Author Unknown
It was a stormy night in June. The fair weather of many weeks had been followed by a tempest of more than ordinary severity, and the elements seemed resolved to prove that their previous mildness should not be taken as a sign of continuous inactivity. Amid the blinding rain, the howling wind, the constant rolling of the thunder, and the flashing of the lightning, a man sat bare-headed and unmoved. For in his own mind there raged a tempest greater than that of Nature. Big drops rolled down his face other than those from the clouds; his form was shaken, but not by the blast; and his groaning could be heard above the cracking of the branches and the sighing of the leaves. In his hand he held a withered bunch of violets. And, in truth, his case was passing pitiful. He had been happy—too happy; and, without warning, the cup of happiness had been dashed from his lips. Before him stretched the future—a vast sea of doubt and care, with no beacon of hope to illumine its troubled waters. And of the past there remained to him only the bitter sweet memories of happiness, fled for ever with the fragrance of the flowers at which he gazed. The story connected with them was neither long nor uncommon. Cyril Dare loved Violet Romaine; Violet Romaine said she loved Cyril Dare, and on this stormy day in June they were to have been married. Only a week ago she had given him the violets.
"They are my flowers," she said. "You must keep them for this little while till you keep me for ever.''
And he had kept them next his heart, and she—well, she had quietly left him for another ere the week was over, without explanation or good-bye. Yet this miserable man loved her better than ever. "A fool, an ass, an idiot," so said everyone who knew him and her.
The scene changes. A great ship is lying like a log on the ocean, doomed to destruction, though the sea is smooth as glass, and no storm has borne her down. The clouds of smoke rising from her hold tell the terrible tale. Efforts, gigantic efforts, have been made to save the vessel, but they are useless, and despair settles down on every countenance. In a few hours at most the Empress of the East will have sunk beneath the wave, almost within sight of land. She is on her passage from India, and on her deck crowd the passengers, some white with terror and speechless, some nervous and noisy, some cursing, some praying, but most with that blank look which means so much and yet tells so little. There are old men who have come back to die in their native land, middle-aged men who are returning to spend the fortunes they have realized, young men who have been looking forward to meeting fathers, mothers, wives, or sweethearts. And, worse still, there are women and children. The captain of the ship stands in earnest conversation with his officers and a knot of passengers; the crew, consisting of English and Lascars, tired and begrimed with smoke, are whispering moodily together a little way off. At length the captain speaks decisively, "There is no help for it. It must be done."
"Then," says an old, white-haired man next him, "there is no hope."
"There is none," is the decided reply.
Meanwhile, jets of flame are bursting from the hatchways, and a roaring sound can be plainly heard by all. The captain addresses the crowd—"Passengers and crew of the Empress of the East, I regret to inform you that in less than two hours the ship will founder."
Some of the crew cry, "'To the boats!" The captain draws a revolver from his breast, and says—
"The first man who touches even a rope without my orders dies by my hand." Then he continues, "It is impossible to save the lives of all—we have not boats to hold them."
A smothered groan rises from the audience, but the captain goes on unmoved—
"I have, therefore, consulted with my officers and other gentlemen, and we have decided on the course to be pursued. All the women and children will first be lowered into the boats." As he speaks, there is a general rush by the ship's company to the davits, but by each boat stand two officers, pistol in hand. The skipper, after a moment's pause, continues—
"We are two hundred and fifteen men on board. The boats will only hold one hundred and fifty. Sixty-five, of whom one will be myself, must therefore" here his voice quivers in spite of his self-possession— "perish with the ship."
On this a wild shout half yell, half wail— bursts from the men around him.
"Silence!" he shouts, "silence, and hear me! It will be decided by lot—those who go and those who stay." He turns to the chief officer by his side, "Mr. Peterson, give me the papers."
Mr. Peterson hands him a basket containing a number of small folded pieces of paper. There is a dead silence. The captain says—
"There are two hundred and fifteen numbers in this basket. Each man in turn will draw one. All below one hundred and fifty will be received in the boats, all above will stay—with me. My own number is one hundred and fifty. In the meantime, Mr. Peterson, see that my instructions are carried out. The passengers and ship's company will draw turn and turn about."
Then rises a fresh uproar. There are entreaties, prayers, expostulations, menaces imprecations. The captain is unmoved. He holds open his basket, and says, "Draw," while Mr. Peterson reads aloud from a roll of names. As each one takes the fatal slip, his number is recorded. And the scene is so dreadful that no pen could describe it, no tongue tell it.
There are three pieces of paper remaining in the basket.
"Major Dare!" calls Mr. Peterson.
A bronzed soldier approaches and takes his lot.
"One hundred and thirty-six," says Mr. Peterson.
"Abraham Brown!"
"One hundred and twenty-three."
The last number lies in the basket.
"Captain Hall!"
"One hundred and sixty-three," is the fatal answer; and a woman's shriek tells that the captain is very dear to someone on board.
They are, all things considered, wonderfully calm, these men about to die; and they watch the preparations for the salvation of others with almost mechanical rigidity. In fact they are stunned by their situation.
Major Dare is standing by the wheel awaiting his turn to be summoned, for two of the boats have already been lowered. A woman, pale and tearful, but very beautiful, approaches him. She is Violet Hall, once Violet Romaine, now Captain Hall's wife,
"I want to speak to you," she says.
"Well?"
"Save my husband, Cyril Dare," she sobs hysterically.
"I—I cannot," he answers.
"You loved me once," she whispers, "and —"
"I love you still," he interrupts hoarsely. "I shall always love you."
"Then save him," she pleads; "Save him for my sake "
"How?" he cries, wildly. "How?"
She hesitates, but only for a second, as Mr. Peterson's voice is heard summoning the elect to be saved.
"Give him your number," she wails; "and you—take his."
Then she sinks at his feet, not daring to meet his eye.
He is for a brief space dumbfounded at the splendid audacity of her request. Then the great fact forces itself upon him. She wishes him to give his life for his rival's. He looks at her lying inanimate before him. That look decides his answer. Life itself is as nothing when weighed against her agony.
"Be it so," he murmurs. Then raising her tenderly, he gives her one pure kiss upon the brow and leaves her in a trance. He finds Captain Hall crouched in the paddle-box, with one of his children clambering on his knee.
"Hall," says Major Dare, "let me look at your number."
The Captain gives it, groaning.
"Curse it!" he hisses, "my usual luck. What do you want it for?'" he adds, fiercely.
"I think there is some mistake," replies Cyril. "There, I thought so. Why, my dear fellow, your number is 136 not 163. I congratulate you."
Hall looks at him stupidly, and then at the paper. He cannot (and never will) understand the matter. He is about to speak, but Dare has gone back to where he left Mrs. Hall. She has recovered from her swoon, and is leaning against the side of the vessel.
"Violet," says Cyril, quietly, "I have done your bidding. He is saved."
She gazes at him, and repeats mechanically—
"He is saved—and you?"
Cyril smiles sadly as he answers—
"Lost—for you."
And as he speaks she forgets everything— the fire, fear of death, hope of safety. She sees only Cyril Dare, and the whole great force of his great love bursts upon her soul, tearing aside the selfish barrier of her own nature, rending the ties of her wedded life, and leaving him victor in the fight which has been fought between them. She would tell him all this, but she is speechless, and it is too late now. Her name is called, but she does not move.
Cyril says, "Go, my darling."
The spell is broken, and tears fall fast as she kneels before him.
"Forgive me!" she cries; "forgive me! I love you!"
They call her name again.
Cyril grasps her in his arms and carries her to the gangway.
"Good-bye," he whispers; "good-bye for ever, my own darling."
She cannot answer: she is past that.
Then they lower her into the boat beside her husband and children. And he, standing on the deck of the sinking ship, does not regret his sacrifice.
Pieces of charred wreck are being washed on to the beach of a Cornish fishing village. They are all that remains of the good ship "Empress of the East." And among the bodies cast upon the strand is one identified as that of Major Cyril Dare. Round his neck is found a chain suspending a large gold locket containing neither ringlet nor portrait, only the dry fragments of what was once a bunch of violets. Each year, on the anniversary of the shipwreck, a lady, prematurely grey, comes to lay a wreath of "her own flowers" on his grave overlooking the restless wave. By the villagers she is taken for a sister or a cousin, but her secret no one knows.
This is her punishment.
"They are my flowers," she said. "You must keep them for this little while till you keep me for ever.''
And he had kept them next his heart, and she—well, she had quietly left him for another ere the week was over, without explanation or good-bye. Yet this miserable man loved her better than ever. "A fool, an ass, an idiot," so said everyone who knew him and her.
The scene changes. A great ship is lying like a log on the ocean, doomed to destruction, though the sea is smooth as glass, and no storm has borne her down. The clouds of smoke rising from her hold tell the terrible tale. Efforts, gigantic efforts, have been made to save the vessel, but they are useless, and despair settles down on every countenance. In a few hours at most the Empress of the East will have sunk beneath the wave, almost within sight of land. She is on her passage from India, and on her deck crowd the passengers, some white with terror and speechless, some nervous and noisy, some cursing, some praying, but most with that blank look which means so much and yet tells so little. There are old men who have come back to die in their native land, middle-aged men who are returning to spend the fortunes they have realized, young men who have been looking forward to meeting fathers, mothers, wives, or sweethearts. And, worse still, there are women and children. The captain of the ship stands in earnest conversation with his officers and a knot of passengers; the crew, consisting of English and Lascars, tired and begrimed with smoke, are whispering moodily together a little way off. At length the captain speaks decisively, "There is no help for it. It must be done."
"Then," says an old, white-haired man next him, "there is no hope."
"There is none," is the decided reply.
Meanwhile, jets of flame are bursting from the hatchways, and a roaring sound can be plainly heard by all. The captain addresses the crowd—"Passengers and crew of the Empress of the East, I regret to inform you that in less than two hours the ship will founder."
Some of the crew cry, "'To the boats!" The captain draws a revolver from his breast, and says—
"The first man who touches even a rope without my orders dies by my hand." Then he continues, "It is impossible to save the lives of all—we have not boats to hold them."
A smothered groan rises from the audience, but the captain goes on unmoved—
"I have, therefore, consulted with my officers and other gentlemen, and we have decided on the course to be pursued. All the women and children will first be lowered into the boats." As he speaks, there is a general rush by the ship's company to the davits, but by each boat stand two officers, pistol in hand. The skipper, after a moment's pause, continues—
"We are two hundred and fifteen men on board. The boats will only hold one hundred and fifty. Sixty-five, of whom one will be myself, must therefore" here his voice quivers in spite of his self-possession— "perish with the ship."
On this a wild shout half yell, half wail— bursts from the men around him.
"Silence!" he shouts, "silence, and hear me! It will be decided by lot—those who go and those who stay." He turns to the chief officer by his side, "Mr. Peterson, give me the papers."
Mr. Peterson hands him a basket containing a number of small folded pieces of paper. There is a dead silence. The captain says—
"There are two hundred and fifteen numbers in this basket. Each man in turn will draw one. All below one hundred and fifty will be received in the boats, all above will stay—with me. My own number is one hundred and fifty. In the meantime, Mr. Peterson, see that my instructions are carried out. The passengers and ship's company will draw turn and turn about."
Then rises a fresh uproar. There are entreaties, prayers, expostulations, menaces imprecations. The captain is unmoved. He holds open his basket, and says, "Draw," while Mr. Peterson reads aloud from a roll of names. As each one takes the fatal slip, his number is recorded. And the scene is so dreadful that no pen could describe it, no tongue tell it.
There are three pieces of paper remaining in the basket.
"Major Dare!" calls Mr. Peterson.
A bronzed soldier approaches and takes his lot.
"One hundred and thirty-six," says Mr. Peterson.
"Abraham Brown!"
"One hundred and twenty-three."
The last number lies in the basket.
"Captain Hall!"
"One hundred and sixty-three," is the fatal answer; and a woman's shriek tells that the captain is very dear to someone on board.
They are, all things considered, wonderfully calm, these men about to die; and they watch the preparations for the salvation of others with almost mechanical rigidity. In fact they are stunned by their situation.
Major Dare is standing by the wheel awaiting his turn to be summoned, for two of the boats have already been lowered. A woman, pale and tearful, but very beautiful, approaches him. She is Violet Hall, once Violet Romaine, now Captain Hall's wife,
"I want to speak to you," she says.
"Well?"
"Save my husband, Cyril Dare," she sobs hysterically.
"I—I cannot," he answers.
"You loved me once," she whispers, "and —"
"I love you still," he interrupts hoarsely. "I shall always love you."
"Then save him," she pleads; "Save him for my sake "
"How?" he cries, wildly. "How?"
She hesitates, but only for a second, as Mr. Peterson's voice is heard summoning the elect to be saved.
"Give him your number," she wails; "and you—take his."
Then she sinks at his feet, not daring to meet his eye.
He is for a brief space dumbfounded at the splendid audacity of her request. Then the great fact forces itself upon him. She wishes him to give his life for his rival's. He looks at her lying inanimate before him. That look decides his answer. Life itself is as nothing when weighed against her agony.
"Be it so," he murmurs. Then raising her tenderly, he gives her one pure kiss upon the brow and leaves her in a trance. He finds Captain Hall crouched in the paddle-box, with one of his children clambering on his knee.
"Hall," says Major Dare, "let me look at your number."
The Captain gives it, groaning.
"Curse it!" he hisses, "my usual luck. What do you want it for?'" he adds, fiercely.
"I think there is some mistake," replies Cyril. "There, I thought so. Why, my dear fellow, your number is 136 not 163. I congratulate you."
Hall looks at him stupidly, and then at the paper. He cannot (and never will) understand the matter. He is about to speak, but Dare has gone back to where he left Mrs. Hall. She has recovered from her swoon, and is leaning against the side of the vessel.
"Violet," says Cyril, quietly, "I have done your bidding. He is saved."
She gazes at him, and repeats mechanically—
"He is saved—and you?"
Cyril smiles sadly as he answers—
"Lost—for you."
And as he speaks she forgets everything— the fire, fear of death, hope of safety. She sees only Cyril Dare, and the whole great force of his great love bursts upon her soul, tearing aside the selfish barrier of her own nature, rending the ties of her wedded life, and leaving him victor in the fight which has been fought between them. She would tell him all this, but she is speechless, and it is too late now. Her name is called, but she does not move.
Cyril says, "Go, my darling."
The spell is broken, and tears fall fast as she kneels before him.
"Forgive me!" she cries; "forgive me! I love you!"
They call her name again.
Cyril grasps her in his arms and carries her to the gangway.
"Good-bye," he whispers; "good-bye for ever, my own darling."
She cannot answer: she is past that.
Then they lower her into the boat beside her husband and children. And he, standing on the deck of the sinking ship, does not regret his sacrifice.
* * *
This is her punishment.
Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 18 November 1880, supplement page 2
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