CHAPTER VII
THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS
Ethel finished her letter, and went up on deck to find grandma. A splendid day was appearing, with its marvelous light flooding space. Morgana was building her palaces in the heavenly azure. Golden darts across battlemented clouds were driving away the birds of night. The sun rose up, enormous in size. In front of the yacht the city, with its minarets and domes, showed like a vision of the Orient. The castle, scarcely outlined, seemed floating above the waters.
“Brave Helia! the heavens are celebrating her—how splendid the mirage is, grandma!” said Ethel.
“You see, Ethel,” Mrs. Rowrer remarked, “mirages are not easily appreciated with glasses. At my age I perceive rather the chill of the mist.”
“My dear grandma!” said Ethel, as she kissed her, “don’t you think that what Helia did was simply grand? Even with your glasses you can distinguish heroism. Helia is what I call a woman! When I think that I might have done it—what would I not give to be in her place, grandma!”
“Are you jealous, Ethel?”
No; Ethel was not jealous. But for the last few days nothing had gone well with her. She was not like Helia, who had so many reasons to be joyful—and who yet was sad. Ethel had genuine cares. First, she had not risen to the mark like Helia; next—and oh, what a grudge she had against Will for it!—when she saw the poor refugees without food or shelter, she remarked to her brother how much wretchedness there was to comfort, that something ought to be done. It would even be an acknowledgment of the duke’s hospitality.
“It’s already done!” was Will’s answer. “I cabled from the city yesterday; one of our freight steamers will quit Odessa at once with grain and food.”
“There I am!” Ethel said, in comic despair.