THE CREW soon learned that Ayrton’s disclosures had not thrown light upon the situation of Captain Grant. The despair on board was profound, for they had relied on the quartermaster, who, however, knew nothing that could put the Duncan on the track of the Britannia. The yacht therefore continued on the same course, and the only question now was to choose the island on which to leave Ayrton.
Paganel and Captain Mangles consulted the maps on board. Exactly on the thirty-seventh parallel was an island, generally known by the name of Maria Theresa, a lone rock in the midst of the Pacific, three thousand five hundred miles from the American coast, and one thousand five hundred miles from New Zealand. No ship ever came within hail of this solitary isle; no tidings from the world ever reached it. Only the storm-birds rested here during their long flights, and many maps do not even indicate its position.
If anywhere absolute isolation was to be found on earth, it was here, afar from the ocean’s traveled highways. Its situation was made known to Ayrton, who consented to live there; and the vessel was accordingly headed towards the island. Two days later the lookout hailed land on the horizon. It was Maria Theresa, low, long, and scarcely emerging from the waves, appearing like some enormous sea-monster. Thirty miles still lay between it and the yacht, whose prow cut the waves with such speed that soon the island grew distinct. The sun, now sinking towards the west, defined its outlines in glowing light. Several slight elevations were tinged with the last rays of the day.
At five o’clock Captain Mangles thought he distinguished a faint smoke rising towards the sky.
“Is that a volcano?” he inquired of Paganel, who, with his telescope, was examining the land.
“I do not know what to think,” replied the geographer. “Maria Theresa is a point little known. However, I should not be surprised if its origin was due to some volcanic upheaval.”
“But then,” said Glenarvan, “if an eruption created it, may we not fear that the same agency will destroy it?”
“That is scarcely probable,” answered Paganel. “Its existence has been known for several centuries; and this seems a guarantee for its continuance.”
“Well,” continued Glenarvan, “do you think, captain, that we can land before night?”
“No, certainly not. I ought not to endanger the Duncan in the darkness, on a coast that is not familiar to me. I will keep a short distance from land, and to-morrow at daybreak we will send a boat ashore.”
At eight o’clock Maria Theresa, although only five miles to windward, appeared like a lengthened shadow, scarcely visible. An hour later, quite a bright light, like a fire, blazed in the darkness. It was motionless and stationary.
“That would seem to indicate a volcano,” said Paganel, watching it attentively.
“However,” replied Captain Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the commotion that always accompanies an eruption, and yet the wind brings no sound to our ears.”
“Indeed,” observed Paganel, “this volcano glows, but does not speak. You might say that it throws out intermittent flashes like a lighthouse.”
“You are right,” continued Captain Mangles; “and yet we are not on the illuminated side. Ha!” cried he, “another fire! On the shore this time! See! it moves, it changes its place!”
He was not mistaken. A new light had appeared, that sometimes seemed to go out, and then all at once flash forth again.
“Is the island inhabited?” asked Glenarvan.
“Evidently, by savages,” replied Paganel.
“Then we cannot abandon the quartermaster here.”
“No,” said the major; “that would be giving even savages too dangerous a present.”
“We will seek some other deserted island,” resumed Glenarvan, who could not help smiling at MacNabb’s delicacy. “I promised Ayrton his life, and I will keep my promise.”
“At all events, let us beware,” added Paganel. “The New Zealanders have the barbarous custom of misleading ships by moving fires. The natives of Maria Theresa may understand this deception.”
“Bear away a point,” cried the captain to the sailor at the helm. “To-morrow, at sunrise, we shall know what is to be done.”
At eleven o’clock the passengers and the captain retired to their cabins. At the bow the first watch was pacing the deck, while at the stern the helmsman was alone at his post.
In the stillness Mary and Robert Grant came on deck. The two children, leaning upon the railing, gazed sadly at the phosphorescent sea and the luminous wake of the yacht. Mary thought of Robert’s future; Robert thought of his sister’s; both thought of their father. Was that beloved parent still living? Yet must they give him up? But no, what would life be without him? What would become of them without his protection? What would have become of them already, except for the magnanimity of Lord and Lady Glenarvan?
The boy, taught by misfortune, divined the thoughts that were agitating his sister. He took her hand in his.
“Mary,” said he, “we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father taught us. ‘Courage compensates for everything in this world,’ he said. Let us have that indomitable courage that overcomes all obstacles. Hitherto you have labored for me, my sister, but now I shall labor for you.”
“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.
“I must tell you one thing,” continued he. “You will not be sorry, Mary?”
“Why should I be sorry, my child?”
“And you will let me do as I wish?”
“What do you mean?” asked she, anxiously.
“My sister, I shall be a sailor——!”
“And leave me?” cried the young girl, clasping her brother’s hand.
“Yes, sister, I shall be a sailor, like my father, and like Captain John. Mary, my dear Mary, he has not lost all hope! You will have, like me, confidence in his devotion. He has promised that he will make me a thorough and efficient sailor, and we shall seek our father together. Say that you are willing, sister. What our father would have done for us it is our duty, or mine at least, to do for him. My life has but one object, to which it is wholly devoted,—to search always for him who would never have abandoned either of us. Dear Mary, how good our father was!”
“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, that he was already one of the glories of our country, and would have ranked among its great men if fate had not arrested his course?”
“How well I know it!” answered Robert.
Mary pressed her brother to her heart, and the child felt tears dropping upon his forehead.
“Mary! Mary!” cried he, “it is in vain for them to speak, or to keep silent. I hope still, and shall always do so. A man like our father does not die till he has accomplished his purpose!”
Mary Grant could not reply; sobs choked her utterance. A thousand emotions agitated her soul at the thought that new attempts would be made to find her father, and that the young captain’s devotion was boundless.
“Does Mr. John still hope?” asked she.
“Yes,” replied Robert. “He is a brother who will never forsake us. I shall be a sailor, shall I not, sister,—a sailor to seek my father with him? Are you willing?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “But must we be separated?”
“You will not be alone, Mary, I know. John has told me so. Lady Helena will not permit you to leave her. You are a woman, and can and ought to accept her benefits. To refuse them would be ungrateful. But a man, as my father has told me a hundred times, ought to make his own fortune.”
“But what will become of our house at Dundee, so full of associations?”
“We will keep it, my sister. All that has been well arranged by our friend John and Lord Glenarvan, who will keep you at Malcolm Castle like a daughter. He said so to John, who told me. You will be at home there, and wait till John and I bring back our father. Ah, what a joyful day that will be!” cried Robert, whose face was radiant with enthusiasm.
“My brother, my child!” exclaimed Mary, “how happy our father would be if he could hear you! How much you resemble him, dear Robert! When you are a man you will be quite like him!”
“God grant it, Mary!” said Robert, glowing with holy and filial pride.
“But how shall we pay our debt to Lord and Lady Glenarvan?” continued Mary.
“Oh, that will not be difficult,” answered Robert, with his boyish impulsiveness. “We will tell them how much we love and respect them, and we will show it to them by our actions.”
“That is all we can do!” added the young girl, covering her brother’s face with kisses; “and all that they will like, too!”
Then, relapsing into reveries, the two children of the captain gazed silently into the shadowy obscurity of the night. However, in fancy they still conversed, questioned, and answered each other. The sea rocked the ship in silence, and the phosphorescent waters glistened in the darkness.
But now a strange, a seemingly supernatural event took place. The brother and sister, by one of those magnetic attractions that mysteriously draw the souls of friends together, experienced at the same instant the same curious hallucination.
From the midst of these alternately brightening and darkening waves, they thought they heard a voice issue, whose depth of sadness stirred every fibre of their hearts.
“Help! help!” cried the voice.
“Mary,” said Robert, “did you hear?”
And, raising their heads above the bulwarks, they both gazed searchingly into the misty shadows of the night. Yet there was nothing but the darkness stretching blankly before them.
“Robert,” said Mary, pale with emotion, “I thought—yes, I thought like you.”
At this moment another cry reached them, and this time the illusion was such that these words broke simultaneously from both their hearts:
“My father! my father!”
This was too much for Mary Grant. Overcome by emotion, she sank senseless into her brother’s arms.
“Help!” cried Robert. “My sister! my father! help!”
The man at the helm hastened to Miss Grant’s assistance, and after him the sailors of the watch, Captain Mangles, Lady Helena, and Lord Glenarvan, who had been suddenly awakened.
“My sister is dying, and my father is yonder!” exclaimed Robert, pointing to the waves.
No one understood his words.
“Yes,” repeated he, “my father is yonder! I heard his voice, and Mary did too!”
Just then Mary Grant recovered consciousness, and, looking wildly around, cried:
“My father, my father is yonder!”
The unfortunate girl arose, and, leaning over the bulwark, would have thrown herself into the sea.
“My lord! Madam!” repeated she, clasping her hands, “I tell you my father is there! I declare to you that I heard his voice issue from the waves like a despairing wail, like a last adieu!”
Then her feelings overcame the poor girl, and she became insensible. They carried her to her cabin, and Lady Helena followed, to minister to her wants, while Robert kept repeating:
“My father! my father is there! I am sure of it, my lord!”
The witnesses of this sorrowful scene perceived at last that the two children had been the sport of an hallucination. But how undeceive their senses, which had been so strongly impressed? Glenarvan, however, attempted it, and taking Robert by the hand, said:
“You heard your father’s voice, my dear boy?”
“Yes, my lord. Yonder, in the midst of the waves, he cried, ‘Help! help!’”
“And you recognized the voice?”
“Did I recognize it? Oh, yes, I assure you! My sister heard and recognized it, too. How could both of us be deceived? My lord, let us go to his rescue. A boat! a boat!”
Glenarvan saw plainly that he could not undeceive the poor child. Still, he made a last attempt, and called the helmsman.
“Hawkins,” asked he, “you were at the wheel when Miss Grant was so singularly affected?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Hawkins.
“And you did not see or hear anything?”
“Nothing.”
“You see how it is, Robert.”
“If it had been his father,” answered the lad, with irrepressible energy, “he would not say so. It was my father, my lord! my father, my father——!”
Robert’s voice was choked by a sob. Pale and speechless, he, too, like his sister, lost consciousness. Glenarvan had him carried to his bed, and the child, overcome by emotion, sank into a profound slumber.
“Poor orphans!” said Captain Mangles; “God tries them in a terrible way!”
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, “excessive grief has produced upon both at the same moment a similar effect.”
“Upon both!” murmured Paganel. “That is strange!”
Then, leaning forward, after making a sign to keep still, he listened attentively. The silence was profound everywhere. Paganel called in a loud voice, but there was no answer.
“It is strange!” repeated the geographer, returning to his cabin; “an intimate sympathy of thought and grief does not suffice to explain this mystery.”
Early the next morning the passengers (and among them were Robert and Mary, for it was impossible to restrain them) were assembled on deck. All wished to examine this land, which had been scarcely distinguishable the night before. The principal points of the island were eagerly scanned. The yacht coasted along about a mile from the shore, and the unassisted eye could easily discern the larger objects.
Suddenly Robert uttered a cry. He maintained that he saw two men running and gesticulating, while a third was waving a flag.
“Yes: the flag of England!” cried Captain Mangles, when he had used his glass.
“It is true!” said Paganel, turning quickly towards Robert.
“My lord!” exclaimed the boy, trembling with excitement,—“my lord, if you do not wish me to swim to the island, you will lower a boat! Ah, my lord, if you please, I do wish to be the first to land!”
No one knew what to say. Were there three men, shipwrecked sailors, Englishmen, on that island? All recalled the events of the night before, and thought of the voice heard by Robert and Mary. Perhaps, after all, they were not mistaken. A voice might have reached them. But could this voice be that of their father? No, alas, no! And each, thinking of the terrible disappointment that was probably in store, trembled lest this new trial would exceed their strength. But how restrain them? Lord Glenarvan had not the courage.
“Lower the boat!” cried he.
In a moment this was done; the two children, Glenarvan, Captain Mangles, and Paganel stepped into it, and six earnest and skilled oarsmen sped away towards the shore.
At ten yards therefrom, Mary uttered again the heart-rending cry:
“My father!”
A man was standing on the beach between two others. His form was tall and stout, while his weather-beaten yet pleasant countenance betrayed a strong resemblance to the features of Mary and Robert Grant. It was, indeed, the man whom the children had so often described. Their hearts had not deceived them. It was their father, it was Captain Grant!
He heard his daughter’s cry, he opened his arms, and supported her fainting form.