CHAPTER I. MUSIC AND DANCING.

A splendidly bright day in early spring. The ocean was unusually calm; but a pleasant sunshine broke up its greenish blue, and dashed its tiny ripples with the restless glory of quicksilver shimmering over crystal. Far away the waters lapsed imperceptibly into the pure atmosphere of the horizon, veiling the soft union with a gossamer haze exquisitely beautiful.

Not a sail was in sight!—not a bird in the air! One great ocean steamer moved through the calm of the waters, her broad, white sails curving like the tired wings of a seagull, and her black pipes heaving forth mighty fleeces of smoke, that curled, eddied and fell apart in the wind, floating off in a soft film of silvery gray, dazzled through and through with sunbeams.

The steamer was full of life, cheerful and brilliant. Though not absolutely crowded, it had no room to spare, and all the luxury that could be introduced into a sea voyage was to be found on its decks that pleasant spring afternoon. Fur rugs and little encampments of crimson cushions lay about in the shady places, occupied by men, women and children, sitting low like Turks, if not exactly in the Oriental fashion. Campstools and a few easy chairs 24were filled with dreamy occupants, some reading, some chatting, and others sound asleep.

Perhaps four hundred passengers were on board, most of them of that idle upper class which holds some of the weakest and again the most powerful members of social life in its ranks. They were in this case neither better nor worse than the crowd of people who usually cross and recross the Atlantic every season, as if it were some inland lake. Upon those fur rugs and cushions a few men, tired out with the active duties of life, sought that necessary reaction a sea life brings; with them were merchants on business, clever men travelling for information—commonplace people killing time—sharpers on the alert for prey—adventurers, and worse still, adventuresses, forcing themselves, by craft or brazen assurance, into respectable society—with all the odds and ends of that strange thing called fashionable life. To this great majority were added one or two God-gifted souls to whom life, in itself, was an exquisite blessing. These found even that calm sea voyage full of wonderful poetry which the crowd never dreamed of. They

saw glorious pictures in the sky as it bent over them—thrilling music in the soft heave of the waves which floated them steadily shoreward, and still more varied interest in the life that moved and changed and worked itself out among the human beings with whom they were cast.

Of this class was the young girl seated on that carriage robe of white fur, which was spread out on a shadowy portion of the deck like a snow-drift, half melted away, upon a ground-work of azure-cloth scolloped and embroidered into a rich lace-work border. She was a bright, happy-looking girl, with a face that Titian would have given a goblet of wine to paint, exactly as she reclined, with her elbow resting on a pile of cushions over which a shawl of blue cashmere, with a good deal of gold-color in the border, had been flung in rich drapery. Her head, with more 25ruddy brown hair than most women possess, was supported by the palm of a white and finely-shaped hand—not very small, for the girl herself was of generous proportions, and in perfect symmetry lay her chief claim to that grace and loveliness which distinguished her.

Close by the pretty couch, which had an air of the Orient in it, sat a middle aged man, rather handsome—very respectable—and at the moment closing his eyes in a dreamy way which might or might not be slumber. Something in the distance aroused the girl and caused the father to open a pair of mild blue eyes rather suddenly, for she cried out in her quick, eager way:

“Look, look, papa!”

It was only a couple of sturgeons tumbling over each other and leaping into the sunshine, which for an instant scaled their backs with silver and kindled a little rainbow among the drops they flashed into the air.

“Isn’t it wonderful, papa, that such awkward creatures can manage to display so much beauty?” cried the girl, resting one arm on her father’s knee and raising herself up to the cushions that she might watch the ponderous gambols that any one else might have considered a disturbance.

“Nonsense, my dear; we have seen a hundred of them tumbling about like salt-water pigs. Let me rest, do—this glare hurts my eyes.”

“Well, sleep away, dear old papa, if you like it best—I’ll settle to reading again, since you will have nothing to do with me.”

This was uttered with a good-natured little laugh, while the young lady settled back into her former position, assuming her book, in its dainty binding, of scarlet and gold, which had been lying half-buried in the white fur, but she contented herself for a time with rustling the leaves as it lay in her lap.

With a smile on his lips the old man fell off into his 26sweet slumber again, and his daughter began to read. Just then a group of young persons came up from the cabin, chatting together and sending out little joyous bursts of laughter. The first that appeared was a young lady who presented so complete a counterpart of the person we have been describing that a stranger would have glanced at the white carriage robe at once to make sure that she had not left it. The same lithe form was there, the same brilliant complexion, with eyes not altogether gray or blue, but which partook of either color as fancy or passion warmed them. The hair was of that remarkable tint which even artists have failed to name properly, but which the Venetians painted in all its glory. These traits, and more than these, the two girls had in common; no sisters ever looked more alike or possessed the same grace of manner. They were closely related, no one could doubt that who looked upon them, though one was quietly reading her book and the other appeared in all the ardor and

joyousness of a spirited conversation.

“No, indeed,” she was saying, “I make no pretence; I play well enough, perhaps, but it is my cousin whose voice you heard last night. There she is. Ask her.”

She looked very beautiful, standing there in the passage with a cashmere shawl gathered in careless grace around her, while the wind shook out the barb of Brussels point tied in a knot at the back of her little straw hat, and fluttered the cock’s plume in front, giving a look of breezy cheerfulness to her persona.

“Go ask her—or shall I?”

“You; you, of course,” cried out half-a-dozen voices; “she might refuse us.”

Cora Lander walked across the deck, sweeping it with her robe of rich silk—far too rich for the occasion—and paused close by her cousin, who raised her eyes from the book she was reading with a pleasant smile.

27“Virginia, dear, do come and pacify these good people with one little air. They heard that outbreak of yours last night in Ah che la morte, and will not be content without the whole of it.”

Virginia Lander dropped her book, and a bright color flashed over her face, but this was all the sign of annoyance that she gave, though she felt much.

“Oh yes, I will sing, if they desire it,” she said quietly. “Come with me, Cora, and play the accompaniment.”

The two girls went down to the cabin in company, and a brighter, lovelier pair you have seldom looked upon. It was not the prettiness of common beauty, which is in fact less effective than intelligent ugliness. But there was something unique, graceful and spirited which belonged to them alone, provoking inquiry and commanding admiration. Besides, one of them, the daughter of the old man dozing there on the deck, was heiress to every dollar the millionaire possessed.

Cora Lander sat down at the grand piano in the cabin. Virginia took a position by her, and a merry group of young people swarmed around, eager for any amusement that promised to break up the monotony of sea life, but so full of mirth that they could hardly keep quiet even for the music. A prelude—a masterly sweep of the keys, and then Virginia Lander’s voice, full, rich and clear, broke in—at first timidly and with a tremor of distrust in it—for she did not like this public crowd of listeners. But even timidity cannot long hold true genius in thrall. After a moment the color flashed into her face—her lips parted, warm and red as coral, and out gushed the whole volume and force of her exquisite voice, thrilling the hearts that listened as music had seldom touched them before. The depth, power and wonderful pathos of a voice cultivated to perfection charmed the crowd into willing silence, which continued a full minute after the last notes left her lips. Then there 28was a tumult of compliments—exclamations of delight from those who spoke from the surface—and deep sighs of

absolute ecstasy from such as understood and felt the delicious sweetness of her performance.

Virginia was pleased. Who is not by genuine admiration? She laughed a little nervously, blushed crimson on seeing that a good many gentlemen had joined her audience, and retreated shyly to a sofa at some distance.

That moment you might have discovered where the difference lay between these two girls. It was in the expression. As Virginia drew back, half pleased, half ashamed of her own success, Cora let her white hands fall on the keys she had touched with such wonderful skill, and an expression swept over her face that transfigured it completely. In all that buzz, hum and general outburst of praise she had no part. Her supporting music, brilliant as it was, had been utterly overwhelmed by Virginia’s voice. She sat a moment looking straight before her. Humiliating disappointment left her eyes almost black. Her lips curled in their scornful redness, but the color in her cheeks died out, sweeping all the young brightness from her features.

This lasted a single minute, but during that brief time no one would have thought Cora Lander like her cousin Virginia, who had crept into a corner of her sofa abashed by the burst of genuine applause that followed her singing, but thrilled by the sweet exercise of her own genius, which was in itself a delight.

For one instant the stormy look darkened on Cora’s face, then, with an impulse which seemed inspiration, but was defiance, she dashed her hands across the keys and swept them with a power that hushed every voice in the room and turned the current of applause in her favor.

Virginia’s face brightened beautifully as this outburst of approval reached her. Always generous and sympathetic, she forgot herself utterly and came up to the piano radiant. 29Cora saw her, and with a proud lift of the head, dashed into a waltz which rang through the cabin like a silver war-trumpet challenging hosts to action. Half-a-dozen young ladies accepted the exhilarating appeal, wound their arms around each other, and whirled off in one of those impromptu dances which are the very effervescence of happy youth. Cora cast a glance over her shoulder and dashed on, winging those light feet with melody. Away and around they flew jostling each other, laughing at the fun, changing partners—falling into little mistakes, and sending their clear laughter through the music in a riot of sweet sounds.

Those who could not find room to dance applauded with hands and voice: those who could rushed on more joyously, laughing at their less fortunate friends, till the whole cabin was one whirl of gaiety.

In the midst, piercing like an arrow through the mellow laughter, came a cry from midship:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

CHAPTER II. OVERBOARD.

Fire! Fire! Fire! This withering cry stopped every pulse of life as it ran through the ship. For one awful second it held that crowd in the cabin motionless and pallid as if a storm of ashes were passing over it. Some of the dancers kept their position, like statues, with scared faces bent together, feet advanced and smiles frozen on their white lips. Some staggered out of the whirl and clung together shrieking in each other’s arms. Others crouched down in corners, sending out piteous cries. One or two 30laughed out a hideous mockery of their own fears, and a few weak voices joined in protesting that it was a hoax. Still all listened with hushed breath for a second cry which might be their doom.

Cora Lander laughed away the pale terror that seized upon her, and dashed the awful scene with defiant music.

It came again—that wild, desperate cry—deeper, hoarser and still more terrible—smiting the crowd with fresh panic. A mad rush was made for the deck. The selfish instinct of life which levels men with wild beasts was uppermost then. Under that fierce stampede of feet the helpless and feeble were forced aside or trampled down, and through the tumult arose their sobs and moans, with the low roar of half-smothered flames and gushes of black smoke that came rolling down the cabin stairs thick and stifling.

Virginia Lander sprang to the steps and rushed on deck, seeking her father. Cora plunged into the frightened crowd, struggled through and followed her cousin, looking keenly around for some means of safety as she went.

The old man was on his feet, white as death, but with all his faculties clear. He reached forth his arms as Virginia came up and held her close, promising his own heart that they would die together. Cora planted herself by his side, pale with terror, but vigilant.

The steamer lay with her head to the wind, which swept the flames fiercely as they belched up the hatchway and ran along the cordage like sheet lightning. The captain thundered orders through his trumpet which no one obeyed. Men rushed to and fro with buckets, and flew in despair to the pumps, but, spite of this the conflagration roared like a volcano deep in the iron hold, and rushed up through porthole and hatchway, fringing the sails with flame and creeping along the ropes till they shone out against the sky one network of tangled fire.

It was awful to see human beings struggling up through 31the surges of hot smoke, and reeling into the fresh air one mass of flames. Now the scene became terrible. Great gushes of fire roared up from the cabin and seized upon the wood-work around it. The mainmast, already girdled with flame and eaten half way to the heart, trembled like a forest tree beneath the axe. The ventilators were choked up with human beings, suffocated in a wild effort to escape certain death in the steerage. Now an effort was made to get out the boats; but they were seized upon and swamped under a frenzied rush of the crowd. The wretched people retreated from bulwark to bow—anywhere that promised a moment’s shelter. But the hot flames pursued them, leaping, hissing, routing them from every chance of life. Some jumped overboard in sheer madness; others swung themselves down to the sea with chains and ropes, which might grow red hot or be burned under their grasp any instant. It was awful to see those panic-stricken creatures huddled together like frightened deer hemmed in by a prairie fire,

shrinking, shivering and white with a dread that was worse than death.

Mr. Lander and those two girls had kept their place firmly upon the deck, watching for some chance of safety, but driven towards the bulwarks step by step as the flames leaped upon them. The sails had burned out, scattering a rain of fire over them, and were now given to the wind in black patches of tinder. The cordage had broken up into rags of fire. The yard-arms were burning and cut against the sky, like a great cross appealing to God for mercy. Only a few moments more could those helpless creatures keep a foothold where they stood. Even now the boards under their feet were hot and drops of turpentine came oozing out from all their pores, tempting the flames which licked them up with ravenous hisses. Not ten feet away, the planks had parted and they could look down on that sea of fire raging in the hold.

32Virginia gave one glance and clung to her father, striving to shield him from the heat. Cora saw a thousand tiny threads of flame creeping towards them, and seizing upon the fur rug wound it about her, looking fiercely down on the storm of fire, as if she longed to defy it. That girl, leaning there against the bulwark, with that awful light upon her face and the fur robe giving a savage aspect to her dress, seemed like a priestess overwhelmed by her own incantations.

Just then a boat had been cautiously lowered by some of the hands—so cautiously that the terror-stricken creatures cowering on the deck took no notice, for despair had paralyzed them. Cora saw it and her hopes took fire. Without a word to the others, she flung off the robe, leaped upon the bulwark, and plunged into the sea, twenty feet below. The boat had pushed off and was some yards away, but she was a good swimmer, and followed it, shrieking for help with every dash of her arms.

Had it been a man, the sailors would have left him to die, for the boat was full; but there was something so strange and brave in the desperate effort this young creature made for life, that they took her in with broken cheers and pushed farther from the doomed vessel, from which men and women, with their garments one cloud of flame, were continually dropping.

Virginia looked up, saw that the place where her cousin had stood was empty, and uttering a cry of anguish, sprang to the bulwark.

“Oh father! oh Heaven help us! She is gone—she is lost! No, no, thank God, thank God, she is in the boat. That is her. Look, father, look! That is Cora.”

That moment the mainmast trembled like a tree cut through the heart and fell, dragging the steamer on one side by its weight. Then the engine gave out, and the boiler collapsed with a dull sound, sending up a storm of 33hisses, as if ten thousand serpents, coiled in its iron heart, had suddenly crept into the flames.

The man at the wheel, who had stood firmly till now, gave way under a hot rush of fire, and leaped overboard, abandoning the steamer to her fate. Left to itself, the doomed vessel, with its awful freight of fire, headed to the wind, which gathered up the flames and hurled them in broad sheets and masses back upon the poor creatures who crouched upon the deck. They started up like herds of deer in a burning prairie, and rushed toward the bow dumb with horror. There they huddled together in a trembling crowd, turning their wild, white faces on the sea of fire which raged behind them. Some crept out on the bowsprit and clung to it. Others had dragged articles of furniture with them which they were lashing together as a forlorn hope.

Lander snatched up his daughter and followed with the rest. He too had seen the boat in which Cora had found safety, and knowing that Virginia could swim like her cousin, resolved that she should be saved.

When they reached the bow, he took Virginia in his arms and kissed her with solemn tenderness.

“Oh, father, this is terrible—must we die? Must we die?”

A great surge of smoke swept over them and he held her face close to his bosom till it went by.

“Virginia, hear me.”

She guessed what he was about to say, and cried out against it:

“No, no, papa—I never will—never without you.”

“But Virginia, my child.”

She clung to him wildly, desperately.

“But you can swim. The boat is not so far off,” he pleaded.

“But you, papa, can you swim?”

34Lander shook his head.

“Then I will not go. Better a thousand times die here together. What would life be without you?”

“Virginia, this is wrong. It is selfish.”

“No—no—no, father! and if it is, God will forgive the child who wishes to live or die with her own father. See, I am not afraid. When the fire drives us away from here, we will jump into the water together. I can swim for us both a little while, then, if we must go down, God will see how it was and let us be together again, for He alone knows how dearly I love you.”

“My child, my child!”