CHAPTER XVIII.

No one can recall without a shudder of horror the midnight burning of the steamer _Hesperus_ in mid-ocean in 188-, and the terrible loss of life consequent upon that marine disaster.

She had been five days out, with fair skies and smooth seas, and every prospect of a prosperous and speedy voyage, when that disastrous fire stole upon her like a thief in the night, and wrapped her noble and majestic form in a winding sheet of flame.

Fifty souls perished miserably, including the captain and a part of crew.

In that terrible holocaust of fire and water, Reine Charteris was _lost_.

Her husband was saved--saved through such a tragedy of horror as sowed silvery threads in his fair, clustering locks, and almost broke his heart with remorse and pain.

We will hear him tell the story in his own words, as he told it that day when seated in the gloomy prison-cell, where Maud Langton was expiating her folly in bitterness of soul, he placed in her hands a small metallic case, locked with a tiny key, and said, solemnly and slowly:

"This means freedom and release to you, Maud. It is a legacy to you from the dead."

The beautiful, queenly-looking girl, wasted and worn from long confinement, and sickening dread and terror, looks up at the man's pale, haggard face, at the deep crape band on his hat, and shudders.

"You mean----" she says, then pauses, struck dumb by the white agony of his face.

"I mean I have lost my wife; Reine is dead."

"Dead!" the beautiful prisoner cries in wonder--not sorrow.

_That_ is so plain to his senses, sharpened by grief, that he cries out bitterly:

"Yes, dead! But look at your legacy, Maud. That is all your selfish soul will care for!"

She gives him one look of cold surprise, and then turns eagerly to her treasure.

The small key grates in the lock, the lid of the box flies open.

Within lies a package wrapped in oil silk. Undoing this with eager fingers, Maud comes upon the precious note that means so much to her in this terrible plight, the note poor Reine had crossed the seas to win from the vengeful grasp of Vane Charteris.

All of Maud's cold, superb dignity breaks down at sight of that little slip of paper. She weeps and laughs together.

"This means hope, freedom, happiness to me," she cries, tearfully. "And you had it all the time, Vane. And Reine knew. It was for that she crossed the seas?"

"Yes," he answers, "and it was for that she died."

"No, no!" Maud says, and shakes her head; "how could that be? Oh, how I thank you for bringing me this! You did not know when you went away how much it was worth to me, did you? That my very life would depend upon it?"

He looks at her with steady, somber eyes.

"Yes, I _knew_," he answers. "I knew, but I did not care. My love for you was turned to hate by the crushing indignity you had put upon me. At that time I would have sold myself to the evil one for the chance of revenge upon you. Guess how I felt when, at the inquest over the dead body of the lover you had preferred to me, I found what terrible power fate had put into my eager hands. I rejoiced wickedly. I went away that the great ocean rolling between us might keep from me the tidings of your too probable fate, for I shuddered at the horror of my revenge, although I could not forego it. Yes, Maud, I, who had loved you dearly once, would not have lifted my finger to save you from the horror of a shameful death upon the scaffold; do you realize, now, the intensity of my hate?"

She puts her delicate hand to her grand, white throat and sobs hysterically. By day and by night she has dreamed of that horrible, impending death. She knows that all believed her guilty of her lover's death, and that no jury would have cleared her without that note in Clyde's own writing, swearing that he would shoot himself if she failed to marry him.

"You were cruel, cruel," she moans.

"Say rather that I was insane," he answers; "my heart and my brain were on fire, and my soul was numb within me until Reine came to me and showed me what a wretch I was, and how I should be your murderer if I persisted in my wicked silence. Then I yielded to that white-souled child who was far too pure to be my wife, and I prayed God to forgive my sin, as I now pray you, Maud."

She looks at him with her large, clear blue eyes, with the glad tears of joy still pendant on the golden lashes and holds out her hands.

"I cannot refuse to forgive you since you have relented and brought me this invaluable paper," she answers, "and more especially since I know that I did you a cruel wrong. Can _you_ forgive _me_, Vane?"

"Once I thought I could not, but it is easy enough now," he answers, gravely, just touching for a moment the soft, white, extended hands. "I have no longer any room in my heart for anger or resentment. I think only of my grief."

"For Reine!" she asks, with an almost imperceptible lifting of the golden eyebrows indicating surprise.

"For Reine," he answers, with a tortured sigh.

"Did she die abroad?" Maud asks in an awed and softened voice.

"She was drowned at midnight in the Atlantic Ocean, amid all the horrors of fire and flood," he groans.

"On the ill-fated _Hesperus_," she exclaims. "Oh, I read the news in the papers, but there were no particulars, and I did not dream of such a tragedy. You were with her, were you not? Why was it that you could not save her?"

His gloomy eyes fell with a look of loathing on the paper in her hand.

"She died, Maud, to save _you_ from the consequences of your folly. She might have been saved but for that paper you hold in your hand," he answers, sternly.

"I do not understand you, Vane. Surely you know not what you say," Miss Langton utters in perplexity.

"Listen, and you shall be the judge," he answers, with a heavy sigh. "I sailed with my wife on the _Hesperus_----"

"And Uncle Langton?" she interrupts him to ask.

"We left Mr. Langton resting at a quiet summer resort. He was too much indisposed to return with us so soon. We were to have gone back for him as soon as your freedom had been secured," he explains.

She bows, silently, and he goes on, the pale, beautiful girl listening attentively.

"Reine came to me the day that we had been five days out, with that little metallic case in her hand. She had been very bright and happy since we started, but just then she was pale and grave. 'Vane,' she said to me, 'I have put Maud's precious paper in this little case for greater safety. But I have a strange dread of losing it. Put it in your breast pocket and keep it for me!' I--oh, Heaven! I obeyed her," he exclaims, struggling with a bitter remorse.

The beautiful prisoner regards him with silent sympathy.

"I obeyed her," he repeats, with a passionate remorse, "and that night when we sprang into the water together, fleeing from the devouring flames, it was still on my person. All hope seemed gone, and we clung to each other in the desperation of despair, determined at least to die together. Suddenly a crowded life-boat came in sight. A man shouted there was room for one more and that they would take the woman in. At these words she cried out frantically that I had Maud's precious paper, and that I was the one to be saved, and with that she loosed her hold, and with an awful suddenness pushed me from her, and sank down, down in the terrible water. With the awful shock of her loss I became unconscious. They drew me into the boat in the place of my poor girl, and the boat swept on over her awful burial-place. It was for you, Maud. She gave her beautiful, innocent life freely for you rather than risk the loss of the legacy I have brought you!"