A SWIM FOR LIFE
The words died on her lips as a shriek, wild, agonising, despairing,
rang through the air, and startled not only the little group of pleased
listeners, but all who happened to be on deck at the time. We started up
and gazed towards the spot whence the cry had come. The colonel, who had
been reading on the opposite side of the deck, calmly smoking the while,
dropped his book and only saved his meerschaum by a cricketer's smart
catch. The captain came bounding up from below, followed by the steward
and his boy; the foc'sle hands, with the black cook, hurled themselves
aft. All guessed the cause as they saw Mrs. Percival wringing her hands
frantically and gazing at an object in the sea.
Her boy had fallen overboard! Yes! the little fellow, active and
courageous beyond his years, had tried to crawl up to the shrouds while
his mother's eyes were engaged in the perusal of the leading novel of
the day. Weary of inaction, the poor little chap had done a little
climbing on his own account, and an unexpected roll of the ship had sent
him overboard. Light as the wind was, he was already a long way astern.
Long before all these observations were made, however, and while the
astonished spectators were questioning their senses as to the meaning of
the confusion, Miranda had sprung upon the rail, and in the next moment,
with hands clasped above her head, was parting the smooth waters.
Rising to the surface, she swam with rapid and powerful strokes towards
the receding form of the still floating child. With less rapidity of
motion, I cast myself into the heaving waste of water, not that I
doubted Miranda's ability to overtake and bear up the child, but from
simple inability to remain behind while all that was worth living for on
earth was adrift upon the wave.
I followed in her wake, and though I failed to keep near her, for the
Pitcairn islanders are among the fastest swimmers in the world, I yet
felt that I might be of some use or aid. Long before I could overtake
her she had caught up the little fellow, and lifting him high above the
water, was swimming easily towards me.
"Oh! you foolish boy!" she cried, "why did you come after me? do you
want to be drowned again?" Here she smiled and showed her lovely teeth
as if it was rather a good joke. It may have been, but at that time and
place I was not in the humour to perceive it.
"I came for the same reason that you did, I suppose--because I could not
stay behind. If anything had happened to you what should I have done?
Here comes the boat, though, and we can talk it over on board."
Some little time had been expended in lowering the boat. The ship had
been brought to, but even then--and with so light a wind--it was
astonishing what a distance we had fallen behind. It was a curious
sensation, such specks as we were upon the immense water-plain which
stretched around to the horizon. However, the _Florentia_ was strongly
in evidence, and nearer and nearer came the whaleboat, with the captain
at the steer-oar, and the men pulling as if they were laying on a crack
harpooner to an eighty barrel whale.
We were now swimming side by side, Miranda talking to the little fellow,
who had never lost consciousness, and did not seem particularly afraid
of his position.
"How tremendously hard they are pulling!" I said; "they are making the
boat spin again. One would think they were pulling for a wager."
"So they are," answered she, "for three lives, and perhaps another. See
there! God in His mercy protect us."
I followed the direction of her turned head, and my heart stood still as
my eye caught the fatal sign of the monster's presence at no great
distance from us. It was _the back fin of a shark_!
"Do your best, my beloved," she continued; "we must keep together, and
if he overtakes us before the boat reaches, splash hard and shout as
loud as you can. I have seen a shark frightened before now; but please
God it may not come to that."
The boat came nearer--still nearer--but, as it seemed to us, all too
slowly. The men were pulling for their lives, I could notice, and the
captain frantically urging them on. They had seen the dreaded signal
before us, and had commenced to race from that moment. But for some
delay in the tackle for lowering, they would have been up to us before
now.
As it was we did our best. I would have taken the child, but Miranda
would not allow me. "His weight is nothing in the water," she said, "and
I could swim faster than you, even with him." This she showed me she
could do by shooting ahead with the greatest ease, and then allowing me
to overtake her. I had to let her have her own way. We were lessening
the distance between us and the boat, but the sea demon had a mind to
overtake us, and our hearts almost failed as we noticed the sharp black
fin gaining rapidly upon us. Still there was one chance, that he would
not pursue us to the very side of the boat. It was a terrible moment.
With every muscle strained to the uttermost, with lung, and sinew, and
every organ taxed to utmost tension, I most certainly beat any previous
record in swimming that I had ever attained. Miranda, with apparently
but little effort, kept slightly ahead. The last few yards--shorter than
the actual distance--appeared to divide us from the huge form of the
monster now distinctly visible beneath the water, when with one frantic
yell and a dash at the oars, which took every remaining pound of
strength out of the willing crew, the boat shot up within equal
distance. At a signal from the captain every oar was raised and brought
down again with a terrific splash into the water, and a simultaneous
yell. The effort was successful. The huge creature, strangely timid in
some respects, stopped, and with one powerful side motion of fins and
tail glided out of the line of pursuit. At the same moment the boat
swept up, and eager arms lifted Miranda and her burden into it. My hand
was on the gunwale until I saw her safe, whence with a slight amount of
assistance I gained the mid-thwart.
"Saved, thank God!" cried the captain, with fervent expression, "but a
mighty close thing; the next time you take a bath of this kind, my dear
Miranda, with sharks around, you must let me know beforehand, eh?"
"Some one would have had to go, captain," she answered; "we couldn't see
the dear little fellow drowned before our eyes. It was only a trifle
after all--a swim in smooth water on a fine day: I didn't reckon on a
shark being so close, I must say."
"I saw the naughty shark," said the little fellow, now quite recovered
and in his usual spirits. "How close he came! do you think he would have
eaten us all, captain?"
"Yes, my boy--without salt; you would never have seen your papa and
mamma again if it had not been for this lady here."
"But you took us in the boat, captain," argued the little fellow; "he
can't catch us in here, can he?"
"But the lady caught you in her arms long before the boat came up, my
dear, or else you would have been drowned over and over again; that
confounded tackle caught, or else we should have been up long before.
It's a good thing they were not lowering for a whale, or my first mate's
language would have been something to remember till the voyage after
next. However, here we are all safe, Charlie, and there's your mother
looking out for you."
A painfully eager face was that which gazed from the vessel as we rowed
alongside. Every trace of the languor partly born of the tropic sun and
partly of aristocratic _morgue_ was gone from the countenance of Mrs.
Percival, as her boy, laughing and prattling, was carried up the rope
ladder and lifted on deck. His mother clasped him now passionately in
her arms, sobbing, blessing, kissing him, and crying aloud that God had
restored her child from the dead. "Oh, my boy! my boy!" she repeated
again and again; "your mother would have died too, if you had been
drowned, she would never have lived without you."
By this time Miranda had reached the deck, where she was received with a
hearty British cheer from the ship's company, while the passengers
crowded around her as if she had acquired a new character in their eyes.
But Mrs. Percival surpassed them all; kneeling before Miranda she bowed
herself to the deck, as if in adoration, and kissed her wet feet again
and again.
"You have saved my child from a terrible death at the risk of your own
and your husband's lives," she said. "May God forget me if I forget your
noble act this day! I have been proud and unkind in my manner to you, my
dear. I humble myself at your feet, and implore your pardon. But
henceforth, Miranda Telfer, you and I are sisters. If I do not do
something in requital it will go hard with me and Charlie."
"Now, my dear Sybil," interposed the husband, "do you observe that Mrs.
Telfer has not had time to change her dress--very wet it seems to
be--and I suppose Master Charlie will be none the worse for being put
to bed and well scolded, the young rascal. Come, my dear."
Colonel Percival, doubtless, felt a world of joy and relief when the
light of his eyes and the joy of his heart stood safe and sound on the
deck of the _Florentia_ again, but it is not the wont of the British
aristocrat to give vent to his emotions, even the holiest, in public.
The veil of indifference is thrown over them, and men may but guess at
the volcanic forces at work below that studiously calm exterior.
So, laying his hand gently but firmly on his wife's arm, he led her to
her cabin, with her boy still clasped in her arms as if she yet feared
to lose him, and they disappeared from our eyes. As for Miranda and
myself, such immersions had been daily matters of course, and were
regarded as altogether too trifling occurrences to require more than the
necessary changes of clothing.
We both appeared in our places at the next meal, when Miranda was
besieged with questions as to her sensations, mingled with praises of
her courage and endurance in that hour of deadly peril.
"And _her_ child, too," said Mrs. Craven; "what a lesson of humility it
ought to teach her! Had you, my dear girl, been swayed by any of the
meaner motives which actuate men and women her foolish pride might have
cost her child's life."
"Oh, surely no one _could_ have had such thoughts when that dear little
boy fell overboard! I couldn't help Mrs. Percival not liking me. I
really did not think much about it; but when I saw the poor little face
in the sea, more startled, indeed, than frightened, I felt as if I must
go in after him. It was quite a matter of course."
After this incident it may be believed that we were indeed a happy
family on board the _Florentia_. Every one vied with every one else in
exhibiting respect and admiration towards Miranda. Mrs. Percival would
not hear of a refusal that we should come and stay with her, when we
had done all that was proper and dutiful in the family home. Miss
Vavasour and Mrs. Craven depended on me to show them all the beauties of
Sydney harbour; while Captain Carryall pledged himself to place Mr.
Frankston's yacht at the service of his passengers generally, and to
render them competent to champion the much-vaunted glories of the
unrivalled harbour to all friends, foes, and doubters on the other side
of the world.
Colonel Percival privately interrogated the captain as to the nature of
the commercial undertaking in which he was about to arrange a
partnership for me, and begged as a favour, being a man of ample means,
that he might be permitted to advance the amount of my share. The
captain solemnly promised him that if there was any difficulty in the
proposed arrangement on account of my deficiency of cash he should be
requested to supply it. "He seemed to feel easy in his mind after I told
him this, my boy," said the commander, with that mixture of simplicity
and astuteness which distinguished him, "but fancy old Paul and your
father admitting outside capital in one of their trade ventures!"
* * * * *
"This time to-morrow we shall be going through Sydney Heads," said the
first mate to me as we walked the deck about an hour after sunrise one
morning, "that is, if the wind holds."
"Pray Heaven it may," said I, "then we shall have a view of the harbour
and city worth seeing. It makes all the difference. We might have a
cloudy day, or be tacking about till nightfall, and the whole effect
would be lost." I was most anxious not only that Miranda's first sight
of my native land and her future home should impress her favourably, but
I was naturally concerned that our friends should not suppose that the
descriptions of the Queen City of the South, with which the captain and
I had regaled them, were overdrawn. We sat late at supper that night
talking over the wonderful events and experiences that were to occur on
the morrow. Plans were discussed, probable residence and inland travel
calculated, the Fish River caves and the Blue Mountains were, of course,
to be visited--all kinds of expeditions and slightly incongruous
journeys to be carried out.
Colonel and Mrs. Percival had been asked to stay at Government House
during their visit, which was comparatively short; while Mr. and Mrs.
Craven and Miss Vavasour were to go primarily to Petty's Hotel, which
had been highly recommended; and the gentlemen had intimation that they
would receive notices of their being admitted as honorary members of the
Australian and Union Clubs. With such cheerful expectations and
forecasts we parted for the night.
The winds were kind. "The breeze stuck to us," as the mate expressed it,
and about an hour after the time he had mentioned we were within a mile
of the towering sandstone portals of that erstwhile strange, silent
harbour into which the gallant seaman Cook, old England's typical
mariner, had sailed a hundred years ago.
I had been on deck since dawn. Now that we were so near the home of my
childhood, the thoughts of old days, and the parents, brothers, sisters,
from whom I had been so long separated, rushed into my mind, until I
felt almost suffocated with contending emotions. How would they receive
us? Would they be prepared to see me a married man? Would their welcome
to Miranda be warm or formal? I began to foresee difficulties--even
dangers of family disruption--consequences which before had never
entered into the calculation.
However, for the present these serious reflections were put to flight
by expressions of delight from the whole body of passengers, headed by
Miranda, who then came on deck. By this time the good ship _Florentia_
had closely approached the comparatively narrow entrance, the frowning
buttresses of sandstone, against which the waves, now dashed with hoarse
and angry murmur, rose almost above us, while a long line of surges, lit
up by the red dawn fires, menaced us on either hand.
"Oh, what a lovely entrance!" said Miss Vavasour, after gazing long and
earnestly at the scene. "It seems like the gate of an enchanted lake.
What magnificent rock-masses, and what light and colour the sun brings
out! It is something like a sun--warm, glowing, irradiating everything
even at this early hour--and what a sky! The dream tone of a painter! I
congratulate you, you dear darling Miranda, and you, Mr. Telfer, on
having such a day for home-coming. It is a good omen--I am sure it must
be. Nothing but good could happen on such a glorious day."
"The day is perfection, but more than one good ship coming through this
entrance at night has mistaken the indentation on the other side of the
South Head for the true passage, and gone to pieces on the rocks below
that promontory. But, at any rate, _we_ are now safely inside; and where
is there a harbour in the world to match it?"
As we passed Middle harbour and drew slowly up the great waterway, which
affords perhaps more deep anchorage than any other in the world, the
ladies were loud in their expressions of admiration. "Look at those
sweet white houses on the shores of the pretty little bays!" said Mrs.
Craven; "and what lovely gardens and terraces stretching down to the
beaches!"
"And there is a Norfolk Island pine, one--two--ever so many," cried
Miranda. "I did not think _they_ grew here, I am sure now that I shall
be happy."
"Yes, of course!" said Miss Vavasour, "what is to hinder you? And you
are to live in one of those pretty cream-coloured cottages--what lovely
stone it must be!--with a garden just like that one on the point, and a
boat-house and a jetty. One of those little steamers that I see fussing
about will land Mr. Telfer, when he returns from the city, or you can
get into that little boat that lies moored below, and row across the bay
for him."
Miranda's eyes filled as she glanced at the pretty villas and more
pretentious mansions, past which we glided, some half-covered with
climbers, or buried amid tropical shrubs of wild luxuriance. Her heart
was too deeply stirred for jesting at that moment. She could only press
her friend's hand and smile, as if pleading for a less humorous view of
so important a subject.
The harbour itself was full of interest to the strangers. Vessels of all
sizes and shapes--coasters, colliers, passenger-boats, yachts, and steam
launches, passed and re-passed in endless succession. Two men-of-war lay
peacefully at anchor in Farm Cove, a Messagerie steamer in the stream,
while a huge P. & O. mail-boat outward bound moved majestically towards
the Heads through which we had so recently entered.
We had just cleared Point Piper, where I remember spending the joyous
holidays of long ago with my schoolmates, the sons of the fine old
English gentleman who then dwelt there, when a sailing boat sped swiftly
towards us, in which stood a stout, middle-aged man waving his hat
frantically.
"I believe that is Paul Frankston himself come to overhaul us," said the
captain, raising his glass. "He's sailor enough to recognise the rig of
the _Florentia_, and if we had been a little nearer his bay, he'd have
wanted us to stop the ship and lunch with him in a body. As it is I feel
sure he'll capture some of the party."
"What splendid hospitality!" said Mrs. Percival. "Is that sort of thing
usual here? you must be something like us Indians in your ways."
"There is a good deal of likeness, I think," said the captain. "I
suppose the heat accounts for it. It's too hot to refuse, most of the
year. But here comes Paul!"
The sailing boat by this time had run alongside and doused her sail,
while one of the crew held on to a rope thrown to him, as the owner
presented himself on deck with more agility than might have been
expected from a man of his age.
"Well, Charley, my boy, so you're in at last--thought you were lost, or
had run away and sold the ship, ha, ha! What sort of a voyage have you
had? Passengers, too--pray introduce me. Is there anything I can do for
them in Sydney? Must be something. Perhaps I shall hear by and by. Who's
this youngster?
"No! surely not the son of my old friend, Captain Telfer? Now I remember
the boy that ran away to the islands, or would have done so, if they
hadn't let him go. Quite right, I ran away myself and a fine time I had
there. I must tell you what happened to me there once, eh! Charley?"
Here the old gentleman began to laugh so heartily that he was forced to
suspend his narration, while the captain regarded him with an expression
which conveyed a slight look of warning. "But I am forgetting. By the
way, Charley, have you any curios in your cabin?" The captain nodded,
and the two old friends disappeared down the companion. Only, however,
to reappear in a very few minutes, which we employed in favourable
criticism.
"What a fine hearty old gentleman!" said Mrs. Craven, "any one can see
that he is an Englishman by his figure and the way he talks; though I
suppose colonists are not so very different."
"Mr. Frankston has been a good deal about the world," I said. "But he
was born in Sydney, and has spent the greater part of his life near
this very spot. He was at sea in his earlier years, but has been on
shore since he married. He is now a wealthy man, and one of the leading
Sydney merchants."
"One would think he was a sea captain now," said Miss Vavasour. "He
looks quite as much like one as a merchant; but I suppose every one can
sail a boat here."
"You are quite right, Miss Vavasour. Every one who is born in Sydney
learns to swim and sail a boat as soon as possible after he can walk.
There is no place in the world where there are so many yachtsmen. On
holidays you may see doctors, lawyers, clergymen, even judges, sailing
their boats--doing a good deal of their own work in the 'able seaman'
line; and, to tell truth, looking occasionally much more like pirates
than sober professional men."
About this time Mr. Frankston reappeared, carrying in his hand a couple
of grass-er-garments, which he appeared to look upon as very precious.
"These are for my little girl," he said, "she has just come down from
the bush with her husband to spend the hot months with her old father.
It will give her the greatest pleasure to see these ladies and their
husbands at Marahmee, next Saturday, when we can have a little picnic in
the harbour and a sail in my yacht, the _Sea-gull_. The captain will
tell you that I am to be trusted with a lively boat still."
"I never wish to go to sea with a better sailor," said the captain, "and
if our friends have no other engagements, I can promise them a
delightful day and a view of some of the finest scenery south of the
line."
Barring unforeseen or indispensable engagements every one promised to
go. Mr. Frankston averred that they had done him a great--an important
service. He was getting quite hipped--he was indeed--when his daughter
luckily recognised the _Florentia_ coming up the harbour. She is a
sailor's daughter, you know--has an eye for a ship--and started him off
to meet his old friend Captain Carryall, and secure him for dinner. Now
he felt quite another man, and would say good-bye. Before leaving he
must have a word with his young friend.
"My dear boy," said he, laying his hand on my shoulder, "I have known
your father ever so many years. We were younger men then, and saw
something of each other in more than one bit of fun; and at least one or
two very queer bits of fighting in the Bay of Islands; so that we know
each other pretty well. I've heard what Carryall has to say about you
and your charming wife. I think we shall be able to 'fix up,' as our
American friends say, our little mercantile arrangement very neatly. But
that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You've been away a good
while, so many years, we'll say."
"I have indeed," I replied.
"Well--you've grown from a boy into a man, and a devilish fine one too."
Here the dear old chap patted me on the back and looked up at my face, a
great deal higher up than his. "Well! naturally, you've changed. So have
your people, your young brothers and sisters have turned into men and
women while you've been away. And then again, another change--a great
one too--you're married."
"Yes! thank God I am."
"I am sure you have good reason, my boy. But my idea is this,
people--the best of people--don't like surprises,--even one's own
friends. Now, what I want you to do is to bring your wife and come and
stay at Marahmee for a week, while they're getting your rooms ready for
you at North Shore. There's nobody there now but Antonia and her
husband. It wants another pair of young people to enliven the place a
bit. And Charley Carryall will go over and tell them all about you and
your pretty Miranda, while you and I settle our partnership affairs."
I could see how it was; our good old friend, with a kindness and
delicacy of feeling which I have rarely seen equalled, had all along
made up his mind that Miranda and I should begin our Sydney experiences
with a visit to his hospitable mansion. After a talk with the captain,
for which purpose he had feigned an interest in South Sea "curios," they
had come to the conclusion that it would be more prudent that the family
should have a few days to accustom themselves to the idea of my
marriage. In the mean time his daughter, Mrs. Neuchamp, would be able to
give Miranda the benefit of her experience as a Sydney matron of some
years' standing, and to ensure that she made her introduction under
favourable circumstances.
Miranda, naturally nervous at the idea of then and there making her
appearance among a group of relatives wholly unknown to her, was much
relieved at the delay thus granted, and cheerfully acceded to the
proposed arrangement.
"That being all settled, I'll get home and have everything ready for you
when you arrive. The captain will take care of you. He knows the road
out, eh, Charley? night or day; so good-bye till dinner time. Seven
o'clock sharp."
Still talking, Mr. Frankston descended to his boat, and making a long
board, proceeded to beat down the harbour on his homeward voyage, waving
his handkerchief at intervals until he rounded a point and was lost to
our gaze.
* * * * *
It was not very long after this interview that we found ourselves in our
berth at the Circular Quay, where, unlike Melbourne and some other
ports, nothing more was needed for disembarkation but to step on shore
into the city. Our good comrades of so many days were carried off in
cabs to their destinations, with the exception of the Percivals, who,
having been invited to Government House, found an aide-de-camp and the
viceregal carriage awaiting them on the wharf. At such a time there is
always a certain amount of fuss and anxiety with reference to luggage,
rendering farewells occasionally less sentimental than might have been
expected from the character of marine friendships. But it was not so in
our experience. Miss Vavasour and Mrs. Craven exchanged touching
farewells with Miranda, mingled with solemn promises to meet at given
dates--to write--to do all sorts of things necessary for their keeping
up the flame of friendship. Then at the last moment Colonel and Mrs.
Percival came up. "My dearest Miranda," said this lady, "don't forget
that you are my sister, not in word only. Put me to the proof whenever
you need a sister's aid, and it shall be always at your service. Kiss
Auntie Miranda, Charlie darling, and tell her you will always love her."
"She picked me up out of the sea, when the naughty shark was going to
eat us all. She's a good auntie, isn't she, mother?" said the little
chap responding readily. "Good-bye, Auntie Miranda."
"I am not a man of many words, Mr. Telfer!" said the colonel; "but if I
can be of service to you, now or at any future time I shall be offended
if you do not let me know;" and then the stern soldier shook my hand in
a way which gave double meaning to the pledge.
* * * * *
It was yet early in the day, and the captain had duties to attend to
which would keep him employed until the evening. "I've ordered a
carriage at six," he said, "when we'll start for Marahmee, which is
about half-an-hour's drive. Until that time you can go ashore if you
like; the Botanical Gardens are just round that point, or walk down
George Street, or in any other way amuse yourselves. Meanwhile, consider
yourselves at home also."
"I think we'll stay at home then, captain, for the present," said
Miranda, "and watch the people on shore. You have no idea how they
interest me. Everything is so new. Remember that I have never seen a
carriage in my life before, or a cab, or a soldier; there goes one
now--isn't he beautiful to behold? I shall sit here and make Hilary tell
me the names of all the specimens as they come into view."
"That will do capitally," said the captain. "I might have known that you
could amuse yourself without help from any one."
The time passed quickly enough, with the aid of lunch. The decks were
cleared by six o'clock, by which time we were ready for the hired
barouche when it drove up.
Miranda and I had employed our time so well that she had learnt the
names of various types of character, and many products of civilisation,
of which she had been before necessarily ignorant, except from books.
"It is a perfect object lesson," she said. "How delightful it is to be
able to see the things and people that I have only read about! I feel
like those people in the _Arabian Nights_ who had been all their lives
in a glass tower on a desert island. Not that our dear Norfolk Island
was a desert--very far from it. And now I am going to the first grand
house I ever saw, and to live in it--more wonderful still. I feel like a
princess in a fairy tale," she went on, as she smilingly skipped into
the carriage. "Everything seems so unreal. Do you think this will turn
into a pumpkin, drawn by mice, like poor Cinderella's? Hers was a
chariot, though. What is a chariot?"
"I remember riding in one when I was a small boy," I answered; "and, by
the same token, I had caught a number of locusts, and put them into my
hat. I was invited to uncover, as the day was warm. When I did so, the
locusts flew all about the closed-up carriage and into everybody's face.
But chariots are old-fashioned now."
Onward we passed along the South Head road, while below us lay the
harbour with its multitudinous bays, inlets, promontories, and green
knolls, in so many instances crowned with white-walled gardens,
surrounding villas and mansions, all built of pale-hued,
delicately-toned sandstone.
"Oh! what a lovely, delicious bay!" cried Miranda; "and these are the
Heads, where we came in. Good-bye, old ocean, playfellow of my
childhood; farewell, wind of the sea, for a while. But I shall live near
you still, and hear you in my dreams. I should die--I should feel
suffocated--if nothing but woods and forests were to be seen."
"If you don't die until you can't see the ocean, or feel the winds about
here, you will live a long time, my dear," said the captain. "I don't
know a more sea-going population anywhere than this Sydney one. Half the
people you meet here have been a voyage, and the boys take to a boat as
the bush lads do to a horse. But here we are at the Marahmee gates, and
there's my pet Antonia on the verandah ready to receive us."
As we drove up the avenue, which was not very long, a very pretty,
graceful young woman came swiftly to meet us. I knew this must be Mrs.
Neuchamp, formerly Antonia Frankston, the old man's only child. She was
not grown up when I left Sydney, and I heard that she had lately married
a young Englishman, who had come out with letters of introduction to Mr.
Frankston. We had seen each other last, as boy and girl, long years ago.
"Well, Captain Charley," she said, making as though she would have
embraced the skipper, "what do you mean by being so long away? We began
to think that you were lost--that the _Florentia_ had run on a reef--all
sorts of things--been cut off by the islanders, perhaps. But now you
_are_ back with all sorts of island stories to tell dad, and a few
curios for me. And you are Mrs. Telfer! Papa has told me all about
you--his latest admiration, evidently. But you mustn't get melancholy
when he deserts you; he is a passionate adorer while it lasts, but is
always carried away by the next fresh face, generally a complete
contrast to the last. I am sure we shall be great friends. I used to
dance with your husband when we were children. Do you remember that
party at Mrs. Morton's? You have grown considerably since then, and so
handsome, too, I suppose I may say--now we are all married--no wonder
Miranda fell in love with you. You're to call me Antonia, my dear; and
now come upstairs, and I'll show you your rooms which I have been
getting ready all the morning. Papa and Ernest will be here in a few
minutes."
"Mrs. Neuchamp evidently takes after her father," I said, "who can say
more kind things in fewer minutes than any one I ever knew--and do them,
too, which is more to the purpose. I am so glad that Miranda has had the
chance of making her acquaintance before she sees many other people."
"She is a dear, good, unselfish girl," said the captain, "and was always
the same from a child, when she used to sit on my knee in this very
verandah, and get me to tell her the names of the ships. I never saw a
child so thoughtful for other people, always wondering what she could do
for them; she is just the same to this day. She will be an invaluable
friend for our Miranda, I foresee. She can give her all sorts of hints
about housekeeping, and I've no doubt one or two about dress and the
minor society matters. Not that Miranda wants much teaching in that or
any other way. Nature made her a lady, and gave her the look of a sea
princess, and nothing could alter her."
"Did you ever hear of a handsome young woman being spoiled by flattery,
captain?" I said. "I don't want to anticipate such a disaster, but it
strikes me that if you are all going to be so very complimentary, I
shall have to go on the other tack to keep the compass level."
"There are dispositions that flattery falls harmless from," said the
captain solemnly; "there are women that cannot be spoiled,--not so many,
perhaps, but you have got one of them, Antonia is another. They will
make a good pair, and I'll back them to do their duty and keep a
straight course, fair weather or foul, against any two, married or
single, that I ever saw, and I've seen a good many women in my time. But
now we had better be ready for dinner, for old Paul and Mr. Neuchamp
will be here directly."
They were not long in making their appearance, and a very merry dinner
it was. Mr. Frankston wanted to hear all about the islands, and Mrs.
Neuchamp was much interested in Captain Hayston, and thought he
resembled one of the buccaneers of the Spanish Main, for whom she had a
sentimental admiration in her girlhood.
"What a pity that all the romantic and picturesque people should be so
wicked!" she asked. "How is it, and what law of nature can it be that
arranges that so many good and worthy people are so deadly
uninteresting?"
"Antonia is not quite in earnest, my dear Mrs. Telfer!" said Mr.
Neuchamp, remarking Miranda's wondering look; "she knows well that it is
more difficult to live up to a high ideal than to fall below it. There
is a false glamour about men like Hayston, I admit, by which people who
are swayed by feeling rather than reason are often attracted."
"I am afraid that Captain Hayston was a wicked man," said Miranda,
"though I can't get Hilary to tell me much about him. However, there
were very different accounts, some describing him as being generous and
heroic, and others as cruel and unprincipled."
"Whatever he was, there was no doubt about his being a sailor every inch
of him," said Captain Charley. "I saw him handle his ship in a gale of
wind through a dangerous channel, and I never forgot it."
"I suppose he had his faults like the rest of us," said Mr. Frankston,
who did not seem inclined to pursue the subject. "Never mind, when
Frankston, Telfer, and Co. get the control of the South Sea Island
trade, there won't be any room for dashing filibusters, will there,
Charley?"
"I hope not; his day is over," said the captain. "I am sorry for him,
too, for he was one of the grandest men and finest seamen God Almighty
ever permitted to sail upon His ocean. Under a different star he might
have been an ornament to the service and an honour to his country."
After dinner we all sat out on the broad verandah, where we lighted our
cigars, and enjoyed the view over the sleeping waters of the bay. It was
a glorious night, undimmed by mist or cloud. The harbour lights flamed
brightly, anear and afar, while steamers passing to the different points
of the endless harbourage lighted up the glittering plain with their
variegated lamps, as if an operatic effect were intended.
"What a wondrous sight!" said Miranda. "It certainly is a scene of
enchantment, though it loses some of its beauty in my eyes from being so
restless and exciting. There is no solitude; all is motion and effort,
as is the city by day. Our sea-view is as still and silent as if our
island had just been discovered. It lends an air of solemnity to the
night which this brilliant, many-coloured vision seems to want."
"Antonia and I enjoy this sort of thing thoroughly," said Mr. Neuchamp;
"our country is hot and dry as the summer comes on, and the glare is
something to remember. But I must say I prefer the winter of the
interior. The nights are heavenly, the mid-day warm without being
oppressive, and the mornings are delightfully cool and bracing."
"As weather it is as nearly perfect as it can be," assented Mrs.
Neuchamp, backing up her husband. "Then the rides and drives on the firm
sandy turf and the delightful natural roads! It's nice to think you can
drive thirty or forty miles in any direction without going off your own
run. Miranda must come and stay with me for a month or two when you get
settled, Mr. Telfer. We must see if she can't be persuaded to leave the
seaside for a while."
"We'll make up a party," said Mr. Frankston; "it's a long time since I
have seen any station life. I had half a mind to try squatting once
myself. But I'm like Miranda--I don't sleep well unless I can hear the
surge in the night; but for a month or two, in May or June, it would be
great fun, and do us all good, I expect."
"Yes, my dear dad," said his daughter, patting his shoulder, "think of
the riding and driving. You're not too old to ride, you know. I'll lend
you Osmond--he's my horse now, and he's a pearl of hackneys. I'll ride
out with you, and Ernest can take Miranda and Courtenay in the
four-in-hand drag."
"Well, that's a bargain, my dear!" said her father. "When the summer is
over and the autumn has nearly come to an end, and the nights and
mornings are growing fresh and crisp, that's the time to see the
interior at its best. I haven't forgotten the feel of a bush-morning at
sunrise; there's something very exhilarating about it."
"Is there not?" replied Mrs. Neuchamp, "'as you see the vision splendid,
of the sunlit plains extended,' an ocean of verdure. You trace the river
by the heavy timber on its banks, and the slowly-rising mists along its
course. Then the sun, a crimson and gold shield against the cloudless
azure, the cattle low in the great river meadows, you hear the crack of
a stockwhip as the horses come galloping in like a regiment of cavalry,
and the day has begun. It seems like a new world awakening to life."
"I know a young woman," said her husband, "whose 'inward eye' by no
means made 'the bliss of solitude' when she first went into the bush."
"That was because I was newly married--torn away from my childhood's
home, and all that," laughed his wife. "Besides, you used to stay away
unconscionably long sometimes; now everything looks different. You will
have to pass through that stage, my dear Miranda. So prepare yourself."
"I am sure Hilary will never stay away from our home unless he is
obliged; and then I must sew and sing till he comes back, like my
countrywomen at Norfolk Island and Pitcairn when their men are at sea."
"A very good custom, too," said Paul. "That reminds me that we must have
some music to-night. Antonia will lead the way, and our cigars will
taste all the better in the verandah."
Mrs. Neuchamp had a fine voice and a fine ear. She had been well taught,
and played her own accompaniments, while she sang several favourite
songs of her father's, and a duet with her husband.
"Now, it's your turn, Miranda," said Mr. Frankston. "I've heard all
about you from the captain."
"I shall be very glad to sing," she answered, seating herself at the
piano, "if you care for my simple songs. I have always been fond of
music, but our poor little harmonium was, for a long time, my only
instrument. What shall I sing?"
"Sing the 'Lament of Susannah M'Coy for her drowned lover,'" said the
captain, "that was a song brought from Pitcairn, wasn't it? I always
liked it the best of all the island sing songs."
"It is simple," replied Miranda, "but it is true; I believe the poor
girl used to sit by the sea-shore singing it at night, and died of grief
a year afterwards."
She struck a few chords on the grand Erard piano, and commenced a
wailing, dirge-like melody, "a long, low island song," inexpressibly
mournful. The movement was chiefly low-toned, and in the minor key, but
at times it rose to a higher pitch, into which was thrown the agonised
sorrow of irrevocable love, the endless regret, the void immeasurable
and eternal, the hopeless despair of a desolated existence.
The words were simple, and more in recitative than rhythm. There was a
certain monotony and repetition, but as an expression of passionate and
hopeless sorrow it was strangely complete.
The tale was old as life and death, as love and joy, hope and despair.
The maiden watching and waiting, during the voyage of the whaleship, the
year long through. The sudden delight of the vessel being sighted; the
boats going off; the intensity of the anxiety; the returning crew; the
eager scanning of the passengers; the refusal to believe in mischance;
the guarded half-told tale, then the unmistakable word of doom! _He had
been drowned at sea_; the fearless, fortunate harpooner had, in the
sudden flurry of the death-stricken whale, been thrown overboard and
stunned. When the half-capsized boat was righted, Johnnie Mills was
missing! They rowed round and round, all vainly, then sadly returned to
the vessel. This was the tale they had to tell, the tale Susannah M'Coy
had to hear. Her over-wrought feelings found relief in the "Maiden's
Lament," and after her death her girl companions in singing it preserved
the memory of the maiden and her lover, of his doom and her unhappy
fate.
There was nothing unusually melodious in the song itself, but as the
low, rich notes of Miranda's voice struck on the ear of the listeners,
those who had not heard before seemed spell-bound. Not a motion was
made, not a sound escaped them, as they listened with an intentness
which said far more than the ready and general praise at its close.
Knowing, as I did, the extraordinary quality of her voice, I had
expected that some such effect would be produced, but I hardly reckoned
on such complete and universal admiration.
When the cry of the heartbroken girl rose and echoed through the large
room, the effect was electrical; the higher notes were sweet and clear,
without a suspicion of hardness, and yet had wondrous under-tones of
tears, such as I never heard in another woman's voice. Long before the
wailing notes had faded into nothingness Mrs. Neuchamp's eyes were wet.
While old Paul, Mr. Neuchamp, and the captain, seemed in no great hurry
to express their approval.
"That's the most wonderful song I ever heard," said the old man. "I've
heard the girls in Nukuheva sing one something like it, and there are
notes in Miranda's voice that take me back to my youth, the island days,
and the good old times when Paul Frankston was young and foolish. God's
blessing on them! Miranda! my dear, take an old man's thanks. I foresee
that I shall have two daughters: one at Marahmee in the summer, and the
other in the winter, when Antonia is in the bush."
After this no one would hear of her leaving off. She sang other songs
which were not all sorrowful. Some had a livelier tone, and the
transient gleam which lit up the dark eyes told that mirth had its due
place in her rich and many-sided nature.
"Would you like to hear one of our hymns now?" she asked, with the
simplicity of a child. "We used to sing them in parts, and many a night
when the moon was at the full did we sit on the beach and sing for
hours. I can hear the surge now, and it puts me in mind of our dear old
home."
"Oh, by all means," said Antonia, and without further prelude, she began
a well-known hymn, the deep tones of her voice rising and falling as if
in a cathedral, while the organ-like chords which she evoked from the
Erard favoured the faultless rendering. We involuntarily joined in, and
I saw Antonia looking admiringly at the singer, as with head upraised,
and all the fervour of a mediæval penitent, she poured forth a volume of
melodious adoration.
All were silent for some seconds after the last cadence had died away.
At length the pause was broken by Antonia.
"After that lovely hymn, my dear Miranda, let me first thank you warmly
for the pleasure you have given us all, and then suggest that we retire.
The gentlemen may stay and smoke a while longer, but this has been an
exciting day for us, and you require rest. Besides, you have to make
acquaintance with your new relations."
"A sensible suggestion, my darling," said Mr. Frankston. "So we'll say
good night to Mrs. Telfer and yourself. We must have one more cigar in
the verandah while we think over that great song of hers."
* * * * *
It was arranged between Mr. Frankston and the captain that I should take
my bride to my old home on the morning after next, and present her to my
family. It might have been thought that, after so long an absence from
my parents, it would have been more in keeping with filial duty to have
rushed off at once and, in a manner, cast myself at their feet like the
prodigal. But that unlucky, yet eventually fortunate younger son, did
not bring a wife with him, in which case the paternal welcome might have
been less distinct. I had put myself in the hands of my more experienced
friends, who, as men of the world, knew the value of first impressions.
"You and Miranda will be all the better for a day's rest, and a little
cheering up at Marahmee," had said the captain. "Antonia, too, will see
that your sea princess is properly turned out, and fit to bear
inspection by the ladies of the family. _They_ won't have much to
criticise, I'll be bound. I'm an early man, so I'll go and breakfast
with your father, and give him a general idea of your doings and
prospects. You had better turn up about mid-day. It will be high tide
then, and Miranda will see Isola Bella at its best. Come on board the
_Florentia_ first, and I'll send you over in proper style."
Acting upon this prudent advice, Miranda and I alighted from the
Marahmee carriage at the Circular Quay, and once more set foot on board
the _Florentia_, where we found the captain ready to receive us. He made
us come down into the cuddy and partake of fruit and wine (that is,
Miranda took the first and I the latter), while he gave us a sketch of
his interview with my father.