Foggerty's Fairy and Other Tales/A Tale of a Dry Plate
A TALE OF A DRY PLATE.
I am a junior partner in a large mercantile house. Certain irregularities had occurred in our Colombo branch, and I was dispatched by the firm to investigate them, and to place matters on a more satisfactory footing. I need not go into details on this point, as they are irrelevant to my story.
I sailed by the Kaiser-i-Hind from Tilbury, accompanied by my valet. At the Liverpool Street terminus an elderly lady in widow's mourning asked me some questions as to the conveyance of luggage from the Tilbury station to the ship; she should have sent her luggage to the docks, but had omitted to do so. As I replied to her questions, I saw that she was accompanied by a very beautiful girl of eighteen. There is no need to beat about the bush—I fell in love with her, there and then. It is a commonplace way of putting it, but I don't know that I could make matters clearer by a more elaborate method of expression. As they and I travelled to Tilbury in the same compartment, we entered into conversation, as people will readily do who know that they are to travel many thousand miles together. I learnt that the lady was a Mrs. Selby, widow of a Colonel Selby, who had died about six months since. Broken in health, and weakened by long weeping, she had been advised to take a sea voyage, in the belief that change of scene and beneficent sea air would do much to restore her to health, if not to happiness. As I happened to have met Colonel Selby on two occasions—once in London and once in a country house—my acquaintance with his widow and daughter rapidly ripened into friendship. We sailed on a fine October afternoon, and by the time we were off the "Start" I had almost established myself on the footing of an old friend.
Pass over the voyage. It lasted five weeks, but it seemed like five days. I lived but in Clara's presence. I scarcely spoke to anyone on board except to Clara and her mother. People see more of each other, if they care to do so, in a few weeks' voyage than in a lifetime on shore, and before we reached Colombo I had declared my love to Clara, and she had accepted it. If there is unalloyed happiness on earth, it was given to us as we neared Ceylon.
Unalloyed, save by the thought that we were about to part for a time; for Clara was to go on to Calcutta, where her late father's brother was quartered, whereas I was to remain in Ceylon for three months. We were to return to England at about the same date, and it was arranged that as soon as possible after our arrival we were to be married.
I have some little skill in photography, and I had brought with me a camera and some dry plates, intending to photograph any striking scenes that I might come across during my journey. By the aid of dry plates, photography, and especially travelling photography, is much simplified. The traveller can take a photograph, shut the plate in a light-tight box, and develop it twelve months afterwards if he pleases. There is no need to encumber oneself with chemicals; all the messy portion of the process can be done at home, in the seclusion of one's own dark room. I had not intended to take any photographs on the voyage, for dry plates are extraordinarily sensitive to the action of the faintest ray of light, and it was practically impossible to make my cabin dark enough to allow of my transferring plates from the dark box to the slides without absolutely spoiling them. But I happened to have left two plates in one of the slides, and before we reached our destination I devoted one of these to Clara and one to Mrs. Selby.
We parted tearfully, but not unhappily. We were to meet in three months' time, and our lives were then to be passed together. I believe we were too full of happiness in this prospect to grieve very much over our parting. As the Kaiser steamed away for Calcutta, I kept the happiness of our next meeting steadily before me, and it served to keep me in good spirits.
The time passed slowly; but it passed. I had received two letters from Clara, written from Calcutta, full of life, and hope, and joy at the prospect before us. She was going to spend a month at Allahabad, and a fortnight at Bombay, and she was then to return to Marseilles by a Messageries ship, the captain of which was an intimate friend of the uncle with whom she had been staying at Calcutta. By this arrangement she would arrive in England about a month before me.
At length my sailing orders came, and on one of the happiest days of my life I set foot on board the good ship Mirzapore, which was to convey me to Port Said, on my way home, viâ Brindisi. I had written to Mrs. Selby, begging her to bring Clara to meet me in Paris. Her doing so would but shorten our period of separation by some ten or twelve hours, but I knew that these hours were golden to her as well as to me, and I was selfish for both of us. After a stormy voyage, I reached Brindisi in due course; I hurried to the Poste Restante, for I had asked her to reply to me there, but there was nothing for me. It was evident that my letter had not reached her; perhaps she had delayed a few days in Paris on her way home. She had a trousseau to prepare, and it is a strange article of faith among women that this can be done more effectually in Paris than elsewhere; consequently, nothing was more probable than that she was there at that moment; my letter would probably be forwarded to her, and if so, she would surely be at the station on the arrival of the train from Italy.
As I rushed across Europe I had but one thought in my mind—would Clara be at the Paris terminus to meet me? The towns flew by me when I thought of her, and yet at times the intervals between them seemed interminable. Every stoppage irritated me; yet the two days were not tedious. I could always lose all count of time by allowing my mind to dwell upon the incidents of our voyage together, and especially on the crowning incident that was yet to come. But when the doubting question arose whether or not we should meet in Paris, the train seemed to dawdle as it never dawdled before. At length we reached the terminus. I eagerly scanned the few people on the platform as we entered the station, and my heart sank when I saw she was not there. Then I remembered that on French railways friends of passengers are not, as a rule, allowed on the platform, and my hopes rose again. They were soon dashed, for there was no Clara for me in the waiting-rooms or at the entrance.
A dim sense of calamity—unknown, and the more terrible for being unknown—took possession of me. I hurried across Paris to the "Nord," reached Calais in due course, crossed to Dover and made my way to London, which I reached late at night. The next day, at nine in the morning, I hurried to Mrs. Selby's house in Oxford Square. I rang the bell, and it was answered by a maid-servant in deep black. I asked for Mrs. Selby, but so inarticulately that the girl did not understand me. I pulled myself together, and repeated the question. The girl stammered awkwardly. Had I not heard? No! I had heard nothing; was anything wrong? The French ship in which Mrs. Selby and Clara had sailed from Bombay had been lost—as it was supposed—in a hurricane between Bombay and Aden, and all souls drowned.
I staggered as from a strong man's blow. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on the sofa in the dining-room, tended by an elderly gentleman, Mrs. Selby's brother and administrator. He, of course, did not know me; still less did he know of my relation towards his dead niece. I told him all, and he treated me with the greatest kindness. He could give me no hope; the ship was then six weeks overdue, and the insurances on her had been duly paid.
Desolate and heart-broken I left him, and went to my mother's house in Devonshire. After three weeks of fever I began to recover strength, but the light of my life was extinct, and an undefinable sense of night was all that remained to me. As soon as I was strong enough to stand, I thought of the photographs I had taken at Singapore. They were all that was left to me of my dead love, and with a feeling of unspeakable awe, I proceeded to raise her presentment as it were from the grave. In the closely darkened room, illuminated only by the dim red light of my developing lamp, I prepared the necessary chemicals with a trembling and uncertain hand. I took the plate from the slide in which it had been enclosed for so many months, and as I looked upon its plain creamy surface, so soon to be sanctified by her image, I almost felt that I was engaged on some unhallowed deed of necromancy. Breathless with excitement, I poured the developer upon it, and as I awaited the result, I could hear my heart thumping against my chest. I had not long to wait. Slowly, but surely and distinctly, the features of my darling came to me from the grave. Notwithstanding the inversion of its tones, it stood plainly before me—herself in every detail. As I watched the gradual perfection of the portrait, I cried like a child. At length the development was complete, and, shaking like a leaf, I took it from its bath to examine it more closely. As I did so the door of the room was suddenly opened, a flood of light was admitted, and the photograph was ruined beyond reparation.
With an inarticulate cry, I seized the intruder in my weakened grasp—it was my valet, who had accompanied me on my voyage out and home. I know not what I said to him, in my furious despair—the words, whatever they were, passed into forgetfulness as they were spoken.
"Sir, sir," said he, "I bring you great news. Miss Selby—Mrs. Selby. Their boat was picked up by a sailing ship. She encountered adverse winds, and only reached Plymouth yesterday—and—and—Miss Clara is here—and I have come to tell you so!"