CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE LETTER.
Phil’s last letter had been addressed to his mother from Rome, and in it he had written that he was to start for India the next day with a young man whose acquaintance he had made on the voyage from New York to Havre, and who had persuaded him to go for a week or two to Madras, where his father was living. Since that time nothing had been heard from Phil, until the young man whose name was William Mather, wrote from Madras, as follows:
“Mr. and Mrs. Rossiter:—Respected Friends: I do not think I am an entire stranger to you, for I am very sure your son Philip wrote of me to you in some of his letters. We were together in the same ship, occupied the same state-room, and, as we were of the same age, and had many tastes and ideas in common, we soon became fast friends. I have never met a person whom I liked so much upon a short acquaintance as I did Philip Rossiter. He was so genial, so kind, so unselfish, and let me say, with no detriment to him as a man, so like a gentle, tender woman in his manner toward every one, that not to like him was impossible.
“My parents are American by birth, but I was born in Madras, where my father has lived for many years. Seeing in your son a true artist’s love and appreciation for everything beautiful, both in nature and art, I was anxious for him to see my home, which I may say is one of the most beautiful places in Madras. So I begged him to accompany me thither before going on to Calcutta, and he at last consented. I was the more anxious for this as he did not seem quite well; indeed, he was far from being well, although his disease, if he had any, was more mental than physical. Frequently during the voyage he would go away by himself and sit for hours looking out upon the sea, with a look of deep sadness on his face, as if brooding over some hidden grief, and once in his sleep, when he was more than usually restless, he spoke the name Queenie—whom he said he had lost, but in his waking hours he never mentioned her. I think, however, that he wrote to her from my father’s house at the same time he wrote to you. Probably you have received his letter ere this. He was delighted with my home, and during the few days he was with us improved both in health and spirits. He was very fond of the water, and as I have a pretty sailing-boat and a trusty man to manage it, we spent many hours upon the bay, going out one morning fifteen or twenty miles along the coast to a spot where my father has some gardens and a villa. Here we spent the day, and it was after sunset when we started to return, full of anticipated pleasure in the long sail upon the waters, which at first were so calm and quiet. Gradually, however, there came a change, and a dark cloud which, when we started, we had observed in the west, but thought nothing of, increased in size and blackness and spread itself over the whole heavens, while fearful gusts of wind, which seemed to blow from every quarter, tossed and rocked our boat as if it had been a feather. I think now that Jack, our man, must have drank a little too much at the villa, for he seemed very nervous and uncertain, and as the storm of wind increased, and in spite of all our efforts carried us out to sea instead of toward the coast, which we tried to gain, he lost his self-possession entirely and when there came a gust stronger than any previous one, he gave a loud cry and a sudden spring, and then we were struggling in the angry water with the boat bottom side up beside us.
“I seized your son’s arm, and with my other hand managed to get a hold upon the boat, which Mr. Rossiter and Jack also grasped, and there in the darkness of that awful night we clung for hours, constantly drifting farther and farther away from the shore, for the gale was blowing from the land, and we had no power to stem it. Far in the distance we saw the lights of vessels struggling with the tempest, but we had no means of attracting the attention of the crew, and our condition seemed hopeless, unless we could hold on until morning, when we might be discovered and picked up. For myself, I felt that I could endure it, but I feared for my friend. He was breathing very heavily, and I knew his strength was failing him, besides his position was not so easy as mine, as he had a smoother surface to cling to.”
“‘If you can get nearer to me,’ I said, ‘I can support you with one hand. Suppose you try it.’
“He made a desperate effort to reach me, while I held my hand toward him, and then—oh, how can I tell you the rest—there came a great wave and washed him away.
“I heard a wild cry above the storm, and by the lightning’s gleam I caught one glimpse of his white face as it went down forever. Of what followed, I am scarcely conscious, and wonder how I was enabled to keep my hold with Jack upon the boat until the storm subsided, and the early dawn broke over the still angry waves, when we were rescued from our perilous situation by a small craft going on to Madras. I cannot express to you my grief, or tell to you my great sorrow. May God pity you and help you to bear your loss. If there is a Queenie in whom your son was interested, and you know her, tell her I am certain that, whether waking or sleeping, she was always in the mind of my dear friend, and that a thought of her was undoubtedly with him when he sank to rise no more. Indeed, I am sure of it, for his last cry which I heard distinctly, was for her, and Queenie was the word he uttered just before death froze the name upon his lips. You can tell her this, or not, as you see fit.
“Again assuring you of my heartfelt sympathy,