Part 8 (1/2)
CHAPTER XVII.
ALMOST s.h.i.+PWRECKED
Sophy Chantrey was left alone to nurse her dying husband, for Ann Holland was lying ill in her own cabin, ignorant of his extremity.
Captain Scott came down for a minute or two, but he could not stay beside him. His presence was sorely needed on deck, yet he lingered awhile, looking sorrowfully at his friend. Sophy watched him with a clearer and keener glance in her blue eyes than he had ever yet seen in them.
”What is the matter with him?” she asked, following him to the cabin door.
”As near dying as possible,” he answered, gruffly. He believed that a good life had been sacrificed to a bad one, and he could not bring himself to speak softly to the woman who was the cause of it.
”Dying!” she cried. There was no color to fade from her face, but the light died from her eyes, and the word faltered on her lips.
”Yes,” he answered, ”dying.”
”Sophy, come to me,” called her husband, in feeble tones.
She left the captain, and returned at once to his side. The low berth was almost on the floor, and she had to kneel to bring her face nearer to his. It was night, and the only light was the dim glimmer of an oil-lamp, which the captain had hung to the ceiling, and which swung to and fro with the lurching of the s.h.i.+p. The wind was whistling shrilly among the rigging, and every plank and board in the vessel groaned and creaked under the beating of the waves. Now and then her feet were ankle-deep in water, and she dreaded to see it sweep over the low berth.
In the rare intervals of the storm she could hear the hurried movements overhead, and the shouts of the sailors as they called to one another from the rigging. But vaguely she heard, and saw, and felt. Her husband's face, white and haggard and thin, with his gray hair and his eyes sunken with unshed tears, was all that she could distinctly realize.
”Sophy,” he said, ”do not leave me again.”
He held out his hand, and she laid hers into it, shuddering as she felt its chilly grasp. Her head fell on to the pillow beside his, and her lips, close to his ear, spoke to him through sobs.
”Is there nothing that can be done?” she cried. ”It is I who have killed you. Must you really die for my sin, and leave us?”
”I think I must die,” he said, touching her head softly with his feeble hand. ”I would live for you if I could--for you and my poor boy. Sophy, promise me while I can hear you, while you can speak to me, promise me you will never fall into this sin again.”
”How can I?” she cried. ”I have killed you, and now who will care?”
”G.o.d will care,” he said, faintly, ”and I shall care; wherever I may be I shall care. Promise me, my darling, my poor girl!”
”I promise you,” she answered, with a deep sob.
”You will never let yourself enter into temptation?”
”Never!” she cried.
”Never taste it; never look at it; never think of it, if possible.
Promise,” he whispered again.
”Never!” she sobbed; ”never! Oh, live, and you shall see me conquer. G.o.d will help me to conquer, and you will help me. Do not leave us. O G.o.d, do not let him die!”
But he did not hear her. A faintness and numbness that seemed like death, which had been creeping languidly through his veins for some time, darkened his eyes and sealed his lips. He could not see her, and her voice sounded far away. She called again and again upon him, but there was no answer. The deep roar of the storm on the other side of the frail wooden walls thundered continuously, and the groan of the straining planks grated upon her ear as she listened intently for one or more word from him. Was she then alone with him, dying? Was there no help, nothing that could be at least attempted for his help? Through the uproar and tumult she caught the sound of some one stirring in the saloon. She sprang to the door, and met Captain Scott on the point of opening it.
”Come,” said she frantic with terror; ”he is dead already.”
The captain bent over the dying man, and with the prompt.i.tude of one to whom time was of the utmost value pa.s.sed his hand rapidly over his benumbed and paralyzed body.