Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape.

What may this mean

That thou, dead corse, again...

Revisit'st thus...?

I hope your virtues

Will bring him to his wonted way again.—Hamlet.

IT was the general opinion in the cabin that Miss Gerald—the young lady who was in such an exclusive set—had shown very doubtful taste in being the first to discover the man upon the wreck. Every one had, of course, heard the particulars of the matter from the steward's assistants, who had in turn been in communication with the watch on deck. At any rate, it was felt by the ladies that it showed exceedingly bad taste in Miss Gerald to take such steps as eventually led to the ladies appearing on deck in incomplete toilettes. There was, indeed, a very pronounced feeling against Miss Gerald; several representatives of the other sections of the cabin society declaring that they could not conscientiously admit Miss Gerald into their intimacy. That dreadful designing old woman, the major's wife, might do as she pleased, they declared, and so might Mrs. Butler and her daughter, who were only the near relatives of some Colonial Governor, but such precedents should be by no means followed, the ladies of this section announced to each other. But as Daireen had never hitherto found it necessary to fall back upon any of the passengers outside her own set, the resolution of the others, even if it had come to her ears, would not have caused her any great despondency.

The captain made some inquiries of the doctor in the morning, and learned that the rescued man was breathing, though still unconscious. Mr. Harwood showed even a greater anxiety to hear from Mrs. Crawford about Daireen, after the terrible night she had gone through, and he felt no doubt proportionately happy when he was told that she was now sleeping, having passed some hours in feverish excitement. Daireen had described to Mrs. Crawford how she had seen the face looking up to her from the water, and Mr. Harwood, hearing this, and making a careful examination of the outside of the ship in the neighbourhood of Daireen's cabin, came to the same conclusion as that at which the chief officer had arrived.

Mrs. Crawford tried to make Mr. Glaston equally interested in her protÉgÉe, but she was scarcely successful.

“How brave it was in the dear child, was it not, Mr. Glaston?” she asked. “Just imagine her glancing casually out of the port—thinking, it maybe, of her father, who is perhaps dying at the Cape”—the good lady felt that this bit of poetical pathos might work wonders with Mr. Glaston—“and then,” she continued, “fancy her seeing that terrible, ghastly thing in the water beneath her! What must her feelings have been as she rushed on deck and gave the alarm that caused that poor wretch to be saved! Wonderful, is it not?”

But Mr. Glaston's face was quite devoid of expression on hearing this powerful narrative. The introduction of the pathos even did not make him wince; and there was a considerable pause before he said the few words that he did.

“Poor child,” he murmured. “Poor child. It was very melodramatic—terribly melodramatic; but she is still young, her taste is—ah—plastic. At least I hope so.”

Mrs. Crawford began to feel that, after all, it was something to have gained this expression of hope from Mr. Glaston, though her warmth of feeling did undoubtedly receive a chill from his manner. She did not reflect that there is a certain etiquette to be observed in the saving of the bodies as well as the souls of people, and that the aesthetic element, in the opinion of some people, should enter largely into every scheme of salvation, corporeal as well as spiritual.

The doctor was sitting with Major Crawford when the lady joined them a few minutes after her conversation with Mr. Glaston, and never had Mrs. Crawford fancied that her husband's old friend could talk in such an affectionate way as he now did about the rescued man. She could almost bring herself to believe that she saw the tears of emotion in his eyes as he detailed the circumstances of the man's resuscitation. The doctor felt personally obliged to him for his handsome behaviour in bearing such testimony to the skill of his resuscitator.

When the lady spoke of the possibilities of a relapse, the doctor's eyes glistened at first, but under the influence of maturer thought, he sighed and shook his head. No, he knew that there are limits to the generosity of even a half-strangled man—a relapse was too much to hope for; but the doctor felt at that instant that if this “case” should see its way to a relapse, and subsequently to submit to be restored, it would place itself under a lasting obligation to its physician.

Surely, thought Mrs. Crawford, when the doctor talks of the stranger with such enthusiasm he will go into raptures about Daireen; so she quietly alluded to the girl's achievement. But the doctor could see no reason for becoming ecstatic about Miss Gerald. Five minutes with the smelling-bottle had restored her to consciousness.

“Quite a trifle—overstrung nerves, you know,” he said, as he lit another cheroot.

“But think of her bravery in keeping strong until she had told you all that she had seen!” said the lady. “I never heard of anything so brave! Just fancy her looking out of the port—thinking of her father perhaps”—the lady went on to the end of that pathetic sentence of hers, but it had no effect upon the doctor.

“True, very true!” he muttered, looking at his watch.

But the major was secretly convulsed for some moments after his wife had spoken her choice piece of pathos, and though he did not betray himself, she knew well all that was in his mind, and so turned away without a further word. So soon as she was out of hearing, the major exchanged confidential chuckles with his old comrade.

“He is not what you'd call a handsome man as he lies at present, Campion,” remarked Mr. Harwood, strolling up later in the day. “But you did well not to send him to the forecastle, I think; he has not been a sailor.”

“I know it, my boy,” said the doctor. “He is not a handsome man, you say, and I agree with you that he is not seen to advantage just now; but I made up my mind an hour after I saw him that he was not for the forecastle, or even the forecabin.”

“I dare say you are right,” said Harwood. “Yes; there is a something in his look that half drowning could not kill. That was the sort of thing you felt, eh?”

“Nothing like it,” said the mild physician. “It was this,” he took out of his pocket an envelope, from which he extracted a document that he handed to Harwood.

It was an order for four hundred pounds, payable by a certain bank in England, and granted by the Sydney branch of the Australasian Banking Company to one Mr. Oswin Markham.

“Ah, I see; he is a gentleman,” said Harwood, returning the order. It had evidently suffered a sea-change, but it had been carefully dried by the doctor.

“Yes, he is a gentleman,” said the doctor. “That is what I remarked when I found this in a flask in one of his pockets. Sharp thing to do, to keep a paper free from damp and yet to have it in a buoyant case. Devilish sharp thing!”

“And the man's name is this—Oswin Markham?” said the major.

“No doubt about it,” said the doctor.

“None whatever; unless he stole the order from the rightful owner, and meant to get it cashed at his leisure,” remarked Harwood.

“Then he must have stolen the shirt, the collar, and the socks of Oswin Markham,” snarled the doctor. “All these things of his are marked as plain as red silk can do it.”

“Any man who would steal an order for four hundred pounds would not hesitate about a few toilet necessaries.”

“Maybe you'll suggest to the skipper the need to put him in irons as soon as he is sufficiently recovered to be conscious of an insult,” cried the doctor in an acrid way that received a sympathetic chuckle from the major. “Young man, you've got your brain too full of fancies—a devilish deal, sir; they do well enough retailed for the readers of the Dominant Trumpeter, but sensible people don't want to hear them.”

“Then I won't force them upon you and Crawford, my dear Campion,” said Harwood, walking away, for he knew that upon some occasions the doctor should be conciliated, and in the matter of a patient every allowance should be made for his warmth of feeling. So long as one of his “cases” paid his skill the compliment of surviving any danger, he spoke well of the patient; but when one behaved so unhandsomely as to die, it was with the doctor De mortuis nil nisi malum. Harwood knew this, and so he walked away.

And now that he found himself—or rather made himself—alone, he thought over all the events of the previous eventful day; but somehow there did not seem to be any event worth remembering that was not associated with Daireen Gerald. He recollected how he had watched her when they had been together among the lovely gardens of the island slope. As she turned her eyes seaward with an earnest, sad, questioning gaze, he felt that he had never seen a picture so full of beauty.

The words he had spoken to her, telling her that the day he had spent on the island was the happiest of his life, were true indeed; he had never felt so happy; and now as he reflected upon his after-words his conscience smote him for having pretended to her that he was thinking of the place where he knew her thoughts had carried her: he had seen from her face that she was dreaming about her Irish home, and he had made her feel that the recollection of the lough and the mountains was upon his mind also. He felt now how coarse had been his deception.

He then recalled the final scene of the night, when, as he was trying to pursue his own course of thought, and at the same time pretend to be listening to the major's thrice-told tale of a certain colonel's conduct at the Arradambad station, the girl had appeared before them like a vision. Yes, it was altogether a remarkable day even for a special correspondent. The reflection upon its events made him very thoughtful during the entire of this afternoon. Nor was he at all disturbed by the information Doctor Campion brought vo him just when he was going for his usual smoke upon the bridge, while the shore of Palma was yet in view not far astern.

“Good fellow he is,” murmured the doctor. “Capital fellow! opened his eyes just now when I was in his cabin—recovered consciousness in a moment.”

“Ah, in a moment?” said Harwood dubiously. “I thought it always needed the existence of some link of consciousness between the past and the present to bring about a restoration like this—some familiar sight—some well-known sound.”

“And, by George, you are right, my boy, this time, though you are a 'special,'” said the doctor, grinning. “Yes, I was standing by the fellow's bunk when I heard Crawford call for another bottle of soda. Robinson got it for him, and bang went the cork, of course; a faint smile stole over the haggard features, my boy, the glassy eyes opened full of intelligence and with a mine of pleasant recollections. That familiar sound of the popping of the cork acted as the link you talk of. He saw all in a moment, and tried to put out his hand to me. 'My boy,' I said, 'you've behaved most handsomely, and I'll get you a glass of brandy out of another bottle, but don't you try to speak for another day.' And I got him a glass from Crawford, though, by George, sir, Crawford grudged it; he didn't see the sentiment of the thing, sir, and when I tried to explain it, he said I was welcome to the cork.”

“Capital tale for an advertisement of the brandy,” said Harwood.

Then the doctor with many smiles hastened to spread abroad the story of the considerate behaviour of his patient, and Harwood was left to continue his twilight meditations alone once more. He was sitting in his deck-chair on the ship's bridge, and he could but dimly hear the laughter and the chat of the passengers far astern. He did not remain for long in this dreamy mood of his, for Mrs. Crawford and Daireen Gerald were seen coming up the rail, and he hastened to meet them. The girl was very pale but smiling, and in the soft twilight she seemed very lovely.

“I am so glad to see you,” he said, as he settled a chair for her. “I feared a great many things when you did not appear to-day.”

“We must not talk too much,” said Mrs. Crawford, who had not expected to find Mr. Harwood alone in this place. “I brought Miss Gerard up here in order that she might not be subjected to the gaze of those colonists on the deck; a little quiet is what she needs to restore her completely from her shock.”

“It was very foolish, I am afraid you think—very foolish of me to behave as I did,” said Daireen, with a faint little smile. “But I had been asleep in my cabin, and I—I was not so strong as I should have been. The next time I hope I shall not be so very stupid.”

“My dear Miss Gerald,” said Harwood, “you behaved as a heroine. There is no woman aboard the ship—Mrs. Crawford of course excepted—who would have had courage to do what you did.”

“And he,” said the girl somewhat eagerly—“he—is he really safe?—has he recovered? Tell me all, Mr. Harwood.”

“No, no!” cried Mrs. Crawford, interposing. “You must not speak a word about him. Do you want to be thrown into a fresh state of excitement, my dear, now that you are getting on so nicely?”

“But I am more excited remaining as I am in doubt about that poor man. Was he a sailor, Mr. Harwood?”

“It appears-not,” said Harwood. “The doctor, however, is returning; he will tell all that is safe to be told.”

“I really must protest,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Well, I will be a good girl and not ask for any information whatever,” said Daireen.

But she was not destined to remain in complete ignorance on the subject which might reasonably be expected to interest her, for the doctor on seeing her hastened up, and, of course, Mrs. Crawford's protest was weak against his judgment.

“My dear young lady,” he cried, shaking Daireen warmly by the hand. “You are anxious to know the sequel of the romance of last night, I am sure?”

“No, no, Doctor Campion,” said Daireen almost mischievously; “Mrs. Crawford says I must hear nothing, and think about nothing, all this evening. Did you not say so, Mrs. Crawford?”

“My dear child, Doctor Campion is supposed to know much better than myself how you should be treated in your present nervous condition. If he chooses to talk to you for an hour or two hours about drowning wretches, he may do so on his own responsibility.”

“Drowning wretches!” said the doctor. “My dear madam, you have not been told all, or you would not talk in this way. He is no drowning wretch, but a gentleman; look at this—ah, I forgot it's not light enough for you to see the document, but Harwood there will tell you all that it contains.”

“And what does that wonderful document contain, Mr. Harwood?” asked Mrs. Crawford. “Tell us, please, and we shall drop the subject.”

“That document,” said Harwood, with affected solemnity; “it is a guarantee of the respectability of the possessor; it is a bank order for four hundred pounds, payable to one Oswin Markham, and it was, I understand, found upon the person of the man who has just been resuscitated through the skill of our good friend Doctor Campion.”

“Now you will not call him a poor wretch, I am sure,” said the doctor. “He has now fully recovered consciousness, and, you see, he is a gentleman.”

“You see that, no doubt, Mrs. Crawford,” said Harwood, in a tone that made the good physician long to have him for a few weeks on the sick list—the way the doctor had of paying off old scores.

“Don't be sarcastic, Mr. Harwood,” said Daireen. Then she added, “What did you say the name was?—Oswin Markham? I like it—I like it very much.”

“Hush,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Here is Mr. Glaston.” And it was indeed Mr. Glaston who ascended the rail with a languor of motion in keeping with the hour of twilight. With a few muttered words the doctor walked away.

“I hear,” said Mr. Glaston, after he had shaken hands with Daireen—“I hear that there was some wreck or other picked up last night with a man clinging to it—a dreadfully vulgar fellow he must be to carry about with him a lot of money—a man with a name like what one would find attached to the hero of an East End melodrama.”

There was a rather lengthened silence in that little group before Harwood spoke.

“Yes,” he said; “it struck me that it showed very questionable taste in the man to go about flaunting his money in the face of every one he met. As for his name—well, perhaps we had better not say anything about his name. You recollect what Tennyson makes Sir Tristram say to his Isolt—I don't mean you, Glaston, I know you only read the pre-Raphaelites—

“Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.”

But no one seemed to remember the quotation, or, at any rate, to see the happiness of its present application.