“Don Fernandez Otranto,” replied Fidette. “He had been educated in Paris and at Heidelberg, and his German schooling was responsible for the fact that he was an expert performer upon the trombone. I had never heard of such an instrument, and never knew what form it took. But I know that it is very sonorous and loud, because on our sacred days he often played for me upon this pipe, while I sat here, as we sit now, listening in enraptured fashion to its notes. Many of the beautiful arias were familiar to me because they had been taught me by my pretty mother, who sang well and played the mandolin to perfection. It became a source of great joy to my heart to hear Fernandez play. I contrived to communicate this to him during his visit to our ship, and, after that, at nightfall, he always played a few bars from the national hymn of his beloved country. It became as the Angelus to me, for my mother had been a good Christian in her early days, and never overcame the inspiration that the sunset bell had had upon her in girlhood!”
“You told me that the sprig of bay given the visitor by you was the cause of dire disaster,” I suggested. “How was that?”
“On the ship where he dwelt the Kantoon had a daughter older than myself, but deformed and homely,” replied Fidette, slowly and solemnly. “She was a fright—not that I ever saw her, for, with the single exception of my visit to the Priest of the Sacred Fire to make my vows, I have never been a ship’s length distant from the Happy Shark. But I know that she must have been homely. She conceived a violent passion for Fernandez, which I am sure he did not reciprocate. Of course, he could not prevent her loving him, could he?”
“Certainly not,” I hastened to reply.
“Well, when he returned to the Goo-ge-Goo, or Green Octopod” (as the Royal George had been rechristened), “the miserable girl detected the sprig of bay that Fernandez still clutched in his hand. She said nothing, and, as the unfortunate young man did not then suspect her love for him, of course he was unaware that the token had roused her jealousy. She had him spied upon. She corrupted the executive officer of her father’s ship, who always accompanied Fernandez on his official visits to my father, and as a result the fact of our meetings was made known, and, indeed, parts of our conversation were repeated to the vixenish creature. Our dreams of bliss, all the sweeter because our meetings were stolen, ended with a terrible catastrophe.
“One morning I arose with the sun, and, as was my custom, hurried upon deck and looked out to the northward toward Fernandez’s ship. It had disappeared. The sea had swallowed it during the night. Not a trace remained or a sign that it had ever existed, beyond that space of open water you see before you! Far down, down, down, in the depths of the ocean sank the Green Octopod, with every soul on board of her. So, in the frankness of my heart, I have told you how I have loved and been loved.”
There are mean traits latent in our natures. I am ashamed to say this pathetic tale did not evoke in my heart any disposition to give vent to tears. I felt no particular regret that the trombone player had gone to feed the fishes in the mid-Atlantic. Candidly, I had almost as much aversion for him as Fidette had confessed for the humpbacked girl who had stolen her lover from her, and who had undoubtedly scuttled the ship when she found she was going to lose him. What if he had escaped? Was he a good swimmer? Fidette didn’t know. The very ethics of the Sargassons would prevent him from declaring himself to his former sweetheart. Brief as had been his stay among these people, he would know that to save his life would be regarded as an act of cowardice, for when one’s ship had reached the end of its career every soul on board of her must die perforce. But, poor chap, he had been in love, and that excused anything.
Fidette’s story of the first awakening of love in her heart had thrown us both into a very thoughtful mood. Now that I am calmer and look back upon the incident, I see how ridiculous was my assumption of heart-whole superiority to her. Although I did not permit the truth to find place in my memory just at that time, I can now recollect more than half a dozen episodes in my early life wherein I was as badly smitten as poor Fidette had been.
I sat moodily gazing down into the water and watching Fidette’s little pink feet toying with the jellyfish and the sea urchins. Her gaze was to the northward—toward but far beyond the spot at which had rested the dwelling place of her first lover. She was in a reverie. I watched her face closely, taking one of her dainty hands in both of mine, and, apparently unnoticed by her, pressing it to my lips. Hardly a breath of air was moving, and the indescribable silence of the Sargasso Sea hovered over us.
Suddenly Fidette’s face became transfigured. The pupils of her dark eyes dilated, the rosy blush of joy suffused her cheeks. I detected the slightest possible stiffening of the neck and elevation of the chin. She was listening. She changed her gaze toward the westward, and fixed it there. Her lips slightly parted, then broke into a smile of inexpressible happiness.