THE DINNER BY THE LAKE--RORY'S RUN ROUND AFRICA--THE RETURN OF THE
WANDERERS.
"When did you hear from Allan and Rory?" asked McBain that day, as they
were seated at dinner in the little Highland cottage.
Mrs Morrison had done her best to put something nice before them, and
not without success either--so thought Ralph, and so, too, thought his
guest. At all events, both of them did ample justice to that noble lake
trout. Five pounds did he weigh, if he weighed an ounce, and as red was
he in flesh as if he had been fed upon beet. The juicy joint of
mountain mutton that followed was fit to grace the table of a prince--it
was as fragrant and sweet as the blooming heather tops that had brought
it to perfection. Nor was the cranberry tart to be despised. The
berries of which it was composed had not come over the Atlantic in a
barrel of questionable flavour--no, they had been culled on the dewy
braelands that very morning by the fair young fingers of wee Jeannie
Morrison herself. The widow did not forget to tell them that, and it
did not detract from their enjoyment of the tart. For drink they had
fragrant heather ale--home-brewed.
"When did I hear from Allan and Rory?" said Ralph, repeating McBain's
question; "from the first, not for weeks--he is a lazy boy; from the
latter, only yesterday morning."
"And what says Rory?" asked McBain.
"Oh!" replied Ralph, "his letter is beautiful. It is twelve pages long.
He is loud in his praises of the behaviour of the yacht, as a matter of
course; but in no single sentence of this lengthy epistle does he refer
definitely to the health or welfare of anybody whatever."
"From which you infer--?"
"From which I infer," said Ralph, "that everybody is as well as Rory
himself--that my dear father is well, and Allan, and his mother, and his
sister Helen Edith. He is a queer boy, Rory, and he encloses me a
couple of columns from a Cape of Good Hope paper, in which he has
written an epitome of the whole voyage, since they first started in May
last. He calls his yarn `Right round Africa.' He commences at Suez, a
place where even boy Rory, I should think, would fail to find much
poetry and romance; but they must have enjoyed themselves at Alexandria,
where Rory mounted on top of Pompey's Pillar, rode upon donkeys, and did
all kinds of queer things. Well, they spent a week at Malta, with its
streets of stairs, its bells, its priests, its convents, and its
blood-oranges. Rory missed trees and shade, though; he says Malta is a
capital place for lizards, or any animal, human or otherwise, that cares
to spend the day basking on the top of a stone. He liked Tunis and
Algiers better, and he quite enjoyed Teneriffe and Madeira. Then they
crossed over to Sierra Leone, and he launches forth in praise of the
awful forests--`primeval,' he calls them--and he says, in his own
inimitable Irish way, that `they are dark, bedad, even in broad
daylight.' Then all down the strange savage West Coast they sailed;
they even visited Ashantee, but he doesn't say whether or not they
called on his sable majesty the king. Of course they didn't miss
looking in at Saint Helena, which he designates a paradise in mid-ocean,
and not a lonely sea-girt rock, as old books call it. Ascension was
their next place of resort. That is a rock, if you like, he says; but
the sea-birds' eggs and the turtle are redeeming features. And so on to
the Cape, and up the Mozambique, landing here and there at beautiful
villages and towns, and in woods where they picked the oysters off the
trees."
[Oysters growing on trees seems a strange paradox. They do so grow,
however. The mangrove-trees are washed by the tide, and to their
tortuous roots oysters adhere, which may be gathered at low water.]
"They really must be enjoying themselves," said McBain.
"That they are," Ralph replied, pulling out Rory's letter. "Just listen
how charmingly he writes of the Indian Ocean--nobody else save our own
poetic Rory could so write:--`My dear, honest, unsophisticated Ralph,--
oh, you ought to have been with us as we rounded the Cape! That
thunderstorm by night would have made even your somewhat torpid blood
tingle in your veins. It was night, my Ralph; what little wind there
was was dead off the iron-bound coast, but the billows were mountains
high. Yes, this is no figure of speech. I have never seen such waves
before, and mayhap never will again. I have never seen such lightning,
and never heard such thunder. We remained all night on deck; no one had
the slightest wish to go below. As I write our yacht is bounding over a
blue and rippling sea; the low, wooded shore on our lee is sleeping in
the warm sunlight, and everything around us breathes peace and quiet,
and yet I have but to clap my hand across my eyes, and once again the
whole scene rises up before me. I see the lightning quivering on the
dark waves, and flashing incessantly around us, with intervals of the
blackest darkness. I see the good yacht clinging by the bows to the
crest of the waves, or plunging arrowlike into the watery ravines; I see
the wet and slippery decks and cordage, and the awe-struck men around
the bulwarks; and I see the faces of my friends as I saw them then--
Allan's knitted brow, his mother's looks of terror, and the pale
features of poor Helen Edith. There are nights, Ralph, in the life of a
sailor that he is but little likely ever to forget; that was one in mine
that will cling to my memory till I cease to breathe.'
"Don't you call that graphic?" said Ralph.
"I do," replied McBain; "give us one other extract, and then lend me the
letter. I'll take it to town with me, and you can have it again when
you come up."
"Well," said Ralph, "he describes Delagoa Bay and the scenery all round
it so pleasantly, that if I hadn't an estate of my own in old England I
would run off and take a farm there; right quaintly he talks of the
curious Portuguese city of Mozambique; he is loud in the praises of the
Comoro Islands, especially of Johanna, with its groves of citrons and
limes, its feathery palm-trees, and its lofty mountains, tree-clad to
the very summits; and he could write a lordly volume, he says, on the
sultanic city of Zanzibar, where, it would seem, his adventures were not
like angels' visits--few and far between. He has even fought with the
wild Somali Indians, and assisted at a pitched battle between Arabs and
a British cruiser. Then he describes his adventures in the woods and in
the far-off hills and jungles, tiger-slaying; here is a serpent
adventure; here is a butterfly hunt. Fancy butterflies as big as a
lady's fan, and of plumage--yes, that is the very word Rory makes use
of--`plumage' more bright than a noonday rainbow.
"Here again is a description of the great Johanna hornet, two inches
long, blue-black in colour, and so dreaded by the natives that they will
not approach within twenty yards of the tree these terrible insects
inhabit. Here is a beetle as big as a fish, and as strong apparently as
a man, for he seizes hold of the top of the big pickle-jar into which
Rory wants to introduce him, and obstinately refuses to be drowned in
spirits; and here is a centipede as long as an adder, green,
transparent, deadly; tarantulas as big as frogs, hairy and horrible;
scorpions as big as crabs, green and dangerous as the centipedes
themselves, that run from you, it is true, but threaten you as they run.
"It is pleasant," continued Ralph, "to turn from his descriptions of the
awful African creepie-creepies, and read of the enchanting beauty of
some parts of the Zanzibar woods, the mighty trees mango-laden, the
patches of tempting pine-apples, through which one can hardly wade, the
curious breadfruit-trees, the pomolos, the citrons, the oranges, and the
guavas, that look and taste, says Rory, `like strawberries smothered in
cream.' He dilates, too, on the beauty of the wild flowers, and the
brilliancy of the birds--birds that never sing, but flit sadly and
silently from bough to bough in the golden sunlight. From the very
centre of this beautiful wood Rory, with masterly pen, carries you right
away to a lovely coral island in the Indian Ocean.
"`Although many, many miles in extent,' he tells us, `although it is
clothed in waving woods, although even the cocoa-nut palm waves high
aloft its luscious fruit, it is not inhabited by man. Perhaps my boat
was the first that ever rasped upon its shore of silvery sand, perhaps I
was the first human being that ever lay under the shade of its
mangrove-trees or bathed in the waters of its sunny lagune. My boat is
a skiff--a tiny skiff; our yacht lies at anchor off Chak-Chak, and I
have come all alone to visit this fairy-like island. I left the ship
while the stars were still glittering in the heavens, long before the
sun leapt up and turned the waters into blood; and now I have rested,
bathed, and breakfasted, and am once more on board my indolent skiff.
Here in this bay, even half a mile from the shore, you can see the
bottom distinct and clear, for the water is as pellucid as crystal, and
there isn't a ripple on the sea. And what do I gaze upon?--A submarine
garden; and I gaze upon it like one enchanted, the while my boat--
impelled by the tide alone--glides slowly on and over it. Down yonder
are flowers of every shape and hue, shrubs of every variety of foliage,
coral bushes--pink, and white, and even black--rocks covered with
medusae of the most brilliant colours an artist could imagine, and
patches of white sand, strewn with living shells, each one more lovely
to look upon than another. And every bush and shrub and flower is all
a-quiver with a strange, indescribable motion, which greatly heightens
their magical beauty; and why? Because every bush and shrub and flower
is composed of a thousand living things. But the larger creatures that
creep and crawl, or glide through this submarine garden are fantastic in
the extreme. Monster crabs and crayfish, horny, abhorrent, and so
strange in shape one cannot help thinking they were made to frighten
each other; long transparent fishes, partly grayling partly eel; flat
fishes that swim in all kinds of ridiculous ways; some fishes that seem
all tail together, and others that are nothing but head. And among all
the others a curious flat fish that swims on an even keel, and, by the
very brilliancy of his colours and gorgeous array, seems to quite take
the shine out of all the others. Both sides of this fish are painted
alike; both sides of him are divided into five or six equal parts, and
each part is of a different colour--one is a marigold yellow, another
green, another brightest crimson, another steel grey, and so on. Him I
dubbed the harlequin flounder. Yes, Ralph, Shakespeare was right when
he said there are more things in heaven and earth than we dream of in
our philosophy, and he might have added there are more things in ocean's
depths, and stranger things, than any naturalist ever could imagine.'
"You see," said Ralph, folding Rory's funny letter, and handing it to
McBain, "that our friends are enjoying themselves; but you won't fail to
notice Rory's closing sentence, in which he says that, in the very midst
of all the brightness and beauty so lavishly spread around him, he is
ofttimes longing to visit once more the strange, mysterious regions
around the Pole."
"And you have never written a word to him about our new ship and our
purposed voyage?" inquired McBain.
"Never a word," cried Ralph, laughing. "You see, I want to keep that a
secret till the very last. Oh, fancy, McBain, how wild with glee both
Rory and Allan will be when they find that the splendid ship is built
and ready, and that we but wait for the return of spring to carry us
once more away to the far north again."
"I'd like to see Rory's face," said McBain, smiling, "when you break the
news to him."
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Just six weeks after this quiet little _tete-a-tete_ dinner on the bank
of the Highland lake, a very important-looking and fussy little tug-boat
come puff-puffing up the Clyde from seaward, towing in a large and
pretty yacht; her sails were clewed, and her yards squared, and
everything looked trig and trim, not only about her, but on board of
her. The blue ensign floated proudly from her staff; her crew were
dressed in true yachting rig, and her decks were white as the driven
snow.
An elderly lady with snow-white hair paced slowly up and down the
quarter-deck, leaning lightly on the arm of a tall and gentlemanly man
of mature age. In a lounge chair right aft, and abreast of the
binnacle, a fair young girl was reclining, book in lap, but not reading;
she was engaged in pleasant conversation with a youth who sat on a
camp-stool not far off, while another who leant upon the taffrail gazing
shorewards frequently turned towards them, to put in his oar with a word
or two. He was taller than the former and apparently a year or two
older. He was probably more manly in appearance and build, but
certainly not better-looking. Both were tanned with the tropical sun,
and both were dressed alike in a kind of sailor uniform of navy blue.
"Yes, Rory," the girl was saying, "I must confess that I do feel glad to
get back again to Scotland, much though I have enjoyed our cruise and
all our strange adventures around that wild and beautiful coast. Oh! I
do not wonder at your being fond of the sea. If I were a man I feel
sure I would be a sailor."
"And here we are," replied Rory, with pleasure beaming from his bright,
laughing eyes, "within three miles of Glasgow. And, you know, Ralph is
here; how delighted he will be to meet us all again! I really wonder he
did not come with us."
But Ralph was very much nearer to them at that moment than they had any
idea of.
"Helen Edith," cried Allan at that moment, "and you, Rory, do come and
have a look at this beautiful steam barque on the stocks."
Both Helen and Rory were by his side in a moment.
"She is a beauty indeed," said Rory, enthusiastically. "There are lines
for you! There is shape! Fancy that craft in the water! Look at the
beautiful rake that even her funnel has! But is she a man-o'-war, I
wonder?"
"More like a despatch boat, I should say," said Allan. "Look, she is
pierced for guns."
Allan was right about the guns, for just as he spoke a balloon-shaped
cloud of white smoke rose slowly up from her side, and almost
simultaneously the roar of a big gun came over the water and died away
in a hundred echoes among the rocks and hills. Another and another
followed in slow and measured succession, until they had counted
fourteen.
"It is saluting they are," said Allan; "but they surely cannot be
saluting us; and yet there is no other craft of any consequence coming
up the water."
"But I feel sure," said Helen, "it is some one bidding us welcome. And
see, they dip the flag."
The yacht's flag was now dipped in return, but still the mystery
remained unravelled.
But it does not remain so long.
For see, the yacht is now almost abreast of the new ship, and the decks
of the latter are crowded with wildly cheering men. Ay, and yonder,
beside the flagstaff, is Ralph himself, with McBain by his side, waving
their hats in the air.
The good people on the yacht are for a minute rendered dumb with
astonishment, but only for a minute; then the air is rent with their
shouts as they give back cheer for cheer.
"Och! deed in troth," cried Rory, losing all control of his English
accent, "it's myself that is bothered entoirely. Is it my head or my
heels that I'm standing on? for never a morsel of me knows! Is it
dreaming I am? Allan, boy, can't you tell me? Just look at the name on
the stern of the beautiful craft."
Allan himself was dumb with astonishment to behold, in broad letters of
gold the words, "The Arrandoon."