The Pilot's Daughter.
She came out of the creeper-covered house into a garden of roses, and
stood with her hand on a green garden-seat; herself a rosebud bursting
into perfection.
Below her were gravelled walks and terraced flower-beds, cut out of the
hill-side on which the quaint, gabled house stood; her fragrant, small
domain carefully secreted behind a tall, clipped hedge, over the top of
which she could see from where she stood the long sweep of the road
which led down to the port of Timber Town.
She was dressed in a plain, blue, cotton blouse and skirt; her not
over-tall figure swelling plumply beneath their starched folds. Her hair
was of a nondescript brown, beautified by a glint of gold, so that her
uncovered head looked bright in the sunlight. Her face was such as may
be seen any day in the villages which nestle beneath the Sussex Downs,
under whose shadow she was born; her forehead was broad and white; her
eyes blue; her cheeks the colour of the blush roses in her garden; her
mouth small, with lips coloured pink like a shell on the beach. As she
stood, gazing down the road, shading her eyes with her little hand, and
displaying the roundness and whiteness of her arm to the inquisitive
eyes of nothing more lascivious than the flowers, a girl on horseback
drew up at the gate, and called, "Cooee!"
She was tall and brown, dressed in a blue riding-habit, and in her hand
she carried a light, silver-mounted whip. She jumped lightly from the
saddle, opened the gate, and led her horse up the drive.
The fair girl ran down the path, and met her near the tethering-post
which stood under a tall bank.
"Amiria, I _am_ glad to see you!"
"But think of all I have to tell you." The brown girl's intonation was
deep, and she pronounced every syllable richly. "We don't have a wreck
every day to talk about."
"Come inside, and have some lunch. You must be famishing after your long
ride."
"Oh, no, I'm not hungry. _Taihoa_, by-and-by."
The horse was tied up securely, and the girls, a contrast of blonde and
brunette, walked up the garden-path arm-in-arm.
"I have heard _such_ things about you," said the fair girl.
"But you should see him, my dear," said the brown. "You would have
risked a good deal to save him if you had been there--tall, strong,
struggling in the sea, and _so_ helpless."
"You _are_ brave, Amiria. It's nonsense to pretend you don't know it.
All the town is talking about you." The white face looked at the brown,
mischievously. "And now that you have got him, my dear, keep him."
Amiria's laugh rang through the garden. "There is no hope for me, if
_you_ are about, Miss Rose Summerhayes," she said.
"But wasn't it perfectly awful? We heard you were drowned yourself."
"Nonsense! I got wet, but that was all. Of course, if I was weak or a
bad swimmer, then there would have been no hope. But I know every rock,
every channel, where the sea breaks its force, and where it is
strongest. There was no danger."
"How many men?"
"Twenty-nine; and the one drowned makes thirty."
"And which is _the_ particular one, your treasure trove? Of course, he
will marry you as soon as the water is out of his ears, and make you
happy ever afterwards."
Amiria laughed again. "First, he is handsome; next, he is a _rangatira_,
well-born, as my husband ought to be. I really don't know his name.
Can't you guess that is what I have come to find out?"
"You goose. You've come to unburden yourself. You were just dying to
tell me the story."
They had paused on the verandah, where they sat on a wooden seat in the
shade.
"Anyway, the wreck is better for the Maori than a sitting of the Land
Court--there! The shore is covered with boxes and bales and all manner
of things. There are ready-made clothes for everyone in the _pa_, boots,
tea, tobacco, sugar, everything that the people want--all brought ashore
from the wreck and strewn along the beach. The Customs' Officers get
some, but the Maori gets most. I've brought you a memento."
She put her hand into the pocket of her riding-habit, and drew out a
little packet. "That is for you--a souvenir of the wreck."
"Isn't it rather like stealing, to take what really belongs to other
people?"
"Rubbish! Open it, and see for yourself," said Amiria, smiling.
Rose undid the packet's covering, and disclosed a black leather-covered
case, much the worse for wear.
"It isn't injured by the water--it was in a tin-lined box," said the
Maori girl. "It opens like a card-case."
Rose opened the little receptacle, which divided in the middle, and
there lay exposed a miniature portrait framed in oxidized silver.
The portrait represented a beautiful woman, yellow-haired, with blue
eyes and a bright colour on her cheeks, lips which showed indulgence in
every curve, and a snow-white neck around which was clasped a string of
red coral beads.
Rose fixed her eyes on the picture.
"Why do you give me this?" she asked. "Who is it?"
Amiria turned the miniature over. On its back was written "Annabel
Summerhayes."
Rose turned slightly pale as she read the name, and her breath caught in
her throat. "This must be my mother," she said quietly. "When she died,
I was too young to remember her."
Both girls looked at the portrait; the brown face close to the fair, the
black hair touching the brown.
"She must have been very good," said Amiria, "----look how kind she is."
Rose was silent.
"Isn't that a nice memento of the wreck," continued the Maori girl. "But
anyhow you would have received it, for the Collector of Customs has the
packing-case in which it was found. However, I thought you would like to
get it as soon as possible."
"How kind you are," said Rose, as she kissed Amiria. "This is the only
picture of my mother I have seen. I never knew what she was like. This
is a perfect revelation to me."
The tears were in her voice as well as in her eyes, and her lip
trembled. Softly one brown hand stole into her white one, and another
brown hand stole round her waist, and she felt Amiria's warm lips on her
cheek. The two girls had been playmates as children, they had been at
school together, and had always shared each other's confidences, but
this matter of Annabel Summerhayes was one which her father had
forbidden Rose to mention; and around the memory of her mother there
had grown a mystery which the girl was unable to fathom.
"Now that this has occurred, there is no harm in disobeying my father,"
she said. "He told me never to speak of my mother to him or anyone else,
but when you give me her picture, it would be stupid to keep silence.
She looks good, doesn't she, Amiria? I think she was good, but my father
destroyed everything belonging to her: he even took the trouble to
change my name from Annabel to Rose--that was after we arrived here and
I was three years old. I do not possess a single thing that was hers
except this picture; and even that I must hide, for fear my father
should destroy it. Come, we will go in."
They passed along the shady verandah, and entered the house. Its rooms
were dark and cool, and prettily if humbly furnished. Rose took Amiria
along a winding passage, up a somewhat narrow flight of stairs, and into
a bedroom which was in one of the many gables of the wooden house. The
Maori girl took off her hat and gloves, and Rose, drawing a bunch of
keys from her pocket, opened a work-box which stood on the
dressing-table, and in it she hid the miniature of her mother. Then she
turned, and confronted Amiria.
The dark girl's black hair, loosened by riding, had escaped from its
fastenings, and now fell rippling down her back.
"It's a great trouble," she said. "Nothing will hold it--it is like
wire. The pins drop out, and down it all comes."
Rose was combing and brushing the glossy, black tresses. "I'll try _my_
hand," said she. "The secret is plenty of pins; you don't use enough of
them. Pins, I expect, are scarce in the _pa_." She had fastened up one
long coil, and was holding another in place with her white fingers,
when a gruff voice roared through the house:--
"Rosebud, my gal! Rosebud, I say! What's taken the child?"
Whilst the two girls had been in the bedroom, three figures had come
into sight round the bend of the beach-road. They walked slowly, with
heavy steps and swaying gait, after the manner of sailor-men. As they
ascended the winding pathway leading to the house, they argued loudly.
"Jes' so, Cap'n Summerhayes," said the short, thick-set man, with a
blanket wrapped round him in lieu of a coat, to the big burly man on his
left, "I stood off and on, West-Nor'-West and East-Sou'-East, waiting
for the gale to wear down and let me get into your tuppeny little port.
Now _you_ are pilot, I reckon. What would _you_ ha' done?"
"What would I ha' done, Sartoris?" asked the bulky man gruffly. "Why,
damme, I'd ha' beat behind Guardian Point, and took shelter."
"In the dark?"
"In the dark, I tell you."
"Then most likely, Pilot, you'd ha' run _The Witch_ on the Three
Sisters' reefs, or Frenchman's Island. I stood off an' on, back'ard an'
forrard."
"An' shot yourself on to the rocks."
The third man said nothing. He was looking at the Pilot's house and the
flowers while the two captains paused to argue, and fidgeted with the
blanket he wore over his shoulders.
"Well, come in, come in," said the Pilot. "We'll finish the argyment
over a glass an' a snack." And then it was that he had roared for his
daughter, who, leaving Amiria to finish her toilet, tripped downstairs
to meet her father.
"Why, Rosebud, my gal, I've been calling this half-hour," exclaimed
the gruff old Pilot. "An' here's two gentlemen I've brought you, two
shipwrecked sailors--Cap'n Sartoris, of _The Mersey Witch_, and Mr.
Scarlett." His voice sounded like the rattling of nails in a keg, and
his manner was as rough as his voice.
Each blanketed man stepped awkwardly forward and shook hands with the
girl, first the captain, and then the tall, uncomfortable-looking,
younger man, who turned the colour indicated by his name.
"What they want is a rig-out," rumbled the Pilot of Timber Town; "some
coats, Rosebud; some shirts, and a good feed." The grizzled old
mariner's face broke into a grim smile. "I'm Cap'n Summerhayes, an't I?
I'm Pilot o' this port, an't I?--an' Harbour Master, in a manner o'
speaking? Very good, my gal. In all those capacities--regardless that
I'm your dad--I tell you to make these gen'lemen comfortable, as if they
were at home; for you never know, Rosebud, when you may be entertaining
a husband unawares. You never know." And, chuckling, the old fellow led
the shipwrecked men into his bedroom.
When they had been provided with suits belonging to the Pilot, they were
shown into the parlour, where they sat with their host upon oak chairs
round a battered, polished table, with no cloth upon it.
Captain Sartoris was a moderately good-looking man, if a trifle
weather-beaten, but dressed in the Pilot's clothes he was in danger
of being lost and smothered; and Scarlett bore himself like one who
laboured under a load of misery almost too great to be borne, but he had
wisely rejected the voluminous coat proffered by his benefactor, and
appeared in waistcoat and trousers which gave him the appearance of a
growing boy dressed in his father's cast-off apparel.
Such was the guise of the shipwrecked men as they sat hiding as much of
themselves as possible under the Pilot's table, whilst Rose Summerhayes
bustled about the room. She took glasses from the sideboard and a
decanter from a dumb-waiter which stood against the wall, and placed
them on the table.
"And Rosebud, my gal," said the Pilot, "as it's quite two hours to
dinner, we'll have a morsel of bread and cheese."
The French window stood open, and from the garden was blown the scent of
flowers.
Rose brought the bread and cheese, and stood with her hands folded upon
her snowy apron, alert to supply any further wants of the guests.
"And whose horse is that on the drive?" asked the Pilot.
"Amiria's," replied his daughter.
"Good: that's a gal after my heart. I'm glad she's come."
"Take a chair, miss," said Captain Sartoris from the depths of the vast
garments that encumbered him.
"Thank you," replied Rose, "but I've the dinner to cook."
"Most domestic, I'm sure," continued Sartoris, trying hard to say the
correct thing. "Most right an' proper. Personally, I like to see young
ladies attend to home dooties."
Rose laughed. "Which is to say the comfort of you men."
"My gal," said her father sternly, "we have all we want. Me an' these
gen'lemen will be quite happy till dinner-time."
Rose stooped to pick up the boots which her father had discarded for a
pair of carpet-slippers, and rustled out of the room.
"Gen'lemen," said the Pilot of Timber Town, "we'll drink to better luck
next time."
The three men carefully filled their glasses, emptied them in solemn
silence, and put them almost simultaneously with a rattle on the
polished table.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Pilot, after a long-drawn breath. "Four over proof.
Soft as milk, an't it? Goes down like oil, don't it?"
"Most superior tipple," replied the skipper, "but you had your losses in
_The Witch_, same as me and the owners. I had aboard six cases of the
finest port as ever you tasted, sent out for you by your brother; senior
partner of the firm, Mr. Scarlett. 'Cap'n Sartoris,' he says, 'I wish
you good luck and a prosperous voyage, but take care o' that port wine
for my brother. There's dukes couldn't buy it.' 'No, sir,' I says to
him, 'but shipowners an' dukes are different. Shipowners usually get the
pick of a cargo.' He laughed, an' I laughed: which we wouldn't ha' done
had we known _The Witch_ was going to be piled up on this confounded
coast."
The Pilot had risen to his feet. His face was crimson with excitement,
and his brow dark with passion.
"Cap'n Sartoris!" he exclaimed, as he brought his fist with a bang upon
the table, so that the decanter and tumblers rattled, "every sea-faring
man hates to see a good ship wrecked, whoever the owner may be. None's
more sorry than me to see the bones of your ship piled on that reef. But
when you talk about bringing me a present o' wine from my brother, you
make my blood boil. To Hell with him and all his ships!" With another
bang upon the table, he paced up and down, breathing deeply, and
trembling with passion still unvented.
Sartoris and Scarlett looked with astonishment at the suddenly
infuriated man.
"As for his cursed port wine," continued the Pilot, "let him keep it.
_I_ wouldn't drink it."
"In which case," said the skipper, "if I'd ha' got into port, I'd ha'
been most happy to have drank it myself."
"I'd have lent you a hand, Captain," said Scarlett.
"Most happy," replied Sartoris. "We'd ha' drank the firm's health, and
the reconciliation o' these two brothers. But, Pilot, let me ask a
question. What on this earth could your brother, Mr. Summerhayes, ha'
done to make you reject six cases o' port--reject 'em with scorn: six
cases o' the best port as was ever shipped to this or any other country?
Now, that's what puzzles me."
"Then, Cap'n Sartoris--without any ill-feeling to you, though I do
disagree with your handling o' that ship--I say you'll have to puzzle it
out. But I ask this: If _you_ had a brother who was the greatest
blackguard unhung, would _you_ drink his port wine?"
"It would largely depend on the quality," said the skipper--"the quality
of the wine, not o' the man."
"The senior partner of your firm is my brother."
"That's right. I don't deny it."
"If he hadn't been my brother I'd ha' killed him as sure as God made
little apples. He'd a' bin dead this twenty year. It was the temptation
to do it that drove me out of England; and I vowed I'd never set foot
there while he lived. And he sends me presents of port wine. I wish it
may choke him! I wish he may drink himself to death with it! Look you
here, Sartoris: you bring back the anger I thought was buried this long
while; you open the wound that twelve thousand miles of sea and this new
country were healing. But--but I thank God I never touched him. I thank
God I never proved as big a blackguard as he. But don't mention his name
to me. If you think so much of him that you must be talking, talk to my
gal, Rosebud. Tell her what a fine man she's got for an uncle, how
rich he is, how generous--but _I_ shall never mention his name. I'm a
straight-spoken man. If I was to tell my gal what I thought of him, I
should fill her with shame that such a man should be kindred flesh and
blood."
The Pilot had stood still to deliver this harangue, and he now sat down,
and buried his face in his hands. When he again raised his head, the
skipper without a ship was helping himself sorrowfully to more of the
whisky that was four over proof.
Slowly the rugged Pilot rose, and passed out of the French window into
the garden of roses and the sunlight.
"I think," said Sartoris, passing the decanter to Scarlett, "that
another drop o' this will p'raps straighten us up a bit, and help us to
see what we've gone an' done. For myself, I own I've lost my bearings
and run into a fog-bank. I'd be glad if some one would help me out."
"The old man's a powder-magazine, to which you managed to put a match.
That's how it is, Captain. These many years he's been a sleeping
volcano, which has broken suddenly into violent eruption."
Both men, figures comical enough for a pantomime, looked seriously at
each other; but not so Amiria, whose face appeared in the doorway.
"It's a mystery, a blessed puzzle; but I'd give half-a-crown for a
smoke," said Sartoris, looking wistfully at the Pilot's tobacco-pipes on
the mantelpiece. "I wonder if the young lady would object if I had a
draw."
There was an audible titter in the passage.
"A man doesn't realise how poor he can be till he gets shipwrecked,"
said Scarlett: "then he knows what the loss of his pipe and 'baccy
means."
There was a scuffling outside the door, and the young lady with the
brown eyes was forcibly pushed into the room.
"Oh, Rose, I'm ashamed," exclaimed the Maori girl, as the Pilot's
daughter pushed her forward. "But you two men are so funny and
miserable, that I can't help myself,"--she laughed good-naturedly--"and
there's Captain Summerhayes, fretting and fuming in the garden, as if
he'd lost a thousand pounds."
The scarecrows had risen respectfully to their feet, when suddenly the
humour of the situation struck them, and they laughed in unison; and
Amiria, shaking with merriment, collapsed upon the sofa, and hid her
mirth in its cushions.
"Never mind," said the skipper, "it's not the clo'es that make the man.
Thank God for that, Scarlett. Clo'es can't make a man a bigger rogue
than he is."
"Thank God for this." Scarlett tapped his waist. "I've got here what
will rig you out to look less like a Guy Fawkes. You had your money in
your cabin when the ship struck; mine is in my belt."
"I wondered, when I pulled you ashore," said the Maori girl, "what it
was you had round your waist."
Scarlett looked intently at the girl on the sofa.
"Do you mean _you_ are the girl that saved me? You have metamorphosed
yourself. Do you dress for a new character every day? Does she make a
practice of this sort of thing, Miss Summerhayes--one day, a girl in the
_pa_; the next, a young lady of Timber Town?"
"Amiria is two people in one," replied Rose, "and I have not found out
which of them I like most, and I have known them both for ten years."
"Most interesting," said Captain Sartoris, shambling forward in his
marvellous garb, and taking hold of the Maori girl's hand. "The
privilege of a man old enough to be your father, my dear. I was glad to
meet you on the beach--no one could ha' been gladder--but I'm proud to
meet you in the house of my old friend, Cap'n Summerhayes, and in the
company of this young lady." There could be no doubt that the over-proof
spirit was going to the skipper's head. "But how did you get here, my
dear?"
"I rode," replied Amiria, rising from the sofa. "My horse is on the
drive. Come and see him."
She led the way through the French-window, and linked arms with Rose,
whilst the two strange figures followed like a couple of characters in a
comic opera.
On the drive stood the Pilot, who held Amiria's big bay horse as
if it were some wild animal that might bite. He had passed round the
creature's neck a piece of tarred rope, which he was making fast to the
tethering-post, while he exclaimed, "Whoa, my beauty. Stand still, stand
still. Who's going to hurt you?"
The Maori girl, holding her skirt in one hand, tripped merrily forward
and took the rope from the old seaman's grasp.
"Really, Captain," she said, laughing, "why didn't you tie his legs
together, and then lash him to the post? There, there, Robin." She
patted the horse's neck. "You don't care about eating pilots, or salt
fish, do you, Robin?"
"We'll turn him into the paddock up the hill," said Rose. "Dinner's
ready, and I'm sure the horse is not more hungry than some of us."
"None more so than Mr. Scarlett an' myself," said Sartoris, "----we've
not had a sit-down meal since we were wrecked."