AN ATLANTIC TRAGEDY.

Press, Volume XLV, Issue 7170, 4 October 1888, Page 3

AN ATLANTIC TRAGEDY.

I had newly arrived in America. But, newcomer as I was, I had learnt two most important facts, and these were Tiffany and Delmonico—especially the latter, where my story opens. I had been seated but a few moments when I became aware of the presence of a man who seemed to be wandering among the crowded tables in search of rest, and finding none. As he caught my eye, he made a slight gesture in the direction of the chair opposite to mc, in which I had deposited my hat and coat> end said, in a low-toned, quiet voice : " Pardon mc, but is this seat reserved?" "By no mean 9," said I, hastening to remove my impedimenta, and touching his hat militarywiee, the stranger sat down and summoned a waiter to minister to his needs. I made some casual remark on the crowded state of the cate, which' he answered with some explanation connected with the elections. Pleading my ignorance as a stranger only just arrived, I questioned him further, and somehow we drifted into conversation. 1 have always congratulated myself on my "newness," for had this occurred to-day, I should certainly have taken Eugene Eadcllffe for a confidence man and not struck up an acqualn. tance with a casual stranger in Delmonico's on an election night. Kadcliffe—that was not his name—was tall, well, but not heavily built, with a smooth-shaven face, steel-grey eyes, and hair of an ashen-blonde colour, freely intermingled with white—a rare thing in a blonde head—which gave a still stronger individuality to his colourless, ascetic face a face which, though infinitely calm in its expression, showed traces, in a few deeply-marked lines round the month, of a past suffering which must have been intense. After we had parted, strangers still, on this night at Delmonico's, his face haunted mc as I returned to the Everett House, and I wondered who this calm stranger might be, and what was the his* tory which had written itself, in a cipher to which I had no key, on those, hard, impenetrable features. It was not until a week later that I learned bis name even. It was then that I met him at a dinner party on Fifthavenue, and, being introduced to one another, I learnt that his name was—sayEugene Kadcliffe. - That evening I found myself walking down Fifth-avenue with Eugene Radcliffe, on* my* way home, and as we passed Thirty-third-street he said: "I live at the Alpine at the end of this street. Won't you come in and chat for half an hour over the national brandy and soda?" "Willingly," I replied; and we reached his rooms, which were charming in every of the term. What particularly caught my.eye was a picture frame that occupied over the mantleshelf. I say a picture frame, for the picture, if picture it contained, wate carefully hidden behind a crimson.sijk curtain, which was drawn closely over the space that should contain the canvas. <.''"., ' "We parted shortly after midnight, and parted, excellent friends. So, much so, indeed, that during the two months that I remained in New York, whenever I had an hour to spare, or happened to be pass, in* the corner of Thirty-third street and Broadway. I used to look in on Eugene Radcliffe. and I looked forward with regret to parting from him. It was only a few days before I left the city, that one evening on my way home from a dinner, and passing down Sixth Avenue, I turned into the Alpine. I knocked at Badcliffe's door, and, Teceivinj? no reply, gently tried the handle. The door opened, and thinking that he mart be in an inner room, I went in. He was standing motionless before the fireplace looking up at the picture, the curtain usually concealing which was drawn aside.

The face of n woman with great violet eyes, and features like a statue by Canova, looked out from amid a mass of blueblack hair. The dress revealed an exquisite neck and throat. The painting was a masterpiece. The noise I had made in coming in had roused Eugene Radcliffe from his reverie, and he, turned toward mc, a perceptible flush rising to his ordinarily white cheeks. I apologised for having come in, explaining the manner of my entrance, and would have gone again but that Radcliffe bade rne stay. Then, as my eyes Hashed involuntarily in the direction of the picture, he said, briefly: "My wife." "We seated ourselves and talked of indifferent subjects for awhile, but Radcliffe , was obviously oppressed in some indefin. able manner. He had not covered the picture again, and the beautiful face seemed to watch us as we talked in the stillness of the night. At last my host rose, and said: "Fin afraid you find mc dull and distraught tonight. I can't help it, my dear fellow; it's an anniversary with mc. Seventeen years ago to-night I lost my wife." I murmured some conventional expres_ sions of sympathy and regret, but he in. terrupted mc, saying:— " No doubt the idea will occur to your mind that I am morbidly sensitive with regard to a loss which I suffered so long ago, but the circumstances are such that my wife's death must remain to mc an ever-living horror. I have never told the story in America; I would not have my widowhood made the subject of a social sensation; but you shall hear it, for, in th e first place, it is time some one knew it, and, in the second, I feel a confidence in you which inspires mc to tell you what I think you will say is one of the most terribly tragic stories you ever heard :— " A few days more than seventeen years ago I was married at St. Peter's, Eaton square. Mabel—that was my wife's name —and I had known one another since as children ■« c had played together. The friendship of our childhood ripened into a ove that was little short of ideal, and when she "was nineteen—l being her senior by four or five years—we were married. I was an orphan, and had spent many years on the continent; her parents were wealthy, and with them she had travelled much; thus, it happened that we were both familiar with the European capitals, watering places, and winter resorts, and determined—as wehadneitherof uscrossed tHe Atlantic—to spend the winter in New York and Washington, and the summer in the Western States. Thus it happened that, a few days after our wedding, we found ourselves in the Royal Mail Steam, ship Arcadia, our faces turned towards the setting sun, looking forward in joyful anticipation, to the novel scenes we were to witness together. " The passage began by being a rough one, but we were both excellent sailors, and we enjoyed its opening days. There was only one cloud in the horizon of our happiness, and that —foolish as it may seem—was Mabel's fear of the sea. She declared that she had a horror of death by drowning; and, every night as I climbed into my berth she would say—half seriously, half laughingly,— " • Eugene, pray that the ship does not go down in the night." " Our stateroom was far forward, and almost an isolated one, where we felt the motion of the%hip rather badly, though, excepting for the fears with which it inspired my wife, we did not care much about that. I used to laugh at her, and point out the fact that the Royal Mail steamers of the company -never foundered, and I used to add : 4 " Don't you see, silly child, that every precaution is taken? Why, suppose the ship were to go down, there are boats enough to take us all off, and even if we were left behind, all these cork jackets and belts that hang round the state room ensure our safety. Wrapped up in these, you would sit quite comfortably in the water till we are picked up. The water is warm at this time of the year, and we are in the most frequented track of ocean steamers. And again'—used I to conclude convincingly—'even if we hadn't these life preservers in abundance, I'll back myself as a swimmer against most men I know> and I could easily support you in the water for four or five hours, within which time we must be rescued. Don't bother your poor silly little head about it any more. , " " But she would not be quite reassured, and used to repeat: "'Well, pray that the ship does not go down in the night 1' It was a kind of presentiment—an obvereion, with her- " One night we had retired as usual, and certainly the sea was awfully rough. It took even mc, hardened as I was, some time to get to sleep. I was awakened by Mabel rapping on the side of my berth and crying out: " ' Eugene 1 Eugene! what is the matter?' '' I roused myself and listened. Certainly a dull, roaring sound filled the ship—a banging and splashing which drowned the noise of the propellers. A little alarmed myself, I jumped out of my berth, and, telling Mabel to keep quiet, I went out into the-passage. " I ran into the arms of a scared, whitefaced steward, of whom I inquired the cause of the commotion. •"The ship's sinking, , he cried; 'haven't they roused you? They're manning the Tooats up there on deck. , " It was true. Isolated as we were in our state room, we had been forgotten J " "Assuming as careless an air as I could summon up on the moment, I returned to our state room, where Mabel lay in an agony of alarm. ," 'Well, little woman,' I said,.'the cur, tain is rising on your long-looked-for drama—the ship is going down, but there's no particular hurry and no cauae whatever for alarm; the worst that can happen to us is a wetting. Dress quickly, as lightly and warmly as you can.' : . "I helped her, and dressed myself, putting some papers and valuables into my pockets, and then, fastening the life-pre-servers round myself and her,-we went up on deck. We had indeed been forgotten! The last boat was just preparing.to leave j the ship with the captain and some of the j crew. We bailed them, and jumped in justin time. " The boat that had left the ship before us had been swamped by a wave and its occupants were struggling In the water. Instead of pulling off at once we hovered in the dangerous vicinity of tne sinking ship, trying to rescue them. All at once the deck of the Arcadia burst up, aod : the ship settled. Our boat was engulfed in the water; I had only time to seize Mabel by the arms, and we found ourselves straggling for our lives in the eddyj " The cork belts supported us well, and, holding my wife in my arms, we rode lightly overthe crests of the waves. The night was pitch dark. There was no moon, and the stars were hidden behind the heaving masses of the storm (clouds. I could not see Mabel's face, but her feverish clutch on my arms reassured mc, and I kqew that she retained consciousness. After about ten minutes, during a lull in the wind, I said to her: " ' You see, darling, the night is warm and we are perfectly supported. It cannot be more than three or four hours to day. light at most, and then we are bound to be picked up immediately. You feel safe with mc, do you not?" f Her voice came back in the impeaetrabje darkness : 4 Yes, Eugene, I feel safe with yen font you have tied this belt too tightly ; me—it makes mc feel faint; can't you shift it a little ?; " ' Of course I can,' I replied; and the moment the sea seemed to be a little calmer I proceeded to do so. She was lying on one arm and I was fcusily readjusting the belt with the other, when, in the darkness, a great wave broke epoft

ius and dashed her out of my grasp. I dived instantly and caught her by the hair, just as she slipped under, and, bringing her to the surface, I held her closely in my arms. The life-belt had been washed out of my grasp, and I had to trust to my own strength, assisted by the belt that was tied round myself. " Alas I my wife had lost consciousness and hung a dead weight in my arms. In vain I implored her to speak to mc; in vain I strained my eyes in the pitchy darkness to catch a glimpse of the face that was the fairest thing in the world for mc. Noth. ing but a feeble flutter of the heart, over which I kept my free hand fixed, and an occasional twitch of the cold lips which I found with my own, gave mc any sign that my precious burthen was alive. For hours, and hours, and hours, it seemed to mc that I bore her up in the blackness of the night, imploring her to speak to me— to open the dear eyes which I could feei were tightly closed. It was all in vain ; save for the occasional beat of the heart she might have been dead. " What a night of agony ! Lord, God ! how I prayed for morning—for one ray of light by which to see my darling's face. I thought I should go mad. My arms ached, my limbs—my whole body grew numbed and cold ; sometimes I almost felt myself dozing off into the sleep of death, waking with a start to cry aloud,' Mabel —Mabel, my darling, speak to mc !' and nothing answered but the moaning of the storm as it died away in the distance. Immediately around us it had become comparatively calm. And then I would turn myself in the water, seeking in vain for the east and the rising sun. " At last a faint streak lit the horizon, a flush tinged the edge of a cloud, made it visible in the darkess, a breeze rippled the sullen billows that rose and fell smoothly around us. The day was breaking. I shrieked aloud a prayer of thanksgiving to God, for that the night was over, and bent over the motionless, senseless body that I held in. my dying arui9 with a renewed vigour. "Little by little the sun uprose, and the dawn came. With the fir9t grey beam that crept across the ocean, I peered into the face that had lain close to mine all night. "It was ano her woman