Driven to bay, Vol. 1 (of 3)

By Florence Marryat

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Title: Driven to bay, Vol. 1 (of 3)

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: March 27, 2025 [eBook #75726]

Language: English

Original publication: London: F. V. White & Co, 1887

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRIVEN TO BAY, VOL. 1 (OF 3) ***





DRIVEN TO BAY.

VOL. I.



  DRIVEN TO BAY.

  _A NOVEL._

  BY
  FLORENCE MARRYAT,

  AUTHOR OF

  ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’
  ‘THE MASTER PASSION,’ ‘SPIDERS OF SOCIETY,’
  ETC., ETC.

  _IN THREE VOLUMES._

  VOL. I.

  LONDON:
  F. V. WHITE & CO.,
  31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

  1887.

  [_All Rights reserved._]




  EDINBURGH
  COLSTON AND COMPANY
  PRINTERS




[Illustration]

_CONTENTS._


  CHAP.                                PAGE

     I. JACK, THE SAILOR,                 1

    II. VERNON, THE LOVER,               17

   III. IRIS HARLAND,                    36

    IV. LES NOUVEAUX RICHES,             55

     V. BREAKERS AHEAD,                  72

    VI. A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING,      85

   VII. TWO WOMEN’S HEARTS,              98

  VIII. THE ‘_PANDORA_,’                115

    IX. MR GREENWOOD,                   132

     X. GOOD-BYE TO ENGLAND,            153

    XI. A DISCOVERY,                    175

   XII. AT SEA,                         191

  XIII. COURTSHIP,                      200

   XIV. REMONSTRANCE,                   216




“SELECT” NOVELS.

_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each._

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS.


By FLORENCE MARRYAT.

  THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE.
  THE HEART OF JANE WARNER.
  UNDER THE LILIES & ROSES.
  MY OWN CHILD.
  HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.
  PEERESS AND PLAYER.
  FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.
  A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
  MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.


By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudlip).

  HER SUCCESS.
  KATE VALLIANT.
  JENIFER.
  ALLERTON TOWERS.
  FRIENDS AND LOVERS.


By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.

  MATED WITH A CLOWN.
  ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN.
  MOLLIE DARLING.
  SWEETHEART AND WIFE.


By MRS HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”

  BARBARA’S WARNING.


By MRS ALEXANDER FRASER.

  THE MATCH OF THE SEASON.
  A FATAL PASSION.
  A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.


By IZA DUFFUS HARDY.

  ONLY A LOVE STORY.
  NOT EASILY JEALOUS.
  LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY.


By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.

  POISONED ARROWS.


By MRS H. LOVETT CAMERON.

  IN A GRASS COUNTRY.
  A DEAD PAST.
  A NORTH COUNTRY MAID.


By DORA RUSSELL.

  OUT OF EDEN.


By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE.

  KEITH’S WIFE.


By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON, Author of “So Runs my Dream.”

  FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE.


By EDMUND LEATHES.

  THE ACTOR’S WIFE.


By HARRIETT JAY.

  A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.


COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.




DRIVEN TO BAY.




[Illustration]

DRIVEN TO BAY.




CHAPTER I.

JACK, THE SAILOR.


The August sun had just sunk below the horizon, as Jack Blythe, a
passenger by the down train from London to Portsmouth, walked leisurely
home to a little cottage situated on Southsea Common.

He was a tall, well-built young fellow of five-and-twenty, with a
remarkably graceful figure. His hair was pale brown, with the faintest
tinge of gold upon it; his eyes were grey and languid in their
expression--his general appearance somewhat delicate. And yet Jack
Blythe (who had been christened Vernon) was one of the merriest,
most manly fellows in existence. The very fact of his proper name
having been mysteriously changed to ‘Jack’ was a proof of his being
a favourite with his own sex: as for the other, they, one and all,
combined to spoil him. Few, seeing Jack for the first time, would have
guessed his profession. He looked like a poet, but he was a sailor, and
belonged to the roughest part of the profession--the Merchant Service.
He had been educated, indeed, with a view to very different work; but
when it was too late for him to enter the Royal Navy, he had intimated
his unalterable decision to go to sea, and his mother, who was his only
surviving parent, had, with many tears, consented to his wishes. But he
was a good son and a good sailor, and she had never repented of letting
him have his own way.

As he approached his destination, he was accosted by another young man
who had run half-way across the common to meet him.

‘Hullo, Jack! how are you? You’re the very man I want,’ cried the
new-comer effusively.

‘What for, Reynolds? To pull an oar in a boating party, or to rig up a
tent for a camping-out expedition?’ asked Blythe.

‘Better than that, old boy! I’ve bought that little yacht, the _Water
Witch_, at last, and you must sail her for me. I have my party all
ready, and we can start for the Island to-morrow morning.’

‘I should very much like to join you, old man,’ said Jack, ‘but it
can’t be done. I may have to go to town again to-morrow to meet an
influential friend.’

‘Hang it! You are always going up to town!’ ejaculated the other. ‘One
day off can surely do you no harm.’

‘It might, at present, Reynolds. I have stayed on shore too long
already, and I find some difficulty in getting a ship. I have sent in
my application for a berth on board the _Pandora_, and as I have good
interest, I hope I may get it. But nothing is certain in this world,
and I cannot afford to relax my energies until I am provided for.
You see my twelve-month’s pay is nearly gone--that’s where the shoe
pinches; so, if I lose my chance of the _Pandora_, I shall have to hunt
up all the skippers and owners in the docks.’

‘You’ll get a ship fast enough,’ grumbled Reynolds; ‘you’ve passed for
chief officer. What more do you want? Come, old boy,’ he continued
coaxingly, ‘say you’ll give up to-morrow to the _Water Witch_ and me--’

‘I will, if it is possible! I can say no more,’ replied Jack Blythe.

‘Alice Leyton has promised to accompany us,’ resumed Reynolds,
meaningly.

‘Has she?’ remarked Jack without a blush. ‘Well, if I can join the
party, she will prove an extra attraction to it, naturally. But it is
as necessary for her sake as for my own that I should get employment as
soon as possible.’

And, with a wave of the hand, Jack Blythe continued his walk to his
mother’s cottage.

‘I don’t believe he cares a rap for that girl,’ thought Reynolds, as
he, too, turned homewards. ‘Fancy! calmly resigning a whole day on
the water with the woman he is supposed to be in love with. Bah! The
fellow’s not made of flesh and blood.’

But in this, as in many things, Mr Reynolds was mistaken. It was a
hard trial for Vernon Blythe to relinquish what was, to him, one of
the greatest pleasures in life. He would have given anything in reason
to have had an opportunity to test the sailing powers, and seen the
behaviour of the saucy little _Water Witch_ under his guidance; and for
a while he felt half disposed to gratify his desire at the expense of
his duty.

‘Shall I go?’ he asked himself as he strode onwards. ‘After all, it
will only be a day more, and I don’t half like the idea of Alice going
without me. She doesn’t mean any harm, I know--still, she is rather
free in her manners, and apt to say more than she means, and Reynolds
certainly admires her. Pshaw! I am talking nonsense! I have promised
to meet Mr Barber, and I must be firm. Besides, if Alice is not to be
trusted on a water-party without my protection, how am I to leave her
(as I soon may) to take a voyage to New Zealand alone? I must trust
her “all in all, or not at all.” I was a fool even to think of such a
thing!’

And starting off at a brisk pace, he soon reached his mother’s cottage.

Mrs Blythe was on the look-out for her son’s return. He was her only
child, and she loved him as only a mother can love the one treasure of
her heart. His father, who was an officer in the Royal Navy, had been
drowned at sea whilst Vernon was a baby, and it had been the one wish
of her widowed life that her boy should not be a sailor. But as he grew
up, the inherited instinct developed itself, and she had been forced
to part with her darling; since which her life had been divided into
two parts only--the days when Vernon was at home, and the days when he
was not. Mrs Blythe always called her son ‘Vernon.’ It had been her
own maiden name, and she would recognise him by no other. She thought
the nickname of ‘Jack’ both low and vulgar, and was disgusted whenever
she heard him addressed by it. She was a round, rosy little woman,
very unlike her son, who inherited his beauty from his father, but she
was a good mother to him, and he loved her devotedly. Although she had
such good reason to hate and dread the sea, yet she felt she could not
live away from it, and had been settled in Southsea ever since her
husband’s death. Her cottage, which faced the common, was surrounded by
a pretty garden, enclosed by a wooden paling and a little rustic gate.
The room where she awaited her son was neatly furnished, the walls
being covered with the curiosities which Vernon, and his father before
him, had brought her home from different parts of the world. Talipots
and fans from Rangoon, and bangles and hookahs from Calcutta hung by
the side of skins and palm-leaf trophies from the West Coast, and green
stone and carved wooden weapons from Maori land. Daintily-painted
boxes, and wonderfully-carved pagodas were piled up with ornamented
whales’ teeth, and the inexhaustible fern leaves from St Helena, and
necklaces and poisoned spears from the Sandwich Islands. Here, in fact,
were to be seen specimens of art from every quarter of the globe,
and with a story attached to each, marking the milestones along the
widow’s path of life, and hallowed by her smiles and tears. The room
had more the appearance of a museum than a private dining-room, but
these innumerable curiosities were Mrs Blythe’s greatest treasures,
over which she brooded whilst her son was absent on his long sea
voyages. She had had him all to herself for twelve months now, but the
holiday was drawing to a close, and each day she dreaded to hear him
say that he must leave her.

‘Well, Vernon, my darling!’ she exclaimed anxiously, as he entered the
room where his tea was ready laid for him; ‘what news have you to-day?’

‘None in particular, mother,’ he replied, throwing himself into a
chair. ‘I have been to dozens of firms, but it is the old story with
all of them.’

‘Something will spring up by-and-by,’ said Mrs Blythe, soothingly, ‘and
for my part I don’t care how long it may be first. But have your tea
now, dear. I am sure you must be tired.’

‘I am dead beat,’ replied Vernon, drawing his chair to the table. ‘I
called to-day on Stern & Stales, and saw their ship’s husband about the
appointment on board the _Pandora_. I told him how very anxious I am to
get it, but he is not sure if it is given away. However, he has four
passenger ships all going to New Zealand, and if the _Pandora’s_ berth
is filled, he has promised to try and get me on one of the others. If I
don’t hear from him by to-morrow I am to go up and see him again.’

Mrs Blythe gave a shrug of impatience.

‘I can’t think,’ she said somewhat testily, ‘why you should be so
dreadfully anxious to sail in the _Pandora_.’

Her son regarded her with mild surprise.

‘Why, mother, you know that the Leytons have secured their passages by
her. What is more natural than I should wish to go too?’

‘Well, if you do your duty on board ship, as I know you always do, you
will have no time to waste on making love to Alice Leyton.’

Vernon laughed in his lazy fashion.

‘Perhaps not! but I shall be near her in case of her requiring me, and
when we get to New Zealand, I shall see her father and get the matter
settled. It is time it was settled, mother. We have been engaged now
for nearly a year, and I suppose that, sooner or later, we must be
married.’

‘It had better be later, then,’ replied Mrs Blythe, hotly. ‘For my
part, I think it is nonsense to hear you talk of such a thing as
marriage. A child like you, and without any money.’

‘The last objection is unfortunately true enough,’ replied Vernon; ‘but
as for being a child--well, all I can say is, I don’t feel like one.
And if Alice chooses to marry a poor man, that is her business, and no
one else’s.’

‘There is a much greater objection to the marriage, in my opinion, than
that, urged Mrs Blythe. ‘I don’t think Alice Leyton really cares for
you.’

‘Oh, mother, why should you say so. What right have you to think it. I
should never have proposed to her if I had not seen plainly that she
cared for me.’

‘Any fool could see that she set her cap at you, Vernon. But she is
not the only girl that has done that. And she is a flirt, my dear. I
daresay you will be angry with me, but I must speak the truth. Whilst
you are away in London, Alice Leyton is running about the common and
the pier with any man she can get hold of, and chattering--dear! dear!
how that girl’s tongue does run. I pity you if you are ever shut up
with it between four walls.’

The young man did not seem in the least angry at this tirade. He waited
till his mother had finished, and then he answered very quietly, but
determinately.

‘Look here, mother dear. You mustn’t speak in that way of Alice.
Remember she will be my wife. Besides, you are quite mistaken. She is
not a flirt at all. She is very high-spirited, and has been brought
up in a free and easy manner (what with her father being away and her
mother an invalid), but that will be all altered by-and-by. She loves
me very dearly, for aught you may think, and when she is my wife, she
will be all that you can wish her to be--of that I am very sure.’

‘She may well love you,’ said Mrs Blythe, looking fondly at her son;
‘who could help loving you, Vernon? But there is another side to the
question, _Do you love her?_’

At that he started, and looked uneasy. Still his answer was given
manfully.

‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? A dear, sweet little girl like that.
Why, mother, when I look at Alice, I think sometimes she’s just the
very prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Such eyes and teeth and skin! And
such a merry smile! She’s the very impersonation of a sunbeam! A man
couldn’t be unhappy with a creature like that by his side. She’d make
him laugh at a funeral.’

‘I acknowledge all that,’ said Mrs Blythe, shaking her head oracularly;
‘but giggles and blushes and good eyes don’t make the happiness of a
man’s life, when there’s nothing else behind them. And sometimes, my
boy,’ she continued, coming round to his side and putting her hand
caressingly upon his hair, ‘sometimes I fancy--now don’t be angry with
me, dear, for I wouldn’t vex you for the world--but sometimes I have
thought--’

‘Well, mother, what have you thought?’ asked Vernon, as he took her
hand in his and laid his cheek against it.

‘That Alice Leyton is not your first fancy, Vernon, and that my boy has
had a disappointment of which I have never heard.’

His youthful cheek grew crimson, then. She could see the blood mounting
to his forehead and the roots of his hair. And when he answered her
his voice seemed suddenly to have changed.

‘And what then?’ he said curtly.

‘Is there no hope--no chance--my darling?’ asked Mrs Blythe.

‘Not the slightest. Had there been, do you suppose I should have been
engaged to Alice Leyton? I don’t know how you have guessed there was
ever another, mother, but it all happened a long time ago, and I have
nearly forgotten it.’

‘Vernon, my dear, that is not true. You cannot have forgotten it, or
the allusion would not move you in this manner. And as for “long ago,”
why, you were only five-and-twenty last month. How soon did you begin
to fall in love?’

‘Never mind that, mother. Whenever it occurred, or however it affected
me, it is a thing of the past, and I would rather you never spoke of it
to me or any one again.’

‘And won’t you tell me who it was?’ said Mrs Blythe, kissing his
forehead.

‘What is the use?’ he rejoined, wearily.

Yet he knew, as he asked the question, that to tell her everything
would be a relief to him. He had suffered very deeply, and in all other
sufferings but this his mother had been his true confidant and friend.
And so, with a little gentle coaxing on her part, as they sat together
when the evening meal was concluded, he was induced to tell his tale.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

VERNON, THE LOVER.


Few people who had only seen Vernon Blythe when in the pursuit of
the manly exercises in which most sailors delight, and in which he
especially excelled, would have recognised him now as he lay back in
his chair, with his delicate profile clearly limned against the evening
sky, and a look of abject pain in the eyes that watched the curling
wreaths of smoke that ascended from his pipe. There were two distinct
sides to this young man’s character, as there are to that of most of
us. To the outside world, and in the pursuit of his profession, he
was known as one of the most daring, courageous, and undaunted of
natures,--a man who did not know what it was to fear danger, to dread
a risk, or to leave an insult unavenged. He was brave, imprudent, and
hot-headed, but strictly generous and honourable. With his mother,
however, and in the sanctity of home, he was a different creature.
There his heart rose uppermost, and he became less guarded in his looks
and speech. There, as it were, he thought less of his manhood and men
friends, and more of himself and his private feelings. And so the
secret, which he believed to be entirely his own property, had slipped
from him unawares, and become his mother’s. But who can hide a beloved
child’s suffering from the eyes of his mother? And Vernon felt glad now
that it was so.

‘Do you remember,’ he began presently, and in a lower voice than
usual,--‘do you remember, mother, the time after my second voyage, when
I had had that touch of Gold Coast fever, and you sent me up to Uncle
Vernon’s in Selkirk for three months to recruit?’

‘Certainly, dear. What of it?’

‘That was the time that it happened.’

Mrs Blythe almost jumped with surprise.

‘But, good gracious, Vernon, you were too young for anything then! It
must be--let me see--quite five years ago. You were not a day over
twenty.’

‘I was old enough, it seems, to love--and to remember,’ he answered
quietly.

‘And you have thought of the girl all this time? It appears incredible.’

‘Nevertheless it is true. But you must not infer from my words that I
have been grieving after her all this time. That would be most unfair
to Alice Leyton, and it would not be correct. I cannot forget her--I
wish I could--but I have ceased to lament the inevitable. Only, it has
cast a shadow over my life--which you seem to have perceived, and which
I know will be there until I die.’

‘Oh, my dear boy, you mustn’t say that. Everybody has a love-affair
or so before they settle down. Even _I_--dearly as I loved your
father--had had several admirers before I met him.’

‘Of course you had,’ rejoined Vernon fondly, with the _old_ manner that
seemed sometimes to sit so strangely on his youthful appearance; ‘heaps
of them, I should say, if the young men of that day had any gumption
about them. I often think, mother, what a dear, charming, genuine sort
of girl you must have been.’

He pinched her cheek as he spoke, and Mrs Blythe felt happier at
receiving his compliment, than she had ever done when the young men he
alluded to had paid theirs.

‘Now don’t be foolish, my darling,’ she said, with an assumption of
indifference, as she settled her head-dress. ‘But what I say is true.
First love-affairs are seldom lasting.’

‘I daresay not; I hope not; although I fancy I have reached the climax
of my forgetfulness. Five years is a long time to fret after a woman,
and, indeed, I have tried hard to banish her from my mind. It is only
fair to dear little Alice that I should do so.’

‘But what went wrong with it, my boy?’

‘Everything, mother! I met her at a friend of uncle’s, and I loved her
from the very first. But she did not love me, and there was an end of
it. In fact, there was another fellow in the way.’

‘Was she so very beautiful, Vernon?’

‘No, I think not--at least, I never heard any one else say so. But to
me she seemed to have the most perfect face I had ever seen. When I
think of it now, it looks like the face of an angel. And everything she
said and did seemed right. I agreed with all her opinions. We liked the
same things--the same people--the same pursuits. Oh! what is the use of
thinking of it?’ he continued impatiently; ‘I suppose it was my fate
to meet her, and love her, and carry her remembrance in my heart for
ever afterwards. I have spoken of her this once, mother, because you
asked me. But it must never be again. I cannot bear it!’

‘But why couldn’t she love you?’ said Mrs Blythe plaintively. ‘It was
cruel of her not to undeceive you--such a lad as you were--from the
very beginning.’

‘That was not her fault, mother. You must not blame her. I don’t think
she was aware of my love until I confessed it to her. And then it was
too late.’

‘How “too late”?’

‘She was already engaged to be married to another man--a man of fashion
and means, and five years my senior--and two months afterwards she
became his wife, and there was an end to my mad dream for ever. And
perhaps it was better so than that she should have remained single, and
I gone on hoping against hope.’

‘What is her name, Vernon?’

‘Mother dear, I cannot tell you her name. Don’t ask me to do it. It is
sacred to me, as I thought my secret was, and I could not bear to think
it had passed my lips. Remember her only as the one great love of your
son’s life: it is the highest title you can give her.’

‘And do you know her husband?’ asked Mrs Blythe.

‘No, certainly not,’ he answered roughly, ‘and, from all I have heard
of him, I never wish to know him. Let us drop the subject. But you will
understand better now my anxiety to marry Alice Leyton. Nothing could
contribute more to the healing of this mental wound than the constant
presence of a woman who loves me. The sunshine she will bring with her
will chase the last shadow away.’

‘It is terrible to hear you talk of “shadows” at your age, Vernon,’
replied Mrs Blythe, wiping her eyes.

‘Nonsense!’ he cried lightly, as he sprang from his chair; ‘we all
have them, more or less. My lot is no worse than that of other men. If
you treat my confidence in this serious strain, I shall never give you
another.’

‘No, don’t say that, my boy,’ replied his mother. ‘I love you for
having spoken to me as you have, and from this day I will never open my
lips upon the matter.’

‘That’s right,’ said Vernon, as he kissed her. ‘And now I’m going down
to the beach to have a look at the _Water Witch_, that is anchored
against the pier. I’ll be back to supper,’ and, with his pipe in his
mouth, and a forced smile upon his lips, he left her to herself.

Having thoughtfully traversed the common that lay between them and the
sea, Vernon Blythe sat down on a bench just opposite where the yacht
was anchored, and surveyed her carefully. She certainly was a very
pretty little craft. Her narrow black hull, with its golden stripe, and
her tapering mast so gracefully raked, showed she was built for speed
and fine-weather sailing, and the very sight of her made Blythe wish
that he could retract his promise to the shipowner.

‘Guess who it is!’ cried a merry voice behind him, as a pair of hands
were laid upon his eyes.

‘It’s Alice, and you may belay that,’ replied Vernon, in the same tone.
‘You, have nearly pulled my moustaches out by the roots, and blinded
me with my own tobacco ash. Be sensible for once if you can, and come
round and sit down on the bench beside me.’

Alice Leyton, who was attired somewhat gaily for a promenade in a
garrison town, wriggled coquettishly to the front of the seat, and
stood smiling at her lover. She was just what he had called her to his
mother--one of the merriest, brightest girls in existence. She was
only eighteen years old. Her sunny hair hung in waving curls about
her face, and her laughing blue eyes, which never seemed dull or
weary, played fearful havoc with the weaker sex. Yet Alice Leyton was
no coquette. She flirted and romped with every one she could enlist
under her banner, but it was with a view to general enjoyment, rather
than to individual triumph. But with all her prettiness (which was
undeniable) she did not look high-class. She was dressed to attract
attention--innocent, maybe, but still attention--and she made the
very most of her neat ankles and small waist and well-developed bust.
Yet, after all, her charms were natural, and so were her manners. The
ringing laugh and happy, youthful face, the waving hair, and the fresh
colour, were all her own, and few men would have been found to deny
their fascination.

‘Kiss me, Jack,’ she said effusively, as she held her rosy mouth
towards him.

‘Not just yet, my dear child,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Why, there are a
dozen people looking at us. Wait till I get you to myself at home, and
I’ll show you what kissing means.’

‘Horrid boy! Perhaps I sha’n’t be in the humour then. “Paddy, take me
in the mind, and that’s just now,”’ pouted Alice.

‘Well, you shouldn’t get in the mind in the middle of the common,’
returned Jack. ‘You come and sit down, like a good girl, and behave
yourself properly.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said, as she nestled up against
him.

‘Spin away, Pussie! I’m all attention.’

‘You see the _Water Witch_ lying there?’ continued Alice. ‘Bob Reynolds
has bought her, and he is going to have a water-party to-morrow, and
wants me to join it; but I told him I couldn’t go without you.’

‘Oh! I see now why Reynolds was so anxious for my company,’ said Jack.
‘I thought it queer he should ask me to sail the _Water Witch_ for the
first time, when he boasts so much of his own seamanship.’

‘He _has_ asked you then!’ cried Alice. ‘And you will go, won’t you,
dear Jack?’

‘I am sorry to say I cannot promise,’ said Blythe, pulling his
moustaches. ‘I may be obliged to go up to town. I told Reynolds so an
hour ago.’

‘And I sha’n’t be able to go then,’ said Alice, in a tone of vexation.

‘But why not, dear? Do you think that I cannot trust you, or that I am
so selfish as to grudge you any enjoyment in which I cannot take part
myself. We must not begin life on those terms, Alice. A sailor must
always be prepared to part from his wife, and our marriage must be one
of perfect trust on both sides, or it had better never take place at
all.’

‘Oh, bother marriage!’ cried Alice. ‘Who was thinking of such rubbish?
Not I. All I meant was, that I should be afraid to trust myself to
Bob Reynolds without you. Do you know that one day last year, when
you were in Calcutta, he took me out in a boat, and toppled me into
the water, and if it had not been for old Jerry Sparks, the waterman,
pulling off in his punt, I might have been drowned.’

‘He’s an awkward landlubber,’ said Jack, as he passed one of her curls
through his fingers.

‘That’s a cool way of taking it, Jack. But it’s true, I can tell you.
He “cracked on” till the gunwale was under water, and we all had to
sit up to windward, and then played pranks with the sail until he
overturned the boat. And you wouldn’t like to see me drowned, would
you, Jack?’ she continued insinuatingly.

‘No! That would not be nice at all,’ replied her lover; ‘besides, it
would spoil that pretty dress.’

‘Well, then, will you go and take care of me?’

‘I suppose I shall have to in the end; that is, if you are determined
to have your own way. Like the blessed Saint Anthony, I have resisted
all the other temptations, but the last one always proves too much
for me. Do you know that I have a chance of going out with you to New
Zealand, Alice, as second officer in the _Pandora_?’

‘Have you really? Oh, that will be great fun. But I hope they won’t let
you do what you like with the ship, or you may run us on a rock, or
something horrid.’

‘Thank you for the compliment. But I think you may feel perfectly
safe--not with me, but in the _Pandora_.’

‘Is she such a good ship then?’

‘She is an iron clipper, registered A1 at Lloyd’s.’

‘Now I am as wise as before.’

‘You will soon find out all about her when you get aboard. And I hope
sincerely I may be there too. You can guess the reason I am so anxious
to visit New Zealand, Alice.’

‘I can’t. What is it?’ demanded Alice, with open eyes.

‘Because I want to make the personal acquaintance of your father, and
get him to fix some definite time for our marriage. I think it is time
we were married, Alice.’

‘_I_ don’t!’ cried the girl, shrugging her shoulders.

‘Oh, yes, you do. That is only a little bit of mock modesty, put on
for the occasion. At any rate, that is my intention, in applying for
a berth in the _Pandora_. Your mother is all kindness to me, but I
think she is just a little afraid of what your father may say to our
engagement.’

‘You see,’ said Alice, kicking the stones with her feet, ‘father
is very well off, and there are only two of us, and mother thinks
perhaps--’

‘That he will not consider me a good enough match for his eldest
daughter. Well, with regard to money, that is true enough, although my
birth is second to none.’

‘But _I_ love you Jack, remember,’ said Alice, ‘and I mean to marry
you, whatever any one may say against it.’

‘Well, dearest, it will be better to get the matter settled any way.
I am sorry now that your mother has not been more explicit with Mr
Leyton, but she preferred to speak to him herself on the subject. If I
am lucky, I shall be there too, and between us all, we must carry the
day.’

‘Unless father thinks that, as mother is such an invalid, it is my duty
to remain with her and take care of her. Baby is of no use, you know.’

‘Alice!’ exclaimed Blythe suddenly, ‘tell me the truth! Do you _want_
to marry me?’

‘Why, of course I do, Jack. Didn’t I fall in love with your handsome
face the first day we met?’

‘Oh, bother my handsome face!’ cried the young man impetuously. ‘_Do
you love me?_ That is the question? Does your heart speak to mine?’

‘How tiresome you are to-night,’ returned Alice. ‘What have I ever done
to make you think I don’t love you? Haven’t we talked of being married,
and told all our friends about it for a year past? Why,’ she continued
in a shy tone, ‘I marked one of my handkerchiefs A. B. the other day,
just to see how it looked, and I thought it was _lovely_.’

‘Dear girl,’ said Jack patronisingly, ‘that is finally settled then.
Whether I sail in the _Pandora_ or not, I shall make my way out to New
Zealand and ask your father to give you to me for my wife.’

‘But that will not be for a long time yet, and so we need not talk of
it any more,’ replied Alice. ‘Here is your mother, Jack, coming across
the common to meet us.’

Vernon rose as his mother advanced towards them. His politeness to her
was as great as it was to other women.

‘Here is a letter for you from Stern & Stales, my dear,’ said Mrs
Blythe, ‘so I thought you would wish to see it at once.’

‘Thanks,’ cried Vernon, as he tore open the envelope. ‘Mother! you have
joined us most opportunely. Listen.

  ‘“DEAR SIR,--An accident has happened to the second officer of the
  _Pandora_ through the snapping of an iron chain, which will prevent
  him from sailing in the vessel.

  ‘“I am able, therefore, most unexpectedly to offer you the
  appointment you desire. If you will be at the shipping office on the
  seventeenth instant at twelve o’clock to meet Captain Robarts, you
  can sign the necessary articles.”

‘There’s good luck, mother. Won’t you wish me joy? Alice! we are to be
shipmates, and I can make up my mind now. I will join the party on the
_Water Witch_ to-morrow, and see that you behave yourself steadily.
Mother! I shall want all my things to be ready by the twenty-third.’

But Mrs Blythe was already half-way back across the common, sobbing as
if her heart would break.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

IRIS HARLAND.


On the same evening that the newly-appointed officer of the _Pandora_
was congratulating himself on his good luck, and trying to deceive
himself into believing he was in love with the girl he was engaged to
marry, a very different scene was being enacted in a furnished lodging
in one of the smaller streets of Pimlico. The chief actor there was
also a man--young, good-looking, and a gentleman--but with distinct
traces on his countenance of the tempest of passions and vices he had
passed through. He called himself Godfrey Harland. He was a fine,
well-built man, with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a black
moustache. His eyes, which were also dark and piercing, were set too
near his nose for honesty, and had a cunning, distrustful look in
them. His mouth was small, with thin compressed lips that covered a
set of strong white teeth, and his jaw was heavy and determined. As he
sat, pondering over his past and his future, with a cigar between his
lips, and a glass of brandy and water in his hand, he looked evil, and
almost dangerous. Godfrey Harland had had a chequered life. His father
had possessed a large fortune, and given his son, whilst young, the
advantages not only of a liberal education and college training, but
unlimited money to supply himself with all the luxuries, and indulge
in all the dissipations of life. But one day the crash came. Godfrey’s
father lost all his money in that great lottery which has ruined so
many thousands, the Stock Exchange, and his son suffered with him. He
was at once withdrawn from college, his ample allowance was stopped,
and he was told he must go out into the world and support himself. With
some great souls a reverse of fortune proves a stimulus to exertion,
and is the test that brings out their virtues. But weaker natures fail
under it, and Godfrey Harland’s nature was essentially weak. By reason
of his father’s former influence in the city, he was soon installed as
clerk in one of the best-known London firms. Before he had been there
three months, however, a mysterious forgery was committed by some one
in the house, and before the offender could be discovered Godfrey had
fled to America, thereby leaving a dark suspicion on his own name.

In the United States he had tried his hand at everything. He tilled the
ground and lived with the farm hands in the warry on pork and beans.
He joined an old trapper in the Rocky Mountains, where he had many a
rough struggle with the ‘grizzlies,’ and left him for a cattle-herder
on a ranche in Texas, where he earned the _soubriquet_ of ‘Satan’
amongst the drovers, for his dare-devil propensities. He was engaged in
many a night raid on the Indians, and sat in his saddle for three days
before a cattle stampede, and ‘knifed’ or ‘winged’ more than one man
in that wild territory, where shooting a fellow-creature is thought no
more of than felling a buffalo.

In fact, Godfrey Harland had been everything by turns. A guard on the
Grand Trunk--a baggage man to a theatrical company--an able seaman on a
coaster--and last, though not least, a barman at a ‘hell-upon-earth’ in
New York, where he had imbibed his gambling propensities, and whence he
had ventured to return to England under an assumed name--not the first
he had taken--and make a new circle of acquaintances for himself.

‘Curse that “Peppermint!”’ he was saying, when we first see him; ‘if he
had pulled it off at Aintree, I should have been safe. I can’t stand
much more of this. They must come down upon me before long. I wouldn’t
have minded my shaking at the Lincoln, though it was stiff enough. But
I believe they dosed “Peppermint,” and I owe all my debts to a painted
quid. By Jove! I should like to know how much old Roper’s worth. If
he would stand to lend me a “thou.,” I might make my running with
Vansittart’s daughter. I wonder if the old stock-driver meant what he
said the other night? Gad! what a stroke of luck it would be. A home at
the Antipodes--a settled position with all the old worries left behind
me in England, and the chance of an heiress. I mustn’t lose it, if I
stake my very soul upon the die. I shall never get such an opportunity
of retrenching again. Not if I live to the age of Methusaleh. Never!’

And he drained the glass of brandy and water with a feverish
impatience, as though the good fortune he was anticipating lay at the
bottom of it.

At this juncture the door of the room opened, and a woman entered. What
a woman she was. What a graceful, refined, _spirituelle_ creature. Her
slight, lissom figure was the impersonation of elegance. Her hazel eyes
looked out from her pale features like those of a deer, heavy with
unshed tears. Her tender mouth was even now curved in a sad smile,
and her sunny hair, with its rich chesnut shades of light and shadow,
rippled about her shoulders, and curled caressingly around her youthful
face. She was dressed shabbily, and somewhat untidily, for it is hard
to keep always tidy when one is poor, but she looked a gentlewoman
from head to foot--more, she might have been a princess, masquerading
in a beggar’s clothes. And this was Iris Harland, Godfrey Harland’s
wife. What could a man like this want with a wife? He had never
been constant to one thing in this world. Was it likely he would be
constant to a woman? Iris knew to her cost that he was not. But she had
already outlived the pain the knowledge gave her. The numerous shocks
she had sustained since her marriage had rendered her indifferent.
Many an insult she had borne patiently from her husband, and without
resentment, until all her love had died away, and left nothing behind
it but a feeling of contempt and fear.

Why had he married her? Godfrey Harland had often asked himself this
question and been unable to answer it. He was the last man in the
world who should have encumbered himself with a wife. But after his
return from America, he had met this girl living quietly with her
widowed father, and had fallen desperately in love with her purity and
innocence, so different from what he had been accustomed to. And Iris
had believed him to be all that he was not. His varied experiences,
and able mode of relating the wonders of his travels, had fascinated
her girlish heart, and made her accept him as her life-long companion
and friend. But six months of married life had undeceived her. By that
time, reverses had come upon them, and the man’s brutal and selfish
nature had revealed itself. His passion for her had been simply an
infatuation. He had been delighted with his pretty toy at first, but,
like a spoiled child, he spurned it, when it had become familiar to
him. He had wounded her deeply by his indifference; he had frightened
her with his violence and threats, but it was his insults that had
stabbed her to the heart, and killed her respect for him. Had he taken
a horse-whip and struck her (as he was quite capable of doing), she
might still have forgiven him, but an insult to a woman’s honour is
never forgotten, and seldom pardoned. Many women will slave for their
husbands night and day--they will starve themselves to keep the wolf
from the door, and give up home, relations, luxury, everything, for
the man they love. But as soon as a man returns his wife’s affection
by falsely impugning her honour--when he accuses her of the infidelity
of which he alone has been guilty--he has severed the last link that
bound them together, and has only himself to thank, if in the future
her outraged feelings find relief in the very consolation he has
unwarrantably accused her of seeking. Such was the state of things
between Godfrey Harland and his wife. A sullen sense of being in the
wrong on his side, and a great contempt for all he did and said on
hers--and only one wish shared between them in common, that they had
never met!

‘Here is a letter for you,’ said Mrs Harland, as she placed it in his
hand. He opened and read it through in silence, although he could not
conceal the satisfaction it gave him.

‘A man wants to see me on business. I must go out to-night, and at
once. Is there any more brandy in the cupboard, Iris?’ said Godfrey, as
he thrust the letter into his coat pocket.

‘Is it advisable you should drink any more if you are going to transact
business?’ she inquired calmly. She had observed her husband’s
expression on reading the letter, and his ready concealment of it, and
she did not believe it treated of business. But she did not say so.
If her marriage had done nothing else for her, it had taught her to
conceal her thoughts.

‘Confound you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you suppose I should ask for it, if
I didn’t require it? Give it me at once, or else send the girl out for
some more. Pour me out a soda, and put a couple of lemons into it, and
a spoonful of bitters. That will pull me round a bit. I feel quite
confused with trying to see my way out of the mess we are in.’

‘Shall you be back to-night, Godfrey?’

‘Don’t know. It all depends. Perhaps I may be detained late. I’ve got
to see some fellows at the club; but don’t sit up for me any way. And
just put out my dress clothes, will you? I can’t go out this figure,’
and lifting the tankard to his lips, he drained off his ‘pick-me-up’ at
a draught.

His wife left him without another word. Her lips were compressed, and
her eyes darted scorn, but she did not let him see them. She knew he
had lied to her, as he had done for some time past, but if she put him
on his guard, she should never gain an opportunity to learn the truth.
So she laid out his evening suit upon the bed, and placed his white
tie upon the toilet-table, and lighted the candles just as though she
believed he would take all that trouble to meet some man on business
at a city club. And Godfrey Harland fell into the trap. Heated and
confused by the amount of liquor he had imbibed, he forgot all about
the letter he had received, and issued from the bedroom half-an-hour
afterwards in full evening dress, leaving it behind him in the pocket
of his tweed coat. He did not deign to say good-night to his wife, nor
to give her any further information of his proceedings, but turning on
his heel, slammed the front door, and left the house. When Iris was
convinced that he was really gone, she rose from her seat and walked
into the bedroom.

‘I _must_ know what takes him away from home so often,’ she thought.
‘I am sure it is not business, and if there is any other woman in
the case, it is time I asserted myself, and took some action in the
matter. Under any circumstances, he makes my life a hell, but there
is no need for me to bear more insult than I am obliged to.’ She put
her hand into the pocket of the coat which he had thrown upon a chair,
and drew forth the letter. It was addressed in a writing which looked
half mercantile, and half illiterate, and had a great many flourishes
about it. As Iris’s eyes fell on its contents, her pale face grew still
paler with horror. Godfrey had been brutal, unfaithful, and cruel to
her, but she had never thought so badly of him as this--that he could
contemplate kicking her off like an old shoe, and leaving her to starve
in England, whilst he sought his fortunes in a new country.

And yet, what else could that letter mean?

  ‘DEAR MR HARLAND,--I have been thinking over the conversation we
  had a few days since; and I have a proposition to make to you.
  You are young, unencumbered, and willing to work. Why not take
  the appointment we were speaking of--that of land-agent to my
  New Zealand property, and sail with us in the _Pandora_. Under
  these circumstances I shall be happy and willing to defray your
  expenses to Tabbakooloo, which I should not have offered under
  ordinary circumstances. Mrs But Vansittart likes you, and so does
  Grace--indeed, we all do, and should be pleased to have such a friend
  in our Bush life. Will you come in this evening and speak to me on
  the subject, as there is no time to lose. The _Pandora_ (Messrs Stern
  & Stales) sails on the 24th. Trusting my proposal will please you,--I
  am, yours sincerely,

                                                       JOHN VANSITTART.’

‘He means to accept this offer,’ said Iris, with clenched teeth, and
trying hard not to cry. ‘He will go with these fine friends of his
to New Zealand, and I am powerless to stop him. If I tell him I know
it, he will soothe me with promises of remittances that will never
come--and I--Oh, God! what _can_ I do, left here all by myself--without
money or friends, or a home? Oh, if my poor father had only lived I
would have gone back to him to-night and never, _never_ left him more.’

The picture drawn by her imagination of her utter impotence to avert
her fate, here overcame poor Iris’s fortitude, and the tears welled up
to her pathetic hazel eyes, and coursed slowly down her cheeks. But she
did not know that she was sobbing, until a knock at the door made her
cognisant she had been overheard.

‘It’s me, mistress,’ whispered a rough voice; ‘mayn’t I come in?’

‘Oh yes, Maggie. What do you want?’ said Iris, drying her eyes.

‘_Want!_’ echoed the servant, as she made her appearance; ‘why, to know
what’s been vexing you. That’s what I want.’

She was a dirty, slipshod girl, after the fashion of maids-of-all-work
in smoky London, but she had youth and a certain coarse comeliness
about her which might prove attractive to men who looked for nothing
below the surface.

‘Has _he_ been bulleying you agen?’ she asked, with rough sympathy,
as she stood in the doorway and regarded her mistress. ‘It’s a
shame--that’s what I say--and I’d like to pay him out for it. That I
would.’

‘Hush! Maggie; you mustn’t say that!’ remonstrated Iris. ‘Of course,
you know I am not happy, but you have been in your master’s pay for
several years, and you mustn’t bite the hand that feeds you.’

‘I’d never have stayed if it hadn’t been for _you_, mistress--nor if
he had treated you properly neither. And perhaps, after all, I’ve been
wrong to stay,’ said Maggie, with a sob in her throat.

‘_Wrong to stay!_’ repeated Iris in surprise. ‘Why, Maggie! what should
I have done without you?’

‘Ah! but you don’t know,’ cried the servant.

‘I know that you’ve been the best girl to me that ever lived,’ said
Iris, gently. ‘That you have stood my friend through everything--often
my protector--and that I have found my best comfort in you.’

The only answer Maggie made to this speech was conveyed by throwing
herself on her knees at her mistress’s feet, and burying her
disorganised head in her lap.

‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she gasped through her tears. ‘I ain’t
deserving of it; and if you knew what a bad girl I am, you’d turn me
out of your house to-morrow.’

‘I don’t think I should, Maggie. If I believed you to be bad (which I
don’t) I should try to return your kindness to me by pointing out a
better mode of life to you. But don’t talk nonsense. I have no fault to
find with you--so you need find none with yourself.’

‘You’re an angel, that’s what you are,’ said Maggie, standing up and
drying her eyes, ‘and I’m a brute, and so is he. But what vexes you
now, my pretty?’

This question brought poor Iris back to a remembrance of her own
troubles.

‘Oh! I can’t tell you, Maggie--at least not yet--for I am not even sure
if I have any right to feel vexed. But my future looks very dark to
me--very dark indeed, and I cannot help fretting to think what may be
in store.’

‘And _he’s_ at the bottom of it, of course,’ observed Maggie, with an
irreverent motion of her thumb towards the sitting-room.

Iris sighed. Was _he_ not at the bottom of all her troubles?

‘Has that letter got anything to do with the matter, mistress?’ asked
Maggie, looking at the paper in her hand.

‘Yes; but don’t ask me any more questions about it, Maggie. If Mr
Harland forces me to act, I promise you shall know all.’

‘You _promise_ that, mistress, on your word of honour?’

‘I do promise, dear Maggie,’ replied Iris, bending forward to kiss the
earnest face raised to hers. But Maggie started as if she had been shot.

‘No! no! you sha’n’t kiss me! I ain’t fit for you to touch. But let me
kiss your hand, dear. There! that can’t hurt you--and I wouldn’t hurt
you (God knows), not to save my own life.’ And with a smothered sob,
and an application of her grimy apron to her eyes, Maggie Greet took
her way down to the lower regions again.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

LES NOUVEAUX RICHES.


Of course the Vansittarts occupied the biggest and most expensive house
they had been able to procure on taking up their residence in London.
They were _nouveaux riches_ of the very first water. John Vansittart,
the head of the family, was the son of a respectable Berkshire farmer,
who had given him a thousand pounds as a start in life, with which the
young man had gone out to New Zealand, and invested in a sheep run,
which had resulted in his becoming a millionaire. Yet no extraordinary
good luck had contributed to his success. He had simply been frugal
and painstaking, and kept his eyes open, and married a woman who
helped instead of hindered him. And now, at sixty years of age, he was
celebrated for being one of the largest sheepowners in New Zealand. He
had not married early, and his only child, a daughter called Grace, was
just twenty years old. She had been in England much longer than her
parents. They had sent her home to a fashionable boarding-school at
twelve years of age, and had not found time to join her until a year
before this story opens. They had returned to England with an idea of
remaining there, but they had soon changed their minds. Their bush life
had unfitted them for society. Satins and laces and shining broadcloth
sat uneasily upon them, and both Mr and Mrs Vansittart longed for the
moment when they should settle down in their New Zealand home again.
Not that they would admit, even to themselves, that the whirl and
bustle, the pomp and formality, of a London life were too much for
them. On the contrary, they blamed the great Metropolis for being slow
and stupid, and would not allow that anything it produced could equal
the same article in New Zealand. They were both very fat, and simple,
and goodnatured--extravagantly proud of their fashionable daughter
Grace, who did not acquiesce in the opinions of her parents--and ready
to spend their money like water, because they really did not know what
else to do with it. They lived in a splendid mansion overlooking the
park, which had been furnished from basement to attic, at the sweet
will of the upholsterer, and consequently bore the impress of wealth
upon every part of it. The hall was carpeted with bear and tiger skins,
and hung with armour and stuffed deers’ heads, interspersed with blue
and white Nankin China, and beaten brass from Benares. The drawing-room
was furnished in the style of Louis Quatorze, and opened into a vast
conservatory, rich with tropical plants. In the dining-room, the walls
of which were hung with stamped leather, and lighted by silver sconces,
were to be found as many portraits of gallant lords and lovely ladies,
figuring in the costumes of three and four hundred years before, as if
John Vansittart had come of a long line of noble ancestors, instead of
being unable to trace his pedigree beyond the loins of the Berkshire
farmer, whose father had been an unknown quantity. The whole house
reeked of money, but, strange to say, it did not oppress one as such
things usually do. The fact is, the owners of these extravagancies did
not value them one whit because they had cost money. They were ready
to leave them all behind to-morrow--indeed, they were going to do so;
and John Vansittart had remarked more than once to his wife, that it
was a pity they hadn’t some good friend to whom they could make over
the whole lot as a present, instead of letting them go for nothing at
auction. But that was just their trouble. They had no friends--hardly
any acquaintances. Grace had come home to them, fresh from her school,
and good, honest Mrs Vansittart was not the sort of woman to push her
way into society, even with the aid of her enormous wealth. She was too
shy and retiring to do so. That was the reason they had become intimate
with Godfrey Harland. He had met Mr Vansittart first in the city, and,
passing himself off as a bachelor, had been taken home to the big house
in the park by that gentleman, and introduced to his family. They had
all received him with open arms. He was good-looking, fashionable,
and very wide awake. He put the father up to all sorts of dodges. He
flattered the mother, and helped her out of all her difficulties, and
he (almost) made love to the daughter. At least he showed her a great
deal of attention, and Grace Vansittart repaid it in kind. It was
natural she should. He was about the only ‘swell’ (as she would have
expressed it) who came to their house, and her fashionable training
had taught her to discriminate, and to like ‘swells.’ She hated the
idea of settling in New Zealand, although she could not of course
go against her parents’ wishes, and would very much have preferred
marrying, and remaining in England. Had he been single, Harland would
have found it an easy game to play. He might even have been left in
possession of the palatial house and furniture. But the house would
not have suited his purpose, as we know. He was not actually planning
to commit bigamy--he was not even sure if he wished it--but he was
sorely in need of the father’s money, and at any rate he felt he must
make a friend of the daughter. But his friendship was conducted on such
sentimental terms it might easily have been mistaken for courtship.
Mr and Mrs Vansittart so mistook it. They were very fond and proud
of their one ewe lamb, and watched her carefully; and they had often
remarked to each other that if they didn’t mind it would come to a
match between their Grace and Mr Harland.

‘And he ain’t got much money, I don’t think! You must mind that,
father,’ the old lady would say.

‘Lor’! mother, and if he hasn’t--where’s the harm?’ Mr Vansittart
replied. ‘Haven’t we got enough for all? Not but what Harland’ (I am
afraid he said ’Arland) ‘dresses very particular, and always looks the
gentleman. However, I sha’n’t throw my gal away--you may make your
mind easy about that; but if the young feller likes to come out to New
Zealand with us, and shows me as he can work, and has no nonsense about
him, and our Grace sets her heart upon him--why, all I shall say is,
please yourself, my dear, and you’ll please me.’

And so it was that John Vansittart came to offer the position of
land-agent to Godfrey Harland.

‘Do you know anything of Mr Harland’s family or relations, John?’ said
his wife, when he told her what he had done.

‘Quite as much as I want to, my dear. I met the young man at Aintree,
walking about with Lord Sevenoaks and Colonel Fusee--good enough
credentials, I should think, for any one--and he gave me his opinion of
the horses that were running. I should have lost all round if it hadn’t
been for him. But he’s very wide awake--got his eyes well open--just
the very sort of man we want out there. Dash his family! What do we
care about family? We ain’t got none ourselves. And any one can see
he’s a gentleman born--and he’s got no encumbrances, and if he’s
willing to come with us, why, I’m the man to take him, that’s all.’

‘And I’m sure he’ll never repent his decision,’ said Mrs Vansittart,
plaintively; ‘for no one who once saw our Wellington or Canterbury
could ever wish to set his foot in this dull and dirty London again.’

When Godfrey Harland reached the Vansittart’s residence that evening,
he was at once ushered into the library, where the master of the house
was evidently awaiting him.

‘I told ’em to show you in here first, Mr Harland,’ he commenced,
cordially shaking hands, ‘as I thought you and me might settle this
little matter before joining the ladies. Of course, you’ve received my
letter.’

‘About an hour ago,’ replied Godfrey. ‘I came on as soon as ever I
could.’

‘Ah! I thought that would fetch you,’ chuckled the old man. ‘You
unmarried men are lucky dogs, to have no one to say, “With your leave,”
or “By your leave” to as you go in or out.’

‘We don’t always think so, sir.’

‘No, you don’t know when you’re well off. Well, if you take my advice,
you’ll remain as you are--for some time to come, at least. But this
ain’t business! What do you say to my proposal, Mr Harland?’

‘That if I can fulfil the duties, the position will suit me down to the
ground.’

‘Oh! the duties is easy enough. I shall want you to be under myself,
and do all the palavering and writing that I can’t manage. You see, Mr
Harland, I’m a rich man, but I’m a plain man, and I haven’t had much
education, so that when I want to invest money, or transact a heavy
sale, figures and such things are a trouble to me. I call the place
“a land-agent’s,” because I don’t know a better name for it. But, in
reality, it’s a friend and help that I want, and if you’re willing to
undertake the situation, why, it’s yours.’

‘I accept it with gratitude,’ replied Harland. ‘As I have told you
honestly, I have been living very much from hand to mouth lately, on
account of serious losses through the defalcations of a friend, and was
on the look-out for active employment. Your offer suits me exactly. I
have long wished to visit New Zealand, and am charmed at the prospect
of doing so in such company. I thank you very much for thinking of me.’

‘That’s settled then, sir; but we haven’t mentioned money yet. I will
pay your passage out, and give you six hundred pounds for the first
year. What I shall do afterwards, we’ll talk of afterwards. Will that
satisfy you for the present?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Harland, quietly. The game was in his own hands now,
and he was quivering with delight, but he did not want the old man to
see it.

‘And perhaps you’d like a little advance for your outfit,’ continued
Vansittart.

‘If it’s perfectly convenient,’ stammered Harland.

‘Of course, it’s convenient,’ replied the other, as he wrote a cheque
for fifty pounds, and pushed it across the table to him. ‘I expected
as you’d want it. And now, remember this, my boy. Though I like you
well enough, I’ve given you the appointment as much for the sake of my
wife and daughter as myself. For they’ve both taken a fancy to you,
and want you to go out with us, and so any little attention you can pay
them on the voyage--I being but a poor sailor--will be very thankfully
received, and valued accordingly.’

‘It will be my greatest pleasure to look after Mrs and Miss Vansittart
on board the _Pandora_, and supply your place as far as possible,’
replied Harland, gracefully.

‘Very good,’ said his host. ‘We’ve settled the matter now, and can join
the ladies.’

So Godfrey Harland, looking quite a ‘swell’ in his well-cut evening
suit, entered the drawing-room a minute afterwards, with fifty pounds
in his pocket, and something very much like _carte blanche_ to make
love to the heiress of the Vansittarts. The mother received him with
unfashionable cordiality, shaking his hand vehemently in token of the
new bond between them, whilst the daughter beamed welcome upon him
with her eyes, from the depths of a large arm-chair, half shrouded
from observation by a gigantic palm which rose six feet high from an
Etruscan vase of costly majolica.

Grace Vansittart, with the light weight of twenty summers on her brow,
was an attractive young woman, although her lowly origin was plainly
traceable in the style of her beauty. A prolonged and fashionable
training had done much to make a lady of her, and her milliners
contributed largely to the general effect. But nothing could do away
with the deep colouring, the large hands and feet, and the somewhat
coarse voice that remained to her as the heritage of her forefathers.
She had rich brown hair and eyes, a straight thick nose, a rather
full-lipped mouth, and a figure which, though very tempting under the
rounded lines of girlhood, would probably be too much of a good thing
ten years later. She was attired in an expensive dress of some _mauve_
material, much covered with laces and drapery, and her ears, arms,
neck, and fingers glittered with gold and jewellery. She threw a long
look at Godfrey from her full brown eyes, as he approached her chair,
which emboldened him to take a seat beside her.

‘So you are really going out with us to Tabbakooloo,’ she said, with a
smile.

‘Yes. Are you sorry?’

‘I don’t know. You may be useful on the voyage out. I shall want a
great deal of waiting on, I warn you.’

‘You cannot possibly want more than I shall be proud to render you,’
replied Godfrey.

‘That is really a very nice speech. You make me quite eager to start,
and put your gallantry to the test.’

‘Well, it will not be long now. I think Mr Vansittart told me the
_Pandora_ sails on the 24th.’

‘Three months at sea!’ exclaimed Grace, shrugging her shoulders. ‘What
an awful prospect. I hope you will think of something very nice, Mr
Harland, to make the time pass quickly.’

‘I will do my best. Are you fond of reading or playing games? Are you a
chess player? And if not, shall I teach you? I don’t know a better plan
to make time fly.’

‘I really have no choice. I shall leave that to you. But I hope we are
going to be great friends. Do you think we shall?’

‘I am _sure_ of it,’ replied Godfrey fervently.

‘Harland,’ interrupted Mr Vansittart at this juncture, ‘have you any
engagement for this evening?’

‘None, sir. I am completely at your service.’

‘Well, then, you had better stay here to-night, and go with me to the
shipping office the first thing to-morrow morning to secure your berth.
Time’s getting on, you know, and if we delay it, we may not be able to
get you a comfortable one.’

This proposal did not at all meet with Harland’s views. He had no wish
that a servant should be despatched from Mr Vansittart’s house to his
own, to bring back his morning clothes, and all the information Maggie
might choose to give him. And so he readily forged a lie to excuse
himself.

‘I should like it above all things, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but if you
will allow me to join you at the office to-morrow morning, I will be
there at any hour you name. The fact is, I _must_ sit up to-night
writing. This sudden stroke of fortune has brought a few cares with it.
There is a little property of mine in the north that I must put at once
into other hands, and my yacht--’

‘Oh, you keep a yacht then!’ exclaimed Vansittart, rather surprised at
the owner of such an expensive luxury jumping so readily at the offer
he had made him.

‘I _did_ keep one before I experienced the heavy losses of which I have
told you,’ resumed Godfrey, ‘and though she is let at present to a
friend, I must make arrangements for her going to the hammer when his
lease is up.’

In his anxiety to prevent any unlucky _contretemps_ revealing the
true state of his domestic affairs, Godfrey Harland would have given
himself a stable full of horses, and an opera box at Her Majesty’s,
and a few dozen carriages to dispose of, in another minute, if his
host, recognising the reasons he had already given as sufficient, had
not cheerfully consented to his proposal to meet him at the offices of
Messrs Stern & Stales on the morrow. And so, not quite knowing whether
to be confounded or elated by his sudden run of luck, Harland bade his
benefactors good-night.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

BREAKERS AHEAD.


Godfrey Harland did not go home that night. He was contemplating the
commission of a crime, and he felt little remorse upon the subject, but
he dreaded the questioning of his wife as to where he had been and what
he had been doing. Iris was a timid and long-suffering woman, but she
had an unpleasant habit of looking one straight in the eyes whilst she
waited for an answer, which made it most difficult to tell her a good
lie, and stick to it. So the less he saw of her whilst he remained
in England, he thought, the better, and he had already concocted an
excuse for pretending to go into the country. He put up for the night
at one of his low haunts, and despatched a dirty messenger for his
clothes in the morning. As (punctual to his appointment) he walked up
to the shipping office to meet his employer, he saw, already standing
before it the handsome barouche with its thoroughbred bay steppers,
that seemed like an earnest of his own future success. As he entered
the office, which was crowded with clerks, messengers, seamen, and
passengers, Mr Vansittart came forward and shook him warmly by the hand.

‘Punctual to a minute,’ he said, smiling; ‘that’s the proper way to do
business. I see that you and me will get on first-rate together.’

The welcome raised Harland’s spirits, and drove away sundry fears and
qualms that had been lurking in his heart. Surely the grim Fates were
on his side at last. His luck had turned, and the wheels of life,
greased by prosperity, would revolve smoothly for the future. He
answered his friend’s greeting with a light laugh, and a _debonnair_
air, that made him appear more charming than ever.

Mr Vansittart went to business at once, and in a few minutes a
first-class passenger ticket for the _Pandora_ was made out, signed,
paid for, and safely deposited in Mr Harland’s pocket-book. He had
played and won. London and its dark associations seemed to be already
fading from his view, and New Zealand and a free life, unburdened by
cares or encumbrances, was spreading out before him.

‘And now, my boy! Can I set you down anywhere?’ asked Mr Vansittart.
‘I am bound to call at my bankers, but I will drive you to your
destination first if you desire it.’

Harland would greatly have liked to show himself by the side of the
millionaire in his splendid equipage, but he knew it would be safer
not to do so, and so he declined the offer. He had his private reasons
for wishing to keep quiet until he was safely out of England. If some
of his friends got wind of his being hand and glove with a wealthy man,
it might be all up with his dream of enfranchisement. So he professed
to have business in another direction.

‘Thanks, Mr Vansittart, but I am running down to Portsmouth to-day
about that little yacht of mine, and have promised to wait here for a
friend. Don’t let me detain you. When would you wish to see me again?’

‘When will you be back in town?’

‘To-morrow, at latest.’

‘Come up and dine with us then, at seven, and we will discuss the
arrangements for the voyage--we have not too much time. In ten days
more we shall be upon the sea.’

‘Thank God!’ ejaculated Harland, as the carriage drove away. He waited
about for a minute or two, to make sure Mr Vansittart would not return,
and then prepared to slink off in an opposite direction. But as he
passed through the swinging door of the office into the street, he came
face to face with a man, who recognised him without ceremony.

‘Hallo! Cain,’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘Who the d--l would have expected
to see you here? I thought you were in America.’

The speaker was a fine stalwart young fellow, but evidently of a much
lower standing than Godfrey Harland. The latter was taken completely by
surprise, but had the presence of mind to draw himself up stiffly, and
say,--

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I have not the pleasure of knowing you,’ and
with that he essayed to pass out. But the new-comer was not to be put
off so easily.

‘_Not know me!_’ he repeated. ‘Where are your eyes. I should have known
you five miles off. My name is William Farrell. Have you forgotten old
Starling, and the row there was in the office when you left?’

‘I repeat that I have not the honour of your acquaintance,’ rejoined
Harland, reddening, however, to the brows. ‘Nor do I know to what you
refer. It is a case of mistaken identity, sir, and as I am in a hurry,
perhaps you will kindly let me pass on.’

But Will Farrell planted himself right in the doorway.

‘No! I’ll be d--d if I will--not until you have told me the truth. If
you have forgotten _me_, I remember _you_ well enough, ‘_Mr Horace
Cain_.’

‘For God’s sake, hold your tongue, man,’ cried Godfrey, thrown off his
guard; ‘or come with me where we can talk in privacy.’

‘Ah! I thought that would freshen your memory,’ said the other, with a
harsh laugh.

Harland did not know at first what to do. He had recognised this man
at once as a former companion at the desk, and his turning up at this
inopportune moment might prove the most unlucky move in the world. At
all risks he must be conciliated, and kept quiet.

But Harland felt less ready with a lie than usual. He, who was seldom
without one at the tip of his tongue, was cowed and nervous by
Farrell’s allusion to the past, and could hardly decide what to do, or
say. But in another moment his natural aptitude for deceit had returned
to him.

‘Of course, I remember you now, Farrell, though I must confess that at
first your face did not seem familiar to me. It is some years since we
met, and you have changed, as doubtless _I_ have, too.’

‘It is to be hoped so,’ interrupted Farrell, with an unpleasant sneer.

‘But I am always glad to meet an old acquaintance,’ continued Godfrey,
ignoring the interruption. ‘I shall be pleased to have a talk with you
over old times There is a little place near here where they know me.
Will you walk round and have something to drink?’

But the bait did not seem to take.

‘I don’t drink so early in the morning,’ replied Farrell; ‘besides, I
have business here.’

‘What is your business?’

‘Well, I don’t know that it concerns you, but I have nothing to
conceal. I am going out to New Zealand in the _Pandora_, on the 24th.’

‘The devil, you are!’ cried Godfrey. ‘Why, we shall be fellow-passengers.’

‘How’s that? Do you sail in her too? Is the country getting too hot for
you again?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not at all,’ replied Harland, with assumed dignity. ‘I have come into
some money, and am travelling with friends for my own pleasure.’

‘Indeed! Swells, I suppose. What class do you go?’

‘First, of course.’

‘Well, I go second, of course, as I pay for myself, so we shall not see
much of each other, thank goodness! on the voyage.’

‘That will not be _my_ fault,’ said Godfrey, blandly, still nervously
bent on his efforts at conciliation.

‘But it will be mine if we _do_,’ returned Farrell, fiercely. ‘Look
you here, Horace Cain, I can see through your soft words plain enough.
You’re afraid of me, as you’ve got good cause to be, and it would have
been all the better for you if you’d told the truth when you first met
me, and not tried to sneak out of it by a lie.’

‘Do you threaten me, fellow?’ exclaimed Harland, forgetting his
prudence in his anger. ‘I’ll soon teach you the difference between us.’

‘I don’t need any teaching to see the difference between an honest man
and a forger,’ retorted Farrell.

‘How _dare_ you?’ cried Godfrey, white with rage.

‘Won’t I _dare_?’ replied Farrell, with an insolent laugh. ‘Just you
cross my path, Mr ---- Mr ----’.

‘Godfrey Harland, if you please,’ interposed the other, haughtily.

‘Oh! that’s the new name, is it?’ continued Farrell. ‘A very pretty one
too. Just like a novel. Well, it was about time you dropped the other,
_Horace Cain_.’

‘Oh, cease this cursed nonsense,’ cried Harland. ‘I don’t want to
quarrel with you. Why should you quarrel with me? If any suspicion fell
upon you for acts for which I was responsible, it wasn’t _my_ fault.
And it’s all past and over now. Come, man, don’t be sulky. Let us go
and drown the remembrance of it in a B. and S.’

But Will Farrell hung backwards.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s folly to quarrel over it at this
time of the day, but I can’t drink at your expense all the same. The
business you speak of so lightly spoiled my life and made me reckless.
That mayn’t seem much to you, but it’s everything to me. And I hope, if
you come across me on the voyage, that you won’t speak to me, Mr--_Mr
Harland_.’

‘We are not very likely to come across one another,’ replied Godfrey
grandly. ‘I don’t think the second-class passengers are allowed beyond
the quarter-deck. And therefore you need not disquiet yourself on that
score.’

‘All the better for me,’ quoth Farrell, surlily, as he pushed past him
to enter the shipping office.

Godfrey Harland, as he strolled away and thought over the interview,
felt very uncomfortable about it. It was an unlucky star that had
placed Will Farrell, of all men in the world, on board the _Pandora_,
with himself. If he had only had the good fortune to sail before or
after him, he need never have known he was in the same country. He was
almost tempted to get up some illness on the part of himself or a near
relation as an excuse to change his ticket and follow the Vansittarts
by another vessel. But England was becoming dangerous ground for him.
The delay of a fortnight might render him unable to leave it at all.
He stood between two fires. He saw his creditors pressing on him on
one side, and Will Farrell denouncing his past character on the other,
and he decided that Farrell was the least dangerous enemy of the two.
He had not the same motive for betraying him. He would gain nothing
himself by raking up the old scandal, and to hold his tongue might
prove a benefit to him. Harland would occupy a good position in the new
country, and be able to help Farrell on. The man would see that when he
sat down to reason calmly. And so he determined to think as little of
the unpleasant _contretemps_ as he might. Yet it haunted him throughout
the day, and made his future look far less bright than it had done.
He was bound to encounter his wife, too, that evening, and he wished
the ordeal was over. He had an excellent story to tell her, but it
required a large amount of Dutch courage to go through with it. So that
Godfrey Harland had drank a great deal more than was good for him when
he stumbled up the steps of his own house that evening.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING.


Iris was looking forward to her husband’s return with an amount of
determination that would have astonished any one who had seen her only
in her moments of nervous prostration, when his insults and cruelty had
opened her eyes to the folly of which she had been guilty in marrying
him, at the same time that she felt her utter impotence to cope with
the fate she had brought on herself. But there are points beyond which
even the weakest will turn to defend themselves, and such an era had
been reached in Iris Harland’s life now. She had carefully thought over
the news which Mr Vansittart’s letter to her husband had revealed to
her, and her mind seemed suddenly to have grasped the whole meaning of
Godfrey’s late behaviour. He intended to desert her. He had made these
new friends, who evidently believed him to be unmarried, and he had
concealed all his liabilities--domestic and otherwise--from them, and
would in all probability accompany them to this new world, and begin
life over again, leaving her to perish or to maintain herself as best
she could, so long as he was quit of her. He had often threatened so to
leave her, but she had never quite believed he would have the cruelty
to carry his threats into execution. But now she did. Certain late
outrages in his treatment of her had made her believe him capable of
anything, even of getting her out of his way, if she stood in it. Mr
Vansittart’s letter said that the _Pandora_ sailed on the 24th. That
was only ten days off. Surely, if Godfrey accepted the offer made to
him, he would give her some warning of his intentions. At all events,
she would wait and watch. If he carried his cruel threats into effect,
she had made up her mind what to do. But the means. How was she to
obtain the means to baffle her husband’s scheme to rid himself of her.
The poor child sat and thought with her head in her hands all through
the livelong day, without having come to any solution of the riddle,
whilst Maggie hovered round her, dissolved in tears, entreating her
to have a cup of tea, or to go to bed, or to tell her what was on her
mind. At last, as the evening drew near, Iris heard her husband’s
latch-key fumbling uncertainly in the keyhole, and knew that he had
returned. Maggie heard the sound, too, and recognised the reason. ‘He’s
bin at it agen,’ she remarked, with a contemptuous movement of her
mouth, as she went to open the door. Godfrey stumbled past her, with
an oath, into the little sitting-room, where his wife was waiting to
receive him. He, too, was uncertain what to say to her. He had resolved
to be led by circumstances. But he was sure of one thing. He must get
his way by fair means, rather than by foul. His object just now was
conciliation all round, until he had got clear out of England. So the
husband and wife met, at heart belligerents, but outwardly calm, in
order to effect their several purposes.

‘Well, Childie!’ exclaimed Godfrey thickly, using the _soubriquet_ by
which he had nicknamed Iris in their courting days, but which he had
forgotten for years past, ‘I have come back, you see, safe and sound,
though I have been a deuce of a time away. However, I couldn’t help it.
Business detained me. Have you been very dull alone?’

‘Yes; it _has_ been rather dull, with no one but Maggie to speak to.
But you know I am used to that. Now you _have_ come, Godfrey, I hope
you are going to stay.’

‘Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, I’m _not_. The fact is, Childie,
we’re in a mess with regard to money matters, and it’s quite necessary
I should lie _perdu_ for a week or two. I met an old chum of mine
to-day in the city, the skipper of a Harfleur packet, and he’s promised
to smuggle me out of England to-morrow morning, and I can stay with
some friends of his abroad until Glendinning sets matters straight for
me.’

‘But how can Mr Glendinning set matters straight for you, Godfrey,
without paying your debts? and where is the money to come from?’
demanded Iris, with that uncomfortable penetrating glance of hers.

He turned his eyes away. They never had been able to stand hers.

‘Oh! he’ll raise some money for me, and he’ll pacify the rest of the
creditors with promises. Glendinning’s a first-rate fellow at that
sort of thing. But he says it is quite necessary I should be out of
England, until the business is completely settled.’

‘I see,’ said his wife, ‘and you must go to-night and remain away. For
how long is it? Ten days?’

‘I said a fortnight, and it may be three weeks,’ replied Godfrey. ‘It
all depends upon how Glendinning can manage things for me. But one
thing is certain--_I must go_.’

‘And how are we to live during your absence?’ asked Iris quietly.

‘_Live!_ Why, as you generally do, I suppose--on credit.’

‘That is quite impossible, Godfrey. I do not object to your going,
but you must leave me some money to keep the wolf from the door. The
tradesmen will not trust us with a single article. We have even to pay
for the milk as we take it in.’

‘That’s awkward,’ said Godfrey. ‘Well, give me some brandy and water,
and I’ll think it over.’

A sudden idea flashed into the girl’s mind. She _must_ know the truth
before he left her that night, or she might never know it at all. And
so, instead of restraining his over-indulgence as she was usually
called upon to do, she poured the tumbler half full of brandy before
she added the water, and placed it by her husband’s side. The end, in
her sight, justified the means. She was resolved to know the worst, and
there seemed no other way of forcing the knowledge from him. The strong
potion, added to what he had already taken, soon had its effect, but in
a different manner from what Iris had intended.

Godfrey Harland’s character was of the lowest type. He was obstinate,
vicious, and cruel. But he was also hot blooded, and his hot nature
not being under any sort of control, made him a very ardent lover
when humoured, and equally dangerous when opposed. To thwart him
was to rouse the temper of a fiend. To give in to him was to deal
with a brute. He was fierce and unreasonable in his love--jealous and
revengeful in his hate--and selfish and cunning in every phase of life.
It was hard to say in which mood his wife had learned to dislike and
fear him most, but it was as much as her life was worth to oppose him
in either. Just now, as she saw the fumes of the brandy had recalled
some of his softer feelings for her, she resolved, if possible, to turn
the fact to her own advantage.

‘That’s good,’ he said, as he drained the tumbler. ‘By Jove! Childie!
you’re looking very pretty to-night. Come here and sit on my knee.’

Iris shuddered at the request, but she complied with it. Nay, more,
this wolf in sheep’s clothing smiled upon him as she twined her fingers
softly in the dark curls of her husband’s hair.

‘Won’t you give me some money, Godfrey?’ she murmured. ‘You know that
I _must_ have it. Just leave me enough to go on with for a month, and
I’ll be satisfied.’

‘Well! how much do you want, you jade?’

‘Twenty pounds!’ said Iris boldly.

‘Twenty fiddlesticks! Why, I haven’t got twenty pence about me.’

‘Oh yes, you have!’ she said, coaxingly. ‘Just look, and you’ll find
it, Godfrey. You couldn’t go abroad without _some_ ready money, you
know.’

He fumbled about in his pockets then, and brought out the pile of notes
and gold which had been given him in exchange for Mr Vansittart’s
cheque. Iris saw them, and calculated their amount almost to a pound,
but she was too discreet to say so. Godfrey separated a single
bank-note from the rest, and held it up to her, saying,--

‘Now, what am I to have instead of it?’

‘What do you want, Godfrey?’

‘Twenty kisses at the very least,’ he replied, devouring her beauty
with his amorous eyes. ‘Now, put your pretty arms round my neck,
Childie, and give me the whole lot, or you sha’n’t have a sixpence.’

How the woman loathed her task. How she longed to tell this man, who
had once seemed as a god in her eyes, that she hated and despised
him for his cruelty and infidelity to her, and that she refused to
degrade herself further at his command. But the thought of her revenge
upheld her. ‘Revenge is sweet,’ says Byron, ‘especially to women.’
The prospect of it was sweet to Iris Harland at that moment, and the
thought of destitution and starvation was sore, and so she stooped over
her half-drunken husband, and gave him what he had asked for, slowly
and deliberately, as if she were performing some painful expiation.

‘That’s a good girl!’ exclaimed Harland, as her penance was concluded.
‘And now you shall have the money.’

She laid her hand eagerly upon four or five of the bank-notes as he
spoke--crumpled them up in her hand--and thrust the remainder into his
breast-pocket again.

‘That is a great deal too much to carry about you, Godfrey, she said,
nervously. ‘You will be robbed if you don’t take care. And you will
want it all at Harfleur, you know.’

‘Oh, don’t you be afraid, my girl!’ he exclaimed, in his intoxicated,
boastful manner, as he buttoned his coat over it. ‘I’ll take good care
I’m not robbed. I’m not the sort of man to be taken in easily. You
ought to know that by this time.’

Then he rose, and began staggering about the room.

‘I must go,’ he hiccupped, ‘because--because my friend--my friend--will
start without me--unless I’m quick. Good-bye, my dear. Don’t--don’t
worry about me. I’ll be all right. Good-bye, Maggie--give us a kiss.’

‘A kiss, you drunken brute!’ cried the handmaid, _sans cérémonie_.
‘You’d better try it on--that’s all. It’s something very different from
a kiss that I’d give you, if I had _my_ way.’

‘Hush! hush! Maggie,’ entreated Iris, as Harland stumbled through the
passage, and out at the front door. ‘Let him go, for heaven’s sake! We
shall have no peace till he is gone.’

She walked straight into the bedroom, and smoothed out the notes she
still held crumpled in her hand. There were five of them for five
pounds each--five-and-twenty pounds. She believed, and yet she was not
quite sure, if they would be sufficient for her purpose. But to-morrow
would decide. Before that time next day, she would know everything. The
idea made her feverishly impatient.

‘Maggie,’ she cried, ‘lock up the door, and let us go to bed. I have so
much to do to-morrow. I want to get all the rest I can.’

But though she lay down, it was impossible to close her eyes, and
the next morning found Iris Harland tossing on her uneasy couch,
and longing for the hour to arrive when her cruel doubts should be
satisfied one way or the other.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

TWO WOMEN’S HEARTS.


The man who aspires to outwit a woman, gifted with the most ordinary
characteristics of her sex, should get up very early in the morning.
His brain may be larger and heavier than hers, but her instincts are
so keen, her wits so sharp, and she knows so well how to draw an
inference, that in a game of _finesse_ she has pieced the puzzle and
put it together before his slower comprehension has arrived at the
conviction that there is anything to find out at all. Godfrey Harland
prided himself the following day on the perfect manner in which he had
deceived his wife. She believed him to be on his way to Harfleur, and
by the time she expected to see him back again he would be on his way
to New Zealand and he chuckled inwardly to remember that he had not
left a single clue to his destination behind. It is true that he was
very much annoyed at discovering the loss of his money, but he did not
attribute it to any manœuvering on the part of his wife. He knew that
he had drank too freely the night before, and had played at cards after
he left Iris, when he scarcely knew if he had lost or won. But any way,
he had enough coin left for his purpose, and matters might have been
worse. And had it been all gone, he would rather have applied to Mr
Vansittart for a further loan, than have returned to look for it in the
house at Pimlico. He had cheated them there nicely, he thought, with
an idiotic, triumphant chuckle. Iris believed him to be crossing the
Channel, and it would never do to disturb her confidence by returning
home again. A second set of excuses would not be swallowed so easily as
the first. And whilst the poor fool congratulated himself thus, Iris
was taking her way, timidly, from the fear of meeting him, but still
determinately, to the offices of Messrs Stern & Stales. It was a novel
scene in which she found herself. The firm of Stern & Stales was one
of the largest in the metropolis. They owned a large number of ships,
besides chartering others, so that it was not an uncommon occurrence
for seventy vessels, all flying the house flag of the company, to leave
the docks for New Zealand and the Colonies in the course of a year.
Their office was in Fenchurch Street. At the head of a flight of broad
stone steps, with iron railings, was a large room in which a dozen
clerks sat scribbling away at their ledgers, or poring over bills of
lading, manifests, and invoices. On the walls were ranged half-models
of the different vessels in their employ, and nautical almanacks and
advertisements were hung in conspicuous positions. As Iris entered this
room on the morning in question, and glanced nervously around her, two
young men started from their desks simultaneously to ask her pleasure.
She was plainly dressed and closely veiled, but her graceful figure and
youthful appearance attracted immediate attention, and shipping clerks
have their feelings.

‘What can I do for you, miss?’ inquired the elder of the two, shoving
the younger to one side.

‘I believe you have some ships going to New Zealand shortly,’ stammered
Iris, who was too shy to mention the _Pandora_ all at once. ‘Can I see
a list of the passengers?’

‘Certainly, miss. Four of our vessels leave the docks next week. We
have the _Hindustan_, the _Trevelyan_, and the _Pandora_, which all
carry passengers. Do you require a berth?’

‘Yes!--I think so,’ replied Iris. ‘That is, I want to see the passenger
list before I decide.’

‘Very good, miss! Samuels, hand me down the passenger list of the
_Hindustan_, Captain Davis. We have four saloon berths vacant here you
see, miss, and three second. She will not carry any steerage. This
is a plan of the vessel,’ continued the clerk, unrolling a sheet of
parchment. ‘These after-cabin berths--’

But Iris pushed it gently to one side.

‘I--I--think I would rather see the passenger list of the _Pandora_,’
she said, with a blush that was visible even through her veil, and the
clerk, with a wink at his neighbour, passed the desired paper across
the counter.

‘The _Pandora_ has her full complement of first-class passengers, so
I’m afraid you won’t find anything to suit you there, as there is
only a second cabin vacant, miss,’ continued the clerk. ‘She carries
steerage, but, of course, that is no use to you.’

‘I don’t know--I don’t know,’ replied Iris, almost hysterically, as she
perused the passenger list of the _Pandora_.

In a moment her quick eye had caught the names of Mr and Mrs Vansittart
and Miss Vansittart, and then travelled to the bottom of the paper
where that of _Mr Godfrey Harland_ was visibly inscribed. She had
expected it, and yet was not prepared for it, and as it met her sight
and confirmed her fears, she gave vent to a slight moan, and leant
against the counter for support.

‘Are you ill, miss? Can I fetch you a glass of water?’ asked the young
man in attendance anxiously.

‘No, no! I am quite well. It is only the heat!’ exclaimed Iris, as she
took up the list again to make sure she had not been mistaken. ‘I--I
will take a berth, please, in _this_ vessel--the _Pandora_.’

‘There is only a second-class vacant, miss,’ returned the clerk. ‘We
could accommodate you better in the _Hindustan_, which is quite as fine
a ship.’

‘No, I prefer the _Pandora_, thank you. What is the price of the berth?’

‘Twenty-five guineas, if you please.’

Iris placed the money on the counter, with a sigh. She had imagined it
would be less. But if she sold the dress off her back she felt that she
_must_ go.

‘Thank you,’ said the clerk, as he received the money. ‘What name shall
I book?’

Iris started. She had never thought about changing her name, but in a
moment she saw the expediency of it. She was so long, however, before
she answered the question, that the clerks looked at one another, and
stuck their tongues in their cheeks, to intimate that this was a ‘rum
go--’

‘Miss Douglas,’ said Iris at length, in a low voice.

‘There is your ticket, miss,’ said the booking-clerk, when he had
filled in her name. ‘You see there is a plan of the cabin on the back.
Your berth will be No. 12, and the _Pandora_ will probably sail with
the early tide on Wednesday next, therefore it is advisable you should
be on board not later than six o’clock on Tuesday evening.’

‘Will--will--_all_ the passengers (the first-class passengers, I mean)
go on board on Tuesday evening, too?’ asked Iris hesitatingly.

‘I expect so, miss. Most of them like to settle down before nightfall,
as there is little assistance to be got when the ship’s starting.’

‘And might I--do you think--go on board a little earlier than the
others?--to avoid the bustle and confusion, I mean.’

‘No; I wouldn’t do that, miss, if I were you,’ replied the clerk. ‘Not
that they’d refuse to let you go aboard an hour or so previously; but
they don’t care to see the passengers before six o’clock, when they’ll
be all ready to receive you. I’d go a little later, rather than sooner,
if I were you.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Iris gently, as she turned away.

‘Queer street,--eh?’ said the clerk rapidly to his companions, before
he was called to book by another customer.

Meanwhile Iris hurried homewards with her ticket in her hand. It
was all settled then. She had cast the die. She was to sail in the
_Pandora_ with Godfrey. But she felt very nervous now it was done, and
uncertain if she had acted rightly. She longed for a confidant to tell
her trouble and her intentions to, and she found it, naturally, in
Maggie, with whom she had promised to be explicit.

‘Lor’! mistress!’ cried the latter, as she opened the door to her,
‘where on earth have you been? How dusty and hot you do look. I began
to think as you was lost.’

‘Come in here, Maggie, and I will tell you all,’ said Iris, as she
passed into the parlour.

Maggie shut the door carefully, and followed her mistress, and stood
beside her chair, looking the very incarnation of dirt and good humour.

‘Now, what is it, my pretty? Nothing new to vex you, I do hope.’

‘It is something very serious, Maggie. Mr Harland told me last night
that he was going to France till his affairs were settled, and he
should be back again in a few weeks. I find it is not true.’

‘Lor’! that’s no news. He’s always a-lying,’ said Maggie.

‘He left a letter behind him, by which I discovered he was thinking of
going to New Zealand. I have been to the shipping office this morning,
and I saw his name down in the passengers’ list. He sails on the 24th.
He is going to desert us, Maggie.’

‘What!’ cried the servant; ‘is he a-going right across the sea, and
leave you here, without no money to buy bread or anythink?’

‘Indeed he is, Maggie. Isn’t it base of him?--isn’t it cruel? I
wouldn’t treat a dog that depended on me as he has treated me.
What crime have I been guilty of, to be punished in so inhuman a
fashion?--to be left to starve or to do worse! Oh, my God! it is too
hard, it is too bitterly hard!’

And Iris broke down, and sobbed with her face in her hands. When she
lifted her head again, Maggie was kneeling at her feet.

‘Don’t you cry, dear mistress,’ she was saying, in her rough manner;
‘you shall never starve whilst I have two hands to work for you. Don’t
you cry. Oh! I’ve bin a bad gal. Sometimes I think I must tell you all,
but there--it wouldn’t make matters better, and it might make ’em
worse. For you lets me serve you now (don’t you, my pretty?), and then
you mightn’t. But don’t talk of starving, for while I live, you shall
never want for bread and meat.’

‘It was silly of me, Maggie, to say such a thing, for I can work as
well as you, though not perhaps in the same way, and I would never eat
your bread whilst I could make my own. Thank you, my dear girl, all the
same, and I shall never forget you have been a true, good friend to me.
But, Maggie, I have settled on another plan. I will _not_ be left here
behind in England. I am Mr Harland’s wife, and I have a right to be
where he is. So when I had made sure he was to sail in the _Pandora_, I
took a second-class berth in the same vessel, and I shall go out to New
Zealand with him.’

Maggie leapt to her feet with surprise.

‘Lor’, mistress! you don’t never mean what you say?’

‘I do, Maggie. Why not? Mr Harland gave me some money last night to
keep us whilst he was away, and I have spent it on a ticket for the
_Pandora_. It cost a lot,’ continued Iris, with a sigh,--twenty-five
guineas, and I have only a few shillings left. But I couldn’t help it.
I _must_ go with him.’

‘And what will you do when you gets on board, mistress?’

‘Oh! I sha’n’t discover myself to him till we get to land, Maggie. He
is going first class with some rich friends, who have given him an
appointment out there, and I don’t want them to know about me. But when
we get to New Zealand, I shall tell Mr Harland he must either take me
with him, or make me an allowance to live on; and if he refuses, I
shall appeal to his employers to see me righted. Why should he make
money, and I derive no benefit from it? I have suffered enough, Heaven
knows! since I have married him, without being cast off, as if I were
some guilty creature not fit to be his wife. I will not stand it any
longer. I have sworn that I will not.’

Maggie had been listening to this tirade with wide open, glistening
eyes, and at its close she threw herself prostrate on the hearthrug.

‘And you will go away from England to live across the sea and maybe
never come back again, and leave poor Maggie here all alone. Oh,
mistress I cannot bear it. It will kill me if I don’t go too!’

‘My poor Maggie!’ cried Iris, with genuine distress. ‘I never thought
of you. But what _can_ I do? I can only just pay for my own passage and
my fare to Liverpool. It leaves me nothing even to buy another dress.’

‘But what will become of you without me?’ wailed the woman. ‘Do you
know what that brute will do when he finds out you’ve tricked him?
He’ll half kill you, as he’s tried to often and often in this very
room; and you’d have been dead now, if it hadn’t been for me. I
_can’t_ let you go alone, mistress. You’ll never come back. He’ll find
some means of making away with you out there.’

‘Oh, Maggie! what can I do?’ exclaimed her mistress. ‘I should love to
take you with me--indeed, my troubles have been so many I never thought
what an additional one parting with you would prove, till you mentioned
it to me. But how can I raise the money, dear? I have only seven
shillings left.’

‘You shan’t go alone,’ said Maggie fiercely; ‘I won’t trust you with
him alone. I ain’t fit to be your protector, but I’m the only one
you’ve got, and it’s the only way I can make up to you for all the harm
I’ve done you.’

‘How strangely you talk, Maggie. What harm have you ever done me?’

‘Ah, don’t mind my chatter, dear; I’m half crazy with grief and fear,
and I don’t know what I’m saying. But you sha’n’t fall into that
devil’s clutches if I can save you. Don’t all this furniture belong to
you, mistress?’

‘Yes, Maggie, such as it is, it is ours--and we only have the rooms by
the week.’

‘Well, mistress, I have a few shillings saved out of my wages, and if
you’ll leave it all to me, I’ll manage it.’

‘But how, Maggie?’ demanded Iris.

‘I’ll give Mrs Barton notice at once, and move you out into other
rooms on Saturday, and then I’ll get rid of the sticks and things, and
they’ll pull us through.’

‘Oh, Maggie, they will never fetch more than a few pounds at the
outside. There is hardly a sound piece of furniture amongst them.’

‘Yes! thanks to his tantrums. But there will be enough for our purpose.
Mistress, you _must_ give in to me in this, for if I steals the money I
shall sail in that ship with you. Oh, my dear, my dear! Don’t you know
as I’d lay down my worthless life to save you pain.’

And with that the two poor creatures fell into each other’s arms and
wept. They were as different to look at as light from darkness, but
they possessed one great virtue in common, a true and genuine woman’s
heart.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ‘_PANDORA_.’


The newly-appointed officers were on board the _Pandora_. Abel Coffin
was the name of the chief officer. He was a short, broad built man,
with a bullet head and square shoulders. Peeping out from beneath his
bushy brows were two small black eyes, which winked and blinked, and
were apparently never at rest, except when in the arms of Morpheus.
His nose was inclined to be celestial, broad and unshapely, and of
rather a rubicund tint that corresponded with the tips of his large
ears; but whether it arose from the free use of stimulants, or the
biting northerly winds of the Atlantic Ocean, it was difficult to say.
A strong set of teeth, discoloured by tobacco, were firmly set in his
jaw, and covered by a pair of thick lips. A profusion of coarse, wiry
hair encircled his face, to which the absence of a moustache gave a
dogged appearance. There was a ponderous look altogether about the man.
He was not corpulent, but his bones were large, and sinews took the
place of flesh. In point of fact, Abel Coffin was exceedingly powerful,
and capable of enduring great fatigue. He was a smart man, too; the
school in which he had been reared being a severe one, but it had
turned him out every inch a sailor.

When quite a lad he had been apprenticed by his father to a Bostonian,
which carried timber between Liverpool and the States. In this old
tub--which boasted a jackass rig--which took two hands to steer her
in an ordinary seven-knot breeze, and whose windmill pump was always
required to be kept upon the move, Abel Coffin had gone in at the
hawse holes and out at the cabin windows. And doubtless he would have
remained in her for ever had she not been so battered about after
she had jumped and thrashed her way into a nasty cross sea, that,
after having been towed into the Mersey by a compassionate tug, it
was decided that she should be broken up as unsafe to make another
trip across the ‘duck pond.’ So he had come up to London, and during
his wanderings about the docks in search of an outward bounder, had
encountered the captain of the _Pandora_, and on producing his tin
case of mildewed certificates and discharges, had been duly installed
as mate. He was a rough, generous, and good-hearted fellow--a trifle
severe, but just and honest, and always to be found at his post when
duty required it. On board the old wooden barge he had been accustomed
to hear the orders bawled out, and usually accompanied by foul
oaths--his only companions had been his mate and boatswain--and his
food coarse and unpalatable.

The vessel was badly manned; all her gear stiff and old-fashioned, and
she required a deal of handling. Her sails were covered with geordie
patches, and when stowed were huddled to the yards in a most ungainly
fashion. Red rust was prevalent from the want of paint, or rather
coal tar, and her decks were scratched and dented, and had not been
acquainted for years with the carpenter’s caulking irons and mallet. In
a stiff breeze she yawed and capered about like a tipsy woman, thumping
heavily into the seas, and sending banks of angry foam rushing from her
basin-shaped bows. She plunged and groaned, compelling the skipper to
watch her very closely, as she rushed from her course and then refused
to come to, till the wheel was hard down, and she had cracked and
strained her timbers and described the letter _S_ in her wake, and the
weary helmsman’s arms ached with the amount of labour she required.

To step from such a vessel as this on to the deck of the _Pandora_
was a new experience in Abel Coffin’s life, and he appreciated
it accordingly. The trim passenger ship, fitted up with all the
latest improvements and designs--well manned by strong able
seamen--and provisioned with a goodly supply of live stock and fresh
vegetables--was a rich feast for his eyes, and to be her chief
officer a stroke of good luck he had never contemplated. It was like
leaving two squalid furnished apartments to take up his quarters
in a first-class hotel, and though, as yet, not quite at home in
his new capacity, Abel Coffin worked with his accustomed zeal, and
rather astonished the easy-going seamen. It was the day before the
departure of the _Pandora_, and every one on board was active. The last
lighters were alongside with their casks and cases, and Jack Blythe
was superintending their stowage in the main hatchway. The steward
bustled about the decks, attended by his satellites, carrying squeaking
fowls and quacking ducks to their coops, which were lashed on top of
the house amidships. The black cook and the butchers unmercifully
dragged the unfortunate sheep and pigs to their pens, whilst able
seamen were busy serving the running gear, and coiling down the warps,
to be in readiness to heave out. Small carts and drays waited on the
wharf to unload their cargoes of vegetables, cabin stores, and ship’s
dry provisions, and porters, with trucks of passengers’ luggage, and
seamen’s chests and baggage, with shellbacks, runners, boarding-house
keepers, and gaily-dressed women, were all looking out for some one
or other, who was about to sail in the _Pandora_. Confusion reigned
supreme. The decks were hampered with coils of rope, tins of varnish,
sails that were to be bent and gear to be lashed or stowed away, and in
the midst of this Babel, Mr Coffin was here, there, and everywhere.
Now on the poop slacking away a barge’s stern rope--then on the
quarter-deck signing a receipt--anon on the topgallant forecastle,
heaving a pall with the capstan, or making up a jib ready to be sent
out on to the boom. Jack Blythe was not so active as his superior.
He was obliged to stow the last cases and barrels very carefully in
the lower decks, so as to leave a passage to the locker, in order
that forty tons of gunpowder might be taken aboard, and placed there
when the vessel reached the hulks. The third mate was a nice-looking
youngster, who had just passed his second officer’s examination. His
name was Richard Sparkes. He was a tall lad, with curly brown hair, an
apology for a moustache, and bright blue eyes. His duties were confined
to the passengers’ stores, the safety of the live stock, and the care
of the fresh water.

As the clock struck twelve work was knocked off, and the youngest
officer being left in charge of the ship, the two elders stepped on to
the quay, and went to get their mid-day meal.

Vernon Blythe walked to a small hotel, in the bar window of which
the landlord had placed a placard to the effect, that he had ‘Good
accommodation for officers and midshipmen.’ There he sat down to a
_table d’hôte_, and afterwards amused himself with _Lloyd’s Shipping
News_, whilst inhaling the fragrant bouquet of a well-coloured pipe,
and giving an occasional thought to Alice Leyton’s near arrival.

But where Mr Coffin disappeared to, it would be difficult to say. He
was an entirely different man from his second. His habits, manners,
and associates were all rough and unpolished. He had been born in a
fishing village, and nurtured among whalers, deep-sea fishers, and
lime-juicers. He had never entered cultivated society, consequently he
was shy and reserved, and when on shore sought out such habitats as
sailors of his stamp usually frequent. He had looked with astonishment,
not unmixed with contempt, at Jack Blythe’s handsome and refined
features, close cropped hair, well kept hands, and neat attire. He had
already set him down as a fair-weather sailor, and a dandy, and doubted
his ability in a time of trouble. Before the voyage was over Abel
Coffin had acknowledged to himself and Vernon Blythe that he was wrong.

In the afternoon the busy throng that waited on the quay, and the dock
loafers that hung about the shipping, gradually cleared away, and at
five o’clock the hatches were battened down, and Mr Coffin reported the
_Pandora_ ready for sea. By the time the dinner-bell was sounded, most
of the passengers had arrived to answer to its summons.

Jack Blythe had received the Leytons at the head of the gangway. Mrs
Leyton, a fragile-looking woman, whose delicate health had been the
cause of her residing in England for some years past, came first, with
her youngest born, a heavy child of four years old, in her arms.

‘Give baby to me, Mrs Leyton,’ cried Jack, eagerly, as she came toiling
along the gangway. ‘Why didn’t you let one of the sailors carry her?
She is much too heavy for you.’

‘She is so naughty,’ sighed the poor mother; ‘she will go to no one but
myself.’

‘Ah, you spoil her,’ said Jack, as he helped them both on deck.

‘It’s more than she does me!’ exclaimed Alice’s merry voice behind them.

‘Everybody spoils you, you monkey,’ replied her lover, as he turned to
greet her.

‘Well, did you think we had altered our minds, and were never coming,
Jack? And how do you like me, now _I have_ come?’ inquired Alice,
consciously.

‘You look charming, as you always do,’ he answered.

Most men would have returned a more enthusiastic reply, for Alice was
looking her very best. Robed in a yachting costume of white serge, with
gilt anchor buttons, and a sailor’s hat bound with white ribbon, set
coquettishly upon her sunny curls, she _ran a muck_ of the heart of
every son of Neptune who saw her step upon the deck.

‘Well, it’s something to get a compliment out of you, Jack. “All scraps
thankfully received.” But come along and show us our cabin, and help us
to get straight. I can’t think how we are all going to get into it.’

‘I wish I could obey your bidding, Alice, but it’s impossible,’ replied
Jack. ‘I can’t stir from here. I’m on duty.’

A cloud came over Alice’s fair face.

‘I don’t believe it. You’re looking out for somebody else.’

‘You’ve hit it!’ he exclaimed, with a merry laugh. ‘I am waiting for
my other girl.’ And, at that moment, as if to confirm his joking
assertion, Mrs and Miss Vansittart appeared.

‘Mr Sparkes,’ Jack had just time to call out, ‘take these ladies into
the saloon, and tell the stewardess to show them their cabin,’ and then
he turned away to attend to the new comers. Alice Leyton pouted visibly
at what she considered her lover’s neglect; but Mr Richard Sparkes was
so delightfully pleasant and gallant, that she soon forgot all about it.

‘Allow me,’ said Vernon Blythe gracefully, as he extended his hand for
the convenience of Mrs Vansittart.

‘Lor’! thank you, sir, I’m sure!’ exclaimed the panting, good-humoured
woman, as she clawed hold of his arm with her enormous fist. ‘Moving is
a worry, and no mistake. However, thank heaven! it’s for the last time.
When I’ve once got home, no one will tempt me back again. Where are
you, Grace? Don’t tumble into the water, whatever you do. It’s a real
risk of life to ask any one to cross such a narrow plank as that.’

‘Here I am, mamma--close behind you,’ replied Grace.

‘And the peril is over, for this time at least,’ observed Jack, as he
helped her on to the deck. Grace smiled upon him very graciously. She
was struck with his bright, handsome face at first sight. If all the
officers of the _Pandora_ were like this one (she thought) the voyage
might not pass so tediously as she anticipated. Mr Vansittart followed
closely on the heels of his wife and daughter, and Godfrey Harland,
who had been staying at their house for the last few days, brought up
the rear. As the latter raised his head, and encountered the honest
eyes of the young sailor looking straight into his, although the glance
was only instigated by a natural curiosity, he turned his uneasily
away. These men had never met each other before. They were not even
aware of each other’s names, and yet they instinctively felt a mutual
dislike. Godfrey put Vernon down at once as a conceited, impertinent
puppy--above his condition in life--and likely to give trouble in case
of being roused. And Vernon mentally decided that Godfrey was shifty,
independable, and a man to be avoided.

‘Nasty eyes,’ he said to himself afterwards; ‘I wouldn’t trust that
fellow with change for a sovereign. If there’s any play going on during
the voyage, I shall keep a sharp look out upon him.’ But at the moment
he was compelled to be all politeness.

‘Vansittart--stern cabins 1 and 2,’ he said, as he glanced at their
tickets. ‘If you will take the ladies into the saloon, sir, you will
find the steward ready to show you the way. Mr Godfrey Harland, No.
14, your cabin is aft amongst the gentlemen;’ and with this Vernon
Blythe turned curtly away, and commenced to give orders concerning the
passengers’ baggage.

Godfrey Harland perceived his manner towards him, and resolved to
resent it. ‘I’ll pay that puppy out for his impertinence before many
days are over,’ he thought, as he followed his employers to the saloon.
By seven o’clock the whole party were seated at dinner. At the head of
the table sat Dr Lennard, who was always in great request by all the
ladies on board. He had a very handsome woman placed upon his right,
to whom he was paying the most deferential attention; but he had soon
entered into friendly conversation with the Vansittarts and Godfrey
Harland, whose seats were all near him. At the other end, in the
captain’s chair, sat Mr Coffin, looking strangely out of place amongst
the pretty girls and well-dressed men by whom he was surrounded, and
almost surly in his nervousness, as he ladled out the soup and carved
the joints. Beside him was seated the third officer, who had contrived,
for this evening at least, to secure a seat next to Alice Leyton,
whose pretty face, merry laugh, and animated conversation kept all the
men round her in a state of excitement; and especially interested a
certain Captain Lovell, who could not take his eyes off her. Yes, Alice
could laugh, and flirt, and enjoy herself, although Vernon Blythe was
not by her side,--not even enjoying his dinner at the same time. On the
poop (or, as many sailors call it, the ‘knife-board’), he paced up and
down, keeping his watch till he should be relieved from duty, now and
then glancing at the weather-vane, as if expectant of a sudden shift of
wind.

‘I say, what do you do that for?’ inquired a voice near him, in
drawling, languid tones.

Jack looked round at the speaker, as if he considered the question
altogether too silly to answer.

‘Is there anything up there?’ continued the new-comer, indicating the
weather-vane.

‘More than there is down here by a good deal,’ replied Jack, referring
to the stranger’s brains.

But Harold Greenwood deserves a chapter to himself.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

MR GREENWOOD.


He was one of those wonderful anomalies in coat and trousers, at which
we gaze curiously, as we speculate to which sex they belong. He had
light flaxen hair, perceptibly crimped with hot irons, pale blue eyes,
and small, dolly features. The suspicion of a whitey-brown moustache on
his upper lip was like the down on an apple-tart. His hands were fat,
and short, and white--almost dimpled--and laden with women’s rings.
He was dressed in a tight check suit, a brown felt hat, gaiters, and
patent-leather shoes. In his hand he carried a small Malacca cane,
which he usually swung backwards and forwards, while he stood with his
legs well apart; an eyeglass was stuck with so painful an effort into
his eye that it distorted his features; and he wore his hat a little to
one side, which was intended to give him a rakish appearance. A gold
chain of great length and thickness was stretched across his waistcoat.
At one end of it dangled his keys, at the other a button-hook. From his
breast-pocket peeped out a pink silk handkerchief, placed there for
ornament rather than use, and encircling his throat was a white collar,
so high and so well starched that he was frequently obliged to place
his fingers between the linen and the skin to prevent his throttling.

Vernon Blythe looked down at this mannikin with supreme contempt, not
unmixed with amusement.

‘I suppose you are an officer of the ship--eh?’ rejoined Mr Greenwood.

‘I suppose I am,’ said Jack coolly.

‘Well, when shall we sail--eh? Can you tell me that?’

‘By the first tide to-morrow morning.’

‘But when will the first tide be? I’m a passenger, you see, so I’ve a
right to know. Haven’t I--eh? My name is Greenwood--Harold Greenwood. I
have one of the deck cabins.’

‘Why don’t you go down to your dinner?’ asked Jack, ignoring his
queries.

‘Oh, because I dined before I came on board. Didn’t know what I might
get here, don’t you know? Had dinner with a friend, and a game at
billiards. Oh, by the way, have you a billiard-table on board? Awfully
jolly game billiards, don’t you know?’ and placing his hand upon the
pipe rail, whilst he used his cane for a cue, Mr Greenwood commenced
pushing away at an imaginary ball.

To this absurd question Jack Blythe again vouchsafed no answer.

‘I say, do you like waltzing?--awfully nice waltzing,’ resumed the
youth, commencing to whistle, and dance round in a circle with his cane
for a partner. ‘I suppose we shall have a dance every evening? I hear
there are some devilish pretty girls on board, and it will be our duty
to pay them some attention. We shall miss the rides in the Row, and the
shooting awfully, don’t you know?’ he went on, pretending his cane was
a gun, and levelling it at the main-topsail block; ‘but we must make
the best of it, and a bit of flirtation ain’t such bad fun on a long
voyage, don’t you know? It passes the time, and it pleases the girls,
and so it does good all round, eh?’

‘I should think _you_ would be sure to do them a lot of good. There’s
no doubt at all about that,’ replied Jack Blythe gruffly, as he turned
on his heel.

There could not have been a greater contrast than between these two
men. To see them side by side was to doubt the possibility of their
belonging to the same order of creation. Jack Blythe, strong, healthy,
and muscular, with arms and hands that had been developed by manual
labour, and a fresh skin, which had been bronzed by a tropical sun,
and washed and beaten by the salt sprays of the Atlantic--with manly
and practical ideas, and a wholesome horror of effeminacy and all
that pertains to a fop; and Harold Greenwood, with a milk-and-water
complexion and flabby muscles,--soft limbs, that stood on a par with
those of a woman, and a head crammed with superficial ideas, that
showed the narrowness of his nature and the absence of even an ordinary
amount of brain.

‘Awfully jolly weather this, isn’t it?’ continued Harold Greenwood, who
was too dense to take a rebuff unless it was administered in the shape
of a kick. ‘I say, what time do they call a fella here in the morning?
I should like to be up to see the ship start. Do you think the steward
will remember to wake me?’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Vernon brusquely. ‘You had better ask him
yourself. And I wish the d----l you wouldn’t whisk your stick about in
that absurd manner. You will put out my eye in another minute.’

This last request, which was delivered in a very angry tone of voice,
startled ‘Miss Nancy’ altogether, and with a muttered apology, and a
half-frightened look at the second officer, Mr Greenwood hurried down
the accommodation ladder, thinking what very rude men sailors seemed to
be, whilst Jack continued to keep his watch, and to smile to himself
whenever the sound of Alice’s ringing laughter was wafted upwards
through the open skylights of the saloon.

Meanwhile, in the second cabin some of the passengers had sat down
to tea, and were discussing in lubber-like terms the qualities and
accommodation of the vessel, whilst others were amusing themselves
by unpacking their chests and ranging the necessary articles for the
voyage in the places assigned to them. They were a large party, and
there was much fun and confusion amongst them, the dearth of space in
their sleeping cabins, and the difficulty of finding room for their
various belongings, seeming to provoke more laughter than vexation.
Will Farrell especially appeared to be enjoying himself. He was excited
at the idea of leaving England and commencing a new life in the bush,
and having the opportunity to shake off the suspicion which had been
wrongfully attached to him. He had already made fast friends with a man
called Bob Perry, and was sitting at the tea-table with him discussing
subjects of interest connected with New Zealand, with which Perry had
been for some years familiar. It was at this juncture that the second
officer, from his watch on the poop, saw a sailor run to the side
to help two more passengers over the gangway. They were both women.
The first one stumbled, and came head foremost upon deck, striking
the gallant seaman who waited to receive her a violent blow in the
chest, which he took with a roar of laughter, in which several of his
messmates joined. The mirth and confusion seemed to make the second
passenger timid, for as she stepped over the gangway she glanced in a
nervous manner from one end of the vessel to the other, and whispered
to her companion, who in her turn communicated her wishes in a very low
voice to the sailor.

‘Second cabin, miss,’ he replied aloud; ‘why, certainly. I’ll show
you the way. Round this here corner, that’s it, and down them stairs.
Take care. Turn round, miss, and go down back’ards, or you’ll come a
cropper. Now you’re safe, and the cabin’s just afore you. No thanks,
miss--no thanks,’ and the sailor went upon his own business.

Vernon, watching this little episode from the elevation of the poop,
could not help wondering for a moment who this second-class passenger
could be, who seemed so timid and shrinking, and unlike the company
in which she would find herself. She appeared to be a lady travelling
with her maid, but what gentlewoman who could afford to keep a servant
would go second class? The mystery, slight as it was, was sufficient
to puzzle him, and keep him thinking of the last arrivals until he was
relieved of his watch. Meanwhile Iris Harland and Maggie had found
their way into the second cabin, where all eyes greeted them with a
prolonged stare. Iris was terribly nervous--fearful in each face to
recognise that of her husband; and her companion was not much better.
However, there was no need for alarm, and after a minute or two, when
they saw they were in the midst of strangers, they recovered their
confidence. Maggie was the first to speak.

‘Can any of you gentlemen show us the way to cabin number twelve?’ she
asked, as, laden with parcels and band-boxes, she pushed her way to the
front.

Maggie was looking fresh and comely that evening. She wore her best
clothes, and she had ‘cleaned herself’ for the occasion. Her dark hair
and eyes formed a vivid contrast to her rosy cheeks; and her wide
mouth, with its strong white teeth, looked sweet and wholesome. Will
Farrell was the first man to answer her challenge.

‘_I_ will!’ he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. ‘I sleep in number
eleven. Here it is, you see--next to mine.’

‘Thank you kindly. ’Tisn’t for me; it’s for this lady here. And now,
how are we to get our boxes down?’

‘Where are they?’ demanded Farrell.

‘On deck. There’s two of ’em. A black box, and a little blue one that’s
mine.’

‘If they’re not very large, I’ll bring them down for you.’

‘Oh! _you’d_ make nothing of them. I’d carry them myself, except for
those plaguey stairs.’

‘Maggie,’ remonstrated Iris, in a low voice, ‘we cannot trouble this
gentleman. Remember he is a stranger.’

‘Oh, no! he ain’t. Are you, sir? No one is strangers once they’re on
board ship together.’

‘Of course not,’ rejoined Farrell heartily, ‘and if it is the case, the
sooner we’re friends the better. But won’t you have a cup of tea first?
Shall I tell the steward to fetch you some? Your friend looks tired.’

‘She _is_ tired, poor dear!’ replied Maggie, who had been warned to
treat Iris as her equal during the voyage.

‘I’ll fetch it whilst you are taking off your things,’ replied Farrell,
hastening away.

‘Now, mistress, take off your hat and veil,’ whispered Maggie to Iris,
as he disappeared, ‘this place is stifling hot.’

‘Oh, Maggie! I feel as I should never dare to show my face in public.’

‘Oh, but that’s nonsense! Besides, there’s no fear. _He’ll_ be a deal
too grand to put his foot in the second cabin: you may take your oath
of that. And here comes back this good fellow with the tea.’

‘Really, sir, you’re very kind to us,’ said Maggie, as Farrell set two
cups of steaming tea before them, ‘but _I_ mustn’t drink any, you know.
_I_ ain’t a second classer. I’m only steerage, and I shouldn’t have
intruded myself here at all, except to see this lady safe to her cabin,
because she ain’t used to roughing it, as I am.’

‘There’s no harm in saying _that_,’ she continued, as a slight pinch
from Iris warned her not to go too far.

‘You are travelling in the steerage!’ exclaimed Will Farrell; ‘I _am_
sorry.’

‘Why so, sir? It’s good enough for me. I’m not a duchess.’

‘No! and I’m not a duke, and so I think we should have been good
company for each other on the voyage, Miss Maggie.’

‘Miss Greet, if you please, sir. I don’t hold to being called out of my
name.’

‘Miss Greet, then. However, the steerage is not far off, and so I shall
still hope we may see a good deal of each other.’

‘I don’t know about that, but if you’ll turn your attention to my
lady--I mean to my friend here--and help her instead of me, I should
be ever so much more obliged to you. I daresay I shall find plenty of
young men in the steerage--they ain’t a scarce commodity--but Mrs--I
mean Miss Douglas, don’t know a soul here, and you can be all the use
in the world to her.’

‘Hush! hush! Maggie,’ pleaded Iris.

‘You just keep quiet, my dear, and let me say what I choose.’

‘I shall be delighted to be of use to both of you,’ replied Farrell,
who had not failed to observe that Iris was a very pretty woman; ‘and
as an earnest of my goodwill, I will go and bring down these boxes at
once.’ And off he ran.

‘Now, ain’t that a good sort?’ cried Maggie admiringly.

‘He seems so,’ replied Iris. ‘But, Maggie, I think I shall go to my
berth at once. I shall never feel safe until we are well out to sea.’

‘All right, my dear. But here comes that chap with the boxes. Let me
just go and see where he puts mine first, and then I’ll come back, if
they’ll let me, and help you get to bed. Will you promise me to sit
here quiet till I come?’

‘Yes,’ said Iris mechanically, as she took up a newspaper, and
commenced to read.

Many eyes were turned towards her as she sat there, with her pale,
beautiful face half-shaded by the brim of her hat and the thick veil,
which was only partially withdrawn; and many conjectures were raised as
to why so young a creature was going out to the new country alone.

Perhaps it was the little drama he had seen enacted on her arrival
which induced Vernon Blythe to pay a visit to the second cabin that
evening. Perhaps it was the fate which stalks us all, and pulls the
strings of our lives as if we were so many puppets, bound to caper
at its will. Any way, when his watch was relieved, he bent his steps
there, instead of going down to the saloon. As he entered, Iris
Harland was sitting where Maggie had left her, at the end of the long
table furthest removed from the door; and Vernon Blythe stood on the
threshold, and regarded her for some minutes before she was even aware
of his presence. He had not caught a single glimpse of the face of
the lady who had arrived so late, he had scarcely seen the outlines
of her figure, and yet he felt sure that _that_ was she sitting under
the swinging lamp, with her graceful form bent forward, her eyes cast
down upon the paper, and one slim white hand resting on the table. How
strangely her appearance startled and affected him. He had never, to
his knowledge, seen her before, and yet his heart almost stood still to
look at her. Who was she? Where were her friends? What was she doing
here alone, in an atmosphere so evidently uncongenial to her? Jack
Blythe had not been so many years at sea without gaining a thorough
knowledge of the different classes of passengers a vessel is accustomed
to carry. And _this_ passenger, he could tell from merely looking at
her, was out of her class and her own sphere altogether. Could there be
any error in the matter? She seemed very shy, and inexperienced. Was it
possible she had got into the wrong cabin by mistake? Jack determined
to find out, and with that view walked up to the further end of the
table. As Iris perceived that some one was approaching her, she drew
the thick veil she wore right over her features, and pretended still to
be reading through it, although it was impossible she could decipher a
word. Jack threw himself into a seat near her, and whistled a few bars
of music carelessly, just to show that he was completely at his ease.
Then after the pause of a minute, he addressed her:--

‘I beg your pardon! I hope that you are comfortable, and have
everything you require. Things are apt to be a little confused on
starting, but I am one of the officers of the ship, and if there is
anything I can do for you, you have but to ask me.’

He paused for a reply, but it was long in coming. Iris’s thick veil did
not prevent her hearing, and the sound of his young manly voice had
struck on her heart like a knell. She recognised it at once, and even
through her veil she recognised him. She remembered distinctly when
she had heard that voice last,--its earnest, passionate tones,--the
strangled agony in it on her refusal to listen,--the sob with which he
had turned to leave her for ever! She had often thought of that scene,
and of her boyish lover since then,--had often asked herself whether
she had not been a blind fool to turn from his suit to listen to that
of Godfrey Harland,--had even wondered if she should ever meet Vernon
Blythe again, and tell him she regretted the pain which she had given
him. And here he was--in the very same ship with herself, and speaking
to her in that unforgotten voice. At the first blush, it seemed to Iris
Harland as if everything were lost. Her own voice shook so in answering
him that it would have been hard for any one to recognise it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, in the lowest possible tone, ‘but there is
nothing.’

‘Introductions are not supposed to be necessary aboard ship,’ continued
Jack, ‘so I hope you will not think me forward in asking your name.’

‘Miss Douglas.’

‘And mine is Vernon Blythe, at your service,’ he said, lifting his cap
and putting it on his head again. ‘Are you going out to Lyttleton?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have friends there, perhaps?’

‘No.’

This answer puzzled him. What on earth could so young a lady intend to
do in a strange country without friends? He hazarded another conjecture.

‘You know the country then?--you have been there before?’

‘No, never!’ replied Miss Douglas, in the same agitated tones.

After this, Jack felt that he must ask no more. She evidently did not
wish to be communicative, and further questioning would devolve into
impertinence. He was wondering if he dared speak to her again, when
Maggie Greet rushed back into the cabin, and up to her mistress’s side.

‘Now, my dear,’ she cried, ‘I’m going to put you to bed.’

‘Yes, yes!’ whispered Iris convulsively, clinging to her, ‘take me away
at once--take me to bed.’

Maggie saw she was on the point of breaking down, and looked round for
the cause. Her eyes fell on Vernon Blythe, sheepishly watching them
both.

‘What have _you_ been a-saying to her?’ she demanded curtly.

‘Nothing--nothing, Maggie!’ sobbed Iris.

‘I hope, indeed,’ said Vernon, ‘that I have not offended Miss Douglas
by my offers of assistance. They were made with the best intentions, I
can assure you.’

‘Yes, yes! I know--’ gasped Iris; ‘but I’m tired--and--and a little
faint, and I’d rather go to bed.’

‘She’s overdone--that’s where it is, sir,’ explained Maggie, as she
cuddled Iris’s head to her bosom, ‘and the sooner she’s asleep the
better. Come along, my pretty!’ and she half led, half dragged Iris
into No. 12.

She went without even bidding Jack a formal good-night. He felt a
little mortified when he thought of it, but, after all, what was
Miss Douglas to him? He rose up, and went whistling out of the cabin
as she disappeared; but he thought more than once of the mysterious
second-class passenger before they met again.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

GOOD-BYE TO ENGLAND.


The sun shone brightly on the dark, turbid waters of the Indian Docks,
making the binnacles sparkle like burnished gold, under the influence
of his rays. The Blue Peter floated gaily at the fore royal masthead
of the _Pandora_, and all was in readiness to receive the pilot. The
decks were cleared up, and the hatches battened down. The anchors were
hanging in their tackles, the cables were overhauled over the windlass
and ranged along the deck, and innumerable lines and warps were coiled
down, all ready to be paid out into the boat.

Punctual to time, a short, dark man in blue uniform stepped aboard,
and having exchanged salutations with the captain, took his place upon
the bridge and gave the order to ‘Slack away for’ard,’ and as the
shellbacks tramped around the capstan aft, the _Pandora_ moved slowly
away from the quay.

Then, after a great deal of shouting--of paying out warps, and hauling
them in--of encroaching upon the kindness of the captains of other
vessels by asking them to ‘make fast’ and ‘let go,’ the _Pandora_
reached the dockhead, where she was slewed round, and a tug caught hold
of her hawser.

A small crowd of friends and relations were here gathered together,
anxious to have a last look at those dear ones who were going so far
away, perhaps never to return. Some were brave enough to step aboard,
and go down as far as Gravesend, where the vessel was to wait a couple
of hours. But others were detained by work or business in London, and
could not afford to indulge their inclination. All had time, however,
while the _Pandora_ slowly crawled through the narrow entrance, to
whisper their last farewells--to implore the travellers ‘to be sure to
write,’ and tell them all their news--to wish them a prosperous voyage,
and, above all, to give them a warm grip of the hand, or a parting kiss.

Ah! these long uncertain partings are very Death in Life. They have all
the agony of Death about them, and none of its peace. They are the most
cruel trials this miserable world affords us!

When the vessel was clear of the docks, and had glided into the
broad river, the helm was put to starboard, and her head pointed
eastward--then the hawser gradually ‘taughtened’ as the tug went ahead,
and many of the passengers, realising that they were really ‘off,’
strained their eyes, brimming with tears, towards the shore, and with a
choking sensation in their throats, waved their handkerchiefs as a last
farewell to the friends they had left behind them. But their emotion
soon subsided as they watched the lively scene spread out upon all
sides. It is those who stay at home who feel parting most. The river
was alive with barges, which had taken advantage of the wind to stem
the tide. Large passenger steamers took their way carefully amongst the
smaller craft, and channel and river boats plied fussily backwards and
forwards, with groaning deckloads of gaily-dressed pleasure seekers.

Large wooden ships lay moored to the buoys, discharging blue casks
of petroleum, and in their wake fruiters and colliers were similarly
employed. Trinity boats, with their decks crowded with red and white
buoys, had made fast under the shears, and innumerable tugs, and
ferryboats, and watermen were waiting for something to ‘turn up.’

At two o’clock Gravesend was reached, where dozens of vessels had come
to a standstill, and half-an-hour afterwards the _Pandora_ was brought
up and moored to a buoy close to the red powder-hulks, with her burgee
flying at the masthead.

The powder having been brought alongside in lighters, laden with small
wooden tubs, a double line of men was ranged from the port to the
locker, and the kegs quickly passed along.

Whilst the powder was being taken in, a boat pulled by four men
approached the vessel. In her stern were seated the coxswain, and
another man who was evidently a passenger. When she reached the
_Pandora’s_ side the gangway was lowered, and the mysterious stranger
who had chosen this late hour to arrive, ascended the ladder.

He was a tall, dark man with curly hair, and a heavy moustache, which
joined a pair of mutton-chop whiskers. His face was much lined, and
there was a haggard look beneath his keen grey eyes. He wore a soft
felt slouch hat, a black morning coat, and loose trousers. His baggage
apparently consisted of a large portmanteau, which was carried up by
one of the sailors, and tumbled on to the deck.

‘What name?’ inquired Mr Sparkes, who waited at the head of the gangway
to receive him.

‘I wish to see the captain,’ was the stranger’s only answer.

‘You will find him on the bridge,’ said Richard Sparkes, and without
another word the new-comer hastily mounted the companion, and
confronted the skipper.

‘Captain Robarts?’ he inquired briefly.

‘The same, sir,’ replied the captain. ‘What is your business?’

‘There is my card,’ returned the other, producing it.

‘Oh, yes! of course,’ said Captain Robarts, as he looked at the card;
‘very pleased to see you, Mr Fowler, and if you will ask the steward,
he will show you your berth.’

During this short colloquy, the passengers assembled on the deck
eyed the new-comer curiously, and many were the speculations raised
concerning him.

‘Who can he be, Captain Lovell?’ asked Alice Leyton, who had become
quite friendly with the gentleman in question.

‘I should say he had come to take charge of the powder,’ replied
Lovell. ‘He is evidently going to remain, as he has brought his
luggage.’

‘Perhaps he is (what Jack calls) a supercargo,’ suggested Alice.

‘No, Miss Leyton, they don’t have such things now-a-days, although the
highly-favoured individual whom you call “Jack” may have told you so.’

‘Jack is likely to know best, though, all the same, because he is
a sailor,’ cried Alice merrily. ‘But do you really think, Captain
Lovell,’ she continued, opening her blue eyes, ‘that there is any
danger from the gunpowder?’

‘Not unless the ship catches fire, and then we should be blown to
“smithereens.” I daresay if we had any one on board evilly disposed to
the rest of us, he could, with very little trouble, put an end to our
existence.’

‘But he would blow himself up at the same time,’ said Alice.

‘True; but in _such company_,’ replied Lovell, looking ineffable things
at her, ‘a fellow might even feel glad to be blown up.’

‘Don’t let us talk of such horrible things, Captain Lovell, and when we
have not yet commenced the voyage. Do you see that lady talking to the
gentleman who is leaning against the rail? She is a Miss Vere. She is
an actress, and is going all through Australia and New Zealand.’

‘By George! Is that really Miss Vere?’ said Captain Lovell, putting up
his eyeglass. ‘I really didn’t recognise her off the stage. She ought
to be good company. She’s very clever.’

‘Don’t you think she is very handsome?’

‘Perhaps. But she’s not _my_ style,’ replied the captain, glancing at
Alice’s fair hair.

‘Would you like to be introduced to her?’ continued the girl. ‘I made
her acquaintance last night, and found her most agreeable. Will you
come with me, and talk to her?’

‘Delighted to follow you anywhere,’ said Lovell gallantly, as he walked
after his lively companion.

Vernon Blythe, who was close at hand, saw the little incident, and
only smiled at it. He was not the man to suspect any woman whom he
professed to love, without good cause. And when he was assured of her
infidelity to him, he would be silent on the subject. He might leave
her, but his pride would forbid him to complain because she preferred
another fellow to himself. But he did not doubt at that moment that
Alice loved him, and, believing so, he allowed her to do just as she
chose.

‘Miss Vere,’ she exclaimed, as she came up to the lady in question,
‘may I introduce one of our fellow-passengers to you--Captain
Lovell--who is longing to make your acquaintance?’

Miss Vere bowed, and the two immediately engaged in conversation.

Emily Vere was a high-class society actress, who had appeared that
season at a leading London theatre, and taken the town by storm. Now,
she was going out to make the tour of Australia, tempted thereto by
exceptionally high terms, and the promise of an efficient company to
support her on the other side. In appearance, she was more charming
perhaps than handsome, but her figure was perfect, and her manners
courteous and refined. She was one of those artists who give the lie
pointblank to those libellers who say that virtue does not exist upon
the stage, and who (if the truth were known) have not kept their
own lives nearly so clean as that of many an actress. Miss Vere’s
character had never been attacked, except by those who knew nothing
about it. She was essentially a lady, and one of rather reserved and
quiet habits than otherwise. She was dressed plainly, but in exquisite
taste. Her grey cashmere dress showed off each curve of her beautiful
figure, and seemed to cling lovingly about her full bosom and slender
waist. Her long plush mantle was of the same delicate tint, and a grey
straw hat, trimmed with seagulls’ wings, and long grey _chevrette_
gloves, completed her costume. She smiled pleasantly as she recognised
her little acquaintance of the night before, but did not evince any
especial emotion on being introduced to Captain Lovell, which, for the
moment, rather staggered that hero.

‘So proud to know you,’ he murmured, as the introduction was effected;
‘so charmed to meet one whom I, in common with all who have had the
great privilege of seeing her upon the stage, cannot fail to admire.’

‘How long did it take you to get that up?’ asked Miss Vere quietly.
‘Seriously, Captain Lovell, I hope I am going to be spared listening to
empty compliments for a while. I am so very _very_ tired of them, and I
want to make this voyage a time of rest for both mind and body.’

‘But I can assure you I had no intention to flatter,’ stammered Lovell.

‘Then you cannot know what your intentions are, and consequently must
be a very dangerous acquaintance. He can’t get out of it any way, can
he, Miss Leyton?’

‘I think most people would find it loss of time to cross swords with
you, Miss Vere,’ said Alice.

‘Indeed I am a very peaceable person by nature. But some things put one
on one’s metal; and you must understand, Captain Lovell, that the last
person I care to talk about, is myself.’

‘Which makes you so unlike other women, that the first person we all
want to talk about is _you_. Ah! Miss Vere, you must not be so hard
upon me. I have seen you play at the “Star” Theatre dozens of times,
and left my heart behind me on every occasion.’

‘Dear me! what a number of hearts you must possess. You are quite a
natural curiosity. I hope you did not part with your brains at the
same time.’

‘You think I have none to spare, I suppose?’

‘Not quite that, but we shall want all we can scrape together, to make
this long voyage pass pleasantly. Have you mapped out any plan of
employment for the next three months, Miss Leyton?’

Alice blushed most becomingly.

‘I haven’t thought of it yet. I suppose when we shake down, we shall
have plenty of music and dancing, and--’

‘Flirtation,’ continued Miss Vere.

‘Well, a little of that, too, I suppose.’

‘A great deal, I hope,’ amended the captain; ‘life would be worth very
little without it.’

‘Yes! when it’s legitimate, it’s very nice,’ said Miss Vere; ‘but, for
my part, I mean to flirt with my books. I have promised myself a long
course of study before we arrive at Lyttleton.’

‘Oh, look, Miss Vere,’ cried Alice, ‘they are slipping the warp! I
believe we are really going at last. Are we off, Jack?’ she asked
excitedly of Vernon Blythe, who passed them at that moment.

He only gave her a nod and a smile in answer, but the action did not
pass unperceived by Captain Lovell. However, he made no comment on it
then.

‘It’s about time we _were_ off,’ he grumbled; ‘they’ve been three hours
shipping those confounded kegs of gunpowder.’

‘That are to blow us all up,’ said Alice merrily.

As the _Pandora_ moved statelily down the river, a cold wind began
to blow over the water, that drove the ladies to the shelter of the
saloon, and left the gentlemen in possession of the deck and the
smoking-room.

Vernon Blythe had found time more than once that day, in the midst
of his active duties, to glance round the decks in search of Miss
Douglas, but he had seen her nowhere, which, as they were still in
fresh water, seemed rather strange to him. But perhaps she was very
unhappy at leaving home, and could not trust herself in public. Godfrey
Harland, on the other hand, had made himself generally conspicuous by
his attentions to Mrs and Miss Vansittart, and the more Jack saw of
him, the more he disliked him. His handsome face was knitted into a
frown even now, as in the pursuit of his duty he passed Harland leaning
over the bulwarks, and watching the lights of Gravesend gradually
receding from view, as the vessel was towed towards the bend. Could
Vernon Blythe have read the thoughts which were passing through
Harland’s mind at that moment, he would have pitied, as much as he
despised him. For no one is to be pitied more than the man who casts an
honest love on one side, in order to pursue, with unfettered hands,
the phantom Fortune.

He was thinking then of Iris. He had gained his object. The prize
he had unlawfully striven for was in his hand. In a few more hours,
miles of water would stretch between him and his domestic cares and
troubles. Yet he was not elated with his good luck. His last thoughts,
as he saw his country fading from his sight, were given to his deserted
home and wife. What would Iris do when she found he did not return?
Would she inform the police, and would they trace him to the shipping
office? What a fool he was not to have sailed under another name! He
might have thought of some excuse to satisfy the simple Vansittarts,
and put himself for ever out of the clutches of his pursuers. But
it was too late to think of that now. Still he did not believe it
possible that Iris would betray him. She had always been an honest,
generous, stout-hearted little woman, and he had more faith in her
than in himself; but she was passionate and determined, and others
might advise her to take the law into her own hand. How could he
possibly prevent such a catastrophe? Bright thought! The sea pilot
who had come aboard at Gravesend would land at the Start. He would
send a carefully-composed letter to his wife by him, explaining that
on account of being unable to meet some heavy losses at the Newcastle
Meeting, he had been compelled to leave England, and finding Harfleur
was too near for him, was on his way to Spain, under an assumed name,
whence he intended to get across to the Brazils, where he had been
promised employment. This would put her off the idea (if she had any)
of applying to the police for his whereabouts, and he could wind up his
letter with a few vague promises of sending her money as soon as he
landed in Brazil.

That would do capitally, and set his mind completely at rest upon the
matter. There was only one little flaw in the plan, and that was a
vision of the pale face of the girl he had deserted, and which would
rise before him, becoming plainer and plainer as the night fell. There
is good as well as evil in the lives of all of us, and this was a good
moment in the life of Godfrey Harland. There was a time when he had
loved his young wife--with a selfish and worthless affection, it is
true, but still the best his nature was capable of conceiving; and his
conscience raked up the remembrance of this affection, now, with his
own misdeeds. Again and again did the thought of Iris come into his
head, until he felt almost remorseful. He tried to drive the unwelcome
memory away. He left his position and paced the deck with rapid steps,
but his deserted wife seemed to walk beside him. He lit a cheroot and
nearly choked himself with its strong fumes; still some one seemed
to whisper in his ear that he was committing a crime,--that he was a
liar--a coward--everything that was base and cruel,--and that if Iris
died of starvation during his absence, or sold her honour in exchange
for bread, he would be worse--the murderer of both her body and her
soul! And then the same voice seemed to tell him, as if by inspiration,
that he would never return to England,--that some catastrophe would
befall the ship that carried him,--she would be blown up by the powder,
or lost at sea, and he was leaving his wife and his creditors behind
him--_for ever_. The thought made his cheeks grow ghastly pale. It
was a warning--a prophecy! Why should he not save himself from its
fulfilment? There was still time to do so. It was nearly dark; he could
just make out the green light at the end of Southend Pier. The tide was
low. Why not drop overboard and swim? The distance was not a mile, and
he was an excellent swimmer.

But no. He would be seen and picked up, and treated on board as if he
were a lunatic. The Vansittarts would not know what to make of his
conduct, and he might lose all the influence he had gained over them.
The game was too risky. It would certainly not succeed. And if it did,
what would he go back to? Poverty, tears, coldness, and certain arrest.
Pshaw! what a fool he was. What had he been thinking of? His good angel
flew away, and a spirit of a very different type took its place, and
Godfrey Harland was himself again. The soft moment had passed, and it
left him harder than before.

‘What have I to do with others?’ he thought, as he buttoned his coat
across his chest; ‘my business at present is to look after number
one. He wants enough looking after, poor devil, Heaven knows! I am on
the highroad to fortune. Let me direct all my energies to seeing I
keep there. And if things go as I wish them, why I’ll turn my back on
England for evermore, and all my dear friends there may whistle for
me.’ So having arrived at this comfortable decision, Harland crossed
the quarter-deck, and, after swallowing a stiff brandy-and-soda, joined
the other gentlemen at a game of poker.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

A DISCOVERY.


The _Pandora_ was a full-rigged, three-masted ship, built by the famous
firm of Oswald & Company, of Glasgow and Sunderland. Her registered
tonnage was 1500 tons. Her hull, lower masts, topmasts, and lower yards
were built completely of iron, and her standing rigging was composed
of the same material. She carried six sails on her fore and mizen
masts respectively, and seven on her main. She had six topsails, six
topgallantsails, and a main skipsail. She was a heavy ship to work,
as nearly all her running rigging was of chain, or wire, except the
hauling part, and the larger ropes, such as the topsail halliards that
were of coir, and brought forth many an expressive epithet from the
sailors, whose hands were often sore after a night in the doldrums. The
beautiful rake of her lofty masts, the delicate curve of her narrow
beam, her sharp, fish-like bows, and nicely-rounded stern, gave her a
stately appearance as she rode on the waters, and suggested exciting
races in heavy squalls, and a fast sea passage, with little pay to
receive. Yet she was not an exceedingly fast ship. She had made the run
in ninety days, and her log had told sixteen knots; but, all the same,
she was a clipper, and if she had had an enterprising captain, would
have held her own with most ships, and shown her heels to not a few.
But the commander of the _Pandora_ did not believe in ‘cracking-on,’
and his vessel had never had a chance of showing her ability. As soon
as a squall appeared to windward, he clewed up his smaller sails, and
would not dream of bumping with crowded sail into a head sea if the
least sign of danger attended him. In this respect he was right, since
his first thought was ever for the safety of his passengers and crew.

There is intense pleasure as well as excitement in sailing with a
jolly, straight-forward, fearless man, who knows exactly how much
sail his vessel can carry till the last minute, who drives through
the squalls, sending the seas dashing over his weather bulwarks, and
gushing through his lee scuppers, shivering his leeches when an extra
gust bursts upon him, glorying to watch the splendid behaviour of
his ship as she bends to his command. But Captain Robarts was a very
different sort of man from this.

It had been the intention of the pilot who had taken over charge of the
_Pandora_ at Gravesend to have come to an anchor off Southend, but as
the breeze chopped round to the southward, and seemed likely to remain
for some time in that direction, the vessel continued her course. The
fore and aft sails were run up, and the topsails loosed, and before ten
o’clock the Nore Light was passed, and she was towed out into the open
sea. All that night the two vessels pursued their journey together,
and early the next morning brought up with a head-wind in the Downs.
Some of the passengers had already succumbed to the long, steady roll
of the _Pandora_, as she swayed from side to side, sometimes dipping
her martingale deep into the swells, and rising gracefully again
before making another plunge. The smell of the new paint and varnish,
the ‘swash’ of the water as it rushed against the sides of the ship,
the swinging of the trays and lamps that were suspended to a brass
rod, no less than the long sweeping rock of their new cradle, all
combined to produce a queer sensation in their throats, which gave
them a difficulty in swallowing, and a dizziness in their heads, which
prevented their walking about lest their unseaworthy legs should bring
them to the ground. But the captain of the _Pandora_ steadily paced the
weather side, heedless of the groans of his unfortunate passengers,
and thinking only of the wind that had compelled the pilot to drop the
anchor in that unlucky hour. Uneasily he moved to and fro, occasionally
giving vent to an unmusical grunt, as his eyes roved along the horizon,
and over the South Foreland and Walmer Castle.

Captain Robarts was a man of stunted growth of much the same build as
his chief officer, but both broader and shorter. His figure approached
insignificance, and his features were coarse and forbidding. His
hands, horny from manual labour and hairy and freckled from exposure,
were generally carried well down in the pockets of his monkey-jacket,
from which he seldom extricated them. He was a good navigator and
a diligent officer, but he was not a smart sailor. Had his duties
required activity, he would have failed in fulfilling them, but as
his sole work was to prick out the chart and give his orders, little
fault could be found with him on that score. In manner he was voted
on all sides to be a bear. He never addressed his passengers except
when absolutely obliged to do so, confining his conversation to the
officers of the vessel; and if any lady or gentleman ventured to ask
him a question on the most ordinary subject, his answer was generally
conveyed by a low grunt, as he turned away to the sacred precincts of
the bridge, where none but those on business were allowed to follow him.

He professed to be a very religious man, and was in the habit of
sending the steward round with a bundle of tracts for distribution, in
the hopes thereby of counteracting the evil influence of flirtation
and yellow-backed novels. He objected strongly to the use of tobacco,
and, in fact, to every sort of indulgence in which he took no pleasure
himself. But he was very partial to his glass of grog, and a cask of
choice pine-apple rum was kept in the spirit-room expressly for his
use. Every evening before he turned in, the steward brought the captain
a glass of his favourite mixture, and during stiff gales and wintry
nights he often drank a little more than was good for him, as was
evidenced by a glowing blush at the end of his nose. His orders were
given in an abrupt, gruff voice--indeed he was at all times a man of
few words, and often directed the helmsman by the action of his hands;
and at the dinner-table he sat like a dummy in his chair of office,
leaving the steward to look after the wants of the passengers. That
afternoon Captain Robarts continued his silent constitutional until
the dinner-bell rang, and then dived below to take the edge off his
appetite; and while the saloon dinner was going on, Vernon Blythe
took his station on the look-out. He had not been there long before a
dilapidated figure staggered, with uncertain footsteps, to the spare
hencoops, which were lashed on either side, and mournfully sat down.
It was the shade of Harold Greenwood, but what a contrast to his
_debonnair_ appearance of the morning. His face was ashen pale, and
the corners of his mouth drawn down. There was a melancholy look about
his eyes, and his crimped hair, now straight as a Skye terrier’s, hung
down upon his forehead. He wore his hat upon the back of his head, and
he had left his Malacca cane below. One end of his watch-chain, with
the button-hook attached to it, dangled in front of him, in place of
his eyeglass, which had been smashed when the treacherous ship gave
a heavy roll, and threw him against the bulkhead, and the pink silk
handkerchief was fast losing its festive appearance under its frequent
calls to duty to wipe its owner’s mouth. A smile crossed Jack’s face
as he caught sight of the unhappy youth, and approaching him, he said
kindly,--

‘If you don’t feel well, Mr Greenwood, you had better go to the lee
side of the vessel. You mustn’t stay here.’

‘Oh! I’m quite well, thank you. I’m used to this sort of thing, don’t
you know?’ replied Greenwood quickly. ‘But it’s doosid hot in the
saloon, and I feel a little queer, don’t you know? It’s that new paint,
and--’

‘I quite understand,’ said Blythe; ‘but you’ll soon get used to it.’

‘Oh! I _am_ used to it--have been all my life--you know. But, I say, do
you think she will roll any more than she’s doing at present? For it’s
really very uncomfortable. I suppose the captain did not expect to have
had such bad weather when he started.’

‘_Bad weather!_’ exclaimed Jack, ‘why, my dear fellow, you don’t
know what you’re talking about. This is _splendid_ weather. A fresh
head-wind and a heavy ground swell! We couldn’t have had it better if
it had been made to order.’

‘Oh!--I see,’ groaned Mr Greenwood. ‘Well, if this is _good_ weather,
I hope it won’t get any better, that’s all. I think I will take your
advice, Mr Blythe, and go over to the lee side, if you will tell me
where it is.’

‘Why, it’s the _other_ side, of course,’ replied Jack good-humouredly;
‘and I’d put my head a little over the taffrail, if I were you, and
take a good look at the fishes. I am sure you will feel the better for
it afterwards.’

‘Do you really?’ said Greenwood, with open eyes. ‘Well, you ought to
know, so I will try it. Not that I feel ill, Mr Blythe, for I enjoy
this sort of thing uncommonly, only I think the other side looks more
comfortable than this. There’s so much wind here, it makes me quite
giddy.’ And so, by dint of clutching the pinrail of the mizen-mast, and
making a dart for the rigging, the unhappy youth managed to reach the
opposite coop in safety.

When Jack turned his head again to look at him, he saw that he had
taken his advice, and hung his head well over the taffrail, where he
appeared to be looking for something in the water, with his mouth wide
open, and his eyes full of tears. Jack laughed till the tears came into
his own, to see the little boastful dandy thus hung out to dry.

In the second cabin and steerage the passengers were suffering the
same tortures as their wealthier fellow-voyagers in the saloon. They
had not to contend against the horrors of new paint and varnish, for
their bulkheads were built of plain white wood, but their proximity to
the cargo in the lower hold and the ’tween-decks rendered the creaking
and groaning of the heavy merchandise very audible, and rendered it
difficult for them to forget their troubles in sleep. Will Farrell,
who was not subject to _mal-de-mer_, was untiring in his endeavours to
help those who had succumbed to it. He did not forget Maggie in the
steerage, and between ‘chaffing’ and feeding, he soon managed to bring
her round again. The poor girl had been very ill at first, but she was
a stout-hearted little woman, and when she heard that her mistress was
much worse than herself, and steadily refused to take either medicine
or food, she made a strenuous effort to go to her assistance, and she
succeeded. She found Iris nearly prostrate, and broken down in mind
and body. She was exhausted by sickness, but had resolutely refused to
see the doctor, lest by some means he might find out who she was. The
fact is, the poor child was quite ready to lie down and die. She would
have been thankful not to get up again. There seemed nothing left for
her to live for. The excitement of getting ready to follow her husband
was over. Nothing remained now but a constant dread of detection, and
when the terrible sea-sickness came to try her physical powers, all
attempt at resistance seemed to abandon her, and she sunk under it.
Maggie found her with a stone-cold body, and a pulse at its lowest
ebb. The passengers were all alarmed about her, but she had steadily
declined their proffered kindnesses, and, above all, she would not let
Dr Lennard be informed of her condition. But when Maggie saw her, she
asked no one’s leave, but went to find him at once. As she emerged
from the cabin, with the tears running down her cheeks, she met Vernon
Blythe.

‘Why! what’s the matter?’ he inquired, with a true sailor’s ready
interest in every woman, high or low.

‘Oh, please, sir! can you tell me where to find the doctor? My poor,
dear lady is _so_ ill.’

‘_Your lady!_ Let me see. Are you not the person who came on board with
Miss Douglas?’

‘Yes, sir, and she is so bad with the sickness. She’s as cold as ice,
and can hardly move a limb. And I’ve been sick myself till now, and
ain’t half right yet, or I’d have fetched the doctor to her before. But
he must come now, sir, as quick as he can, for the poor dear is just as
bad as she can be.’

‘I will fetch him for her at once!’ exclaimed Jack, who had not
forgotten his strange interest in the mysterious second-class passenger.

In another minute he had unearthed Dr Lennard from the smoking-room,
where he was playing chess with the third officer, and carried him
off to his patient. As they entered the cabin together, Maggie had
disappeared to take up her watch beside Iris’s berth.

‘Which is Miss Douglas’s berth?’ inquired the doctor, addressing the
assembled company.

‘Number twelve,’ replied Farrell eagerly.

‘This is it, doctor,’ said Jack, as he unlatched the door to let the
medical officer pass in.

Iris’s berth was a lower one, facing the entrance. As Jack opened the
door, he saw her plainly, lying back upon her pillows, with closed
eyes, and loosened hair; and as he saw her, he started violently, and
muttered something very like an oath beneath his breath.

‘Hullo, Jack! what’s up?’ exclaimed Dr Lennard jestingly; ‘seen a
ghost, eh?’

‘Nothing, doctor, nothing,’ he answered, in a muffled voice; ‘that
is the lady,’ and closing the cabin door hastily upon him, he leant
against it for a moment, to recover himself.

At first his heart called out that he _must_ be mistaken--that it was
only a chance likeness he had seen lying on the pillows within that
door. But his reason told him he was _not_, and that there could not
be two faces in this world like the one that had been enshrined in
his heart ever since he first beheld it. This then was the reason of
his strange interest in Miss Douglas. His eyes had been too dull to
recognise her, but his instincts had been stronger than his sight.

Dr Lennard might well ask him if he had seen a ghost. How the good
doctor would ‘chaff’ him if he told him he had indeed seen the ghost of
his early love--the memory of his life, sweet Iris Hetherley.

As Vernon Blythe left the cabin to return to his duty, he staggered
like a drunken man.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

AT SEA.


Before noon on the following day, the lighthouse at Dungeness was
sighted, and the _Pandora_ parted company with her towboat. It was
a joyous morning. A southerly wind blew its warm breath across the
water, and filled the sails of the vessel. It was just the wind that
suited her, for she could show off her powers far better on a bowline
than when running, and she ploughed along with the freshening breeze
at thirteen knots an hour. Her sharp stem cut through the swells, and
made the seething foam rush angrily from her, leaving a long white
streak of creamy froth in her wake. Little spits flew over the weather
topgallantsail, as the boisterous waves dashed against her, and the
sea gushed through the lee scupper-holes, oozed in at the ports, and
ran in torrents aft with the backward roll. Her large, white canvas
sails bulged out with the wind, and made her sheets crack again, as
they hugged the belaying bits; and the leeches, stretched taut with the
bowlines, trembled convulsively when she came up to windward.

The _Pandora_ was behaving beautifully, and her passengers--who had
mostly pulled round after their severe shaking in the Downs--all
thought the movement delightful. And the scene by which they were
surrounded added to their pleasurable sensations. The gulls sailed in
half-circles about the vessel’s wake, now and then uttering hoarse
cries as they dived after and engaged in a battle-royal for some
tempting morsel tossed overboard by the black cook. The porpoises
skimmed the waves in frolicsome gambols--often leaping straight out
of the water, and falling back upon their sides with a loud splash,
scaring the smaller fry, that fled in all directions, as they chased
each other over the crested swells. The numerous vessels that passed,
too, showed themselves off to advantage under such an inviting gale.
The heavily-rigged East Indiaman, with her Lascar crew, homeward bound,
after a twelve months’ voyage, followed by two small tugs, in the hope
that the breeze would drop, and she would be obliged to have recourse
to their assistance; the neat little Madeira fruiter, with a cargo
of oranges and bananas, making all haste to London to get rid of her
perishable freight; the Newcastle steamer, that enveloped every craft
that came near her in clouds of smoke, and poured gallons of water from
her black sides; the huge ocean liner, that looked like an enormous
floating hotel, and sent forth ominous blasts as she altered her course
to keep clear of the sailing vessels; the West Indian barque, that was
chartered to bring home rum and sugar; and the humble collier, with
her dusty cargo and begrimed hull and sails; these, and many others,
passed the _Pandora_ on her outward voyage, and kept her passengers
interested and amused. Mr Vansittart, with a storm-cap strapped under
his chin, and a pair of field-glasses slung in a case behind his back,
was standing under the shelter of the wheel-house, talking to his
daughter Grace, who looked rather paler than when she stepped aboard,
but declared she felt quite well as long as she remained in the fresh
air. Godfrey Harland was in close attendance on her, and she seemed
pleased by his proximity. He had quite got over the ridiculous fit
of self-reproach which had attacked him off Southend, and had nerved
himself to go through everything that might lie before him--even to
marriage with Grace Vansittart, if she and her parents consented
to it. Mrs Leyton, too, was on deck for the first time, and sat on
the skylight, enveloped in a warm shawl, whilst her little daughter
Winifred (who was still known as ‘Baby’), a pretty child of about
three years old, ran about the deck; and Alice carried on a laughing
flirtation with Captain Lovell, which she refused to relinquish for
all the warning looks she received from her mother. The fact is, Alice
was piqued. Her lawful sweetheart, Jack Blythe, may have been too busy
to stay by her side, and attend to her many little wants, and she was
a sensible girl, and did not expect him to give up his duty for his
pleasure; still, he might have spoken a word or two to her occasionally
in passing, or thrown a look with a world of meaning in it. But though
he had smiled kindly at her when they met in the morning, he had taken
no notice of her since, and Alice could not help seeing that he was
pre-occupied and serious. What could be the matter with him? Surely
he was never going to be so stupid as to feel jealous of the little
attentions Captain Lovell showed her, and which he himself had no time
to pay! If _that_ was to be the order of march at this early stage of
the proceedings, what would Jack do before the voyage was over. The
very thought made Alice’s only half-subdued heart rebellious, and her
smiles became sweeter, and her laughter more hilarious, than there was
any need they should be.

And, meantime, jealousy of her and her doings was the very last thought
of Vernon Blythe. His mind was entirely set upon Iris Harland, and he
had to drive her image, and the wild conjectures which the sight of
her had eliminated, by force away, in order to fit himself for his
duty. Where was her husband? What was she doing on board the _Pandora_?
Why had she embarked under a false name? And had she recognised him
when he recognised her? All these questions kept rushing through his
brain, and driving him half crazy because he could not solve them. He
had tried to pump Dr Lennard, but had derived little satisfaction from
the attempt. The doctor could not guess the reason for his anxiety,
and would not have sympathised with it, probably, if he had. He set
down the young man’s queries to curiosity, and answered them in a very
common-place manner. Miss Douglas was better, and would be all right in
a day or two. Did he not consider her an unusually pretty woman? Well,
she had good features, certainly, but was too thin and pale for beauty,
and she was very silent. The doctor didn’t know if she was stupid or
sulky, but she did not appear very grateful for the attentions shown
her; and the girl from the steerage who was nursing her, and seemed to
be her friend, was twice as interesting a person, in his eyes.

And so Vernon Blythe turned away with the secret of his burning heart
untold, and waited feverishly for the moment when he should see Iris
again and speak to her, although he could scarcely trust himself to
think of it. He had borne the sting of his disappointment for five long
years, and he believed that he was cured. He had never expected to meet
Iris Hetherley (the only name by which he had known her) again. He had
thought he should, in due time, marry Alice Leyton, and banish the last
memories of his first love for ever from his heart. Yet here she was,
and the very knowledge that she _was_ here had the power to make the
young sailor’s blood course like molten lava through his veins, and set
his head spinning like a top. He knew that, in a few days at latest, he
must see her again; but each hour seemed to mark a day as it dragged
its weary length along.

Jack longed for a storm to arise,--for the vessel to be in
danger,--for anything to occur that should take him out of himself, and
make the time go faster. But the clerk of the weather would not listen
to his prayer. The sky continued to be gloriously blue; the emerald
waters sparkled in the radiance of the sun; the white cliffs of dear
Albion, with the green fields beyond them, receded further and further
away; the vessels of every nation, which the English Channel bears upon
her bosom, became scattered and far between, and the _Pandora_ stood
out to the open sea.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

COURTSHIP.


With a light wind and a flowing sheet the _Pandora_, now more than a
fortnight out, moved slowly through the water. Astern was the island of
Madeira, standing like a huge rock in the sea, and various crafts on
the deep blue waters looked, in the distance, like children’s toys. Not
a cloud was to be seen. The sky was as blue as the sea--the air mild
and pure.

The sun had become so oppressive that an awning was rigged over the
after part of the vessel, and the passengers, having quite recovered
their sea legs, were reclining on chairs and couches under its
welcome shade. The occupiers of the second cabin were resting on the
quarter-deck, sheltered by the cutters, which were kept in the chocks
on the after-skids. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet aboard. A
merry laugh from the girls, or the plaintive bleating of the sheep
being the only sounds that broke the silence.

It was Vernon Blythe’s watch on deck, and his men were employed
aloft setting up the topmast and topgallant rigging. There was but
little work for the officer to do. Occasionally his services were
required to serve out marline, amberline, and different stores, but
that did not occur often, and left him far too much time for thought
and speculation. Why did not Iris Hetherley appear amongst the other
passengers on the quarter-deck? His wistful eye kept roving there every
second minute in the hope of seeing her, but she did not come. What
could be the reason of her enforced seclusion? Vernon had attempted to
see her twenty times in the last fortnight without success. For a week
she had kept her berth, and when she left it, she seemed never to be in
the cabin when the second officer entered it. Maggie had answered his
numerous inquiries respecting her mistress more than once, and always
blushed and stammered so much over the operation, that Jack suspected
she had been cautioned not to enlighten him. Which indeed was the case;
for Iris had confided the fact of her former acquaintanceship with him
to her humble friend, and had prayed the girl to warn her whenever
he entered the cabin, so that she might escape to the shelter of her
berth. Maggie had remonstrated with her ‘_pretty_’ on the absurdity of
the proceeding.

‘You _must_ meet the gentleman sooner or later, you know, mistress, so
what’s the good of dodging him. And if he was a friend of yours, why
_should_ you dodge him? You say he don’t know that villain up in the
saloon, and if he did, he wouldn’t betray you if you asked him not. Is
it likely? And maybe he’ll help you, and be good company on this long
voyage, and stand your friend on the other side, where you’ll want one,
poor lamb, God knows! Now, mistress dear, do be wise, and meet the
gentleman with a handshake next time he comes in, and then you’ll feel
as you have _one_ person at least aboard, who takes an interest in you.’

But Iris would not accept the advice offered her. Perhaps she was not
quite so certain as Maggie seemed to be of Jack’s claim to be trusted.
Perhaps she dreaded the questions he might put to her--or certain
tender memories connected with her former rejection of his suit,
combined with the miserable disappointment of her married life, warned
her that a renewal of friendship between them might prove a dangerous
solace under her present circumstances. Any way, she studiously
avoided him, even to the length of refusing to take any fresh air on
deck; and Vernon Blythe’s heart grew heavier and heavier under the
daily disappointment of meeting her. It was not, however, for want of
distraction that he brooded over the memory of his first love, for all
the girls aboard ship showed their willingness to talk to, and even
flirt with him.

As he walked to one end of the poop now, to take a look out, Grace
Vansittart tried to detain him.

‘Mr Blythe,’ she said, ‘can you tell me what that vessel that is so
near the land is doing?’

Vernon fetched the glass from the pilot-house, and leaning it against
the for’ard mizen shroud, gazed for some moments at the vessel.

‘She is flat aback,’ he answered, as he finished his survey, ‘and I
think will have some difficulty in getting away.’

‘But why? She has the same wind that we have.’

‘Not exactly. She is close under the land, where it is calm.’

‘How nice it must be,’ remarked Grace admiringly, ‘to know everything.’

She was looking very attractive that day, dressed in a costume of
blue serge, that toned down the fulness of her outlines, with a broad
leather belt encircling her waist, and a wide straw hat, trimmed with
corn and poppies, sheltering her fresh young face. Had Vernon Blythe
been heart whole, he might have fallen a victim to the fascinations
of this handsome girl, who was looking at him very encouragingly out
of her large brown eyes, and doing her level best to engage him in a
conversation. But Grace Vansittart’s charms would have held no danger
for him, even if Iris Harland’s proximity were not rendering him
fireproof. He was engaged--not formally, indeed, but still by mutual
consent--to Alice Leyton, and no temptation would have induced him
to abrogate his rights. Not that Alice had made many demands upon his
attentions lately; on the contrary, she rather ignored the fact of the
tie between them, and generally kept away at the other side of the deck
when they occupied it at the same time. But Jack was not sufficiently
in love with her to resent the action. On the contrary, he thought it
displayed a becoming reticence on her part, which he had often wished
she possessed before. And so he contented himself with shaking her hand
when they met in public, and kept all his loverlike confidences for
the very rare occasions when they encountered each other alone. Alice
had no reason, however, to be ashamed of her _fiancé_, who was one of
the smartest young officers in the merchant service, and a pattern
to the majority of his mates, who seem to imagine that neatness and
cleanliness form no part of their duty whilst on shore.

He was always well and smartly dressed. His uniform showed traces
of careful handling, and his peaked cap, with its gaily-embroidered
badge, evidently received due attention from the clothes-brush. His
boots shone with blacking, and his golden-flecked head was as perfectly
groomed as if he were about to stroll through Hyde Park. Though, truth
to say, you might have covered Jack Blythe with mud, and ducked him in
a horse-pond, and he would still have emerged looking like a gentleman.
It was this trait, as much as his beauty, that attracted the other sex
to him. Women detest a slovenly man. Miss Vansittart’s evident liking
for the young officer was viewed with jealous alarm by Godfrey Harland.
He had not forgotten his causeless grudge against Blythe, and he was
determined he should not take the wind out of his sails now.

‘What do you want to talk to that fellow for, Miss Vansittart?’ he
asked, as Jack was called away to the main hatch.

‘Why should I not?’ inquired Grace. ‘Do you dislike him, Mr Harland? I
think he is such a very pleasant young man.’

‘_Pleasant young man!_’ sneered Harland. ‘Do you suppose, Miss
Vansittart, for an instant that any of these fellows are gentlemen?
Why, they have all risen from common seamen.’

‘I am _sure_ Mr Blythe is a gentleman,’ retorted Grace warmly.

‘Then I suppose you call Mr Coffin and the old skipper _gentlemen_?
They have quite as much right to the title as young Blythe.’

‘I don’t agree with you,’ said Grace; ‘I know a gentleman when I speak
to him, Mr Harland; and so long as my parents raise no objection to it,
I shall continue my acquaintanceship with Mr Blythe.’

This answer nettled and alarmed Godfrey Harland. He had been on such
friendly terms with the heiress hitherto, that he was jealous of the
influence exercised over her by the second officer. Had he dared, he
would have said anything to lower his rival in her estimation, but he
was sharp enough to see that such a course would only injure his own
cause. So he turned his attention to patching up the slight breach
between them instead.

‘My dear Miss Vansittart,’ he commenced, ‘you must forgive me if I have
spoken too strongly on the subject. You know how miserable it makes me
to hear you speak in praise of any other fellow, and will excuse my
transient ill-humour for the sake of its cause.’

He had never said so much to her before, and he waited rather nervously
for her reply. He had not intended to give her an intimation even of
his wishes until he was safe in New Zealand, and had had an opportunity
of sounding her father’s mind upon the subject. But if other people
were going to intrude their officious attentions upon her, it would be
as well perhaps to let her have some inkling of his preference. And
Grace Vansittart did not resent it.

With the quickness with which some young ladies recognise a would-be
suitor, she had already seen (or thought she saw) that Harland had
a fancy for her, and was not displeased with the idea. Her superior
education had had the usual effect. It had opened her eyes to the
inferiority of her parents, and infused a desire to rise above them.
Beyond all things, she was determined to marry a ‘_swell_.’ She set
her face resolutely against all stock-riders, or sheep-farmers, or
bush gentlemen whatever. She wanted to marry some one who would take
her back to England to settle, and Mr Harland was the very man to suit
her. She thought him very good-looking (which undoubtedly he was),
and perfect in his manner of address, and was ready to credit him, in
addition, with all the minor virtues which are supposed to make the
happiness of a married life. So when he spoke so meaningly to her
concerning his jealousy of Vernon Blythe, she did not affect ignorance
of his meaning, but took his excuse as a matter of course.

‘Well, I am glad you are penitent, at all events,’ she answered gaily,
‘for you have no real cause for ill-humour. You must be a terrible
tyrant, if you forbid your friends talking to any one but yourself.’

‘Ah! my _friends_ can do as they choose,’ he said significantly, ‘it
is only _you_ whom I would guard from all evil, as a miser guards his
treasure. But perhaps you will be angry to hear me say so.’

‘Well, I don’t think you have any _right_ to speak to me in that way,
Mr Harland,’ replied Grace, looking down.

‘Give me the right, then, Grace,’ he whispered, bending over her chair.
‘Let me feel that when you are even speaking to others you are thinking
of me, and I will cast all my wretched jealousy from me like some
unholy thing.’

‘Oh, Mr Harland, how _can_ I? Remember how short a time we have known
each other. Barely six weeks.’

‘It has been long enough to bind me to you for ever.’

‘But I am not of age, you know. I have no power to decide such a
question for myself. My father is the proper person to speak to about
it. And I feel sure--_quite_ sure--that he would say it is a great deal
too soon.’

‘Then, don’t speak to him just yet, Grace. Let us keep our little
secret till we get to Tabbakooloo. Only tell me one thing--that if Mr
and Mrs Vansittart give their consent to it, you will be my wife.’

Grace blushed very becomingly as she answered in the affirmative.

‘Only, Mr Harland, I must make one condition--’

‘Oh, don’t call me “Mr Harland.” Say “Godfrey,” that I may feel you
really look upon me as your own property.’

‘_Godfrey_, then. You must promise me, in case of papa’s consenting
to--you know what--that you will not settle in New Zealand, but take
me back to live in London. I am wretched at leaving it. I have not
seen nearly enough of its sights or its pleasures, and the very idea
of spending my life at the Antipodes is distasteful to me. I know
that you, too, like society, and theatres, and all the rest of the
amusements in dear, delightful old London. Promise to take me back to
them, won’t you? or else I really cannot--’

‘Don’t finish the sentence, for Heaven’s sake!’ cried Harland. ‘I will
promise anything and everything you exact from me, if you will agree in
return to give me the opportunity to fulfil my promises.’

Of course the idea of his returning to England, where he had another
wife and scores of creditors waiting for him, was utterly ridiculous;
but it was impossible to tell her so at that moment. Let him once be
her husband (or appear to be so), and he could find a dozen excuses for
breaking his word. But he must snare the bird before he plucked it.

‘Yes! I promise, if my father and mother will permit me to do so,’
replied Grace Vansittart, as he took her hand in his.

‘And if they refuse, my darling, will you have the heart to give me
up?’ he whispered.

‘Let us wait and see,’ said Grace. ‘It will be two months and a-half
yet before we reach our destination.’

‘How can I ever wait till then!’ exclaimed the enraptured lover, who
knew that delay was the very thing he wished for.

This little episode happened when they were sitting almost alone upon
the poop, and believed themselves to be unnoticed. But Mrs Vansittart,
sitting in her cane-backed chair, and nodding with the heat over her
basket of knitting wools, was not so fast asleep but that she started
up every now and then, and in one of her starts she opened her eyes
upon Godfrey Harland holding Grace’s hand in his. The simple old lady
had never ‘cottoned’ to this adventurer as her husband and daughter
had. She was affable to him, but she had a slight distrust of him--just
sufficient to make her wide awake where her only child was concerned.
But she did not say anything to Grace. Whenever it came to finding
fault, she was just a wee bit afraid of the educated young lady who
knew so much more than herself. But when the dinner was over that day,
and the passengers were again on deck, enjoying the evening breeze, Mrs
Vansittart called her husband to her side on one of the saloon sofas.

‘Stay with me for a minute, John,’ she said, ‘for I want to speak to
you on a matter of importance.’




[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

REMONSTRANCE.


‘Well, old lady,’ commenced Mr Vansittart facetiously, ‘and what is it?
I hope the skipper ain’t been taking liberties with you, nor nothing of
that sort.’

‘Oh, now, John! do stop your nonsense, when you know well I’ve been
your married wife for five-and-twenty years, and no man ever dared take
a liberty with me yet.’

‘Come, come! you’re forgetting,’ replied her husband. ‘Didn’t I catch
you once in our parlour at Tabbakooloo with Charlie Monro’s head in
your lap, and you kissing his hair?’

‘Oh, go along with you, John! You know the poor lad had just lost his
mother, and come to tell me so. And that reminds me how often I’ve
thought and wished that our Grace and Charlie might come together
by-and-by, and make a match of it.’

‘_That_ will never be,’ said Mr Vansittart. ‘Charlie’s too rough for
Grace. You forget what a lady our girl has grown.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t, John; and sometimes I almost wish we’d kept her
alongside of us. But that’s not to the purpose. I don’t want her to
choose in a hurry, and I’m afraid she’s getting on a little bit too
fast with that Mr Harland.’

‘Why, what makes you think that?’

‘I was watching them together on deck this afternoon, and I saw him
take her hand. John, did you hear anything more about Mr Harland’s
family and antecedents before we left England?’

‘No, my dear, I hadn’t the opportunity.’

‘I never _quite_ liked him,’ sighed the mother; ‘he has such sly eyes.’

‘Oh, come! that’s a very foolish reason. You mustn’t judge of a man by
his eyes. His actions is all we need go by.’

‘Has he ever spoken to you about our Grace, John?’

‘No, nothing particular. But I can see he admires her. Why should you
object to it? He seems a smart fellow, and he’s a thorough gentleman.
Of course the rhino’s the trouble, but he’s very frank about that, and
we’ve got more than we know what to do with, so it would be hard if our
only child shouldn’t suit her own taste with a husband.’

‘Oh, John, don’t talk as if it was a settled thing. Don’t let it go on.
Tell Grace it’s too soon to let Mr Harland get so intimate. I don’t
know _why_, but I’ve such a feeling against it--as if it would be the
cause of some great trouble. And I _did_ so want her to take a fancy to
Charlie Monro.’

‘Ah! that’s at the bottom of it all, old lady. You’ve taken to
match-making in your old age. Now, look here, take my advice, and leave
the young people to settle the matter for themselves. You wouldn’t have
listened to _your_ mother if she had told you to chuck me overboard and
take another man.’

‘But I had known you, John, for years; and how long is it since you met
Mr Harland?’

‘Not more than six weeks or so. We know nothing about him at all. And
we don’t need as yet, wife. There’s plenty of time before us. Grace
don’t want to marry him to-morrow, I suppose?’

‘Heaven forbid!’

‘Well, I can’t understand your taking such a sudden prejudice against
the young fellow. I think you must be jealous of losing your daughter.
After all, what has he done? Held her hand! Lord! I’d be sorry to have
to marry all the girls whose hands I’ve held!’

‘It don’t look well though, John.’

‘Then tell your daughter it don’t look well, and she’ll keep out of
your way next time she does it. Now, don’t you fret about nothing. I
can’t see any objection to it, if the young people _do_ fancy each
other. Harland is a man of good birth and breeding, and will suit Grace
a deal better than Charlie Monro.’

‘Then you won’t speak to her, John?’

‘No, my dear. You can do as you like about it, but I don’t care to
put my finger between the fire and the wood. If the young man was
objectionable to me, he wouldn’t be here. I sha’n’t take any notice of
the affair until he asks my consent.’

‘And you will give it, John?’

‘Yes! I guess I shall give it, conditionally. He must see his way to
making an income, of course, before he can marry a wife. But we’re in
no hurry to part with Grace, and a very small certainty will satisfy
me. All I think of is the girl’s happiness.’

‘That’s just what I’m thinking of too,’ sighed his wife.

‘Well, mother, then we’re of one mind as usual. But I’ve promised to
join the gentleman in a game of poker, so I must leave you. Now, don’t
sit here by yourself, fretting for nothing.’

‘John, does Mr Harland play high?’ demanded Mrs Vansittart anxiously.

‘Terrible high,’ replied her husband, laughing. ‘Farthing points, and
generally loses them. I won tenpence three farthings off him last
night. Oh! he’s an inveterate gambler. You may take my word for that.’
And chuckling over his own sarcasm, he went off to the smoking-room.

Mrs Vansittart, seeing it was of no use to speak to her husband on the
subject, resolved to take the first opportunity to broach it with her
daughter. She was a simple soul, and she felt nervous at the idea of
offending Grace; but she was a fond mother, and, like the timid ewe,
could fight to defend her young. But the opportunity did not occur
for some days. Then Grace, happening to have lingered too long in the
sun, contracted a violent headache, and came to her mother’s cabin to
lie down, and be petted and made much of. And whilst Mrs Vansittart
was bathing her daughter’s forehead with _eau-de-Cologne_, and fanning
it to soothe the pain, she ventured to allude to the subject which
occupied her mind.

‘You shouldn’t stand in the sun, my dear, when there’s an awning to sit
under. You’ll get fever if you don’t take care. Whatever made you so
careless?’

‘I don’t know, mamma. I was talking, and didn’t feel how hot it was.’

‘Who were you talking to--Mr Harland?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what were you talking of?’

‘How can I remember,’ replied Grace, colouring; ‘a dozen different
things.’

‘A dozen different things don’t matter,’ said Mrs Vansittart
oracularly. ‘It’s _one_ thing I wouldn’t let Mr Harland speak of, if I
was you, Grace, my dear.’

‘And what is that?’ asked the girl, in a low voice.

‘Marriage.’

‘Why not, mother? Why shouldn’t he speak of it as well as any other
man?’

‘Because I don’t think he’d make a good husband.’

‘What right have you to say so?’ cried Grace, starting up. ‘What has he
done to make you distrust him? Papa and he are such close friends; and
if papa had not considered Mr Harland to be good and trustworthy, would
he have asked him to accompany us to New Zealand?’

‘Ah, your papa and me don’t always think alike, my dear, although, I am
thankful to say, a difference of opinion doesn’t make us quarrel. And
men are blinder than women in such matters. They judge by the outside,
but we have our instincts.’

‘Do you want to set me against Mr Harland?’ exclaimed Grace, with
flashing eyes.

‘Do you like him so much, then, my dear?’

‘Yes; that is to say, of course we all like him. Who could help doing
so, when he is so agreeable and good-looking?’

‘And he has told you that he likes you?’

Grace lay down on the pillow again, and turned her face slightly away.

‘Don’t be afraid of me, my dear girl,’ continued Mrs Vansittart; ‘I
sha’n’t scold you, whatever may have happened. Is it a settled thing
between you and this gentleman?’

‘Contingent on your consent and papa’s,’ replied Grace.

‘You mean if we say _yes_,’ corrected her mother, who was rather
puzzled by the word ‘contingent.’

‘Just so, mamma. Mr Harland has asked me to marry him, and I have
consented, provided you and papa have no objections to make to it.’

Mrs Vansittart began to cry.

‘Oh, my dear! it’s terrible quick. Why couldn’t you have waited till
we got home to Tabbakooloo? There are so many nice young fellows about
there, and you’d have had a much better choice.’

‘I don’t want to choose. I’m quite satisfied with Mr Harland,’ said
Grace pettishly. ‘And why are you crying, mamma? What has he done?
Really, it’s quite alarming to see you go on in this way.’

‘Oh, Grace, my darling girl! don’t give him a final answer yet. Wait a
little longer,’ sobbed the old lady. ‘I can’t give you any reason, but
I’ve a notion it won’t turn out well.’

‘But this is nonsense,’ replied her daughter, from the heights of her
superior wisdom. ‘If you have any reasonable objection to Mr Harland,
mother, tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to fall in with your
wishes. But don’t condemn him for a chimera.’

‘A _what_, my dear?’ said Mrs Vansittart, opening her eyes. ‘I never
heard of such a thing. But he hasn’t no money. You must allow that. He
says so himself.’

‘I know he is in difficulties at present, but a year or so will clear
them all off. And the most fashionable people get into difficulties
sometimes, mamma, and have to mortgage their estates and let their
houses. You have only to hear Mr Harland talk, to know what splendid
circumstances he has been in. Besides, papa has always told me that the
want of money need never influence my choice of a husband, because he
has plenty for us all.’

‘You have made up your mind, then, to marry this Mr Harland, Grace?’

‘Yes, mamma, if papa and you give your consent.’

‘Oh, my dear child, I’d consent to anything for your happiness.
Only--will he make you happy?’

‘I think so,’ replied Grace.

There was nothing more to be said, then--at least so Mrs Vansittart
thought, as she returned, with a deep sigh, to her former occupation of
bathing Grace’s forehead with _eau-de-Cologne_.

Whilst this little scene was being enacted in the stern cabin, Vernon
Blythe was on deck, standing by the taffrail, and looking expectantly
towards the companion-ladder. It was his first watch that night from
eight to twelve. Mr Coffin had turned in, and the passengers were
amusing themselves with music in the saloon, and cards in the house
amidships. Suddenly Jack saw a pretty head, all covered with curls,
appear at the top of the ladder, and in another moment Alice Leyton
stood by his side. They were alone, but she did not hold up her face
to be kissed as they drew near each other. She seemed to have been
somewhat infected by Vernon’s low spirits the last few days, for she
had certainly been less talkative and merry than usual.

‘Well, Jack,’ she said, as they came within hailing distance, ‘I
thought it was about time I came and looked after you. They are so dull
in the saloon. Almost everybody is reading, and all the gentlemen have
deserted us for those horrid cards. And you must feel it stupid up here
too. Let us try and enliven each other.’

‘Do you know,’ replied Jack, ‘that it is my watch, and you are not
supposed to speak to the officer on duty, Miss Alice?’

‘Bother your watch!’ she retorted. ‘As long as I do not interfere with
your duty, the captain will not object. Mr Coffin was telling me
yesterday that there is no rule about it.’

‘So you have been trying your hand upon poor old Coffin now, have you?
What a dreadful flirt you are. You’d coquet with your own shadow,
sooner than with nothing at all.’

‘Would I?’ cried Alice. ‘Not if it had a petticoat on. That’s all you
know about it, Jack. But what’s the matter with _you_. You’ve not been
half yourself lately. Mother says she hasn’t heard you laugh since we
came aboard.’

‘Too much to think of,’ replied Jack; ‘I have no time to laugh now.’

‘Too much to think of, you old humbug!’ laughed Alice. ‘Why, on a night
like this, there is no work at all to do. That’s why I have inflicted
my company on you. I was afraid you might go to sleep at your post.’

‘There’s no fear of going to sleep where _you_ are, Alice, and as long
as we don’t get a shift of wind, I hope you will stay here, and cheer
me on my lonely watch.’

‘Well, it strikes me you want cheering, Jack. Your face is as long as
a hatchet. Is it anything that _I’ve_ done?’ inquired Alice, with a
guilty fear that he would answer in the affirmative. But he didn’t.

‘_You!_’ he exclaimed, reddening in the moonlight. ‘Oh, dear, no!
What _have_ you been doing? Anything naughty? Because, if that’s the
case, you had better make a clean breast of it at once, and receive my
absolution before you go to sleep.’

‘You’re quite sure you would give me absolution?’ she said saucily.

‘I think so. Why not? It’s better than quarrelling with you, and it
saves a lot of trouble. Only I must hear what you have been guilty of,
before I can decide the amount of absolution you require, and whether
it can be conveyed by one kiss or half-a-dozen.’

‘Jack,’ said Alice, pouting, ‘I don’t believe you love me one bit!’

She was becoming fast aware that she didn’t care for him, and yet she
would not willingly have given him up to any other woman. Dogs in the
manger are nowhere in comparison with the fair sex. They may be utterly
sick of a man’s attentions, and wish never to receive them again, but
they would endure them to the extent of martyrdom sooner than see them
transferred to a rival. Their vanity cannot brook the idea of being
forgotten.

‘What can I do or say to _make_ you believe it?’ returned Jack. ‘I
suppose you say that because I have so little time to devote to you
now. But you know that I would lie all day long at your feet, if I had
not these confounded watches to keep.’

‘But you never say anything nice when we _do_ meet,’ continued Alice.

‘I didn’t know you cared for my nice things. You have so many people
to say them to you. Captain Lovell, for instance! Isn’t he whispering
soft nothings to you all day long?’

Alice blushed furiously.

‘Jack! you’re not jealous--are you?’ she whispered.

He burst out laughing.

‘_Jealous!_ my dear child! Most _decidedly_ not! I’m only too delighted
to see my little girl so well appreciated. What sort of a fellow is
Lovell? Has he got anything in him? He looks rather an ass to me.’

‘Not at all,’ cried Alice indignantly; ‘he is very clever, and most
amusing. I never met any one who made me laugh so much. And he has
travelled all over the world, and has a wonderful memory. It is a shame
of you to call him an ass.’

‘I only said he _looked_ like one! It is all right if he isn’t,’
remarked Jack coolly.

‘You are jealous of him; that’s what it is,’ said Alice, in a temper.

Jack walked straight up to her, and took her hand.

‘My dear little woman! you are perfectly wrong. I am jealous of no man.
You have promised to be my wife, and I rest securely on that promise.
Were I to see you flirting with the whole world, I should not suspect
you of betraying me. Whilst I am engaged to you, I should consider it
most dishonourable to make love to another girl. Why should I suspect
you of possessing a lower nature than my own? So set your mind at rest
upon that score, Alice. I _trust_ you, my dear, as I hope you trust me.’

‘Good-night,’ said Alice, in a stifled voice, as she turned away.
‘Mother will be expecting me to join her in the cabin.’

‘Good-night,’ echoed her lover cheerfully.

Neither of them kissed the other as they parted, though when this
ceremony had first been omitted between them, it would have puzzled
them to say--only they seemed somehow to have involuntarily dropped it.

Alice ran down the companion almost too quickly for safety, and bolting
herself into the cabin, threw herself upon the berth, and burst into a
flood of tears.

‘He is too good for me,’ she thought remorsefully, ‘a thousand times
over. He always was. He trusts me implicitly, and tells me to trust him
in the same manner. Oh, if he only knew!--if he _only knew_!’

But at this juncture she heard the cheerful bustle outside of the
gentlemen returning to the saloon to finish up the evening with singing
and flirtation, so Alice dried her eyes, and arranged her curls afresh,
and emerged to seek consolation at the hands of Captain Lovell.


END OF VOL. I.


COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.




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  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.





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