THE R.M.S. KANGAROO.
It was on a Tuesday evening that a mighty vessel was steaming
majestically out of the mouth of the Thames, and shaping her imposing
course straight at the ball of the setting sun. Most people will
remember reading descriptions of the steamship Kangaroo, and being
astonished at the power of her engines, the beauty of her fittings, and
the extraordinary speed—about eighteen knots—which she developed in her
trials, with an unusually low expenditure of coal. For the benefit of
those who have not, however, it may be stated that the Kangaroo, “the
Little Kangaroo,” as she was ironically named among sailor men, was the
very latest development of the science of modern ship-building.
Everything about her, from the electric light and boiler tubes up, was
on a new and patent system.
Four hundred feet and more she measured from stem to stern, and in that
space were crowded and packed all the luxuries of a palace, and all the
conveniences of an American hotel. She was a beautiful and a wonderful
thing to look on; as, with her holds full of costly merchandise and her
decks crowded with her living freight of about a thousand human beings,
she steamed slowly out to sea, as though loth to leave the land where
she was born. But presently she seemed to gather up her energies and to
grow conscious of the thousands and thousands of miles of wide tossing
water, which stretched between her and the far-off harbour where her
mighty heart should cease from beating and be for a while at rest.
Quicker and quicker she sped along, and spurned the churning water from
her swift sides. She was running under a full head of steam now, and
the coast-line of England grew faint and low in the faint, low light,
till at last it almost vanished from the gaze of a tall, slim girl, who
stood forward, clinging to the starboard bulwark netting and looking
with deep grey eyes across the waste of waters. Presently Augusta, for
it was she, could see the shore no more, and turned to watch the other
passengers and think. She was sad at heart, poor girl, and felt what
she was—a very waif upon the sea of life. Not that she had much to
regret upon the vanished coast-line. A little grave with a white cross
over it—that was all. She had left no friends to weep for her, none.
But even as she thought it, a recollection rose up in her mind of
Eustace Meeson’s pleasant, handsome face, and of his kind words, and
with it came a pang as she reflected that, in all probability, she
should never see the one or hear the other again. Why, she wondered,
had he not come to see her again? She should have liked to bid him
“Good-bye,” and had half a mind to send him a note and tell him of her
going. This, on second thoughts, however, she had decided not to do;
for one thing, she did not know his address, and—well, there was an end
of it.
Could she by the means of clairvoyance have seen Eustace’s face and
heard his words, she would have regretted her decision. For even as
that great vessel plunged on her fierce way right into the heart of the
gathering darkness, he was standing at the door of the lodging-house in
the little street in Birmingham.
“Gone!” he was saying. “Miss Smithers gone to New Zealand! What is her
address?”
“She didn’t leave no address, sir,” replies the dirty maid-of-all-work
with a grin. “She went from here two days ago, and was going on to the
ship in London.”
“What was the name of the ship?” he asked, in despair.
“Kan—Kon—Conger-eel,” replies the girl in triumph, and shuts the door
in his face.
Poor Eustace! He had gone to London to try and get some employment, and
having, after some difficulty, succeeded in obtaining a billet as
reader in Latin, French and English to a publishing house of good
repute, at a salary of £180 a year, he had hurried back to Birmingham
for the sole purpose of seeing Miss Augusta Smithers, with whom, if the
whole truth must be told, he had, to his credit be it said, fallen
deeply, truly, and violently in love. Indeed, so far was he in this way
gone, that he had determined to make all the progress that he could,
and if he thought that there was any prospect of success, to declare
his passion. This was, perhaps, a little premature; but then in these
matters people are apt to be more premature than is generally supposed.
Human nature is very swift in coming to conclusions in matters in which
that strange mixture we call the affections are involved; perhaps
because, although the conclusion is not altogether a pleasing one, the
affections, at any rate in the beginning, are largely dependent on the
senses.
Pity a poor young man! To come from London to Birmingham to woo one’s
grey-eyed mistress, in a third-class carriage too, and find her gone to
New Zealand, whither circumstances prevented him from following her,
without leaving a word or a line, or even an address behind her! It was
too bad. Well, there was no remedy in the matter; so he walked to the
railway station, and groaned and swore all the way back to London.
Augusta, on board the Kangaroo, was, however, in utter ignorance of
this act of devotion on the part of her admirer; indeed, she did not
even know that he was her admirer. Feeling a curious sinking sensation
within her, she was about to go below to her cabin, which she shared
with a lady’s-maid, not knowing whether to attribute it to sentimental
qualms incidental to her lonely departure from the land of her birth,
or to other qualms connected with the first experience of life upon the
ocean wave. About that moment, however, a burly quarter-master
addressed her in gruff tones, and informed her that if she wanted to
see the last of “hold Halbion,” she had better go aft a bit, and look
over the port side, and she would see the something or other light.
Accordingly, more to prove to herself that she was not sea-sick than
for any other reason, she did so, and, standing as far aft as the
second-class passengers were allowed to go, stared at the quick flashes
of the light-house, as second by second, they sent their message across
the great waste of sea.
As she stood there, holding on to a stanchion to steady herself, for
the vessel, large as she was, had begun to get a bit of a roll on, she
was suddenly aware of a bulky figure of a man which came running or
rather reeling against the bulwarks alongside of her, where it—or
rather he—was instantly and violently ill. Augusta was, not
unnaturally, almost horrified into following the figure’s example,
when, suddenly growing faint or from some other cause, it loosed its
hold and rolled into the scuppers, where it lay feebly swearing.
Augusta, obeying a tender impulse of humanity, hurried forward and
stretched out the hand of succour, and presently, between her help and
that of the bulwark netting, the man struggled to his feet. As he did
so his face came close to hers, and in the dim light she recognised the
fat, coarse features, now blanched with misery, of Mr. Meeson, the
publisher. There was no doubt about it, it was her enemy; the man whose
behavior had indirectly, as she believed, caused the death of her
little sister. She dropped his hand with an exclamation of disgust and
dismay, and as she did so he recognised who she was.
“Hullo!” he said, with a faint and rather feeble attempt to assume his
fine old crusted publishing-company manners. “Hullo! Miss
Jemima—Smithers, I mean; what on earth are you doing here?”
“I am going to New Zealand, Mr. Meeson,” she answered sharply; “and I
certainly did not expect to have the pleasure of your company on the
voyage.”
“Going to New Zealand,” he said, “are you? Why, so am I; at least, I am
going there first, then to Australia. What do you mean to do there—try
and run round our little agreement, eh? It won’t be any good, I tell
you plainly. We have our agents in New Zealand, and a house in
Australia, and if you try to get the better of Meeson’s there, Meeson’s
will be even with you, Miss Smithers—Oh, Heavens! I feel as though I
were coming to pieces.”
“Don’t alarm yourself, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, “I am not going to
publish any more books at present.”
“That is a pity,” he said, “because your stuff is good selling stuff.
Any publisher would find money in it. I suppose you are second-class,
Miss Smithers, so we shan’t see much of each other; and, perhaps, if we
should meet, it might be as well if we didn’t seem to have any
acquaintance. It don’t look well for a man in my position to know
second-class passengers, especially young lady passengers who write
novels.”
“You need not be afraid, Mr. Meeson: I have no wish to claim your
acquaintance,” said Augusta.
At this point, her enemy was taken violently worse again, and, being
unable to stand the sight and sound of his writhing and groaning, she
fled forward; and, reflecting on this strange and awkward meeting, went
down to her own berth, where, with lucid intervals, she remained
helpless and half stupid for the next three days. On the fourth day,
however, she reappeared on deck quite recovered, and with an excellent
appetite. She had her breakfast, and then went and sat forward in as
quiet a place as she could find. She did not want to see Mr. Meeson any
more, and she did want to escape from the stories of her cabin-mate,
the lady’s-maid. This good person would, after the manner of her kind,
insist upon repeating to her a succession of histories connected with
members of the families with whom she had lived, many of which were
sufficient to make the hair of a respectable young lady like Augusta
stand positively on end. No doubt they were interesting to her in her
capacity of a novelist; but, as they were all of the same colour, and
as their tendency was absolutely to destroy any belief she might have
in virtue as an inherent quality in highly developed woman or honour in
man, Augusta soon wearied of these _chroniques scandaleuses_. So she
went forward, and was sitting looking at the “white horses” chasing
each other across the watery plain, and reflecting upon what the
condition of mind of those ladies whose histories she had recently
heard would be if they knew that their most secret, and in some cases
disgraceful and tragic, love affairs were the common talk of a dozen
servants’ halls, when suddenly she was astonished by the appearance of
a splendid official bearing a book. At first, from the quantity of gold
lace with which his uniform was adorned, Augusta took him to be the
captain; but it presently transpired that he was only the chief
steward.
“Please, Miss,” he said, touching his hat and holding out the book in
his hand towards her, “the captain sends his compliments and wants to
know if you are the young lady who wrote this.”
Augusta glanced at the work. It was a copy of “Jemima’s Vow.” Then she
replied that she was the writer of it, and the steward vanished.
Later on in the morning came another surprise. The gorgeous official
again appeared, touched his cap, and said that the captain desired him
to say that orders had been given to have her things moved to a cabin
further aft. At first Augusta demurred to this, not from any love of
the lady’s-maid, but because she had a truly British objection to being
ordered about.
“Captain’s orders, Miss,” said the man, touching his cap again; and she
yielded.
Nor had she any cause to regret doing so; for, to her huge delight, she
found herself moved into a charming deck-cabin on the starboard side of
the vessel, some little way abaft the engine-room. It was evidently an
officer’s cabin, for there, over the head of the bed, was the picture
of a young lady he adored, and also some neatly fitted shelves of
books, a rack of telescopes, and other seaman-like contrivances.
“Am I to have this cabin to myself?” asked Augusta of the steward.
“Yes, Miss; those are the captain’s orders. It is Mr. Jones’s cabin.
Mr. Jones is the second officer; but he has turned in with Mr. Thomas,
the first officer, and given up the cabin to you.”
“I am sure it’s very kind of Mr. Jones,” murmured Augusta, not knowing
what to make of this turn of fortune. But surprises were not to end
there. A few minutes afterwards, just as she was leaving the cabin, a
gentleman in uniform came up, in whom she recognized the captain. He
was accompanied by a pretty fair-haired woman very becomingly dressed.
“Excuse me; Miss Smithers, I believe?” he said, with a bow.
“Yes.”
“I am Captain Alton. I hope you like your new cabin. Let me introduce
you to Lady Holmhurst, wife of Lord Holmhurst, the New Zealand
Governor, you know. Lady Holmhurst, this is Miss Smithers, whose book
you were talking so much about.”
“Oh! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Smithers,” said the
great lady in a manner that evidently was not assumed. “Captain Alton
has promised that I shall sit next to you at dinner, and then we can
have a good talk. I don’t know when I have been so much delighted with
anything as I was with your book. I have read it three times, what do
you think of that for a busy woman?”
“I think there is some mistake,” said Augusta, hurriedly and with a
slight blush. “I am a second-class passenger on board this ship, and
therefore cannot have the pleasure of sitting next to Lady Holmhurst.”
“Oh, that is all right, Miss Smithers,” said the captain, with a jolly
laugh. “You are my guest, and I shall take no denial.”
“When we find genius for once in our lives, we are not going to lose
the opportunity of sitting at its feet,” added Lady Holmhurst, with a
little movement towards her which was neither curtsey nor bow, but
rather a happy combination of both. The compliment was, Augusta felt,
sincere, however much it exaggerated the measure of her poor
capacities, and, putting other things aside, was, coming as it did from
one woman to another, peculiarly graceful and surprising. She blushed
and bowed, scarcely knowing what to say, when suddenly, Mr. Meeson’s
harsh tones, pitched just now in a respectful key, broke upon her ear.
Mr. Meeson was addressing no less a person than Lord Holmhurst,
G.C.M.G. Lord Holmhurst was a stout, short, dark little man, with a
somewhat pompous manner, and a kindly face. He was a Colonial Governor
of the first water, and was perfectly aware of the fact.
Now, a Colonial Governor, even though he be a G.C.M.G. when he is at
home, is not a name to conjure with, and does not fill an exclusive
place in the eye of the English world. There are many Colonial
Governors in the present and past tense to be found in the purlieus of
South Kensington, where their presence creates no unusual excitement.
But when one of this honourable corps sets foot upon the vessel
destined to bear him to the shores that he shall rule, all this
changes. He puts off the body of the ordinary betitled individual and
puts on the body of the celestial brotherhood. In short, from being
nobody out of the common he becomes, and very properly so, a great man.
Nobody knew this better than Lord Holmhurst, and to a person fond of
observing such things nothing could have been more curious to notice
than the small, but gradual increase of the pomposity of his manner, as
the great ship day by day steamed further from England and nearer to
the country where he was King. It went up, degree by degree, like a
thermometer which is taken down into the bowels of the earth or
gradually removed into the sunlight. At present, however, the
thermometer was only rising.
“I was repeating, my Lord,” said the harsh voice of Mr. Meeson, “that
the principle of an hereditary peerage is the grandest principle our
country has yet developed. It gives us something to look forward to. In
one generation we make the money; in the next we take the title which
the money buys. Look at your Lordship. Your Lordship is now in a proud
position; but, as I have understood, your Lordship’s father was a
trader like me.”
“Hum!—well, not exactly, Mr. Meeson,” broke in Lord Holmhurst. “Dear
me, I wonder who that exceedingly nice-looking girl Lady Holmhurst is
talking to can be!”
“Now, your Lordship, to put a case,” went on the remorseless Meeson,
who, like most people of his stamp, had an almost superstitious
veneration for the aristocracy, “I have made a great deal of money, as
I do not mind telling your Lordship; what is there to prevent my
successor—supposing I have a successor—from taking advantage of that
money, and rising on it to a similar position to that so worthily
occupied by your Lordship?”
“Exactly, Mr. Meeson. A most excellent idea for your successor. Excuse
me, but I see Lady Holmhurst beckoning to me.” And he fled
precipitately, still followed by Mr. Meeson.
“John, my dear!” said Lady Holmhurst, “I want to introduce you to Miss
Smithers—_the_ Miss Smithers whom we have all been talking about, and
whose book you have been reading. Miss Smithers, my husband!”
Lord Holmhurst, who, when he was not deep in the affairs of State, had
a considerable eye for a pretty girl—and what man worthy of the name
has not?—bowed most politely, and was proceeding to tell Augusta, in
very charming language, how delighted he was to make her acquaintance,
when Mr. Meeson arrived on the scene and perceived Augusta for the
first time. Quite taken aback at finding her, apparently, upon the very
best of terms with people of such quality, he hesitated to consider
what course to adopt; whereon Lady Holmhurst in a somewhat formal way,
for she was not very fond of Mr. Meeson, mistaking his hesitation, went
on to introduce him. Thereupon, all in a moment, as we do sometimes
take such resolutions, Augusta came to a determination. She would have
nothing more to do with Mr. Meeson—she would repudiate him then and
there, come what would of it.
So, as he advanced upon her with outstretched hand, she drew herself
up, and in a cold and determined voice said, “I already know Mr.
Meeson, Lady Holmhurst; and I do not wish to have anything more to do
with him. Mr. Meeson has not behaved well to me.”
“‘Pon my word,” murmured Lord Holmhurst to himself, “I don’t wonder she
has had enough of him. Sensible young woman, that!”
Lady Holmhurst looked a little astonished and a little amused.
Suddenly, however, a light broke upon her.
“Oh! I see,” she said. “I suppose that Mr. Meeson published ‘Jemima’s
Vow.’ Of course that accounts for it. Why, I declare there is the
dinner bell! Come along, Miss Smithers, or we shall lose the place the
captain has promised us.” And, accordingly, they went, leaving Mr.
Meeson, who had not yet realized the unprecedented nature of the
position, positively gasping on the deck. And on board the Kangaroo
there were no clerks and editors on whom he could wreak his wrath!
“And now, my dear Miss Smithers,” said Lady Holmhurst when, dinner
being over, they were sitting together in the moonlight, near the
wheel, “perhaps you will tell me why you don’t like Mr. Meeson, whom,
by-the-way, I personally detest. But don’t, if you don’t wish to, you
know.”
But Augusta did wish to, and then and there she unfolded her whole sad
story into her new-found friend’s sympathetic ear; and glad enough the
poor girl was to find a confidante to whom she could unbosom her
sorrows.
“Well, upon my word!” said Lady Holmhurst, when she had listened with
tears in her eyes to the history of poor little Jeannie’s death, “upon
my word, of all the brutes I ever heard of, I think that this publisher
of yours is the worst! I will cut him, and get my husband to cut him
too. But no, I have a better plan than that. He shall tear up that
agreement, so sure as my name is Bessie Holmhurst; he shall tear it up,
or—or”—and she nodded her little head with an air of infinite wisdom.