"Why, now," said Mr. Parmalee, "I'd rather see this than have a thousand dollars down. Why, you look as spry almost as ever. How do you feel?"
"You have been very good to me and my mother. Be good until the end. If I die, bury me where he will never hear of my death nor look upon my grave. If I live, take me back to New York—I have friends there—and don't let him know whether I am living or dead."
"I'll do it! It's a go! I owe him one for that kicking, and, by Jove! here's a chance to pay him. Jest you keep up heart and get well, and we'll take you to New York in the 'Angelina Dobbs,' and nobody be the wiser."
Mr. Parmalee kept his word. They lay aboard the vessel while loading at Southampton, and a surgeon was in daily attendance upon the sick girl.
"You fetch her round," said Mr. Parmalee. "She's the skipper's only daughter—this 'ere craft, the 'Angelina Dobbs,' is named after her—and he'll foot the bill like a lud."
The surgeon did his best, and was liberally paid out of the three hundred pounds which Mrs. Denover had found in the bosom of Harriet's dress. But for days and weeks she lay very ill—ill unto death—delirious, senseless. Then the fever yielded, and death-like weakness ensued.
This, too, passed; and by the time the "Angelina" reached New York, the poor girl was able to saunter up and down the deck, and drink in the life-giving sea air.
Thus, while fruitless search was being made for G. W. Parmalee throughout London—while detectives examined every passenger who sailed in the emigrant ships—he was safely skimming the Atlantic in Captain Dobb's cockleshell.
To do him justice, he never thought—and no more did Harriet—of what might follow her disappearance. The baronet would leave the country, they both imagined, and her fate would remain forever a mystery.
So the supposed dead bride reached New York in safety, and that body washed ashore and identified by Sybilla Silver, to suit her own ends, was some nameless unfortunate.