Under the Waves by Robert Michael Ballantyne (books you have to read .txt) 📖

spoke a few words in an under tone to the owner.

"Excuse me one minute, Mr Berrington," said the latter, rising quickly. "I shall return immediately. There is a newspaper, to look--no--where is it? Ah! No matter: here is a list of the passengers going out to China in the _Warrior_. It may amuse you. Perhaps you may find a friend amongst them."

Left alone, Edgar ran his eye carelessly over the names--thinking the while of the disagreeables of another long sea-voyage, and strengthening his resolves not to be tempted to go.

Now, the careless glance at this passenger-list was the apparently trifling incident on which hinged the whole of our hero's future career; his careless glance became suddenly fixed and attentive; his eyebrows lifted to their utmost elevation and his face flushed crimson, for there he beheld the names of Charles Hazlit, Esquire, and his daughter, Miss Aileen Hazlit.

Just at that moment the owner of the _Warrior_ returned. This owner was an intelligent, shrewd man--quick to observe. He noted the flush on Edgar's countenance, and Edgar immediately blew his nose with violence to account for the flush.

"Well now, Mr Berrington, what say you?" he resumed.

Poor Edgar knew not what to say. A reply had to be given at once. He had no time to think. Aileen going to China! An offer of a situation in the same vessel!

"Well, sir," said our hero, with sudden decision, "I will go."

Of course the owner expressed himself well pleased, and then there followed a deal of nautico-scientific talk, after which Edgar ventured to say--

"I observe the name of Mr Charles Hazlit on your list. He is an acquaintance of mine. Do you happen to know what takes him so far from home?"

"Can't say exactly," replied the other. "I think some one told me his affairs in China require looking after, and his daughter's health necessitates a long sea-voyage."

"Health!" exclaimed Edgar, striving to look and speak in a comparatively indifferent manner. "She was quite well when I saw her last."

"Very likely," said the owner, with a smile, "but it does not take long to make a young lady ill--especially when her heart is touched. Some sort of rumour floats in my mind to the effect that Miss Hazlit is going out to China to be married, or requires to go out because she doesn't want to be married--I forget which. But it comes pretty much to the same thing in the end!"

"Hah!" said Edgar shortly.

If he had said "Oh!" in tones of agony, it would have been more truly expressive of his feelings.

The moment he got out of the office and felt the cool air of the street he repented of his decision and pronounced himself to be a consummate donkey!

"There," thought he, "I've made a fool of myself. I've engaged for a long voyage in a capacity which precludes the possibility of my associating with the passengers, for not only must nearly all my waking hours be spent down beside the engine, but when I come up to cool myself I must perforce do so in dirty costume, with oily hands and face, quite in an unfit state to be seen by Aileen, and without the slightest right to take any notice of her. Oh! Donkey--goose that you are, Eddy! But you've done it now, and can't undo it, therefore you must go through with it."

Thinking of himself in this lowly strain he went home to the solitude of his lodging, sat down before his tea-table, thrust both hands into his pockets, and, in a by no means unhappy frame of mind, brooded over his trials and sorrows.

Let us change the scene now. We are out upon the sea--in a floating palace. And oh how that palace rushes onward, ever onward, without rest, without check, night and day, cleaving its way irresistibly through the mighty deep. Mighty! Ah! _how_ mighty no one on board can tell so well as that thin, gentle, evidently dying youth who leans over the stern watching the screws and the "wake" that seems to rush behind, marking off, as it were mile by mile, the vast and ever-increasing space--never to be re-traversed he knows full well--that separates him from home and all that is dear to him on earth.

The palace is made of iron--hard, unyielding, unbeautiful, uncompromising iron,--but her cushions are soft, her gilding is gorgeous, her fittings are elegant, her food is sumptuous, her society-- at least much of it--is refined. Of course representatives of the unrefined are also there--in the after-cabin too--just as there are specimens of the refined in the fore-cabin. But, taking them all in all, they are a remarkably harmonious band, the inhabitants of this iron palace, from the captain to the cabin-boy inclusive. The latter is a sprightly imp; the former is--to use the expression of one of the unrefined--"a brick." He is not tall--few sea-captains seem to be so-- but he is very broad, and manly, and as strong as an elephant. He is a pattern captain. Gallant to the lady passengers, chatty with the gentlemen, polite to the unrefined, sedately grave among the officers and crew, and jocular to the children; in short, he is all things to all men--and much of the harmony on board is due to his unconscious influence. He has a handsome face, glittering black eyes, an aquiline nose that commands respect, and a black beard and moustache that covered a firm mouth and chin.

Grinding is one of the prominent ideas that are suggested on board the iron palace. There are many other ideas, no doubt. Among seventy or eighty educated and intelligent human beings of both sexes and all ages it could not be otherwise. We allude, however, to the boat--not to the passengers. The screw grinds and the engine grinds incessantly. When one thinks of a thing, or things, going round and round, or up and down, regularly, uninterruptedly, vigorously, doggedly, obstinately, hour after hour, one is impressed, to say the least; and when one thinks of the said thing, or things, going on thus, night and day without rest, one is solemnised; but when one meditates on these motions being continued for many weeks together, one has a tendency to feel mentally overwhelmed.

The great crank that grinds the screw, and is itself ground by the piston--not to mention the cylinder and boiler--works in a dark place deep down in the engine-room, like a giant hand constantly engaged on deeds of violence and evil.

Here Edgar Berrington, clothed in white canvas and oil, finds genial companionship. He dotes on the great crank. It is a sympathetic thing. It represents his feelings wonderfully. Returning from the deck after inhaling a little fresh air, he leans against the iron bulkhead in these clanking depths and gazes gloomily and for prolonged periods at the crank while it grinds with a sort of vicious energy that seems in strange harmony with his soul. Sometimes he grinds his teeth as a sort of obbligato accompaniment--especially if he has while on deck, during a wistful gaze at the distant perspective of the aft-regions, beheld, (or fancied he has beheld) a familiar and adored form.

At first the passengers were sick--very sick, most of them--insomuch that there were some who would gladly, if possible, have surrendered their lives with their dinners; but by degrees they began to improve, and to regard meals with anticipation instead of loathing. When the sunny and calm latitudes near the line were reached, every one grew well and hearty, and at last there was not a sad soul on board except the poor sick lad who studied the screw and measured the ever-increasing distance from home. One of the first evidences of the return of health was the sound of song. When the nights were clear and calm, and naught was audible save the grinding of the screw, the passengers crystallised naturally into groups in the same way that ice-particles arrange themselves in sympathetic stars; and from several such constellations the music of the spheres was naturally evolved.

One of these crystals was formed, usually in a tent on deck, by the attractive influence of smoke. It was consequently not a bright crystal, and included particles both refined and otherwise. Its music was gruff for the most part, sometimes growly. There was another crystal which varied its position occasionally--according to the position of the moon, for it was a crystal formed of romantic elements. One of its parts was a Scottish maiden whose voice was melodious, flexible, and very sweet. Her face and spirit had been made to match. She had many admirers, and a bosom-friend of kindly heart and aspect, with wealth of golden hair, in some respects like herself.

Our heroine Aileen, being passionately fond of music, and herself a sweet singer, attached herself to this crystal, and became as it were another bosom-friend.

Two bearded men were also much given to seek attachment to this crystal. They also seemed knit to each other in bosom-friendship--if we may venture to use such a term with reference to bearded men. One was amateurly musical, the other powerfully sympathetic. A pastor, of unusually stalwart proportions, with a gentle pretty wife and lovable family, also had a decided leaning to this crystal.

One evening the group, finding its favourite part of the deck occupied, was driven to a position near the tent of the smoky crystal, and, sitting down not far from the engineer's quarters, began to indulge in song. Grave and gay alternated. Duets followed; trios ensued, and miscellaneous new forms of harmony sometimes intervened.

"Do sing a solo, Miss Hazlit," said the Scottish maiden. "I like your voice _so_ much, and want to hear it alone. Will you sing?"

Aileen had an obliging spirit. She at once began, in a low contralto voice, "I cannot sing the old songs."

Sometimes in private life one hears a voice so sweet, so thrilling, with a "something" so powerful in it, that one feels, amid other sensations of pleasure, great satisfaction to think that none of the public singers in the world could "bat that" if they were to try their best, and that few of them could equal it!

Such a voice was that of our heroine. It drew towards her the soul, body, and spirit of the music-lovers who listened. Of course we do not deny that there were some who could not be drawn thus. There were a few, among the smoky crystals, for whom a draw of the pipe or a mildly drawn pot of bitter beer had greater charms than sweet sounds, however melting. With the exceptions of these, nearly all who chanced to be within hearing drew near to the musical group, and listened while that most, beautiful of songs was being warbled in tones not loud but inexpressibly pathetic.

Among the listeners was our friend Edgar Berrington. Seated, as usual, in front of the great crank, with bare muscular arms folded on his broad chest and a dark frown on his forehead, he riveted his eyes on the crank as if it were the author of all his anxieties. Suddenly the terminating lines, "I cannot sing the old songs, they are too dear to me," rising above the din of machinery, floated gently down through iron lattice-work, beams, rods, cranks,