In quite a ship-shape form was poor Reginald's release from prison, and
from the very jaws of death. Met at the door by his friends and old
shipmates. Dickson was there, with his four brave sailors, and many was
the fellow-student who stretched out his hands to shake Reginald's, as
pale and weakly he came down the steps. Then the students formed
themselves into procession--many who read these lines may remember it--
and, headed by a brass band, marched with Dickson and the sailors, who
bore Reginald aloft in an armchair, marched to the other end of Union
Street, then back as far as a large hotel. Here, after many a ringing
cheer, they dismissed themselves. But many returned at eventide and
partook of a sumptuous banquet in honour of Reginald, and this feast was
paid for by Dickson himself. The common sailors were there also, and
not a few strange tales they had to tell, their memories being refreshed
by generous wine.
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And now our story takes a leap of many months, and we find the _Highland
Mary_, a most beautiful yacht, somewhat of the _Wolverine_ type, far,
far at sea, considerable to nor'ard of the Line, however, but bounding
on under a spread of whitest canvas, over just such a sea as the sailor
loves. No big waves here, but wavelets of the darkest steel-blue, and
each one wrinkled and dimpled with the warm, delightful breeze, kissed
by the sunlight, and reflecting the glory in millions of broken rays, as
if the sea were besprinkled with precious stones and diamonds of purest
ray serene.
Let us take a look on deck. We cannot but be struck with the neatness
and brightness of everything our eyes fall upon. The fires are out.
There is no roaring steam, no clouds of dark, dense smoke, no grind and
grind of machinery, and no fall of black and sooty hailstones from the
funnel. Ill indeed would this have accorded with the ivory whiteness of
the quarter-deck, with the snow-white table linen, which one can catch a
glimpse of down through the open skylight. But worst of all would it
accord with the dainty dresses of the ladies, or the snowy sailor garb
of the officers. The ladies are but two in reality, Annie herself--now
Mrs Reginald Grahame--and daft, pretty wee Matty. But there is Annie's
maid, Jeannie Lee, looking as modest and sweet as she ever did. Annie
is seated in a cushioned chair, and, just as of old, Matty is on
Reginald's knee. If Annie is not jealous of her, she certainly is not
jealous of Annie. In her simple, guileless young heart, she believes
that she comes first in Reginald's affections, and that Annie has merely
second place.
I daresay it is the bracing breeze and the sunshine that makes Matty
feel so happy and merry to-day. Well, sad indeed would be the heart
that rejoiced not on such a day as this! Why, to breathe is joy itself;
the air seems to fill one with exhilaration, like gladsome, sparkling
wine.
Here is Captain Dickson. He never did look jollier, with his rosy,
laughing face, his gilt-bound cap and his jacket of blue, than he does
now. He is half-sitting, half-standing on the edge of the skylight, and
keeping up an animated conversation with Annie. Poor Annie, her
troubles and trials seem over now, and she looks quietly, serenely
happy; her bonnie face--set off by that tiny flower-bedecked bride's
bonnet--is radiant with smiles.
But Matty wriggles down from Reginald's knee at last, and is off to have
a game of romps with Sigmund, the splendid Dane. Sigmund is
four-and-thirty inches high at the shoulder, shaped in body somewhat
like a well-built pointer, but in head like a long-faced bull-terrier.
His coat is short, and of a slatey-blue; his tail is as straight and
strong as a capstan bar. At any time he has only to switch it across
Matty's waist, when down she rolls on the ivory-white decks. Then
Sigmund bends down, and gives her cheek just one loving lick, to show
there is no bad feeling; but so tickled is he at the situation, that
with lips drawn back and pearly teeth showing in a broad smile, he must
set out on a wild and reckless rush round and round the decks from winch
to binnacle. If a sailor happens to get in his way, he is flung right
into the air by the collision, and is still on his back when Sigmund
returns. But the dog bounds over the fallen man, and continues his mad
gallop until, fairly exhausted, he comes back to lie down beside Matty,
with panting breath, and about a yard, more or less, of a red-ribbon of
tongue depending from one side of his mouth.
Matty loves Sigmund, but she loves Oscar more, and wonders if she will
ever see him once again; and she wonders, too, if Sigmund and Oscar will
agree, or if they will fight, which would be truly terrible to think of.
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Yonder is McGregor. He is elevated to the rank of bo's'n, and the three
other sailors that came home in the _Vulcan_ are here too. With the
pile in gold and pearls they made on the Isle of Flowers, they needn't
have been now serving before the mast. This would probably be their
last voyage, for they meant to go into business on shore. But they
loved the sea, and they loved Reginald and Dickson too. So here they
were, and many more tars also; and when the main-brace was spliced of a
Saturday night, it would have been good for anyone to have come forward
to the bows and listened to the songs sung and the tales told by honest
Jack.
But how came Matty on board? The story is soon told, and it is a sad
one. A few weeks after his marriage, being in London, and dropping into
the Savoy Hotel on the now beautiful Embankment, Reginald found Mr Hall
standing languid and lonely by the bar with a little glass of green
liquor in his hand.
"Delighted to see you! What a pleasant chance meeting to be sure!"
Then Matty ran up for her share of the pleasure, and was warmly greeted.
Ah! but Mr Hall had a sad story to tell. "I am now a lonely, childless
man," he said. "What!" cried Reginald--"is Ilda--"
"She is dead and gone. Lived but a week in Italy--just one short week.
Faded like a flower, and--ah, well, her grave is very green now, and all
her troubles are over. But, I say, Grahame, we have all to die, and if
there is a Heaven, you know, I daresay we shall be all very happy, and
there won't be any more partings nor sad farewells."
Reginald had to turn away his head to hide the rising tears, and there
was a ball in his throat that almost choked him, and quite forbade any
attempt at speaking.
The two old friends stayed long together, and it was finally arranged
that Mr Hall should pay a long visit to the old Laird McLeod, and that
Reginald should have the loan of his little favourite Matty in a voyage
to the South Sea Island.
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The cruise of the _Highland Mary_ was a long but most pleasant and
propitious one. They steamed through the Straits of Magellan, and were
delighted when the yacht, under, a favouring breeze, went stretching
west and away out into the blue and beautiful Pacific Ocean.
Dickson had taken his bearings well, and at last they found themselves
at anchor in the bay off the Isle of Flowers, opposite the snow-white
coralline beach and the barracks and fort where they had not so long ago
seen so much fighting and bloodshed.
Was there anyone happier, I wonder, at seeing her guests, her dear old
friends, than Queen Bertha? Well, if there was, it was honest Oscar on
meeting his long-lost master.
Indeed, the poor dog hardly knew what to do with joy. He whined, he
cried, he kissed and caressed his master, and scolded him in turns.
Then he stood a little way off and barked at him. "How could you have
left your poor Oscar so long?" he seemed to say. Then advancing more
quietly, he once more placed a paw on each of his master's shoulders and
licked his ear. "I love you still," he said.
After this he welcomed Matty, but in a manner far more gentle, for he
ever looked upon her as a baby--his own baby, as it were. And there she
was, her arms around his massive neck, kissing his bonnie broad brow--
just a baby still.
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