Part 18

It ended in time, and Captain Munson sailed his ship into Melbourne with his daughter convalescent, but so worn out himself that he deputized another skipper to unload her and take her up the China Sea with a cargo of wool, while he and the girl recuperated. She was still reserved, if not frigid, in her manner; but never alluded to the unfortunate happening that killed her filial love for him. And little by little the color came to her cheek, and the light to her eye, so that her father hoped that her trouble of mind had left her.

But he hoped too much. She came to him one day and said, "Father, when does the ship come back?"

"Ought to be here next week, Zaza. Why?"

"Have you chartered her?"

"Thought of a load of hides for New York."

"Give it up. You will admit that she belongs to me, will you not?"

"When you're of age, of course. Your grandmother left you everything."

"I was of age yesterday--twenty-one, legal age in all countries. As I own the ship, I shall decide what to do with her."

"What do you want to do?"

"Go back to the middle of the Indian Ocean. There is a man there who needs help."

"Daughter, Zaza, my poor girl! Your mind has left you. Don't be so absurd. He is dead. He could not have lived. You know I'm sorry. I'll never forgive myself. But this will do no good."

"He is not dead. He is calling me all the time. I hear it strongest as I waken from sleep. I hear it as I have heard it all my life. He calls me the name I called myself when little, before I knew my own name. I called myself Zenie. I would say Zenie will do this, or that. And ever since I can remember I have heard this voice calling to me, 'Zenie, come back!' I heard it in the fog that night on the steamship, and I went to him. I could not help it. He was the man on lookout, and I seemed to know him. You came after me. Do you recall it? He told me later that he had loved a little girl named Zenie, who died. I am that girl. I know it. I know it!"

"Great God, girl! What nonsense is this? Are you crazy?"

"I fear I may be unless this stops," she answered, pausing in her restless pacing of the floor, and looking at him with dilated eyes. "I dreamed of him this morning. He was on land, and it was raining. His clothing was in tatters, he was bearded, and his hair was long and matted. He was thin with starvation and suffering; but he called to me, so beseechingly, 'Zenie, come back!'"

"You had such ravings when you were delirious, Zaza. It is part of your fever, nothing more."

"It is more! It is truth! He is alive, or I should not hear. Were he dead, I should not be alive; for he called me back from the unknown to meet him and help him. He needs me now. I am going to him!"

The father stared in silence, while the girl walked the floor.

"I expect you to waive all legal transfer of the property," she went on. "I expect you to recognize me as owner of the ship, and to take her where I direct. If you will not, I shall take such action as I find necessary, or possible, and employ another captain. If I am thwarted, I shall go myself. I am a navigator."

"Zaza, you are mad!" said the father solemnly.

"Do not say that, or I shall go mad. There are things in life past our comprehension or analysis. This is one of them. All I know is what I feel--that he is part of myself, or I part of him."

"You have fallen in love with him, and you think these things."

"Do not confound cause and effect."

"What land is he on? Do you pretend to know that?"

"We shall find him. Something will guide us--God, if you like."

The father regarded her fixedly for a moment; then sighed, and said, "I suppose I may as well humor you, for a while at least. We shall take in ballast as soon as she arrives, and go. But what a waste of time!"

So the big ship, able to earn an annual dividend of sixteen per cent. of her cost, left Melbourne in ballast, practically in charge of a crazed girl bent on finding a man drowned ten months before.

According to accepted standards no alienist would have hesitated in pronouncing her crazed. She slept little, was careless of her personal appearance, and walked the deck aimlessly, occasionally peering at the compass, and looking at the helmsman in a way to make him steer better for a time. She nagged her father when stress of wind compelled the shortening of sail. She took the sun at midday with Bridge's sextant, and took chronometer sights to work out the longitude, sharply criticizing her father for an error of a few seconds in his calculations. She grudged the necessity of reaching south to the forty-fifth parallel to avoid the strong head winds on the fortieth. Night and day she was up, worrying her distracted father and the two mates with questions, comments, and speculations. She pored over the chart, on which was pricked off the ship's position when Bridge had gone overboard, and pricked off herself the daily position as the ship beat her way westward.

But it was not till the ship had arrived at the fatal spot, and her father had prepared a series of logical deductions for her consideration, that she showed anything of definiteness in her whims and fancies. She had insisted that they heave the ship to that night, as she did not care to go farther in the darkness, and had lain down to pass the night as she could--not to sleep, she told her father, but to pray to God for light and hope and method. And in an hour she was up.

"Father," she said as she awakened the old man in his berth, "we must head south by west, half west. I know the course."

"What do you know?" grunted the wearied and conscience stricken man. "Go back to bed, and let me sleep! Sleep yourself! Let me alone, or I'll be as mad as you are!"

She got out the chart and spread it on the cabin table. Then, with her eyes gleaming with the concentrated stare of the insane, she traced out the drift of the ship since the last plotting, and from the point reached drew a line south by west, half west. It struck a large, irregular island, and she read its name, Desolation Island. She went on deck, disheveled and careless, her hair flying in the wind, and asked the officer of the watch to heave the log and give her the best of his judgment as to the ship's drift through the night. Then she went back to her berth, and did not appear until daylight, when she came up and again interviewed the officer in charge.

"Father," she said, when the old man had turned out for breakfast, "look at this chart." She spread it out, clear of the dishes, and drew a line from the night time position of the ship to the point indicated by her drift, and from this point drew a line south by west. It intercepted the other on the coast of Desolation Island.

"Last night, father," she said, "he was calling insistently. I saw him plainly, and he held a compass in his hands, and pointed to the lubber's point. It was at south by west, half west. I told you that; but you refused to believe me. I have plotted the drift during the night--eleven miles due southwest--and here is the drift on this line. Here, too, is our position this morning. Just before I wakened I saw a large compass, filling the whole room, and the lubber's point was at south by west. A south by west line from here intercepts the same spot on the coast of Desolation Island as the other. Father, he is there! It all fits in. We must go to him."

"Well, well, we'll try," said the old man weakly. "God knows I want to ease your mind, and until you are sure I suppose you'll think he's still alive. It's a tough job, though, to search an island eighty miles long where it rains continually."

Sail was made, and the wheel put up; but as the wind was light it was nightfall before the big, light ship sailed into an estuary, with two men at the leadlines, and anchored in the dusk, not half a mile from the beach. The girl would have lowered a boat and gone ashore at once; but this was beyond all reason, they told her, the two mates joining the captain in the protest. This was not what they had signed for, they contended.

So, up and down from her berth to the deck, and back and forth from end to end of the ship, the half demented young woman passed the night, and at the first glimmer of daylight was beyond her limitations. The quarter boat was proved leaky, and had been left behind. All others were inboard, stowed upside down on the forward house. The ship's one life-buoy had gone with Bridge.

She procured a piece of spun yarn from the booby hatch, triced her skirts up to her waist, and, unseen by the sleepy anchor watch forward, went down the side on a rope's end belayed to a pin. There was a brisk wind blowing in from the open sea, and a short, crispy wave motion with which she must contend; but she struck out bravely for the beach.

"I am coming!" she called wildly. "I am coming--coming!"

Skilled seamen and fishermen are often deceived in the look of a surf viewed from seaward, and many a boat's crew that hopes to beach safely is caught and half drowned in a furious turmoil that can be seen only from the shore. This mad girl had no advantage of such experience, and probably would not have been influenced by it had it come to her. She swam vigorously at first, then rested awhile on her back, and went on, swimming till tired, and floating until rested.

But, at a hundred yards from the beach, she found conditions which precluded these spells of rest. The seas broke over her, and floating was impossible. She was forced to expend her strength. Then the spun-yarn belt loosened, and her skirts embarrassed her movements; it became more and more difficult to make headway. All she could do was to keep her head above water, while the aching pain of fatigue attacked her limbs, and the bitter salt water flung into her mouth by the spiteful seas choked its way down her throat, and into her lungs. Struggling weakly, and more weakly, she sank beneath and remained until consciousness was nearly gone; then the back wash of the undertow brought her to the surface, and with the one breath of air she procured came another inrush of water. Barely moving her limbs now, she went under again; and when next she appeared she had ceased to struggle, or breathe, or think.

Once more she went under, and when she came to light the surf was rolling her up the beach, and dragging her back--an inert, lifeless form, with eyes wide open and staring, and a wealth of golden hair wrapped round the pale and wasted face. A final heave of the pitiless sea threw her face downward on a fringe of rocks at high-water mark. One large stone caught the body at the waist line, and the head sank down beyond it until the forehead rested on another. Thus supported, the chin sank, the mouth opened, and the water from her lungs issued forth in a tiny stream and went back into the sea, which, having killed her, now left her alone.

But the cold rain still pelted her.

* * * * *

A mile away a thing crawled out of a cave--a mindless creature in the form of a man, a disorganized organism that looked into the morning sky with lightless eyes and meaningless smile. Emaciated and begrimed, with hair and beard to his shoulders, clad in what had once been shirt and trousers, but were now a flimsy covering of rags, he presented but one human attribute beyond his meaningless smile: the articulate voice.

He began to move, in a swift walk that soon increased to a jog trot and then to a run. Straight as a path may go, over rocks, hills, and marshy ground, down the declivity to the sea, went this smiling creature, pausing at times to look into the sky and murmur, "Zenie, come back!"

There was something yellow on the beach, right in his path, and at the same swift run he approached it. He stood silently over the quiet form of the dead girl, looking at it with smile unchanged, but with the beginning of expression flitting and twitching over his gaunt features. Then he stooped and turned the body over, bringing to view the pale, damp face.

"Zenie, come back!" he breathed softly. "Zenie, come back!"

The girl's chest rose convulsively, and sank, then rose again with a deeper inhalation, and the staring eyes closed.

The mindless thing stood erect, with a face suffused by a rush of blood, staggered, and turned; then, in a deep, sonorous voice, declaimed:

"'Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.'"

It was the finish of the quatrain begun by Bridge, and interrupted by the blow of the cane.

"What?" he continued, as he looked down on the faintly breathing figure of the girl. "Miss Munson! What--what is it? Where are we? We were in the alleyway a minute ago. What has happened? Tell me! Where's the ship?"

The girl's eyes opened, and a faint smile came to her face.

"What is it?" he insisted, stooping down and taking her cold, wet hands. "Miss Munson, what has happened? We're ashore, and you're all wet! Have you been overboard? You said you could swim! Why, there's the ship now, at anchor! They're putting off with a boat! But why? Tell me, Miss Munson! What does it mean? I've grown a beard! Why--tell me! What is it? Zaza, tell me!"

The cold, wet hands of the girl closed gently on his big, bony fingers. "Not Zaza!" she whispered. "Zenie! I am Zenie! I know I am!"

THE SLEEP WALKER

There was nothing abnormal in the character of Beverton except a tendency, while very young, to walk in his sleep, and nothing in his twenty-five years of life of which he was really ashamed except a deed of his infancy, born of the above-named tendency, for which he had been severely punished at the time. The punishment, no doubt, impressed the incident on his mind, and he recalled it occasionally, always with a flush of shame, while he lived his years of boyhood, youth, and early manhood. He remembered being rudely awakened from sleep, not in a crib where his mother had placed him, nor beside her, where he sometimes slept, but flat on his back on the carpeted floor of a long hall, dimly illumined by distant gas jets, the soft glow from which showed him a woman in a night-robe looking down upon him with angry eyes, and a purple-faced child, a little younger than himself, gasping and choking in her arms. His cheek burned from the slap she had given him, and his head hurt from the impact with the floor, so he joined the other baby in protest, and the uproar brought several uniformed hall-boys and a night clerk, who led him to the room occupied by his parents. After punishment, and when able to understand, he learned what he had done in his sleep--left his crib, sought the hall, buried his small fingers in the throat of this other sleep-walking infant--whom he had never seen before--and might possibly have murdered it had not its mother wakened and arrived in time to interfere. He was well spanked for the feat.

His mother believed in both punishment and prayer as factors in reform. For a long time he received nightly spankings in bed, with injunctions to stay where he was put until morning, and supplemented his "Now I lay me down to sleep" with a plea to be cured of his infirmity.

The treatment was successful; the unconscious cerebration left him, but the spankings continued until he had outgrown the conscious cruelty common to all children, then, having ceased vivisection of insects and angle-worms, and overcome his antagonism to the aged, the helpless, and the infirm of his own species, he began his development into a cheery, generous, and humane character, which, assisted by good health, good home training, and a good education, found, at manhood, outward expression in six feet of good looks.

These good points brought him a wife--a creature as well favored as himself, but his very antithesis in disposition and physique. He was of the blond type, calm, masterful, and imperturbable in temperament; she of the brunette, warm-hearted, and impulsive, yielding him neither obedience nor spoken approval, and meeting him half-way only upon the common ground of love, which Mother Nature provides for the agreement of her opposites.

Beverton was content with her, and managed her in a way peculiar to himself. Whether it was the best way or not, is hard to decide; for it is possible that with more antagonism from him there would have been less from her. But it was successful. As instance--she had thrown a plate of newly buttered griddle-cakes across the breakfast table; her aim being good, they had struck him fairly in the face, and the melted butter smeared not only his face and shirt-front, but a gorgeous puff cravat which her own fingers had made for him. He smilingly left the table, changed his raiment, and they finished breakfast in silence; then, instead of going to business, he cleared the kitchen table and began cleaning the neckwear. A full hour he spent at the task, much in her way and to the neglect of his business, when she broke her moody silence with:

"What are you doing? Why do you not go down town?"

"I will soon, my dear," he answered amiably. "Just as soon as I get the syrup and butter out of this tie you made. I don't mind washing my face twice instead of once, but I hate to see this tie soiled."

She was upon him instantly, her arms about his neck and tears in her eyes, while she begged, brokenly, for forgiveness. It was granted, of course, and for a long time griddle-cakes were omitted from their discussions.

Again, inspired by a natural and wifely desire to "jog some spirit into him," she had carefully prepared a slippery place on the front yard walk which a slight snow concealed from his view when he arrived in the evening. He came down hard, and though he was not hurt, he pretended to be; for he saw through her trick at once, and to punish her howled for assistance and blamed his own carelessness, but uttered no word of suspicion or reproach. Neighbors assisted him in, and all that evening, prone upon the couch, he enjoyed the ministrations of a contrite and tearful wife, who tried to atone for her sins of commission (and omission, for she did not confess) by softly spoken sympathy and frequent service of watered brandy to relieve the pain--a remedy which Beverton liked, but which was denied him as a beverage.

And so, as their young married life went on, he shamed and tamed her, not by breaking her spirit, but by compelling her to break it herself; and though she remained a tigress against those she _imagined_ his enemies--for the man had none--she displayed toward him an attitude of meekness, adoration, and almost slavish obedience which made him at times regret the transformation; for her tantrums were the charm which had first attracted him.

But at this period it seemed to him that the tantrums had struck in. They slept in separate rooms, and one night he awoke to find her leaning over him with a pail of water poised above his head. Before he could catch the tilting pail, she had deluged him, but even this did not disturb his equanimity; he merely sprang out of bed, caught her by the arm, and asked what he had done to deserve a ducking. She answered with a scream, and, dropping the pail, clung to him in the darkness. She did not know where she was--she could not explain, but at last he understood.

"Do you walk in your sleep, Grace?" he asked, gently.

"Oh, no--yes," she stammered; "but not since our marriage. I thought it had left me. Oh, I'm so sorry. Did I waken you?"

"With a bucket of water," he answered, dryly as was possible in his moist condition. "I had the habit when very young, but they cured me by radical treatment. You're too old to be punished, Grace, but we must find _some_ way. You may set fire to me next time."

But he knew of no way, and when she had repeated the feat with the pail of water, and a little later made a midnight assault upon him with the carving-knife, he could only nail her bedroom window partly open for ventilation, and put a bolt on his side of her door. Her grief and horror were pathetic, and it sorely tried Beverton to lock up his wife like a wild beast; but she had become a menace to his health, and perhaps his life; for, though on each occasion he had wakened in time to realize her intent, he had not wakened in time to save himself completely. He had not quite avoided the downcoming knife; aimed at his heart, it had grazed his arm as he wrenched from under.

It was a very fine piece of polished hardware, this knife--and belonged to a carving-set given to them at their wedding. On the day following her demonstration with it, and before he had announced her sentence of nightly imprisonment, she had bound the knife, fork, and steel together with a rosette of ribbons, and with the aid of a step-ladder hung them high on the dining-room wall; then she burned the ladder, and when Beverton arrived in the evening showed him the exhibit.

"There," she said, with a determined little frown, "is the only deadly weapon in the house, and it is out of my reach. Let it stay there; I hate the sight of it, and could never bear to have it on the table again; but if it be up there--out of the way--where I can't help seeing it, perhaps--perhaps--it will--" The rest was convulsive sobbing.

Beverton comforted her, and meaning to lock her up at bedtime, suggested putting the harrowing reminder out of sight in some safe place; but she would not consent, even though she approved of the bolt on her door.

"I might find that knife in my sleep, no matter where you hid it," she said. "Lock me up, instead, and then, if I pick the lock, I cannot reach the knife."

So there it remained, and as they used their dining-room for a sitting-room and as she had resolutely placed the beribboned and glittering display squarely opposite her favorite seat, she had full opportunity of benefiting by any deterrent influence it possessed. As to its possessing such an influence, she could only surmise and hope; however, she confessed that it fascinated her.

"I can't keep my eyes off it," she explained one evening, while they sat reading in the dining-room. "For the dozenth time to-night I've found my gaze creep up to that knife. Why is it? And the hateful thing makes me sleepy--just looking at it."

"Well," responded Beverton, grimly, "if it could only keep you asleep, it would be all right, wouldn't it?" Then, observing that the speech had pained her, he arose, kissed the flushed cheek, and added gently, "Don't look at it, girl; face the other way and get interested in your book. What are you reading?"

"It's so hard to get interested," she said, wearily, "in what you don't understand. It's a sea novel." She held up the book and turned the leaves. "What does topgallant clewlines mean, Tom?--fore-and-aft, clew-up and clew-down? And here's a word, 'mizzen.' And clew-garnet--what does that mean? It's a strange language."

"Blest if I know. Pick the story out. Never mind the descriptions."

They resumed their reading, and it was ten minutes later when Beverton, aroused by the unusual quiet, looked again at his wife. The book lay on her lap, held open by her hands, but she was not reading--she was staring up at the hardware glistening in the lamplight, with eyes that were wide-open, but almost as lightless as the eyes of a corpse. And as Beverton looked at them, the eyelids fluttered together and closed in sleep. Beverton watched, and in a moment they opened, with an expression in them that he had never seen before--so strange, hard, and murderous it seemed.

"Grace," said the startled man, rising to his feet, "are you awake?"

"Awake," she screamed--"screech" better describes the hard, raspy tone with which she answered him. "Aye, awake and ready--for eighteen hours, come eight bells; and all guns o' the port battery down the mizzen hatch, and all hands drunk but the cook. What's to do?"

"Wake up, Grace," he commanded.

A convulsive shiver passed through her, she uttered a little gasp, then closed her eyes, and opened them with her natural smile.