A CHANGE.
During that night a gentle breeze rippled the bosom of the ocean, and
the unhealthy mist, like a death-shroud hung over the face of the
living, was slowly lifted, and passed away. By morning, when long
white shafts of light were appearing in the eastward, there was a
clear horizon, and, better still, a fair wind. Then the clouds assumed
fantastic shapes, and drifted towards the west, and a rosy hue tinted
the white sky, which turned to a deep scarlet, and finally resolved
itself to a rich orange, until a majestic ball of fire shot up into
the heavens, and lit the day with golden beams.
The _Pandora_ was making her eight knots an hour with flowing sheets.
All her sails were spread to the wind, and the sun soon dried
and warmed her decks. Several other vessels were in sight--small
coasters--that were making northerly courses, and occasionally a black
pillar of smoke from the funnel of a steamer could be distinguished
right ahead. The passengers, recovered from their despondency, had
assembled with smiling faces on the poop deck.
Mr and Mrs Vansittart were present, delighted at the idea of so
soon reaching _terra firma_, and resuming their life in the bush,
and not less so at the prospect of getting rid of their troublesome
companion. For Mr Vansittart fully coincided now with his wife’s
opinion concerning Godfrey Harland, and had quite made up his mind to
dismiss him as soon as ever they reached New Zealand. He would not
be ungenerous, or unkind. That was not in his nature. He would recoup
him liberally for his trouble and loss of time, but he would not take
him up to Tabbakooloo. His behaviour with Grace, and her evident
infatuation for him, would have been sufficient reason to prevent it,
without the very serious suspicions that had lately attached themselves
to his name. So that matter was settled, eminently to the satisfaction
of Mrs Vansittart, although her husband was not equally delighted at
the prospect of the task that lay before him.
Mrs Leyton, keeping one eye upon her baby and the other upon Alice and
Captain Lovell, was smiling serenely at the prospect of meeting her
husband, and having some one to look after her again, and Miss Vere was
in the same state of joyful anticipation.
The actress had made good use of her time.
The long monotonous voyage had afforded her ample leisure for studying
her new _rôles_, and she was looking forward with the keenest pleasure
to making her _débût_ and her name in a new country, and with a new
people.
Her parts suited her to perfection, her wardrobe was safe in the hold,
her husband was waiting to receive her with open arms in Canterbury.
What on earth could any woman want more. She looked radiant with health
and happiness, as she sat in her deck chair, talking with Harold
Greenwood, who generally played shadow to her substance. This young
gentleman had not been so stricken by his disappointment as some people
might imagine, neither had the unexpected revelation that his divinity
was married had any effect in making him alter his pre-conceived
determination to follow her through the New World. She could still be
worshipped, even if she _were_ Mrs Perkins! In fact, Mr Greenwood had
not quite made up his mind whether he might not yet cut Mr Perkins
out. And Miss Vere’s manner to him may have favoured the idea. She
delighted in her little ‘masher,’ and never lost an opportunity of
letting him make a fool of himself. He was her fetcher and carrier,
and general ‘walking-stick,’ and she so often avowed that she did not
know what she should have done on the voyage without him, that he quite
believed himself to be indispensable to her comfort.
‘Oh, _I_ travel with “the company,”’ he would reply to any one who
asked him what were his plans on reaching New Zealand. ‘You see Miss
Vere couldn’t very well do without me. I’m her “factotum,” as she is
pleased to call it. In fact,’ he would continue, lowering his voice,
‘I ran a very good chance once of becoming a near connection of Mr
Perkins’. No, that’s not it exactly,’ he would say, correcting himself,
with a puzzled look upon his flabby face; ‘but I _ought_ to have been
Mr Perkins, or I _should_ have been, if there had been no Mr Perkins at
all. You understand, I’m sure. It’s the way of the world, but it’s the
sort of thing one can’t talk about.’
So half the passengers thought Mr Greenwood was a very wicked and
immoral young man, and the other half thought--well, they thought, and
justly, that he was an ass, with something spelt with a big _D_ before
it. But he was none the less amusing on that account to Miss Vere, who
declared that he was the sole thing that had kept her in health during
the voyage.
Alice Leyton, leaning on the arm of Captain Lovell, whose engagement to
her was known to the whole ship’s company, walked blithely up and down
the deck, bandying jests with her old lover whenever she came across
him; and Mr Fowler strutted in company with Dr Lennard. Their colloquy,
indeed, appeared to be of more importance than that of the others,
which was the reason, perhaps, that they conversed with lowered voices,
and stopped every now and then and leaned over the side of the vessel,
whilst they peered with solemn looks into each other’s faces.
Godfrey Harland, who was seated upon the skylight benches, apparently
shunned by everybody, did not seem to like the way in which Mr Fowler
and the doctor were talking to each other, for he watched their
movements and grimaces attentively, though he was very careful not be
caught doing so.
Captain Robarts, who was also on deck, seemed to have shaken off ‘the
black dog’ that had clung to him so much of late, and actually greeted
the ladies with the nearest approach he could manufacture to a smile.
The wind and the weather had had a marvellous effect upon him. Three
or four times during the morning he had rushed into the pilot-house
and examined his precious sextant, and brightened up its silver arc
with his silk bandana. He was in exuberant spirits _for him_,--thankful
beyond measure that the voyage had terminated with so few mishaps, and
that his barque was within a day’s sail of the land. He forgot his
petty annoyances, and chatted to his first officer in quite a lively
manner. He regarded his vessel with a complacent, self-satisfied
air, as if she owed everything she was, or had done, to him alone.
He sometimes indulged in a low chuckle to himself; and had he not
considered that he might have fallen thereby in the estimation of his
passengers and crew, he might even have committed the impropriety of
bursting out into song. But from this indiscretion his utter want of
voice or musical ability mercifully preserved him.
But the crowning bliss was yet to come. Mr Coffin, obeying the
instructions of his superior officer, officially proclaimed to the
ladies and gentlemen on deck, that the following day would bring them
to the end of their voyage, and in two days’ time (providing there was
no quarantine) they would all be on shore.
This news was received with the greatest excitement and applause. Miss
Vere set the example of clapping her hands, which was taken up by all
present, and the second-class passengers, who had been listening to the
first officer’s harangue from the quarter-deck, burst forth, on its
conclusion, into a loud cheer.
Godfrey Harland joined in it. The intelligence was, perhaps, more
welcome to him than to any one there. In a day more he would be
free--free from these long faces and suspicious looks--free also,
he hoped, from his wife, and the scrutiny of Farrell. As he thought
of Iris, he glanced down at the quarter-deck, and saw her standing
there by the side of Perry, with her serious eyes strained in the
direction in which they had told her the land lay. The idea flashed
across Harland’s mind that it would be as well, perhaps, to speak to
her as soon as he could do so without attracting notice. He had had
no communication with her since _that night_. Would she not think it
strange if he did not ask the reason of her not complying with his
request? He waited until most of the saloon passengers had disappeared,
joyfully bent on packing their boxes, and writing letters with the news
of their arrival, to be despatched to the old country which they had
left thousands of miles astern, as soon as they touched land. And then,
with a quick look around, to see if he was observed, Godfrey Harland
descended the companion, and made his way to the side of his wife. Will
Farrell was below at the time, and Perry had walked away before Harland
appeared. There was no one near enough to overhear their conversation.
‘Iris,’ he commenced (but do what he would, he could not help his voice
shaking), ‘did you receive my letter the other night?’
‘I did,’ she answered, without looking at him.
‘Why did you not meet me then, as I asked you to do, in the spare
galley?’
‘You know the reason well. Poor Maggie came to meet you, instead of me.’
‘_Maggie!_’ exclaimed Godfrey, with a well-feigned start of surprise,
‘_Maggie!_ Was it in coming after _me_ that the poor girl met her
death? This is terrible news! It was a great shock to me when I heard
_who_ was missing. Why did you not tell me she was on board?’
‘I did not see the necessity.’
‘Of course I could have no idea she would cross the sea with you: it
was so unlikely. What could have been her motive in doing so?’
‘I do not suppose it is any concern of yours.’
‘You are very cold and hard to me. One would think I had been doing
something wrong. What is the matter? I came down with the kindliest
feelings, to make some arrangement with you about landing to-morrow. We
cannot go together, but I must not lose sight of you. I cannot quite
decide what is best to be done.’
‘Spare yourself the trouble, Godfrey; I do not intend to go with you.’
‘Who do you go with, then?’
‘That is _my_ business. But I will never live with _you_ again, rest
assured of that.’
This determination, so different from what Iris had expressed before,
when she had threatened to compel him to acknowledge and support her,
filled Harland with terror. There was evidently some deep feeling at
work, to have made her alter her mind so soon, and speak so boldly to
him. Was it possible she _knew_ how Maggie Greet had come by her death,
and was resolved to expose him? What else could imbue her with this
sudden independence and hardihood? As he thought of it, his knees
knocked together with fright. But he tried to brave it out.
‘I can’t understand your tactics, Iris. Last time we met, you told
me that if I would give you my written word to live soberly for the
future, everything should be right between us. Well, I am ready to give
you my promise to that effect. I wrote you that letter with the idea
of making up our quarrel, and I have hardly spoken to Miss Vansittart
since. Indeed she is quite angry with me for my want of courtesy. And
now you appear to have changed your mind. What is the reason?’
‘I don’t see that there is any need to give it you, and I am quite sure
you would not like to hear it if I did. But I am quite resolved not to
owe anything to you for the future. I will neither live with you, nor
take any maintenance from you. I would rather starve, a great deal. And
now you know my determination, please not to speak to me again, or you
may drive me to do something for which we may both be sorry.’
Godfrey Harland understood her now. He saw plainly that she
_suspected_, though it was impossible that she should _know_. Still--if
he aggravated her into giving vent to her suspicions--it might be very
awkward for him. Conciliation all round was the only card left for him
to play.
‘You have got some fancied grudge against me, Iris, I suppose, though I
can’t for the life of me imagine _what_.’
‘If _I_ imagine it, it is sufficient for my purpose.’
‘True. But I am sorry. I had dreamt we might turn over a new leaf in
the new country, and become a model married couple.’
‘No. That will never be--_now_,’ she said significantly.
‘You understand plainly that my little flirtation with Miss Vansittart
is completely over, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that my income is to commence at six hundred a year.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I am willing to remit you half of it, until I can disclose our
marriage to Mr Vansittart?’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet you refuse to live with me,--you give me up altogether, at the
very moment when I have the opportunity to keep you in a comfortable
home.’
‘I do. I refuse to have anything whatever to do with you, from this
hour to the last day of my life.’
‘Have you confided your intention to any one else?’
‘To no one.’
He drew closer to her, and whispered nervously,--
‘Iris--if--if--you have taken any absurd notions into your head, which
have not the slightest foundation--you--you won’t ruin me, will you?
You won’t go and make them public property, so as to cast an unmerited
stigma upon me, and spoil all my future prospects?’
Then she turned her pale face towards him, and he read the truth in her
eyes.
‘You have no cause to fear me,’ she answered contemptuously. ‘You will
never be betrayed by _me_. But--it must depend on the condition that
you never claim me as your wife, nor try to marry another woman. If you
attempt to interfere with me, or to force me to live with you again,
I shall adopt what means I can to prevent you. Understand me plainly,
Godfrey Harland. You and I are parted _for ever_. I would not even
stoop to take your hand, that is stained with--’
‘Hush, hush! for God’s sake!’ he entreated; ‘it is a mistake; it is not
true. I had nothing whatever to do with it.’
‘Say no more,’ she interposed, with a quick look of horror. ‘Every word
you utter is a fresh condemnation. If you want me to be silent--if you
want me to keep my promise and my senses, you will leave me to myself,
and never attempt to see me again.’
She turned from him, and by the convulsive twitching of her face he saw
how difficult she found it to control herself. He made one more effort
to speak, but Iris waved him from her, and feeling very uncomfortable,
conscience-stricken, and alarmed, Godfrey Harland retreated to his own
cabin, to consider what steps it would be wisest to take in the matter.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]