Chapter 4

"That isn't any wind, Jack," I said; "it's still and foggy. I'm sure there's somebody upstairs."

"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself, captain," Jack answered, almost angrily.

He was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the fireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that could make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead. I knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into the bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was streaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on the landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for a servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that the door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had locked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was a room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had shutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of old gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with sea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the bed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I went in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four walls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked looking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody there. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and turned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I had turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door inside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went downstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to look behind them on board the _Helen B._

Jack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea that he didn't like to stay inside alone.

"Well?" he asked, trying to seem careless.

"I didn't find anybody," I answered, "but I heard somebody moving about." "I told you it was the wind," said Jack, contemptuously. "I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often."

There was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down toward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would take Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we strolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the tide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she rose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes. I felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I talked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and before long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.

I haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose you have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was pretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of the ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's and held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was still speaking.

Mamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud scream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were half frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her what was the matter, and the family gathered round.

"Your hand's like ice," said Mamie to Jack, "and it's all wet!"

She kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.

"It don't feel cold to me," said Jack, and he held the back of his hand against his cheek. "Try it again."

Mamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at first, and then took hold of it.

"Why, that's funny," she said.

"She's been as nervous as a witch all day," said Mrs. Brewster, severely.

"It is natural," said the parson, "that young Mrs. Benton should experience a little agitation at such a moment."

Most of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy people, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the middle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards, and that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over, and then that everybody should go home, and the young couple would walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I could see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter of a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to take me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me to stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to take off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put on something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she couldn't walk home like that, could she?

So when we had all had a little supper the party began to break up, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went upstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a smoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.

The full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked down toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and white, and there was only the light burning in the window. The fog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for the tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last reach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.

Jack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for coming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy; and so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those footsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem so lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice talking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was ready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the morning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's coat.

Well, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the day's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that path alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them good-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with them by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the station by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed to me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed her mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my ashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the straight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs. Brewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They walked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack put his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and I saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the moonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad and black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening with the unevenness of the ground beside the path.

I thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she was a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she answered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the door behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the couple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the road, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps I stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something queer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again, and it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at what I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was just the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head taller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and round hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a sailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on the water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had settled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind: and one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just above Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a minute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for dinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought something had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my life. It was more like a bad dream after that.

I was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help following the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would happen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just melt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.

I moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the grass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might hear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five minutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an hour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She didn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by little they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards from them when they reached the door. Something made me stand still then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that happened just as I see you now.

Mamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward I saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't move to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all three stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I heard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a steam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.

I tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair rising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and swung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to walk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight down that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the moonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the gate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where the tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for them across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled across the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two were at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were far out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's head had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp beside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his death. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was white beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and steadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to their shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of Jack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went straight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was just a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.

It has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a chance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I thought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I always thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack, and Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then Jim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If that's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the next day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and that her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned himself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if they'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen, for they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had come too late.

When I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving mad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her head again.

Oh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know whether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port where I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore in a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked together, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.

* * * * *

Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford, was born in Rome, educated by a French governess; then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where they thought him a mathematician in those days; at Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a professorship.

At one time in India hard times nearly forced him into enlistment in the British army, but a chance opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel, "Mr. Isaacs." "If it had not been for him," Mr. Crawford has been known to say, "I might at this moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American college;" for that idea persisted after his return to the United States, where he entered Harvard for special study of the subject.

But from the May evening when the story of the interesting man at Simla was first told in a club smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.

"Mr. Isaacs," published in 1882, was followed almost at once by "Dr. Claudius." Then _The Atlantic Monthly_ claimed a serial, "A Roman Singer," in 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical and descriptive works entitled "Ave Roma Immortalis" and "The Rulers of the South."

To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of the character which suggested it, is the preëminent thing. As the critics say:--

"He is an artist, a born story-teller and colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and vivid."

His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless to another characteristic quality:--

"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd characters and his magical skill in seeming to make his readers witnesses of the spectacles."

His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including varied characters from the old families of Rome, the glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor, to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and fascinates the reader.

"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love passionate and pure; the student of character, the subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the historian will approve its conscientious historic accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads."

* * * * *

THE NOVELS OF F. MARION CRAWFORD

NEW UNIFORM EDITION

Dr. Claudius A Roman Singer Zoroaster Don Orsino Marion Darche A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled Taquisara Via Crucis Sant' Ilario The Ralstons Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday Mr. Isaacs A Tale of a Lonely Parish Saracinesca Paul Patoff The Witch of Prague Pietro Ghisleri Corleone Children of the King Katherine Lauderdale To Leeward

Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80

* * * * *

_In preparation in the Uniform Edition_

An American Politician Marzio's Crucifix With the Immortals Greifenstein The Three Fates Casa Braccio. 2 vols. Love in Idleness

* * * * *

F. MARION CRAWFORD'S MOST RECENT NOVELS

CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome _Cloth_, $1.50 "The reincarnation of a great love is the real story, and that is well worth reading."--_San Francisco Chronicle._

MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice _Cloth_, $1.50

IN THE PALACE OF THE KING A Love Story of Old Madrid _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50

* * * * *

HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS

AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS Studies from the Chronicles of Rome _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._

RULERS OF THE SOUTH Sicily, Calabria, Malta _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._

* * * * *

The Macmillan Little Novels BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS

Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth 16mo. 50 cents each

PHILOSOPHY FOUR A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY By Owen Wister Author of "The Virginian" etc.

MAN OVERBOARD By F. Marion Crawford Author of "Cecilia," "Marietta," etc.

MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT By Winston Churchill Author of "The Crisis," "Richard Carvel," etc.

MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND By Gertrude Atherton Author of "The Conqueror," "The Splendid Idle Forties," etc.

* * * * *

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York

End of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford