region as unique in its strange isolation and oppressive silence and stagnation. Here no waves ever foam or tumble, no spray ever leaps into the air, flashing and glittering in the sunlight; no raging sea disturbs the everlasting calm. But the calm that reigns unchallenged here is like unto the silence of the grave; it is, indeed, a veritable graveyard for unknown legions of the vessels of all nations. Abandoned at sea, hundreds, thousands of miles away, after years of lonely drifting from all quarters of the world, they find here their final resting-place. In every direction it is a scene of unutterable desolation, shunned, it is said, even by the sea-birds. No doubt the greater part of the hulks here entangled are abandoned vessels–derelicts; no doubt, also, if they could be approached and boarded, they would repay the adventurers with almost untold wealth. Those who abandoned them could not have carried with them the cargoes, scarcely even any of the treasure they were freighted with. Those were indeed fortunate who escaped with life, for terrible tales are told–and with only too much probability–of vessels held fast in the tenacious grasp of the clinging weed, having still on board unhappy creatures whose fate one cannot contemplate without a shudder.

Such being the reputation borne by this dismal tract of weed-strewn ocean, it is small matter for wonder that Sydney Dareville, in spite of the ready courage that was one of his foremost qualities, felt appalled at their position. Speculation as to the cause, and what had become of the skipper and crew, became a matter of but slight interest, compared with the grim fact of the hopelessness of their condition. Nor needs one feel surprised that he should have felt too utterly crushed, for the time being, to give his mind to plans for their escape. But Owen Wydale, of tougher stuff, would not abandon hope. His was one of those sturdy, British spirits of whom it has been said that they never know when they are beaten; and his brain was already busy studying the situation in all its bearings.

While talking, the two were startled by hearing a deep-drawn breath behind them, and, looking round, saw Vanina standing near, with a face that was both pale and anxious. Yet, though her cheeks blanched when she grasped the danger they were in–for she had heard what had been said–the steady look in her candid eyes showed that she had no thought of breaking down beneath the trial.

“You here, Vanina?” exclaimed Dareville. “I thought you were–”

“I came up to ask you a question–but it does not matter now. I heard what you said. Can it be true? Is there nothing to be done?”

“I can see–can think of–nothing,” he answered wearily, almost listlessly. “It is a cruel–an inconceivably cruel– cowardly business. If we had a full crew, and boats, and a good wind, even then it would be an almost hopeless undertaking to try to get out from here into the open sea. Situated as we are, you can judge for yourself.”

Here Wydale, who had been looking very hard in one direction, turned to go below, saying he would be back directly. After an absence of a few minutes he returned, carrying a pair of binocular glasses and a telescope.

“The murdering, thieving hounds missed these, anyhow,” he observed shortly, and fell to studying the scene before them, at one time through the glasses, at another through the telescope.

The position of the brig was this. She was surrounded on all sides by the tangled masses of weed, but, not far away in front of her-straight, that is to say, from her bows–was an open channel of clear water. Up this she had doubtless drifted, and then, through a turn in the channel, had been thrown, either by the wind or her own impetus, into a sort of backwater; and this once entered, the weed had closed round her and held her fast. The channel of open water was but a dozen yards or so away; but, in her present plight, she was as hopelessly shut off from it as though the distance had been a mile, or as though imprisoned in a great iron cage. This channel stretched away with a curve to left and to right, and was finally lost in each direction in the haze. A dull, moaning noise in the distance indicated that the open sea was within hearing, and that waves were there breaking, probably upon some rocky reef; but the sound was so faint it was difficult to determine the side from which it really came.

Wydale had observed attentively all these points, and he now, as stated, studied the outlook carefully and patiently through the instruments he had hunted out. Then he laid them down, and again disappeared into the cabin.

The others took up the glasses, and through them viewed the expanse of green by which they were surrounded. Then Vanina gave a little cry.

“See!” she exclaimed. “See! What is that over there? ‘Tis a ship in full sail! We can surely attract her attention.”

Dareville turned his glass in the direction indicated, then laid it down with a gesture of despair.

“It is, as you say, a ship in full sail,” he answered, with a shrug; “but she moves not, nor will she ever sail again. Judging by what I can make out, she has been standing thus, in full sail, for many a long day; only in this cursed sea of deadly calm no hurricane has ever come to blow her poor old sails away. If you look around, you will see other miserable wrecks, mostly old, battered, decaying hulks. As well expect help from them as from yonder ‘ship in full sail.’ Even such a breeze as you can now feel, slight as it is, is a novelty–according to what I have heard–in this hope-forsaken region.”

And Vanina felt her heart sink while she listened to his words; and she laid the glasses down, infected, too, with his feeling of dull, cold despair.

Meantime Wydale had returned, carrying an armful of the broken pieces of furniture with which they had forced their way out of the cabin. These pieces of wood he began to throw energetically overboard, sending them far enough to fall beyond the weed into the open channel. Then he snatched up a pair of glasses, and attentively watched them. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.

“I thought so!” he cried out. “See, Dareville! Look! Those pieces are floating away. Not fast; but you can see they are moving along. There is a current there. I thought just now I could detect it; but it runs so smoothly I could not feel certain. Now, however, you can see it clearly enough. See where that first piece has floated to? It’s going faster now; that’s because there’s more current out in the middle. Jupiter! If we could but get out into that channel!” Dareville laughed.

“What then?” he asked. “Firstly, we can’t get there; secondly, do you think we could sail and tack the brig in a waterway thirty or forty feet wide, and with but two of us to manage her, too?”

“Don’t you see,” urged Wydale, disregarding his half- contemptuous manner, “that that current must lead somewhere, and where to, if not the open sea? With but the least bit of ‘way’ on her, and this wind behind her, we might keep her in the middle of the channel; and that may be all we need do. I fancy the wind must have changed since she drifted in here. It blew her in here then; now it would take her back into the current.”

“But how can we get her there?” said Dareville, looking over the vessel’s side at the tangled weed. “If we only had a boat in that open water, now, and a live–”

“Let’s get some sail on her, any way, and try,” Wydale interrupted curtly. “The wind’s the right way, and her head’s lying the right way. If we can get her to move at all, it may not be so difficult.”

Unfortunately, to bend a sail of any sort seemed just what could not easily be done. Many of the higher sails had been blown away; other lower ones seemed to have been deliberately cut away. There were none within reach that could be utilised.

“Where are the spare sails kept, I wonder?” Wydale asked, as he realised all this. Then an idea occurred to him.

“Why, of course! George knows! Where’s George? Call him up!”

And George, who was below, soon put in an appearance. He had, under one arm, a bundle of wood which he had chopped up to make a fire with, and in the other hand he carried an axe he’d found.