Driven to bay, Vol. 1 (of 3)
Date: 2025-03-27T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Sea stories; English fiction -- 19th century; Ships -- Fiction

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Title: Driven to bay, Vol. 1 (of 3)

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: March 27, 2025 [eBook #75726]

Language: English

Original publication: London: F. V. White & Co., 1887

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75726

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRIVEN TO BAY, VOL. 1 (OF 3) ***

DRIVEN TO BAY.

VOL. I.

DRIVEN TO BAY.

A NOVEL.

BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,

AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’
‘THE MASTER PASSION,’ ‘SPIDERS OF SOCIETY,’
ETC., ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1887.

[All Rights reserved.]

EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COMPANY
PRINTERS

CONTENTS.

CHAP. | PAGE
I. | Jack, the Sailor, | 1
II. | Vernon, the Lover, | 17
III. | Iris Harland, | 36
IV. | Les Nouveaux Riches, | 55
V. | Breakers Ahead, | 72
VI. | A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, | 85
VII. | Two Women’s Hearts, | 98
VIII. | The ‘Pandora,’ | 115
IX. | Mr Greenwood, | 132
X. | Good-bye to England, | 153
XI. | A Discovery, | 175
XII. | At Sea, | 191
XIII. | Courtship, | 200
XIV. | Remonstrance, | 216

“SELECT” NOVELS.

Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each.

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSTALLS.

By FLORENCE MARRYAT.
THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE. | HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.
THE HEART OF JANE WARNER. | PEERESS AND PLAYER.
UNDER THE LILIES & ROSES. | FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.
MY OWN CHILD. | A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.
By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs Pender Cudlip).
HER SUCCESS. | JENIFER.
KATE VALLIANT. | ALLERTON TOWERS.
FRIENDS AND LOVERS.
By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.
MATED WITH A CLOWN. | MOLLIE DARLING.
ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN. | SWEETHEART AND WIFE.
By MRS HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”
BARBARA’S WARNING.
By MRS ALEXANDER FRASER.
THE MATCH OF THE SEASON. | A FATAL PASSION.
A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY.
By IZA DUFFUS HARDY.
ONLY A LOVE STORY. | NOT EASILY JEALOUS.
LOVE, HONOUR AND OBEY.
By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
POISONED ARROWS.
By MRS H. LOVETT CAMERON.
IN A GRASS COUNTRY. | A DEAD PAST.
A NORTH COUNTRY MAID.
By DORA RUSSELL. | By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE.
OUT OF EDEN. | KEITH’S WIFE.
By NELLIE FORTESCUE HARRISON, Author of “So Runs my Dream.”
FOR ONE MAN’S PLEASURE.
By EDMUND LEATHES.
THE ACTOR’S WIFE.
By HARRIETT JAY.
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.

COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

DRIVEN TO BAY.

DRIVEN TO BAY.

CHAPTER I.
JACK, THE SAILOR.

THE August sun had just sunk below the horizon, as Jack Blythe, a passenger by the down train from London to Portsmouth, walked leisurely home to a little cottage situated on Southsea Common.

He was a tall, well-built young fellow of five-and-twenty, with a remarkably graceful figure. His hair was pale brown, with the faintest tinge of gold upon it; his eyes were grey and languid in their expression—his general appearance somewhat delicate. And yet Jack Blythe (who had been christened Vernon) was one of the merriest, most manly fellows in existence. The very fact of his proper name having been mysteriously changed to ‘Jack’ was a proof of his being a favourite with his own sex: as for the other, they, one and all, combined to spoil him. Few, seeing Jack for the first time, would have guessed his profession. He looked like a poet, but he was a sailor, and belonged to the roughest part of the profession—the Merchant Service. He had been educated, indeed, with a view to very different work; but when it was too late for him to enter the Royal Navy, he had intimated his unalterable decision to go to sea, and his mother, who was his only surviving parent, had, with many tears, consented to his wishes. But he was a good son and a good sailor, and she had never repented of letting him have his own way.

As he approached his destination, he was accosted by another young man who had run half-way across the common to meet him.

‘Hullo, Jack! how are you? You’re the very man I want,’ cried the new-comer effusively.

‘What for, Reynolds? To pull an oar in a boating party, or to rig up a tent for a camping-out expedition?’ asked Blythe.

‘Better than that, old boy! I’ve bought that little yacht, the Water Witch, at last, and you must sail her for me. I have my party all ready, and we can start for the Island to-morrow morning.’

‘I should very much like to join you, old man,’ said Jack, ‘but it can’t be done. I may have to go to town again to-morrow to meet an influential friend.’

‘Hang it! You are always going up to town!’ ejaculated the other. ‘One day off can surely do you no harm.’

‘It might, at present, Reynolds. I have stayed on shore too long already, and I find some difficulty in getting a ship. I have sent in my application for a berth on board the Pandora, and as I have good interest, I hope I may get it. But nothing is certain in this world, and I cannot afford to relax my energies until I am provided for. You see my twelve-month’s pay is nearly gone—that’s where the shoe pinches; so, if I lose my chance of the Pandora, I shall have to hunt up all the skippers and owners in the docks.’

‘You’ll get a ship fast enough,’ grumbled Reynolds; ‘you’ve passed for chief officer. What more do you want? Come, old boy,’ he continued coaxingly, ‘say you’ll give up to-morrow to the Water Witch and me—’

‘I will, if it is possible! I can say no more,’ replied Jack Blythe.

‘Alice Leyton has promised to accompany us,’ resumed Reynolds, meaningly.

‘Has she?’ remarked Jack without a blush. ‘Well, if I can join the party, she will prove an extra attraction to it, naturally. But it is as necessary for her sake as for my own that I should get employment as soon as possible.’

And, with a wave of the hand, Jack Blythe continued his walk to his mother’s cottage.

‘I don’t believe he cares a rap for that girl,’ thought Reynolds, as he, too, turned homewards. ‘Fancy! calmly resigning a whole day on the water with the woman he is supposed to be in love with. Bah! The fellow’s not made of flesh and blood.’

But in this, as in many things, Mr Reynolds was mistaken. It was a hard trial for Vernon Blythe to relinquish what was, to him, one of the greatest pleasures in life. He would have given anything in reason to have had an opportunity to test the sailing powers, and seen the behaviour of the saucy little Water Witch under his guidance; and for a while he felt half disposed to gratify his desire at the expense of his duty.

‘Shall I go?’ he asked himself as he strode onwards. ‘After all, it will only be a day more, and I don’t half like the idea of Alice going without me. She doesn’t mean any harm, I know—still, she is rather free in her manners, and apt to say more than she means, and Reynolds certainly admires her. Pshaw! I am talking nonsense! I have promised to meet Mr Barber, and I must be firm. Besides, if Alice is not to be trusted on a water-party without my protection, how am I to leave her (as I soon may) to take a voyage to New Zealand alone? I must trust her “all in all, or not at all.” I was a fool even to think of such a thing!’

And starting off at a brisk pace, he soon reached his mother’s cottage.

Mrs Blythe was on the look-out for her son’s return. He was her only child, and she loved him as only a mother can love the one treasure of her heart. His father, who was an officer in the Royal Navy, had been drowned at sea whilst Vernon was a baby, and it had been the one wish of her widowed life that her boy should not be a sailor. But as he grew up, the inherited instinct developed itself, and she had been forced to part with her darling; since which her life had been divided into two parts only—the days when Vernon was at home, and the days when he was not. Mrs Blythe always called her son ‘Vernon.’ It had been her own maiden name, and she would recognise him by no other. She thought the nickname of ‘Jack’ both low and vulgar, and was disgusted whenever she heard him addressed by it. She was a round, rosy little woman, very unlike her son, who inherited his beauty from his father, but she was a good mother to him, and he loved her devotedly. Although she had such good reason to hate and dread the sea, yet she felt she could not live away from it, and had been settled in Southsea ever since her husband’s death. Her cottage, which faced the common, was surrounded by a pretty garden, enclosed by a wooden paling and a little rustic gate. The room where she awaited her son was neatly furnished, the walls being covered with the curiosities which Vernon, and his father before him, had brought her home from different parts of the world. Talipots and fans from Rangoon, and bangles and hookahs from Calcutta hung by the side of skins and palm-leaf trophies from the West Coast, and green stone and carved wooden weapons from Maori land. Daintily-painted boxes, and wonderfully-carved pagodas were piled up with ornamented whales’ teeth, and the inexhaustible fern leaves from St Helena, and necklaces and poisoned spears from the Sandwich Islands. Here, in fact, were to be seen specimens of art from every quarter of the globe, and with a story attached to each, marking the milestones along the widow’s path of life, and hallowed by her smiles and tears. The room had more the appearance of a museum than a private dining-room, but these innumerable curiosities were Mrs Blythe’s greatest treasures, over which she brooded whilst her son was absent on his long sea voyages. She had had him all to herself for twelve months now, but the holiday was drawing to a close, and each day she dreaded to hear him say that he must leave her.

‘Well, Vernon, my darling!’ she exclaimed anxiously, as he entered the room where his tea was ready laid for him; ‘what news have you to-day?’

‘None in particular, mother,’ he replied, throwing himself into a chair. ‘I have been to dozens of firms, but it is the old story with all of them.’

‘Something will spring up by-and-by,’ said Mrs Blythe, soothingly, ‘and for my part I don’t care how long it may be first. But have your tea now, dear. I am sure you must be tired.’

‘I am dead beat,’ replied Vernon, drawing his chair to the table. ‘I called to-day on Stern & Stales, and saw their ship’s husband about the appointment on board the Pandora. I told him how very anxious I am to get it, but he is not sure if it is given away. However, he has four passenger ships all going to New Zealand, and if the Pandora’s berth is filled, he has promised to try and get me on one of the others. If I don’t hear from him by to-morrow I am to go up and see him again.’

Mrs Blythe gave a shrug of impatience.

‘I can’t think,’ she said somewhat testily, ‘why you should be so dreadfully anxious to sail in the Pandora.’

Her son regarded her with mild surprise.

‘Why, mother, you know that the Leytons have secured their passages by her. What is more natural than I should wish to go too?’

‘Well, if you do your duty on board ship, as I know you always do, you will have no time to waste on making love to Alice Leyton.’

Vernon laughed in his lazy fashion.

‘Perhaps not! but I shall be near her in case of her requiring me, and when we get to New Zealand, I shall see her father and get the matter settled. It is time it was settled, mother. We have been engaged now for nearly a year, and I suppose that, sooner or later, we must be married.’

‘It had better be later, then,’ replied Mrs Blythe, hotly. ‘For my part, I think it is nonsense to hear you talk of such a thing as marriage. A child like you, and without any money.’

‘The last objection is unfortunately true enough,’ replied Vernon; ‘but as for being a child—well, all I can say is, I don’t feel like one. And if Alice chooses to marry a poor man, that is her business, and no one else’s.’

‘There is a much greater objection to the marriage, in my opinion, than that, urged Mrs Blythe. ‘I don’t think Alice Leyton really cares for you.’

‘Oh, mother, why should you say so. What right have you to think it. I should never have proposed to her if I had not seen plainly that she cared for me.’

‘Any fool could see that she set her cap at you, Vernon. But she is not the only girl that has done that. And she is a flirt, my dear. I daresay you will be angry with me, but I must speak the truth. Whilst you are away in London, Alice Leyton is running about the common and the pier with any man she can get hold of, and chattering—dear! dear! how that girl’s tongue does run. I pity you if you are ever shut up with it between four walls.’

The young man did not seem in the least angry at this tirade. He waited till his mother had finished, and then he answered very quietly, but determinately.

‘Look here, mother dear. You mustn’t speak in that way of Alice. Remember she will be my wife. Besides, you are quite mistaken. She is not a flirt at all. She is very high-spirited, and has been brought up in a free and easy manner (what with her father being away and her mother an invalid), but that will be all altered by-and-by. She loves me very dearly, for aught you may think, and when she is my wife, she will be all that you can wish her to be—of that I am very sure.’

‘She may well love you,’ said Mrs Blythe, looking fondly at her son; ‘who could help loving you, Vernon? But there is another side to the question, Do you love her?’

At that he started, and looked uneasy. Still his answer was given manfully.

‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? A dear, sweet little girl like that. Why, mother, when I look at Alice, I think sometimes she’s just the very prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Such eyes and teeth and skin! And such a merry smile! She’s the very impersonation of a sunbeam! A man couldn’t be unhappy with a creature like that by his side. She’d make him laugh at a funeral.’

‘I acknowledge all that,’ said Mrs Blythe, shaking her head oracularly; ‘but giggles and blushes and good eyes don’t make the happiness of a man’s life, when there’s nothing else behind them. And sometimes, my boy,’ she continued, coming round to his side and putting her hand caressingly upon his hair, ‘sometimes I fancy—now don’t be angry with me, dear, for I wouldn’t vex you for the world—but sometimes I have thought—’

‘Well, mother, what have you thought?’ asked Vernon, as he took her hand in his and laid his cheek against it.

‘That Alice Leyton is not your first fancy, Vernon, and that my boy has had a disappointment of which I have never heard.’

His youthful cheek grew crimson, then. She could see the blood mounting to his forehead and the roots of his hair. And when he answered her his voice seemed suddenly to have changed.

‘And what then?’ he said curtly.

‘Is there no hope—no chance—my darling?’ asked Mrs Blythe.

‘Not the slightest. Had there been, do you suppose I should have been engaged to Alice Leyton? I don’t know how you have guessed there was ever another, mother, but it all happened a long time ago, and I have nearly forgotten it.’

‘Vernon, my dear, that is not true. You cannot have forgotten it, or the allusion would not move you in this manner. And as for “long ago,” why, you were only five-and-twenty last month. How soon did you begin to fall in love?’

‘Never mind that, mother. Whenever it occurred, or however it affected me, it is a thing of the past, and I would rather you never spoke of it to me or any one again.’

‘And won’t you tell me who it was?’ said Mrs Blythe, kissing his forehead.

‘What is the use?’ he rejoined, wearily.

Yet he knew, as he asked the question, that to tell her everything would be a relief to him. He had suffered very deeply, and in all other sufferings but this his mother had been his true confidant and friend. And so, with a little gentle coaxing on her part, as they sat together when the evening meal was concluded, he was induced to tell his tale.

CHAPTER II.
VERNON, THE LOVER.

FEW people who had only seen Vernon Blythe when in the pursuit of the manly exercises in which most sailors delight, and in which he especially excelled, would have recognised him now as he lay back in his chair, with his delicate profile clearly limned against the evening sky, and a look of abject pain in the eyes that watched the curling wreaths of smoke that ascended from his pipe. There were two distinct sides to this young man’s character, as there are to that of most of us. To the outside world, and in the pursuit of his profession, he was known as one of the most daring, courageous, and undaunted of natures,—a man who did not know what it was to fear danger, to dread a risk, or to leave an insult unavenged. He was brave, imprudent, and hot-headed, but strictly generous and honourable. With his mother, however, and in the sanctity of home, he was a different creature. There his heart rose uppermost, and he became less guarded in his looks and speech. There, as it were, he thought less of his manhood and men friends, and more of himself and his private feelings. And so the secret, which he believed to be entirely his own property, had slipped from him unawares, and become his mother’s. But who can hide a beloved child’s suffering from the eyes of his mother? And Vernon felt glad now that it was so.

‘Do you remember,’ he began presently, and in a lower voice than usual,—‘do you remember, mother, the time after my second voyage, when I had had that touch of Gold Coast fever, and you sent me up to Uncle Vernon’s in Selkirk for three months to recruit?’

‘Certainly, dear. What of it?’

‘That was the time that it happened.’

Mrs Blythe almost jumped with surprise.

‘But, good gracious, Vernon, you were too young for anything then! It must be—let me see—quite five years ago. You were not a day over twenty.’

‘I was old enough, it seems, to love—and to remember,’ he answered quietly.

‘And you have thought of the girl all this time? It appears incredible.’

‘Nevertheless it is true. But you must not infer from my words that I have been grieving after her all this time. That would be most unfair to Alice Leyton, and it would not be correct. I cannot forget her—I wish I could—but I have ceased to lament the inevitable. Only, it has cast a shadow over my life—which you seem to have perceived, and which I know will be there until I die.’

‘Oh, my dear boy, you mustn’t say that. Everybody has a love-affair or so before they settle down. Even I—dearly as I loved your father—had had several admirers before I met him.’

‘Of course you had,’ rejoined Vernon fondly, with the old manner that seemed sometimes to sit so strangely on his youthful appearance; ‘heaps of them, I should say, if the young men of that day had any gumption about them. I often think, mother, what a dear, charming, genuine sort of girl you must have been.’

He pinched her cheek as he spoke, and Mrs Blythe felt happier at receiving his compliment, than she had ever done when the young men he alluded to had paid theirs.

‘Now don’t be foolish, my darling,’ she said, with an assumption of indifference, as she settled her head-dress. ‘But what I say is true. First love-affairs are seldom lasting.’

‘I daresay not; I hope not; although I fancy I have reached the climax of my forgetfulness. Five years is a long time to fret after a woman, and, indeed, I have tried hard to banish her from my mind. It is only fair to dear little Alice that I should do so.’

‘But what went wrong with it, my boy?’

‘Everything, mother! I met her at a friend of uncle’s, and I loved her from the very first. But she did not love me, and there was an end of it. In fact, there was another fellow in the way.’

‘Was she so very beautiful, Vernon?’

‘No, I think not—at least, I never heard any one else say so. But to me she seemed to have the most perfect face I had ever seen. When I think of it now, it looks like the face of an angel. And everything she said and did seemed right. I agreed with all her opinions. We liked the same things—the same people—the same pursuits. Oh! what is the use of thinking of it?’ he continued impatiently; ‘I suppose it was my fate to meet her, and love her, and carry her remembrance in my heart for ever afterwards. I have spoken of her this once, mother, because you asked me. But it must never be again. I cannot bear it!’

‘But why couldn’t she love you?’ said Mrs Blythe plaintively. ‘It was cruel of her not to undeceive you—such a lad as you were—from the very beginning.’

‘That was not her fault, mother. You must not blame her. I don’t think she was aware of my love until I confessed it to her. And then it was too late.’

‘How “too late”?’

‘She was already engaged to be married to another man—a man of fashion and means, and five years my senior—and two months afterwards she became his wife, and there was an end to my mad dream for ever. And perhaps it was better so than that she should have remained single, and I gone on hoping against hope.’

‘What is her name, Vernon?’

‘Mother dear, I cannot tell you her name. Don’t ask me to do it. It is sacred to me, as I thought my secret was, and I could not bear to think it had passed my lips. Remember her only as the one great love of your son’s life: it is the highest title you can give her.’

‘And do you know her husband?’ asked Mrs Blythe.

‘No, certainly not,’ he answered roughly, ‘and, from all I have heard of him, I never wish to know him. Let us drop the subject. But you will understand better now my anxiety to marry Alice Leyton. Nothing could contribute more to the healing of this mental wound than the constant presence of a woman who loves me. The sunshine she will bring with her will chase the last shadow away.’

‘It is terrible to hear you talk of “shadows” at your age, Vernon,’ replied Mrs Blythe, wiping her eyes.

‘Nonsense!’ he cried lightly, as he sprang from his chair; ‘we all have them, more or less. My lot is no worse than that of other men. If you treat my confidence in this serious strain, I shall never give you another.’

‘No, don’t say that, my boy,’ replied his mother. ‘I love you for having spoken to me as you have, and from this day I will never open my lips upon the matter.’

‘That’s right,’ said Vernon, as he kissed her. ‘And now I’m going down to the beach to have a look at the Water Witch, that is anchored against the pier. I’ll be back to supper,’ and, with his pipe in his mouth, and a forced smile upon his lips, he left her to herself.

Having thoughtfully traversed the common that lay between them and the sea, Vernon Blythe sat down on a bench just opposite where the yacht was anchored, and surveyed her carefully. She certainly was a very pretty little craft. Her narrow black hull, with its golden stripe, and her tapering mast so gracefully raked, showed she was built for speed and fine-weather sailing, and the very sight of her made Blythe wish that he could retract his promise to the shipowner.

‘Guess who it is!’ cried a merry voice behind him, as a pair of hands were laid upon his eyes.

‘It’s Alice, and you may belay that,’ replied Vernon, in the same tone. ‘You, have nearly pulled my moustaches out by the roots, and blinded me with my own tobacco ash. Be sensible for once if you can, and come round and sit down on the bench beside me.’

Alice Leyton, who was attired somewhat gaily for a promenade in a garrison town, wriggled coquettishly to the front of the seat, and stood smiling at her lover. She was just what he had called her to his mother—one of the merriest, brightest girls in existence. She was only eighteen years old. Her sunny hair hung in waving curls about her face, and her laughing blue eyes, which never seemed dull or weary, played fearful havoc with the weaker sex. Yet Alice Leyton was no coquette. She flirted and romped with every one she could enlist under her banner, but it was with a view to general enjoyment, rather than to individual triumph. But with all her prettiness (which was undeniable) she did not look high-class. She was dressed to attract attention—innocent, maybe, but still attention—and she made the very most of her neat ankles and small waist and well-developed bust. Yet, after all, her charms were natural, and so were her manners. The ringing laugh and happy, youthful face, the waving hair, and the fresh colour, were all her own, and few men would have been found to deny their fascination.

‘Kiss me, Jack,’ she said effusively, as she held her rosy mouth towards him.

‘Not just yet, my dear child,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Why, there are a dozen people looking at us. Wait till I get you to myself at home, and I’ll show you what kissing means.’

‘Horrid boy! Perhaps I sha’n’t be in the humour then. “Paddy, take me in the mind, and that’s just now,”’ pouted Alice.

‘Well, you shouldn’t get in the mind in the middle of the common,’ returned Jack. ‘You come and sit down, like a good girl, and behave yourself properly.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said, as she nestled up against him.

‘Spin away, Pussie! I’m all attention.’

‘You see the Water Witch lying there?’ continued Alice. ‘Bob Reynolds has bought her, and he is going to have a water-party to-morrow, and wants me to join it; but I told him I couldn’t go without you.’

‘Oh! I see now why Reynolds was so anxious for my company,’ said Jack. ‘I thought it queer he should ask me to sail the Water Witch for the first time, when he boasts so much of his own seamanship.’

‘He has asked you then!’ cried Alice. ‘And you will go, won’t you, dear Jack?’

‘I am sorry to say I cannot promise,’ said Blythe, pulling his moustaches. ‘I may be obliged to go up to town. I told Reynolds so an hour ago.’

‘And I sha’n’t be able to go then,’ said Alice, in a tone of vexation.

‘But why not, dear? Do you think that I cannot trust you, or that I am so selfish as to grudge you any enjoyment in which I cannot take part myself. We must not begin life on those terms, Alice. A sailor must always be prepared to part from his wife, and our marriage must be one of perfect trust on both sides, or it had better never take place at all.’

‘Oh, bother marriage!’ cried Alice. ‘Who was thinking of such rubbish? Not I. All I meant was, that I should be afraid to trust myself to Bob Reynolds without you. Do you know that one day last year, when you were in Calcutta, he took me out in a boat, and toppled me into the water, and if it had not been for old Jerry Sparks, the waterman, pulling off in his punt, I might have been drowned.’

‘He’s an awkward landlubber,’ said Jack, as he passed one of her curls through his fingers.

‘That’s a cool way of taking it, Jack. But it’s true, I can tell you. He “cracked on” till the gunwale was under water, and we all had to sit up to windward, and then played pranks with the sail until he overturned the boat. And you wouldn’t like to see me drowned, would you, Jack?’ she continued insinuatingly.

‘No! That would not be nice at all,’ replied her lover; ‘besides, it would spoil that pretty dress.’

‘Well, then, will you go and take care of me?’

‘I suppose I shall have to in the end; that is, if you are determined to have your own way. Like the blessed Saint Anthony, I have resisted all the other temptations, but the last one always proves too much for me. Do you know that I have a chance of going out with you to New Zealand, Alice, as second officer in the Pandora?’

‘Have you really? Oh, that will be great fun. But I hope they won’t let you do what you like with the ship, or you may run us on a rock, or something horrid.’

‘Thank you for the compliment. But I think you may feel perfectly safe—not with me, but in the Pandora.’

‘Is she such a good ship then?’

‘She is an iron clipper, registered A1 at Lloyd’s.’

‘Now I am as wise as before.’

‘You will soon find out all about her when you get aboard. And I hope sincerely I may be there too. You can guess the reason I am so anxious to visit New Zealand, Alice.’

‘I can’t. What is it?’ demanded Alice, with open eyes.

‘Because I want to make the personal acquaintance of your father, and get him to fix some definite time for our marriage. I think it is time we were married, Alice.’

‘I don’t!’ cried the girl, shrugging her shoulders.

‘Oh, yes, you do. That is only a little bit of mock modesty, put on for the occasion. At any rate, that is my intention, in applying for a berth in the Pandora. Your mother is all kindness to me, but I think she is just a little afraid of what your father may say to our engagement.’

‘You see,’ said Alice, kicking the stones with her feet, ‘father is very well off, and there are only two of us, and mother thinks perhaps—’

‘That he will not consider me a good enough match for his eldest daughter. Well, with regard to money, that is true enough, although my birth is second to none.’

‘But I love you Jack, remember,’ said Alice, ‘and I mean to marry you, whatever any one may say against it.’

‘Well, dearest, it will be better to get the matter settled any way. I am sorry now that your mother has not been more explicit with Mr Leyton, but she preferred to speak to him herself on the subject. If I am lucky, I shall be there too, and between us all, we must carry the day.’

‘Unless father thinks that, as mother is such an invalid, it is my duty to remain with her and take care of her. Baby is of no use, you know.’

‘Alice!’ exclaimed Blythe suddenly, ‘tell me the truth! Do you want to marry me?’

‘Why, of course I do, Jack. Didn’t I fall in love with your handsome face the first day we met?’

‘Oh, bother my handsome face!’ cried the young man impetuously. ‘Do you love me? That is the question? Does your heart speak to mine?’

‘How tiresome you are to-night,’ returned Alice. ‘What have I ever done to make you think I don’t love you? Haven’t we talked of being married, and told all our friends about it for a year past? Why,’ she continued in a shy tone, ‘I marked one of my handkerchiefs A. B. the other day, just to see how it looked, and I thought it was lovely.’

‘Dear girl,’ said Jack patronisingly, ‘that is finally settled then. Whether I sail in the Pandora or not, I shall make my way out to New Zealand and ask your father to give you to me for my wife.’

‘But that will not be for a long time yet, and so we need not talk of it any more,’ replied Alice. ‘Here is your mother, Jack, coming across the common to meet us.’

Vernon rose as his mother advanced towards them. His politeness to her was as great as it was to other women.

‘Here is a letter for you from Stern & Stales, my dear,’ said Mrs Blythe, ‘so I thought you would wish to see it at once.’

‘Thanks,’ cried Vernon, as he tore open the envelope. ‘Mother! you have joined us most opportunely. Listen.

‘“Dear Sir,—An accident has happened to the second officer of the Pandora through the snapping of an iron chain, which will prevent him from sailing in the vessel.

‘“I am able, therefore, most unexpectedly to offer you the appointment you desire. If you will be at the shipping office on the seventeenth instant at twelve o’clock to meet Captain Robarts, you can sign the necessary articles.”

‘There’s good luck, mother. Won’t you wish me joy? Alice! we are to be shipmates, and I can make up my mind now. I will join the party on the Water Witch to-morrow, and see that you behave yourself steadily. Mother! I shall want all my things to be ready by the twenty-third.’

But Mrs Blythe was already half-way back across the common, sobbing as if her heart would break.

CHAPTER III.
IRIS HARLAND.

ON the same evening that the newly-appointed officer of the Pandora was congratulating himself on his good luck, and trying to deceive himself into believing he was in love with the girl he was engaged to marry, a very different scene was being enacted in a furnished lodging in one of the smaller streets of Pimlico. The chief actor there was also a man—young, good-looking, and a gentleman—but with distinct traces on his countenance of the tempest of passions and vices he had passed through. He called himself Godfrey Harland. He was a fine, well-built man, with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a black moustache. His eyes, which were also dark and piercing, were set too near his nose for honesty, and had a cunning, distrustful look in them. His mouth was small, with thin compressed lips that covered a set of strong white teeth, and his jaw was heavy and determined. As he sat, pondering over his past and his future, with a cigar between his lips, and a glass of brandy and water in his hand, he looked evil, and almost dangerous. Godfrey Harland had had a chequered life. His father had possessed a large fortune, and given his son, whilst young, the advantages not only of a liberal education and college training, but unlimited money to supply himself with all the luxuries, and indulge in all the dissipations of life. But one day the crash came. Godfrey’s father lost all his money in that great lottery which has ruined so many thousands, the Stock Exchange, and his son suffered with him. He was at once withdrawn from college, his ample allowance was stopped, and he was told he must go out into the world and support himself. With some great souls a reverse of fortune proves a stimulus to exertion, and is the test that brings out their virtues. But weaker natures fail under it, and Godfrey Harland’s nature was essentially weak. By reason of his father’s former influence in the city, he was soon installed as clerk in one of the best-known London firms. Before he had been there three months, however, a mysterious forgery was committed by some one in the house, and before the offender could be discovered Godfrey had fled to America, thereby leaving a dark suspicion on his own name.

In the United States he had tried his hand at everything. He tilled the ground and lived with the farm hands in the warry on pork and beans. He joined an old trapper in the Rocky Mountains, where he had many a rough struggle with the ‘grizzlies,’ and left him for a cattle-herder on a ranche in Texas, where he earned the soubriquet of ‘Satan’ amongst the drovers, for his dare-devil propensities. He was engaged in many a night raid on the Indians, and sat in his saddle for three days before a cattle stampede, and ‘knifed’ or ‘winged’ more than one man in that wild territory, where shooting a fellow-creature is thought no more of than felling a buffalo.

In fact, Godfrey Harland had been everything by turns. A guard on the Grand Trunk—a baggage man to a theatrical company—an able seaman on a coaster—and last, though not least, a barman at a ‘hell-upon-earth’ in New York, where he had imbibed his gambling propensities, and whence he had ventured to return to England under an assumed name—not the first he had taken—and make a new circle of acquaintances for himself.

‘Curse that “Peppermint!”’ he was saying, when we first see him; ‘if he had pulled it off at Aintree, I should have been safe. I can’t stand much more of this. They must come down upon me before long. I wouldn’t have minded my shaking at the Lincoln, though it was stiff enough. But I believe they dosed “Peppermint,” and I owe all my debts to a painted quid. By Jove! I should like to know how much old Roper’s worth. If he would stand to lend me a “thou.,” I might make my running with Vansittart’s daughter. I wonder if the old stock-driver meant what he said the other night? Gad! what a stroke of luck it would be. A home at the Antipodes—a settled position with all the old worries left behind me in England, and the chance of an heiress. I mustn’t lose it, if I stake my very soul upon the die. I shall never get such an opportunity of retrenching again. Not if I live to the age of Methusaleh. Never!’

And he drained the glass of brandy and water with a feverish impatience, as though the good fortune he was anticipating lay at the bottom of it.

At this juncture the door of the room opened, and a woman entered. What a woman she was. What a graceful, refined, spirituelle creature. Her slight, lissom figure was the impersonation of elegance. Her hazel eyes looked out from her pale features like those of a deer, heavy with unshed tears. Her tender mouth was even now curved in a sad smile, and her sunny hair, with its rich chesnut shades of light and shadow, rippled about her shoulders, and curled caressingly around her youthful face. She was dressed shabbily, and somewhat untidily, for it is hard to keep always tidy when one is poor, but she looked a gentlewoman from head to foot—more, she might have been a princess, masquerading in a beggar’s clothes. And this was Iris Harland, Godfrey Harland’s wife. What could a man like this want with a wife? He had never been constant to one thing in this world. Was it likely he would be constant to a woman? Iris knew to her cost that he was not. But she had already outlived the pain the knowledge gave her. The numerous shocks she had sustained since her marriage had rendered her indifferent. Many an insult she had borne patiently from her husband, and without resentment, until all her love had died away, and left nothing behind it but a feeling of contempt and fear.

Why had he married her? Godfrey Harland had often asked himself this question and been unable to answer it. He was the last man in the world who should have encumbered himself with a wife. But after his return from America, he had met this girl living quietly with her widowed father, and had fallen desperately in love with her purity and innocence, so different from what he had been accustomed to. And Iris had believed him to be all that he was not. His varied experiences, and able mode of relating the wonders of his travels, had fascinated her girlish heart, and made her accept him as her life-long companion and friend. But six months of married life had undeceived her. By that time, reverses had come upon them, and the man’s brutal and selfish nature had revealed itself. His passion for her had been simply an infatuation. He had been delighted with his pretty toy at first, but, like a spoiled child, he spurned it, when it had become familiar to him. He had wounded her deeply by his indifference; he had frightened her with his violence and threats, but it was his insults that had stabbed her to the heart, and killed her respect for him. Had he taken a horse-whip and struck her (as he was quite capable of doing), she might still have forgiven him, but an insult to a woman’s honour is never forgotten, and seldom pardoned. Many women will slave for their husbands night and day—they will starve themselves to keep the wolf from the door, and give up home, relations, luxury, everything, for the man they love. But as soon as a man returns his wife’s affection by falsely impugning her honour—when he accuses her of the infidelity of which he alone has been guilty—he has severed the last link that bound them together, and has only himself to thank, if in the future her outraged feelings find relief in the very consolation he has unwarrantably accused her of seeking. Such was the state of things between Godfrey Harland and his wife. A sullen sense of being in the wrong on his side, and a great contempt for all he did and said on hers—and only one wish shared between them in common, that they had never met!

‘Here is a letter for you,’ said Mrs Harland, as she placed it in his hand. He opened and read it through in silence, although he could not conceal the satisfaction it gave him.

‘A man wants to see me on business. I must go out to-night, and at once. Is there any more brandy in the cupboard, Iris?’ said Godfrey, as he thrust the letter into his coat pocket.

‘Is it advisable you should drink any more if you are going to transact business?’ she inquired calmly. She had observed her husband’s expression on reading the letter, and his ready concealment of it, and she did not believe it treated of business. But she did not say so. If her marriage had done nothing else for her, it had taught her to conceal her thoughts.

‘Confound you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you suppose I should ask for it, if I didn’t require it? Give it me at once, or else send the girl out for some more. Pour me out a soda, and put a couple of lemons into it, and a spoonful of bitters. That will pull me round a bit. I feel quite confused with trying to see my way out of the mess we are in.’

‘Shall you be back to-night, Godfrey?’

‘Don’t know. It all depends. Perhaps I may be detained late. I’ve got to see some fellows at the club; but don’t sit up for me any way. And just put out my dress clothes, will you? I can’t go out this figure,’ and lifting the tankard to his lips, he drained off his ‘pick-me-up’ at a draught.

His wife left him without another word. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes darted scorn, but she did not let him see them. She knew he had lied to her, as he had done for some time past, but if she put him on his guard, she should never gain an opportunity to learn the truth. So she laid out his evening suit upon the bed, and placed his white tie upon the toilet-table, and lighted the candles just as though she believed he would take all that trouble to meet some man on business at a city club. And Godfrey Harland fell into the trap. Heated and confused by the amount of liquor he had imbibed, he forgot all about the letter he had received, and issued from the bedroom half-an-hour afterwards in full evening dress, leaving it behind him in the pocket of his tweed coat. He did not deign to say good-night to his wife, nor to give her any further information of his proceedings, but turning on his heel, slammed the front door, and left the house. When Iris was convinced that he was really gone, she rose from her seat and walked into the bedroom.

‘I must know what takes him away from home so often,’ she thought. ‘I am sure it is not business, and if there is any other woman in the case, it is time I asserted myself, and took some action in the matter. Under any circumstances, he makes my life a hell, but there is no need for me to bear more insult than I am obliged to.’ She put her hand into the pocket of the coat which he had thrown upon a chair, and drew forth the letter. It was addressed in a writing which looked half mercantile, and half illiterate, and had a great many flourishes about it. As Iris’s eyes fell on its contents, her pale face grew still paler with horror. Godfrey had been brutal, unfaithful, and cruel to her, but she had never thought so badly of him as this—that he could contemplate kicking her off like an old shoe, and leaving her to starve in England, whilst he sought his fortunes in a new country.

And yet, what else could that letter mean?

‘Dear Mr Harland,—I have been thinking over the conversation we had a few days since; and I have a proposition to make to you. You are young, unencumbered, and willing to work. Why not take the appointment we were speaking of—that of land-agent to my New Zealand property, and sail with us in the Pandora. Under these circumstances I shall be happy and willing to defray your expenses to Tabbakooloo, which I should not have offered under ordinary circumstances. Mrs But Vansittart likes you, and so does Grace—indeed, we all do, and should be pleased to have such a friend in our Bush life. Will you come in this evening and speak to me on the subject, as there is no time to lose. The Pandora (Messrs Stern & Stales) sails on the 24th. Trusting my proposal will please you,—I am, yours sincerely,

John Vansittart.’

‘He means to accept this offer,’ said Iris, with clenched teeth, and trying hard not to cry. ‘He will go with these fine friends of his to New Zealand, and I am powerless to stop him. If I tell him I know it, he will soothe me with promises of remittances that will never come—and I—Oh, God! what can I do, left here all by myself—without money or friends, or a home? Oh, if my poor father had only lived I would have gone back to him to-night and never, never left him more.’

The picture drawn by her imagination of her utter impotence to avert her fate, here overcame poor Iris’s fortitude, and the tears welled up to her pathetic hazel eyes, and coursed slowly down her cheeks. But she did not know that she was sobbing, until a knock at the door made her cognisant she had been overheard.

‘It’s me, mistress,’ whispered a rough voice; ‘mayn’t I come in?’

‘Oh yes, Maggie. What do you want?’ said Iris, drying her eyes.

‘Want!’ echoed the servant, as she made her appearance; ‘why, to know what’s been vexing you. That’s what I want.’

She was a dirty, slipshod girl, after the fashion of maids-of-all-work in smoky London, but she had youth and a certain coarse comeliness about her which might prove attractive to men who looked for nothing below the surface.

‘Has he been bulleying you agen?’ she asked, with rough sympathy, as she stood in the doorway and regarded her mistress. ‘It’s a shame—that’s what I say—and I’d like to pay him out for it. That I would.’

‘Hush! Maggie; you mustn’t say that!’ remonstrated Iris. ‘Of course, you know I am not happy, but you have been in your master’s pay for several years, and you mustn’t bite the hand that feeds you.’

‘I’d never have stayed if it hadn’t been for you, mistress—nor if he had treated you properly neither. And perhaps, after all, I’ve been wrong to stay,’ said Maggie, with a sob in her throat.

‘Wrong to stay!’ repeated Iris in surprise. ‘Why, Maggie! what should I have done without you?’

‘Ah! but you don’t know,’ cried the servant.

‘I know that you’ve been the best girl to me that ever lived,’ said Iris, gently. ‘That you have stood my friend through everything—often my protector—and that I have found my best comfort in you.’

The only answer Maggie made to this speech was conveyed by throwing herself on her knees at her mistress’s feet, and burying her disorganised head in her lap.

‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she gasped through her tears. ‘I ain’t deserving of it; and if you knew what a bad girl I am, you’d turn me out of your house to-morrow.’

‘I don’t think I should, Maggie. If I believed you to be bad (which I don’t) I should try to return your kindness to me by pointing out a better mode of life to you. But don’t talk nonsense. I have no fault to find with you—so you need find none with yourself.’

‘You’re an angel, that’s what you are,’ said Maggie, standing up and drying her eyes, ‘and I’m a brute, and so is he. But what vexes you now, my pretty?’

This question brought poor Iris back to a remembrance of her own troubles.

‘Oh! I can’t tell you, Maggie—at least not yet—for I am not even sure if I have any right to feel vexed. But my future looks very dark to me—very dark indeed, and I cannot help fretting to think what may be in store.’

‘And he’s at the bottom of it, of course,’ observed Maggie, with an irreverent motion of her thumb towards the sitting-room.

Iris sighed. Was he not at the bottom of all her troubles?

‘Has that letter got anything to do with the matter, mistress?’ asked Maggie, looking at the paper in her hand.

‘Yes; but don’t ask me any more questions about it, Maggie. If Mr Harland forces me to act, I promise you shall know all.’

‘You promise that, mistress, on your word of honour?’

‘I do promise, dear Maggie,’ replied Iris, bending forward to kiss the earnest face raised to hers. But Maggie started as if she had been shot.

‘No! no! you sha’n’t kiss me! I ain’t fit for you to touch. But let me kiss your hand, dear. There! that can’t hurt you—and I wouldn’t hurt you (God knows), not to save my own life.’ And with a smothered sob, and an application of her grimy apron to her eyes, Maggie Greet took her way down to the lower regions again.

CHAPTER IV.
LES NOUVEAUX RICHES.

OF course the Vansittarts occupied the biggest and most expensive house they had been able to procure on taking up their residence in London. They were nouveaux riches of the very first water. John Vansittart, the head of the family, was the son of a respectable Berkshire farmer, who had given him a thousand pounds as a start in life, with which the young man had gone out to New Zealand, and invested in a sheep run, which had resulted in his becoming a millionaire. Yet no extraordinary good luck had contributed to his success. He had simply been frugal and painstaking, and kept his eyes open, and married a woman who helped instead of hindered him. And now, at sixty years of age, he was celebrated for being one of the largest sheepowners in New Zealand. He had not married early, and his only child, a daughter called Grace, was just twenty years old. She had been in England much longer than her parents. They had sent her home to a fashionable boarding-school at twelve years of age, and had not found time to join her until a year before this story opens. They had returned to England with an idea of remaining there, but they had soon changed their minds. Their bush life had unfitted them for society. Satins and laces and shining broadcloth sat uneasily upon them, and both Mr and Mrs Vansittart longed for the moment when they should settle down in their New Zealand home again. Not that they would admit, even to themselves, that the whirl and bustle, the pomp and formality, of a London life were too much for them. On the contrary, they blamed the great Metropolis for being slow and stupid, and would not allow that anything it produced could equal the same article in New Zealand. They were both very fat, and simple, and goodnatured—extravagantly proud of their fashionable daughter Grace, who did not acquiesce in the opinions of her parents—and ready to spend their money like water, because they really did not know what else to do with it. They lived in a splendid mansion overlooking the park, which had been furnished from basement to attic, at the sweet will of the upholsterer, and consequently bore the impress of wealth upon every part of it. The hall was carpeted with bear and tiger skins, and hung with armour and stuffed deers’ heads, interspersed with blue and white Nankin China, and beaten brass from Benares. The drawing-room was furnished in the style of Louis Quatorze, and opened into a vast conservatory, rich with tropical plants. In the dining-room, the walls of which were hung with stamped leather, and lighted by silver sconces, were to be found as many portraits of gallant lords and lovely ladies, figuring in the costumes of three and four hundred years before, as if John Vansittart had come of a long line of noble ancestors, instead of being unable to trace his pedigree beyond the loins of the Berkshire farmer, whose father had been an unknown quantity. The whole house reeked of money, but, strange to say, it did not oppress one as such things usually do. The fact is, the owners of these extravagancies did not value them one whit because they had cost money. They were ready to leave them all behind to-morrow—indeed, they were going to do so; and John Vansittart had remarked more than once to his wife, that it was a pity they hadn’t some good friend to whom they could make over the whole lot as a present, instead of letting them go for nothing at auction. But that was just their trouble. They had no friends—hardly any acquaintances. Grace had come home to them, fresh from her school, and good, honest Mrs Vansittart was not the sort of woman to push her way into society, even with the aid of her enormous wealth. She was too shy and retiring to do so. That was the reason they had become intimate with Godfrey Harland. He had met Mr Vansittart first in the city, and, passing himself off as a bachelor, had been taken home to the big house in the park by that gentleman, and introduced to his family. They had all received him with open arms. He was good-looking, fashionable, and very wide awake. He put the father up to all sorts of dodges. He flattered the mother, and helped her out of all her difficulties, and he (almost) made love to the daughter. At least he showed her a great deal of attention, and Grace Vansittart repaid it in kind. It was natural she should. He was about the only ‘swell’ (as she would have expressed it) who came to their house, and her fashionable training had taught her to discriminate, and to like ‘swells.’ She hated the idea of settling in New Zealand, although she could not of course go against her parents’ wishes, and would very much have preferred marrying, and remaining in England. Had he been single, Harland would have found it an easy game to play. He might even have been left in possession of the palatial house and furniture. But the house would not have suited his purpose, as we know. He was not actually planning to commit bigamy—he was not even sure if he wished it—but he was sorely in need of the father’s money, and at any rate he felt he must make a friend of the daughter. But his friendship was conducted on such sentimental terms it might easily have been mistaken for courtship. Mr and Mrs Vansittart so mistook it. They were very fond and proud of their one ewe lamb, and watched her carefully; and they had often remarked to each other that if they didn’t mind it would come to a match between their Grace and Mr Harland.

‘And he ain’t got much money, I don’t think! You must mind that, father,’ the old lady would say.

‘Lor’! mother, and if he hasn’t—where’s the harm?’ Mr Vansittart replied. ‘Haven’t we got enough for all? Not but what Harland’ (I am afraid he said ’Arland) ‘dresses very particular, and always looks the gentleman. However, I sha’n’t throw my gal away—you may make your mind easy about that; but if the young feller likes to come out to New Zealand with us, and shows me as he can work, and has no nonsense about him, and our Grace sets her heart upon him—why, all I shall say is, please yourself, my dear, and you’ll please me.’

And so it was that John Vansittart came to offer the position of land-agent to Godfrey Harland.

‘Do you know anything of Mr Harland’s family or relations, John?’ said his wife, when he told her what he had done.

‘Quite as much as I want to, my dear. I met the young man at Aintree, walking about with Lord Sevenoaks and Colonel Fusee—good enough credentials, I should think, for any one—and he gave me his opinion of the horses that were running. I should have lost all round if it hadn’t been for him. But he’s very wide awake—got his eyes well open—just the very sort of man we want out there. Dash his family! What do we care about family? We ain’t got none ourselves. And any one can see he’s a gentleman born—and he’s got no encumbrances, and if he’s willing to come with us, why, I’m the man to take him, that’s all.’

‘And I’m sure he’ll never repent his decision,’ said Mrs Vansittart, plaintively; ‘for no one who once saw our Wellington or Canterbury could ever wish to set his foot in this dull and dirty London again.’

When Godfrey Harland reached the Vansittart’s residence that evening, he was at once ushered into the library, where the master of the house was evidently awaiting him.

‘I told ’em to show you in here first, Mr Harland,’ he commenced, cordially shaking hands, ‘as I thought you and me might settle this little matter before joining the ladies. Of course, you’ve received my letter.’

‘About an hour ago,’ replied Godfrey. ‘I came on as soon as ever I could.’

‘Ah! I thought that would fetch you,’ chuckled the old man. ‘You unmarried men are lucky dogs, to have no one to say, “With your leave,” or “By your leave” to as you go in or out.’

‘We don’t always think so, sir.’

‘No, you don’t know when you’re well off. Well, if you take my advice, you’ll remain as you are—for some time to come, at least. But this ain’t business! What do you say to my proposal, Mr Harland?’

‘That if I can fulfil the duties, the position will suit me down to the ground.’

‘Oh! the duties is easy enough. I shall want you to be under myself, and do all the palavering and writing that I can’t manage. You see, Mr Harland, I’m a rich man, but I’m a plain man, and I haven’t had much education, so that when I want to invest money, or transact a heavy sale, figures and such things are a trouble to me. I call the place “a land-agent’s,” because I don’t know a better name for it. But, in reality, it’s a friend and help that I want, and if you’re willing to undertake the situation, why, it’s yours.’

‘I accept it with gratitude,’ replied Harland. ‘As I have told you honestly, I have been living very much from hand to mouth lately, on account of serious losses through the defalcations of a friend, and was on the look-out for active employment. Your offer suits me exactly. I have long wished to visit New Zealand, and am charmed at the prospect of doing so in such company. I thank you very much for thinking of me.’

‘That’s settled then, sir; but we haven’t mentioned money yet. I will pay your passage out, and give you six hundred pounds for the first year. What I shall do afterwards, we’ll talk of afterwards. Will that satisfy you for the present?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Harland, quietly. The game was in his own hands now, and he was quivering with delight, but he did not want the old man to see it.

‘And perhaps you’d like a little advance for your outfit,’ continued Vansittart.

‘If it’s perfectly convenient,’ stammered Harland.

‘Of course, it’s convenient,’ replied the other, as he wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and pushed it across the table to him. ‘I expected as you’d want it. And now, remember this, my boy. Though I like you well enough, I’ve given you the appointment as much for the sake of my wife and daughter as myself. For they’ve both taken a fancy to you, and want you to go out with us, and so any little attention you can pay them on the voyage—I being but a poor sailor—will be very thankfully received, and valued accordingly.’

‘It will be my greatest pleasure to look after Mrs and Miss Vansittart on board the Pandora, and supply your place as far as possible,’ replied Harland, gracefully.

‘Very good,’ said his host. ‘We’ve settled the matter now, and can join the ladies.’

So Godfrey Harland, looking quite a ‘swell’ in his well-cut evening suit, entered the drawing-room a minute afterwards, with fifty pounds in his pocket, and something very much like carte blanche to make love to the heiress of the Vansittarts. The mother received him with unfashionable cordiality, shaking his hand vehemently in token of the new bond between them, whilst the daughter beamed welcome upon him with her eyes, from the depths of a large arm-chair, half shrouded from observation by a gigantic palm which rose six feet high from an Etruscan vase of costly majolica.

Grace Vansittart, with the light weight of twenty summers on her brow, was an attractive young woman, although her lowly origin was plainly traceable in the style of her beauty. A prolonged and fashionable training had done much to make a lady of her, and her milliners contributed largely to the general effect. But nothing could do away with the deep colouring, the large hands and feet, and the somewhat coarse voice that remained to her as the heritage of her forefathers. She had rich brown hair and eyes, a straight thick nose, a rather full-lipped mouth, and a figure which, though very tempting under the rounded lines of girlhood, would probably be too much of a good thing ten years later. She was attired in an expensive dress of some mauve material, much covered with laces and drapery, and her ears, arms, neck, and fingers glittered with gold and jewellery. She threw a long look at Godfrey from her full brown eyes, as he approached her chair, which emboldened him to take a seat beside her.

‘So you are really going out with us to Tabbakooloo,’ she said, with a smile.

‘Yes. Are you sorry?’

‘I don’t know. You may be useful on the voyage out. I shall want a great deal of waiting on, I warn you.’

‘You cannot possibly want more than I shall be proud to render you,’ replied Godfrey.

‘That is really a very nice speech. You make me quite eager to start, and put your gallantry to the test.’

‘Well, it will not be long now. I think Mr Vansittart told me the Pandora sails on the 24th.’

‘Three months at sea!’ exclaimed Grace, shrugging her shoulders. ‘What an awful prospect. I hope you will think of something very nice, Mr Harland, to make the time pass quickly.’

‘I will do my best. Are you fond of reading or playing games? Are you a chess player? And if not, shall I teach you? I don’t know a better plan to make time fly.’

‘I really have no choice. I shall leave that to you. But I hope we are going to be great friends. Do you think we shall?’

‘I am sure of it,’ replied Godfrey fervently.

‘Harland,’ interrupted Mr Vansittart at this juncture, ‘have you any engagement for this evening?’

‘None, sir. I am completely at your service.’

‘Well, then, you had better stay here to-night, and go with me to the shipping office the first thing to-morrow morning to secure your berth. Time’s getting on, you know, and if we delay it, we may not be able to get you a comfortable one.’

This proposal did not at all meet with Harland’s views. He had no wish that a servant should be despatched from Mr Vansittart’s house to his own, to bring back his morning clothes, and all the information Maggie might choose to give him. And so he readily forged a lie to excuse himself.

‘I should like it above all things, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but if you will allow me to join you at the office to-morrow morning, I will be there at any hour you name. The fact is, I must sit up to-night writing. This sudden stroke of fortune has brought a few cares with it. There is a little property of mine in the north that I must put at once into other hands, and my yacht—’

‘Oh, you keep a yacht then!’ exclaimed Vansittart, rather surprised at the owner of such an expensive luxury jumping so readily at the offer he had made him.

‘I did keep one before I experienced the heavy losses of which I have told you,’ resumed Godfrey, ‘and though she is let at present to a friend, I must make arrangements for her going to the hammer when his lease is up.’

In his anxiety to prevent any unlucky contretemps revealing the true state of his domestic affairs, Godfrey Harland would have given himself a stable full of horses, and an opera box at Her Majesty’s, and a few dozen carriages to dispose of, in another minute, if his host, recognising the reasons he had already given as sufficient, had not cheerfully consented to his proposal to meet him at the offices of Messrs Stern & Stales on the morrow. And so, not quite knowing whether to be confounded or elated by his sudden run of luck, Harland bade his benefactors good-night.

CHAPTER V.
BREAKERS AHEAD.

GODFREY HARLAND did not go home that night. He was contemplating the commission of a crime, and he felt little remorse upon the subject, but he dreaded the questioning of his wife as to where he had been and what he had been doing. Iris was a timid and long-suffering woman, but she had an unpleasant habit of looking one straight in the eyes whilst she waited for an answer, which made it most difficult to tell her a good lie, and stick to it. So the less he saw of her whilst he remained in England, he thought, the better, and he had already concocted an excuse for pretending to go into the country. He put up for the night at one of his low haunts, and despatched a dirty messenger for his clothes in the morning. As (punctual to his appointment) he walked up to the shipping office to meet his employer, he saw, already standing before it the handsome barouche with its thoroughbred bay steppers, that seemed like an earnest of his own future success. As he entered the office, which was crowded with clerks, messengers, seamen, and passengers, Mr Vansittart came forward and shook him warmly by the hand.

‘Punctual to a minute,’ he said, smiling; ‘that’s the proper way to do business. I see that you and me will get on first-rate together.’

The welcome raised Harland’s spirits, and drove away sundry fears and qualms that had been lurking in his heart. Surely the grim Fates were on his side at last. His luck had turned, and the wheels of life, greased by prosperity, would revolve smoothly for the future. He answered his friend’s greeting with a light laugh, and a debonnair air, that made him appear more charming than ever.

Mr Vansittart went to business at once, and in a few minutes a first-class passenger ticket for the Pandora was made out, signed, paid for, and safely deposited in Mr Harland’s pocket-book. He had played and won. London and its dark associations seemed to be already fading from his view, and New Zealand and a free life, unburdened by cares or encumbrances, was spreading out before him.

‘And now, my boy! Can I set you down anywhere?’ asked Mr Vansittart. ‘I am bound to call at my bankers, but I will drive you to your destination first if you desire it.’

Harland would greatly have liked to show himself by the side of the millionaire in his splendid equipage, but he knew it would be safer not to do so, and so he declined the offer. He had his private reasons for wishing to keep quiet until he was safely out of England. If some of his friends got wind of his being hand and glove with a wealthy man, it might be all up with his dream of enfranchisement. So he professed to have business in another direction.

‘Thanks, Mr Vansittart, but I am running down to Portsmouth to-day about that little yacht of mine, and have promised to wait here for a friend. Don’t let me detain you. When would you wish to see me again?’

‘When will you be back in town?’

‘To-morrow, at latest.’

‘Come up and dine with us then, at seven, and we will discuss the arrangements for the voyage—we have not too much time. In ten days more we shall be upon the sea.’

‘Thank God!’ ejaculated Harland, as the carriage drove away. He waited about for a minute or two, to make sure Mr Vansittart would not return, and then prepared to slink off in an opposite direction. But as he passed through the swinging door of the office into the street, he came face to face with a man, who recognised him without ceremony.

‘Hallo! Cain,’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘Who the d—l would have expected to see you here? I thought you were in America.’

The speaker was a fine stalwart young fellow, but evidently of a much lower standing than Godfrey Harland. The latter was taken completely by surprise, but had the presence of mind to draw himself up stiffly, and say,—

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I have not the pleasure of knowing you,’ and with that he essayed to pass out. But the new-comer was not to be put off so easily.

‘Not know me!’ he repeated. ‘Where are your eyes. I should have known you five miles off. My name is William Farrell. Have you forgotten old Starling, and the row there was in the office when you left?’

‘I repeat that I have not the honour of your acquaintance,’ rejoined Harland, reddening, however, to the brows. ‘Nor do I know to what you refer. It is a case of mistaken identity, sir, and as I am in a hurry, perhaps you will kindly let me pass on.’

But Will Farrell planted himself right in the doorway.

‘No! I’ll be d—d if I will—not until you have told me the truth. If you have forgotten me, I remember you well enough, ‘Mr Horace Cain.’

‘For God’s sake, hold your tongue, man,’ cried Godfrey, thrown off his guard; ‘or come with me where we can talk in privacy.’

‘Ah! I thought that would freshen your memory,’ said the other, with a harsh laugh.

Harland did not know at first what to do. He had recognised this man at once as a former companion at the desk, and his turning up at this inopportune moment might prove the most unlucky move in the world. At all risks he must be conciliated, and kept quiet.

But Harland felt less ready with a lie than usual. He, who was seldom without one at the tip of his tongue, was cowed and nervous by Farrell’s allusion to the past, and could hardly decide what to do, or say. But in another moment his natural aptitude for deceit had returned to him.

‘Of course, I remember you now, Farrell, though I must confess that at first your face did not seem familiar to me. It is some years since we met, and you have changed, as doubtless I have, too.’

‘It is to be hoped so,’ interrupted Farrell, with an unpleasant sneer.

‘But I am always glad to meet an old acquaintance,’ continued Godfrey, ignoring the interruption. ‘I shall be pleased to have a talk with you over old times There is a little place near here where they know me. Will you walk round and have something to drink?’

But the bait did not seem to take.

‘I don’t drink so early in the morning,’ replied Farrell; ‘besides, I have business here.’

‘What is your business?’

‘Well, I don’t know that it concerns you, but I have nothing to conceal. I am going out to New Zealand in the Pandora, on the 24th.’

‘The devil, you are!’ cried Godfrey. ‘Why, we shall be fellow-passengers.’

‘How’s that? Do you sail in her too? Is the country getting too hot for you again?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not at all,’ replied Harland, with assumed dignity. ‘I have come into some money, and am travelling with friends for my own pleasure.’

‘Indeed! Swells, I suppose. What class do you go?’

‘First, of course.’

‘Well, I go second, of course, as I pay for myself, so we shall not see much of each other, thank goodness! on the voyage.’

‘That will not be my fault,’ said Godfrey, blandly, still nervously bent on his efforts at conciliation.

‘But it will be mine if we do,’ returned Farrell, fiercely. ‘Look you here, Horace Cain, I can see through your soft words plain enough. You’re afraid of me, as you’ve got good cause to be, and it would have been all the better for you if you’d told the truth when you first met me, and not tried to sneak out of it by a lie.’

‘Do you threaten me, fellow?’ exclaimed Harland, forgetting his prudence in his anger. ‘I’ll soon teach you the difference between us.’

‘I don’t need any teaching to see the difference between an honest man and a forger,’ retorted Farrell.

‘How dare you?’ cried Godfrey, white with rage.

‘Won’t I dare?’ replied Farrell, with an insolent laugh. ‘Just you cross my path, Mr —— Mr ——’.

‘Godfrey Harland, if you please,’ interposed the other, haughtily.

‘Oh! that’s the new name, is it?’ continued Farrell. ‘A very pretty one too. Just like a novel. Well, it was about time you dropped the other, Horace Cain.’

‘Oh, cease this cursed nonsense,’ cried Harland. ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you. Why should you quarrel with me? If any suspicion fell upon you for acts for which I was responsible, it wasn’t my fault. And it’s all past and over now. Come, man, don’t be sulky. Let us go and drown the remembrance of it in a B. and S.’

But Will Farrell hung backwards.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s folly to quarrel over it at this time of the day, but I can’t drink at your expense all the same. The business you speak of so lightly spoiled my life and made me reckless. That mayn’t seem much to you, but it’s everything to me. And I hope, if you come across me on the voyage, that you won’t speak to me, Mr—Mr Harland.’

‘We are not very likely to come across one another,’ replied Godfrey grandly. ‘I don’t think the second-class passengers are allowed beyond the quarter-deck. And therefore you need not disquiet yourself on that score.’

‘All the better for me,’ quoth Farrell, surlily, as he pushed past him to enter the shipping office.

Godfrey Harland, as he strolled away and thought over the interview, felt very uncomfortable about it. It was an unlucky star that had placed Will Farrell, of all men in the world, on board the Pandora, with himself. If he had only had the good fortune to sail before or after him, he need never have known he was in the same country. He was almost tempted to get up some illness on the part of himself or a near relation as an excuse to change his ticket and follow the Vansittarts by another vessel. But England was becoming dangerous ground for him. The delay of a fortnight might render him unable to leave it at all. He stood between two fires. He saw his creditors pressing on him on one side, and Will Farrell denouncing his past character on the other, and he decided that Farrell was the least dangerous enemy of the two. He had not the same motive for betraying him. He would gain nothing himself by raking up the old scandal, and to hold his tongue might prove a benefit to him. Harland would occupy a good position in the new country, and be able to help Farrell on. The man would see that when he sat down to reason calmly. And so he determined to think as little of the unpleasant contretemps as he might. Yet it haunted him throughout the day, and made his future look far less bright than it had done. He was bound to encounter his wife, too, that evening, and he wished the ordeal was over. He had an excellent story to tell her, but it required a large amount of Dutch courage to go through with it. So that Godfrey Harland had drank a great deal more than was good for him when he stumbled up the steps of his own house that evening.

CHAPTER VI.
A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING.

IRIS was looking forward to her husband’s return with an amount of determination that would have astonished any one who had seen her only in her moments of nervous prostration, when his insults and cruelty had opened her eyes to the folly of which she had been guilty in marrying him, at the same time that she felt her utter impotence to cope with the fate she had brought on herself. But there are points beyond which even the weakest will turn to defend themselves, and such an era had been reached in Iris Harland’s life now. She had carefully thought over the news which Mr Vansittart’s letter to her husband had revealed to her, and her mind seemed suddenly to have grasped the whole meaning of Godfrey’s late behaviour. He intended to desert her. He had made these new friends, who evidently believed him to be unmarried, and he had concealed all his liabilities—domestic and otherwise—from them, and would in all probability accompany them to this new world, and begin life over again, leaving her to perish or to maintain herself as best she could, so long as he was quit of her. He had often threatened so to leave her, but she had never quite believed he would have the cruelty to carry his threats into execution. But now she did. Certain late outrages in his treatment of her had made her believe him capable of anything, even of getting her out of his way, if she stood in it. Mr Vansittart’s letter said that the Pandora sailed on the 24th. That was only ten days off. Surely, if Godfrey accepted the offer made to him, he would give her some warning of his intentions. At all events, she would wait and watch. If he carried his cruel threats into effect, she had made up her mind what to do. But the means. How was she to obtain the means to baffle her husband’s scheme to rid himself of her. The poor child sat and thought with her head in her hands all through the livelong day, without having come to any solution of the riddle, whilst Maggie hovered round her, dissolved in tears, entreating her to have a cup of tea, or to go to bed, or to tell her what was on her mind. At last, as the evening drew near, Iris heard her husband’s latch-key fumbling uncertainly in the keyhole, and knew that he had returned. Maggie heard the sound, too, and recognised the reason. ‘He’s bin at it agen,’ she remarked, with a contemptuous movement of her mouth, as she went to open the door. Godfrey stumbled past her, with an oath, into the little sitting-room, where his wife was waiting to receive him. He, too, was uncertain what to say to her. He had resolved to be led by circumstances. But he was sure of one thing. He must get his way by fair means, rather than by foul. His object just now was conciliation all round, until he had got clear out of England. So the husband and wife met, at heart belligerents, but outwardly calm, in order to effect their several purposes.

‘Well, Childie!’ exclaimed Godfrey thickly, using the soubriquet by which he had nicknamed Iris in their courting days, but which he had forgotten for years past, ‘I have come back, you see, safe and sound, though I have been a deuce of a time away. However, I couldn’t help it. Business detained me. Have you been very dull alone?’

‘Yes; it has been rather dull, with no one but Maggie to speak to. But you know I am used to that. Now you have come, Godfrey, I hope you are going to stay.’

‘Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, I’m not. The fact is, Childie, we’re in a mess with regard to money matters, and it’s quite necessary I should lie perdu for a week or two. I met an old chum of mine to-day in the city, the skipper of a Harfleur packet, and he’s promised to smuggle me out of England to-morrow morning, and I can stay with some friends of his abroad until Glendinning sets matters straight for me.’

‘But how can Mr Glendinning set matters straight for you, Godfrey, without paying your debts? and where is the money to come from?’ demanded Iris, with that uncomfortable penetrating glance of hers.

He turned his eyes away. They never had been able to stand hers.

‘Oh! he’ll raise some money for me, and he’ll pacify the rest of the creditors with promises. Glendinning’s a first-rate fellow at that sort of thing. But he says it is quite necessary I should be out of England, until the business is completely settled.’

‘I see,’ said his wife, ‘and you must go to-night and remain away. For how long is it? Ten days?’

‘I said a fortnight, and it may be three weeks,’ replied Godfrey. ‘It all depends upon how Glendinning can manage things for me. But one thing is certain—I must go.’

‘And how are we to live during your absence?’ asked Iris quietly.

‘Live! Why, as you generally do, I suppose—on credit.’

‘That is quite impossible, Godfrey. I do not object to your going, but you must leave me some money to keep the wolf from the door. The tradesmen will not trust us with a single article. We have even to pay for the milk as we take it in.’

‘That’s awkward,’ said Godfrey. ‘Well, give me some brandy and water, and I’ll think it over.’

A sudden idea flashed into the girl’s mind. She must know the truth before he left her that night, or she might never know it at all. And so, instead of restraining his over-indulgence as she was usually called upon to do, she poured the tumbler half full of brandy before she added the water, and placed it by her husband’s side. The end, in her sight, justified the means. She was resolved to know the worst, and there seemed no other way of forcing the knowledge from him. The strong potion, added to what he had already taken, soon had its effect, but in a different manner from what Iris had intended.

Godfrey Harland’s character was of the lowest type. He was obstinate, vicious, and cruel. But he was also hot blooded, and his hot nature not being under any sort of control, made him a very ardent lover when humoured, and equally dangerous when opposed. To thwart him was to rouse the temper of a fiend. To give in to him was to deal with a brute. He was fierce and unreasonable in his love—jealous and revengeful in his hate—and selfish and cunning in every phase of life. It was hard to say in which mood his wife had learned to dislike and fear him most, but it was as much as her life was worth to oppose him in either. Just now, as she saw the fumes of the brandy had recalled some of his softer feelings for her, she resolved, if possible, to turn the fact to her own advantage.

‘That’s good,’ he said, as he drained the tumbler. ‘By Jove! Childie! you’re looking very pretty to-night. Come here and sit on my knee.’

Iris shuddered at the request, but she complied with it. Nay, more, this wolf in sheep’s clothing smiled upon him as she twined her fingers softly in the dark curls of her husband’s hair.

‘Won’t you give me some money, Godfrey?’ she murmured. ‘You know that I must have it. Just leave me enough to go on with for a month, and I’ll be satisfied.’

‘Well! how much do you want, you jade?’

‘Twenty pounds!’ said Iris boldly.

‘Twenty fiddlesticks! Why, I haven’t got twenty pence about me.’

‘Oh yes, you have!’ she said, coaxingly. ‘Just look, and you’ll find it, Godfrey. You couldn’t go abroad without some ready money, you know.’

He fumbled about in his pockets then, and brought out the pile of notes and gold which had been given him in exchange for Mr Vansittart’s cheque. Iris saw them, and calculated their amount almost to a pound, but she was too discreet to say so. Godfrey separated a single bank-note from the rest, and held it up to her, saying,—

‘Now, what am I to have instead of it?’

‘What do you want, Godfrey?’

‘Twenty kisses at the very least,’ he replied, devouring her beauty with his amorous eyes. ‘Now, put your pretty arms round my neck, Childie, and give me the whole lot, or you sha’n’t have a sixpence.’

How the woman loathed her task. How she longed to tell this man, who had once seemed as a god in her eyes, that she hated and despised him for his cruelty and infidelity to her, and that she refused to degrade herself further at his command. But the thought of her revenge upheld her. ‘Revenge is sweet,’ says Byron, ‘especially to women.’ The prospect of it was sweet to Iris Harland at that moment, and the thought of destitution and starvation was sore, and so she stooped over her half-drunken husband, and gave him what he had asked for, slowly and deliberately, as if she were performing some painful expiation.

‘That’s a good girl!’ exclaimed Harland, as her penance was concluded. ‘And now you shall have the money.’

She laid her hand eagerly upon four or five of the bank-notes as he spoke—crumpled them up in her hand—and thrust the remainder into his breast-pocket again.

‘That is a great deal too much to carry about you, Godfrey, she said, nervously. ‘You will be robbed if you don’t take care. And you will want it all at Harfleur, you know.’

‘Oh, don’t you be afraid, my girl!’ he exclaimed, in his intoxicated, boastful manner, as he buttoned his coat over it. ‘I’ll take good care I’m not robbed. I’m not the sort of man to be taken in easily. You ought to know that by this time.’

Then he rose, and began staggering about the room.

‘I must go,’ he hiccupped, ‘because—because my friend—my friend—will start without me—unless I’m quick. Good-bye, my dear. Don’t—don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. Good-bye, Maggie—give us a kiss.’

‘A kiss, you drunken brute!’ cried the handmaid, sans cérémonie. ‘You’d better try it on—that’s all. It’s something very different from a kiss that I’d give you, if I had my way.’

‘Hush! hush! Maggie,’ entreated Iris, as Harland stumbled through the passage, and out at the front door. ‘Let him go, for heaven’s sake! We shall have no peace till he is gone.’

She walked straight into the bedroom, and smoothed out the notes she still held crumpled in her hand. There were five of them for five pounds each—five-and-twenty pounds. She believed, and yet she was not quite sure, if they would be sufficient for her purpose. But to-morrow would decide. Before that time next day, she would know everything. The idea made her feverishly impatient.

‘Maggie,’ she cried, ‘lock up the door, and let us go to bed. I have so much to do to-morrow. I want to get all the rest I can.’

But though she lay down, it was impossible to close her eyes, and the next morning found Iris Harland tossing on her uneasy couch, and longing for the hour to arrive when her cruel doubts should be satisfied one way or the other.

CHAPTER VII.
TWO WOMEN’S HEARTS.

THE man who aspires to outwit a woman, gifted with the most ordinary characteristics of her sex, should get up very early in the morning. His brain may be larger and heavier than hers, but her instincts are so keen, her wits so sharp, and she knows so well how to draw an inference, that in a game of finesse she has pieced the puzzle and put it together before his slower comprehension has arrived at the conviction that there is anything to find out at all. Godfrey Harland prided himself the following day on the perfect manner in which he had deceived his wife. She believed him to be on his way to Harfleur, and by the time she expected to see him back again he would be on his way to New Zealand and he chuckled inwardly to remember that he had not left a single clue to his destination behind. It is true that he was very much annoyed at discovering the loss of his money, but he did not attribute it to any manœuvering on the part of his wife. He knew that he had drank too freely the night before, and had played at cards after he left Iris, when he scarcely knew if he had lost or won. But any way, he had enough coin left for his purpose, and matters might have been worse. And had it been all gone, he would rather have applied to Mr Vansittart for a further loan, than have returned to look for it in the house at Pimlico. He had cheated them there nicely, he thought, with an idiotic, triumphant chuckle. Iris believed him to be crossing the Channel, and it would never do to disturb her confidence by returning home again. A second set of excuses would not be swallowed so easily as the first. And whilst the poor fool congratulated himself thus, Iris was taking her way, timidly, from the fear of meeting him, but still determinately, to the offices of Messrs Stern & Stales. It was a novel scene in which she found herself. The firm of Stern & Stales was one of the largest in the metropolis. They owned a large number of ships, besides chartering others, so that it was not an uncommon occurrence for seventy vessels, all flying the house flag of the company, to leave the docks for New Zealand and the Colonies in the course of a year. Their office was in Fenchurch Street. At the head of a flight of broad stone steps, with iron railings, was a large room in which a dozen clerks sat scribbling away at their ledgers, or poring over bills of lading, manifests, and invoices. On the walls were ranged half-models of the different vessels in their employ, and nautical almanacks and advertisements were hung in conspicuous positions. As Iris entered this room on the morning in question, and glanced nervously around her, two young men started from their desks simultaneously to ask her pleasure. She was plainly dressed and closely veiled, but her graceful figure and youthful appearance attracted immediate attention, and shipping clerks have their feelings.

‘What can I do for you, miss?’ inquired the elder of the two, shoving the younger to one side.

‘I believe you have some ships going to New Zealand shortly,’ stammered Iris, who was too shy to mention the Pandora all at once. ‘Can I see a list of the passengers?’

‘Certainly, miss. Four of our vessels leave the docks next week. We have the Hindustan, the Trevelyan, and the Pandora, which all carry passengers. Do you require a berth?’

‘Yes!—I think so,’ replied Iris. ‘That is, I want to see the passenger list before I decide.’

‘Very good, miss! Samuels, hand me down the passenger list of the Hindustan, Captain Davis. We have four saloon berths vacant here you see, miss, and three second. She will not carry any steerage. This is a plan of the vessel,’ continued the clerk, unrolling a sheet of parchment. ‘These after-cabin berths—’

But Iris pushed it gently to one side.

‘I—I—think I would rather see the passenger list of the Pandora,’ she said, with a blush that was visible even through her veil, and the clerk, with a wink at his neighbour, passed the desired paper across the counter.

‘The Pandora has her full complement of first-class passengers, so I’m afraid you won’t find anything to suit you there, as there is only a second cabin vacant, miss,’ continued the clerk. ‘She carries steerage, but, of course, that is no use to you.’

‘I don’t know—I don’t know,’ replied Iris, almost hysterically, as she perused the passenger list of the Pandora.

In a moment her quick eye had caught the names of Mr and Mrs Vansittart and Miss Vansittart, and then travelled to the bottom of the paper where that of Mr Godfrey Harland was visibly inscribed. She had expected it, and yet was not prepared for it, and as it met her sight and confirmed her fears, she gave vent to a slight moan, and leant against the counter for support.

‘Are you ill, miss? Can I fetch you a glass of water?’ asked the young man in attendance anxiously.

‘No, no! I am quite well. It is only the heat!’ exclaimed Iris, as she took up the list again to make sure she had not been mistaken. ‘I—I will take a berth, please, in this vessel—the Pandora.’

‘There is only a second-class vacant, miss,’ returned the clerk. ‘We could accommodate you better in the Hindustan, which is quite as fine a ship.’

‘No, I prefer the Pandora, thank you. What is the price of the berth?’

‘Twenty-five guineas, if you please.’

Iris placed the money on the counter, with a sigh. She had imagined it would be less. But if she sold the dress off her back she felt that she must go.

‘Thank you,’ said the clerk, as he received the money. ‘What name shall I book?’

Iris started. She had never thought about changing her name, but in a moment she saw the expediency of it. She was so long, however, before she answered the question, that the clerks looked at one another, and stuck their tongues in their cheeks, to intimate that this was a ‘rum go—’

‘Miss Douglas,’ said Iris at length, in a low voice.

‘There is your ticket, miss,’ said the booking-clerk, when he had filled in her name. ‘You see there is a plan of the cabin on the back. Your berth will be No. 12, and the Pandora will probably sail with the early tide on Wednesday next, therefore it is advisable you should be on board not later than six o’clock on Tuesday evening.’

‘Will—will—all the passengers (the first-class passengers, I mean) go on board on Tuesday evening, too?’ asked Iris hesitatingly.

‘I expect so, miss. Most of them like to settle down before nightfall, as there is little assistance to be got when the ship’s starting.’

‘And might I—do you think—go on board a little earlier than the others?—to avoid the bustle and confusion, I mean.’

‘No; I wouldn’t do that, miss, if I were you,’ replied the clerk. ‘Not that they’d refuse to let you go aboard an hour or so previously; but they don’t care to see the passengers before six o’clock, when they’ll be all ready to receive you. I’d go a little later, rather than sooner, if I were you.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Iris gently, as she turned away.

‘Queer street,—eh?’ said the clerk rapidly to his companions, before he was called to book by another customer.

Meanwhile Iris hurried homewards with her ticket in her hand. It was all settled then. She had cast the die. She was to sail in the Pandora with Godfrey. But she felt very nervous now it was done, and uncertain if she had acted rightly. She longed for a confidant to tell her trouble and her intentions to, and she found it, naturally, in Maggie, with whom she had promised to be explicit.

‘Lor’! mistress!’ cried the latter, as she opened the door to her, ‘where on earth have you been? How dusty and hot you do look. I began to think as you was lost.’

‘Come in here, Maggie, and I will tell you all,’ said Iris, as she passed into the parlour.

Maggie shut the door carefully, and followed her mistress, and stood beside her chair, looking the very incarnation of dirt and good humour.

‘Now, what is it, my pretty? Nothing new to vex you, I do hope.’

‘It is something very serious, Maggie. Mr Harland told me last night that he was going to France till his affairs were settled, and he should be back again in a few weeks. I find it is not true.’

‘Lor’! that’s no news. He’s always a-lying,’ said Maggie.

‘He left a letter behind him, by which I discovered he was thinking of going to New Zealand. I have been to the shipping office this morning, and I saw his name down in the passengers’ list. He sails on the 24th. He is going to desert us, Maggie.’

‘What!’ cried the servant; ‘is he a-going right across the sea, and leave you here, without no money to buy bread or anythink?’

‘Indeed he is, Maggie. Isn’t it base of him?—isn’t it cruel? I wouldn’t treat a dog that depended on me as he has treated me. What crime have I been guilty of, to be punished in so inhuman a fashion?—to be left to starve or to do worse! Oh, my God! it is too hard, it is too bitterly hard!’

And Iris broke down, and sobbed with her face in her hands. When she lifted her head again, Maggie was kneeling at her feet.

‘Don’t you cry, dear mistress,’ she was saying, in her rough manner; ‘you shall never starve whilst I have two hands to work for you. Don’t you cry. Oh! I’ve bin a bad gal. Sometimes I think I must tell you all, but there—it wouldn’t make matters better, and it might make ’em worse. For you lets me serve you now (don’t you, my pretty?), and then you mightn’t. But don’t talk of starving, for while I live, you shall never want for bread and meat.’

‘It was silly of me, Maggie, to say such a thing, for I can work as well as you, though not perhaps in the same way, and I would never eat your bread whilst I could make my own. Thank you, my dear girl, all the same, and I shall never forget you have been a true, good friend to me. But, Maggie, I have settled on another plan. I will not be left here behind in England. I am Mr Harland’s wife, and I have a right to be where he is. So when I had made sure he was to sail in the Pandora, I took a second-class berth in the same vessel, and I shall go out to New Zealand with him.’

Maggie leapt to her feet with surprise.

‘Lor’, mistress! you don’t never mean what you say?’

‘I do, Maggie. Why not? Mr Harland gave me some money last night to keep us whilst he was away, and I have spent it on a ticket for the Pandora. It cost a lot,’ continued Iris, with a sigh,—twenty-five guineas, and I have only a few shillings left. But I couldn’t help it. I must go with him.’

‘And what will you do when you gets on board, mistress?’

‘Oh! I sha’n’t discover myself to him till we get to land, Maggie. He is going first class with some rich friends, who have given him an appointment out there, and I don’t want them to know about me. But when we get to New Zealand, I shall tell Mr Harland he must either take me with him, or make me an allowance to live on; and if he refuses, I shall appeal to his employers to see me righted. Why should he make money, and I derive no benefit from it? I have suffered enough, Heaven knows! since I have married him, without being cast off, as if I were some guilty creature not fit to be his wife. I will not stand it any longer. I have sworn that I will not.’

Maggie had been listening to this tirade with wide open, glistening eyes, and at its close she threw herself prostrate on the hearthrug.

‘And you will go away from England to live across the sea and maybe never come back again, and leave poor Maggie here all alone. Oh, mistress I cannot bear it. It will kill me if I don’t go too!’

‘My poor Maggie!’ cried Iris, with genuine distress. ‘I never thought of you. But what can I do? I can only just pay for my own passage and my fare to Liverpool. It leaves me nothing even to buy another dress.’

‘But what will become of you without me?’ wailed the woman. ‘Do you know what that brute will do when he finds out you’ve tricked him? He’ll half kill you, as he’s tried to often and often in this very room; and you’d have been dead now, if it hadn’t been for me. I can’t let you go alone, mistress. You’ll never come back. He’ll find some means of making away with you out there.’

‘Oh, Maggie! what can I do?’ exclaimed her mistress. ‘I should love to take you with me—indeed, my troubles have been so many I never thought what an additional one parting with you would prove, till you mentioned it to me. But how can I raise the money, dear? I have only seven shillings left.’

‘You shan’t go alone,’ said Maggie fiercely; ‘I won’t trust you with him alone. I ain’t fit to be your protector, but I’m the only one you’ve got, and it’s the only way I can make up to you for all the harm I’ve done you.’

‘How strangely you talk, Maggie. What harm have you ever done me?’

‘Ah, don’t mind my chatter, dear; I’m half crazy with grief and fear, and I don’t know what I’m saying. But you sha’n’t fall into that devil’s clutches if I can save you. Don’t all this furniture belong to you, mistress?’

‘Yes, Maggie, such as it is, it is ours—and we only have the rooms by the week.’

‘Well, mistress, I have a few shillings saved out of my wages, and if you’ll leave it all to me, I’ll manage it.’

‘But how, Maggie?’ demanded Iris.

‘I’ll give Mrs Barton notice at once, and move you out into other rooms on Saturday, and then I’ll get rid of the sticks and things, and they’ll pull us through.’

‘Oh, Maggie, they will never fetch more than a few pounds at the outside. There is hardly a sound piece of furniture amongst them.’

‘Yes! thanks to his tantrums. But there will be enough for our purpose. Mistress, you must give in to me in this, for if I steals the money I shall sail in that ship with you. Oh, my dear, my dear! Don’t you know as I’d lay down my worthless life to save you pain.’

And with that the two poor creatures fell into each other’s arms and wept. They were as different to look at as light from darkness, but they possessed one great virtue in common, a true and genuine woman’s heart.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE ‘PANDORA.’

THE newly-appointed officers were on board the Pandora. Abel Coffin was the name of the chief officer. He was a short, broad built man, with a bullet head and square shoulders. Peeping out from beneath his bushy brows were two small black eyes, which winked and blinked, and were apparently never at rest, except when in the arms of Morpheus. His nose was inclined to be celestial, broad and unshapely, and of rather a rubicund tint that corresponded with the tips of his large ears; but whether it arose from the free use of stimulants, or the biting northerly winds of the Atlantic Ocean, it was difficult to say. A strong set of teeth, discoloured by tobacco, were firmly set in his jaw, and covered by a pair of thick lips. A profusion of coarse, wiry hair encircled his face, to which the absence of a moustache gave a dogged appearance. There was a ponderous look altogether about the man. He was not corpulent, but his bones were large, and sinews took the place of flesh. In point of fact, Abel Coffin was exceedingly powerful, and capable of enduring great fatigue. He was a smart man, too; the school in which he had been reared being a severe one, but it had turned him out every inch a sailor.

When quite a lad he had been apprenticed by his father to a Bostonian, which carried timber between Liverpool and the States. In this old tub—which boasted a jackass rig—which took two hands to steer her in an ordinary seven-knot breeze, and whose windmill pump was always required to be kept upon the move, Abel Coffin had gone in at the hawse holes and out at the cabin windows. And doubtless he would have remained in her for ever had she not been so battered about after she had jumped and thrashed her way into a nasty cross sea, that, after having been towed into the Mersey by a compassionate tug, it was decided that she should be broken up as unsafe to make another trip across the ‘duck pond.’ So he had come up to London, and during his wanderings about the docks in search of an outward bounder, had encountered the captain of the Pandora, and on producing his tin case of mildewed certificates and discharges, had been duly installed as mate. He was a rough, generous, and good-hearted fellow—a trifle severe, but just and honest, and always to be found at his post when duty required it. On board the old wooden barge he had been accustomed to hear the orders bawled out, and usually accompanied by foul oaths—his only companions had been his mate and boatswain—and his food coarse and unpalatable.

The vessel was badly manned; all her gear stiff and old-fashioned, and she required a deal of handling. Her sails were covered with geordie patches, and when stowed were huddled to the yards in a most ungainly fashion. Red rust was prevalent from the want of paint, or rather coal tar, and her decks were scratched and dented, and had not been acquainted for years with the carpenter’s caulking irons and mallet. In a stiff breeze she yawed and capered about like a tipsy woman, thumping heavily into the seas, and sending banks of angry foam rushing from her basin-shaped bows. She plunged and groaned, compelling the skipper to watch her very closely, as she rushed from her course and then refused to come to, till the wheel was hard down, and she had cracked and strained her timbers and described the letter S in her wake, and the weary helmsman’s arms ached with the amount of labour she required.

To step from such a vessel as this on to the deck of the Pandora was a new experience in Abel Coffin’s life, and he appreciated it accordingly. The trim passenger ship, fitted up with all the latest improvements and designs—well manned by strong able seamen—and provisioned with a goodly supply of live stock and fresh vegetables—was a rich feast for his eyes, and to be her chief officer a stroke of good luck he had never contemplated. It was like leaving two squalid furnished apartments to take up his quarters in a first-class hotel, and though, as yet, not quite at home in his new capacity, Abel Coffin worked with his accustomed zeal, and rather astonished the easy-going seamen. It was the day before the departure of the Pandora, and every one on board was active. The last lighters were alongside with their casks and cases, and Jack Blythe was superintending their stowage in the main hatchway. The steward bustled about the decks, attended by his satellites, carrying squeaking fowls and quacking ducks to their coops, which were lashed on top of the house amidships. The black cook and the butchers unmercifully dragged the unfortunate sheep and pigs to their pens, whilst able seamen were busy serving the running gear, and coiling down the warps, to be in readiness to heave out. Small carts and drays waited on the wharf to unload their cargoes of vegetables, cabin stores, and ship’s dry provisions, and porters, with trucks of passengers’ luggage, and seamen’s chests and baggage, with shellbacks, runners, boarding-house keepers, and gaily-dressed women, were all looking out for some one or other, who was about to sail in the Pandora. Confusion reigned supreme. The decks were hampered with coils of rope, tins of varnish, sails that were to be bent and gear to be lashed or stowed away, and in the midst of this Babel, Mr Coffin was here, there, and everywhere. Now on the poop slacking away a barge’s stern rope—then on the quarter-deck signing a receipt—anon on the topgallant forecastle, heaving a pall with the capstan, or making up a jib ready to be sent out on to the boom. Jack Blythe was not so active as his superior. He was obliged to stow the last cases and barrels very carefully in the lower decks, so as to leave a passage to the locker, in order that forty tons of gunpowder might be taken aboard, and placed there when the vessel reached the hulks. The third mate was a nice-looking youngster, who had just passed his second officer’s examination. His name was Richard Sparkes. He was a tall lad, with curly brown hair, an apology for a moustache, and bright blue eyes. His duties were confined to the passengers’ stores, the safety of the live stock, and the care of the fresh water.

As the clock struck twelve work was knocked off, and the youngest officer being left in charge of the ship, the two elders stepped on to the quay, and went to get their mid-day meal.

Vernon Blythe walked to a small hotel, in the bar window of which the landlord had placed a placard to the effect, that he had ‘Good accommodation for officers and midshipmen.’ There he sat down to a table d’hôte, and afterwards amused himself with Lloyd’s Shipping News, whilst inhaling the fragrant bouquet of a well-coloured pipe, and giving an occasional thought to Alice Leyton’s near arrival.

But where Mr Coffin disappeared to, it would be difficult to say. He was an entirely different man from his second. His habits, manners, and associates were all rough and unpolished. He had been born in a fishing village, and nurtured among whalers, deep-sea fishers, and lime-juicers. He had never entered cultivated society, consequently he was shy and reserved, and when on shore sought out such habitats as sailors of his stamp usually frequent. He had looked with astonishment, not unmixed with contempt, at Jack Blythe’s handsome and refined features, close cropped hair, well kept hands, and neat attire. He had already set him down as a fair-weather sailor, and a dandy, and doubted his ability in a time of trouble. Before the voyage was over Abel Coffin had acknowledged to himself and Vernon Blythe that he was wrong.

In the afternoon the busy throng that waited on the quay, and the dock loafers that hung about the shipping, gradually cleared away, and at five o’clock the hatches were battened down, and Mr Coffin reported the Pandora ready for sea. By the time the dinner-bell was sounded, most of the passengers had arrived to answer to its summons.

Jack Blythe had received the Leytons at the head of the gangway. Mrs Leyton, a fragile-looking woman, whose delicate health had been the cause of her residing in England for some years past, came first, with her youngest born, a heavy child of four years old, in her arms.

‘Give baby to me, Mrs Leyton,’ cried Jack, eagerly, as she came toiling along the gangway. ‘Why didn’t you let one of the sailors carry her? She is much too heavy for you.’

‘She is so naughty,’ sighed the poor mother; ‘she will go to no one but myself.’

‘Ah, you spoil her,’ said Jack, as he helped them both on deck.

‘It’s more than she does me!’ exclaimed Alice’s merry voice behind them.

‘Everybody spoils you, you monkey,’ replied her lover, as he turned to greet her.

‘Well, did you think we had altered our minds, and were never coming, Jack? And how do you like me, now I have come?’ inquired Alice, consciously.

‘You look charming, as you always do,’ he answered.

Most men would have returned a more enthusiastic reply, for Alice was looking her very best. Robed in a yachting costume of white serge, with gilt anchor buttons, and a sailor’s hat bound with white ribbon, set coquettishly upon her sunny curls, she ran a muck of the heart of every son of Neptune who saw her step upon the deck.

‘Well, it’s something to get a compliment out of you, Jack. “All scraps thankfully received.” But come along and show us our cabin, and help us to get straight. I can’t think how we are all going to get into it.’

‘I wish I could obey your bidding, Alice, but it’s impossible,’ replied Jack. ‘I can’t stir from here. I’m on duty.’

A cloud came over Alice’s fair face.

‘I don’t believe it. You’re looking out for somebody else.’

‘You’ve hit it!’ he exclaimed, with a merry laugh. ‘I am waiting for my other girl.’ And, at that moment, as if to confirm his joking assertion, Mrs and Miss Vansittart appeared.

‘Mr Sparkes,’ Jack had just time to call out, ‘take these ladies into the saloon, and tell the stewardess to show them their cabin,’ and then he turned away to attend to the new comers. Alice Leyton pouted visibly at what she considered her lover’s neglect; but Mr Richard Sparkes was so delightfully pleasant and gallant, that she soon forgot all about it.

‘Allow me,’ said Vernon Blythe gracefully, as he extended his hand for the convenience of Mrs Vansittart.

‘Lor’! thank you, sir, I’m sure!’ exclaimed the panting, good-humoured woman, as she clawed hold of his arm with her enormous fist. ‘Moving is a worry, and no mistake. However, thank heaven! it’s for the last time. When I’ve once got home, no one will tempt me back again. Where are you, Grace? Don’t tumble into the water, whatever you do. It’s a real risk of life to ask any one to cross such a narrow plank as that.’

‘Here I am, mamma—close behind you,’ replied Grace.

‘And the peril is over, for this time at least,’ observed Jack, as he helped her on to the deck. Grace smiled upon him very graciously. She was struck with his bright, handsome face at first sight. If all the officers of the Pandora were like this one (she thought) the voyage might not pass so tediously as she anticipated. Mr Vansittart followed closely on the heels of his wife and daughter, and Godfrey Harland, who had been staying at their house for the last few days, brought up the rear. As the latter raised his head, and encountered the honest eyes of the young sailor looking straight into his, although the glance was only instigated by a natural curiosity, he turned his uneasily away. These men had never met each other before. They were not even aware of each other’s names, and yet they instinctively felt a mutual dislike. Godfrey put Vernon down at once as a conceited, impertinent puppy—above his condition in life—and likely to give trouble in case of being roused. And Vernon mentally decided that Godfrey was shifty, independable, and a man to be avoided.

‘Nasty eyes,’ he said to himself afterwards; ‘I wouldn’t trust that fellow with change for a sovereign. If there’s any play going on during the voyage, I shall keep a sharp look out upon him.’ But at the moment he was compelled to be all politeness.

‘Vansittart—stern cabins 1 and 2,’ he said, as he glanced at their tickets. ‘If you will take the ladies into the saloon, sir, you will find the steward ready to show you the way. Mr Godfrey Harland, No. 14, your cabin is aft amongst the gentlemen;’ and with this Vernon Blythe turned curtly away, and commenced to give orders concerning the passengers’ baggage.

Godfrey Harland perceived his manner towards him, and resolved to resent it. ‘I’ll pay that puppy out for his impertinence before many days are over,’ he thought, as he followed his employers to the saloon. By seven o’clock the whole party were seated at dinner. At the head of the table sat Dr Lennard, who was always in great request by all the ladies on board. He had a very handsome woman placed upon his right, to whom he was paying the most deferential attention; but he had soon entered into friendly conversation with the Vansittarts and Godfrey Harland, whose seats were all near him. At the other end, in the captain’s chair, sat Mr Coffin, looking strangely out of place amongst the pretty girls and well-dressed men by whom he was surrounded, and almost surly in his nervousness, as he ladled out the soup and carved the joints. Beside him was seated the third officer, who had contrived, for this evening at least, to secure a seat next to Alice Leyton, whose pretty face, merry laugh, and animated conversation kept all the men round her in a state of excitement; and especially interested a certain Captain Lovell, who could not take his eyes off her. Yes, Alice could laugh, and flirt, and enjoy herself, although Vernon Blythe was not by her side,—not even enjoying his dinner at the same time. On the poop (or, as many sailors call it, the ‘knife-board’), he paced up and down, keeping his watch till he should be relieved from duty, now and then glancing at the weather-vane, as if expectant of a sudden shift of wind.

‘I say, what do you do that for?’ inquired a voice near him, in drawling, languid tones.

Jack looked round at the speaker, as if he considered the question altogether too silly to answer.

‘Is there anything up there?’ continued the new-comer, indicating the weather-vane.

‘More than there is down here by a good deal,’ replied Jack, referring to the stranger’s brains.

But Harold Greenwood deserves a chapter to himself.

CHAPTER IX.
MR GREENWOOD.

HE was one of those wonderful anomalies in coat and trousers, at which we gaze curiously, as we speculate to which sex they belong. He had light flaxen hair, perceptibly crimped with hot irons, pale blue eyes, and small, dolly features. The suspicion of a whitey-brown moustache on his upper lip was like the down on an apple-tart. His hands were fat, and short, and white—almost dimpled—and laden with women’s rings. He was dressed in a tight check suit, a brown felt hat, gaiters, and patent-leather shoes. In his hand he carried a small Malacca cane, which he usually swung backwards and forwards, while he stood with his legs well apart; an eyeglass was stuck with so painful an effort into his eye that it distorted his features; and he wore his hat a little to one side, which was intended to give him a rakish appearance. A gold chain of great length and thickness was stretched across his waistcoat. At one end of it dangled his keys, at the other a button-hook. From his breast-pocket peeped out a pink silk handkerchief, placed there for ornament rather than use, and encircling his throat was a white collar, so high and so well starched that he was frequently obliged to place his fingers between the linen and the skin to prevent his throttling.

Vernon Blythe looked down at this mannikin with supreme contempt, not unmixed with amusement.

‘I suppose you are an officer of the ship—eh?’ rejoined Mr Greenwood.

‘I suppose I am,’ said Jack coolly.

‘Well, when shall we sail—eh? Can you tell me that?’

‘By the first tide to-morrow morning.’

‘But when will the first tide be? I’m a passenger, you see, so I’ve a right to know. Haven’t I—eh? My name is Greenwood—Harold Greenwood. I have one of the deck cabins.’

‘Why don’t you go down to your dinner?’ asked Jack, ignoring his queries.

‘Oh, because I dined before I came on board. Didn’t know what I might get here, don’t you know? Had dinner with a friend, and a game at billiards. Oh, by the way, have you a billiard-table on board? Awfully jolly game billiards, don’t you know?’ and placing his hand upon the pipe rail, whilst he used his cane for a cue, Mr Greenwood commenced pushing away at an imaginary ball.

To this absurd question Jack Blythe again vouchsafed no answer.

‘I say, do you like waltzing?—awfully nice waltzing,’ resumed the youth, commencing to whistle, and dance round in a circle with his cane for a partner. ‘I suppose we shall have a dance every evening? I hear there are some devilish pretty girls on board, and it will be our duty to pay them some attention. We shall miss the rides in the Row, and the shooting awfully, don’t you know?’ he went on, pretending his cane was a gun, and levelling it at the main-topsail block; ‘but we must make the best of it, and a bit of flirtation ain’t such bad fun on a long voyage, don’t you know? It passes the time, and it pleases the girls, and so it does good all round, eh?’

‘I should think you would be sure to do them a lot of good. There’s no doubt at all about that,’ replied Jack Blythe gruffly, as he turned on his heel.

There could not have been a greater contrast than between these two men. To see them side by side was to doubt the possibility of their belonging to the same order of creation. Jack Blythe, strong, healthy, and muscular, with arms and hands that had been developed by manual labour, and a fresh skin, which had been bronzed by a tropical sun, and washed and beaten by the salt sprays of the Atlantic—with manly and practical ideas, and a wholesome horror of effeminacy and all that pertains to a fop; and Harold Greenwood, with a milk-and-water complexion and flabby muscles,—soft limbs, that stood on a par with those of a woman, and a head crammed with superficial ideas, that showed the narrowness of his nature and the absence of even an ordinary amount of brain.

‘Awfully jolly weather this, isn’t it?’ continued Harold Greenwood, who was too dense to take a rebuff unless it was administered in the shape of a kick. ‘I say, what time do they call a fella here in the morning? I should like to be up to see the ship start. Do you think the steward will remember to wake me?’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Vernon brusquely. ‘You had better ask him yourself. And I wish the d——l you wouldn’t whisk your stick about in that absurd manner. You will put out my eye in another minute.’

This last request, which was delivered in a very angry tone of voice, startled ‘Miss Nancy’ altogether, and with a muttered apology, and a half-frightened look at the second officer, Mr Greenwood hurried down the accommodation ladder, thinking what very rude men sailors seemed to be, whilst Jack continued to keep his watch, and to smile to himself whenever the sound of Alice’s ringing laughter was wafted upwards through the open skylights of the saloon.

Meanwhile, in the second cabin some of the passengers had sat down to tea, and were discussing in lubber-like terms the qualities and accommodation of the vessel, whilst others were amusing themselves by unpacking their chests and ranging the necessary articles for the voyage in the places assigned to them. They were a large party, and there was much fun and confusion amongst them, the dearth of space in their sleeping cabins, and the difficulty of finding room for their various belongings, seeming to provoke more laughter than vexation. Will Farrell especially appeared to be enjoying himself. He was excited at the idea of leaving England and commencing a new life in the bush, and having the opportunity to shake off the suspicion which had been wrongfully attached to him. He had already made fast friends with a man called Bob Perry, and was sitting at the tea-table with him discussing subjects of interest connected with New Zealand, with which Perry had been for some years familiar. It was at this juncture that the second officer, from his watch on the poop, saw a sailor run to the side to help two more passengers over the gangway. They were both women. The first one stumbled, and came head foremost upon deck, striking the gallant seaman who waited to receive her a violent blow in the chest, which he took with a roar of laughter, in which several of his messmates joined. The mirth and confusion seemed to make the second passenger timid, for as she stepped over the gangway she glanced in a nervous manner from one end of the vessel to the other, and whispered to her companion, who in her turn communicated her wishes in a very low voice to the sailor.

‘Second cabin, miss,’ he replied aloud; ‘why, certainly. I’ll show you the way. Round this here corner, that’s it, and down them stairs. Take care. Turn round, miss, and go down back’ards, or you’ll come a cropper. Now you’re safe, and the cabin’s just afore you. No thanks, miss—no thanks,’ and the sailor went upon his own business.

Vernon, watching this little episode from the elevation of the poop, could not help wondering for a moment who this second-class passenger could be, who seemed so timid and shrinking, and unlike the company in which she would find herself. She appeared to be a lady travelling with her maid, but what gentlewoman who could afford to keep a servant would go second class? The mystery, slight as it was, was sufficient to puzzle him, and keep him thinking of the last arrivals until he was relieved of his watch. Meanwhile Iris Harland and Maggie had found their way into the second cabin, where all eyes greeted them with a prolonged stare. Iris was terribly nervous—fearful in each face to recognise that of her husband; and her companion was not much better. However, there was no need for alarm, and after a minute or two, when they saw they were in the midst of strangers, they recovered their confidence. Maggie was the first to speak.

‘Can any of you gentlemen show us the way to cabin number twelve?’ she asked, as, laden with parcels and band-boxes, she pushed her way to the front.

Maggie was looking fresh and comely that evening. She wore her best clothes, and she had ‘cleaned herself’ for the occasion. Her dark hair and eyes formed a vivid contrast to her rosy cheeks; and her wide mouth, with its strong white teeth, looked sweet and wholesome. Will Farrell was the first man to answer her challenge.

‘I will!’ he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. ‘I sleep in number eleven. Here it is, you see—next to mine.’

‘Thank you kindly. ’Tisn’t for me; it’s for this lady here. And now, how are we to get our boxes down?’

‘Where are they?’ demanded Farrell.

‘On deck. There’s two of ’em. A black box, and a little blue one that’s mine.’

‘If they’re not very large, I’ll bring them down for you.’

‘Oh! you’d make nothing of them. I’d carry them myself, except for those plaguey stairs.’

‘Maggie,’ remonstrated Iris, in a low voice, ‘we cannot trouble this gentleman. Remember he is a stranger.’

‘Oh, no! he ain’t. Are you, sir? No one is strangers once they’re on board ship together.’

‘Of course not,’ rejoined Farrell heartily, ‘and if it is the case, the sooner we’re friends the better. But won’t you have a cup of tea first? Shall I tell the steward to fetch you some? Your friend looks tired.’

‘She is tired, poor dear!’ replied Maggie, who had been warned to treat Iris as her equal during the voyage.

‘I’ll fetch it whilst you are taking off your things,’ replied Farrell, hastening away.

‘Now, mistress, take off your hat and veil,’ whispered Maggie to Iris, as he disappeared, ‘this place is stifling hot.’

‘Oh, Maggie! I feel as I should never dare to show my face in public.’

‘Oh, but that’s nonsense! Besides, there’s no fear. He’ll be a deal too grand to put his foot in the second cabin: you may take your oath of that. And here comes back this good fellow with the tea.’

‘Really, sir, you’re very kind to us,’ said Maggie, as Farrell set two cups of steaming tea before them, ‘but I mustn’t drink any, you know. I ain’t a second classer. I’m only steerage, and I shouldn’t have intruded myself here at all, except to see this lady safe to her cabin, because she ain’t used to roughing it, as I am.’

‘There’s no harm in saying that,’ she continued, as a slight pinch from Iris warned her not to go too far.

‘You are travelling in the steerage!’ exclaimed Will Farrell; ‘I am sorry.’

‘Why so, sir? It’s good enough for me. I’m not a duchess.’

‘No! and I’m not a duke, and so I think we should have been good company for each other on the voyage, Miss Maggie.’

‘Miss Greet, if you please, sir. I don’t hold to being called out of my name.’

‘Miss Greet, then. However, the steerage is not far off, and so I shall still hope we may see a good deal of each other.’

‘I don’t know about that, but if you’ll turn your attention to my lady—I mean to my friend here—and help her instead of me, I should be ever so much more obliged to you. I daresay I shall find plenty of young men in the steerage—they ain’t a scarce commodity—but Mrs—I mean Miss Douglas, don’t know a soul here, and you can be all the use in the world to her.’

‘Hush! hush! Maggie,’ pleaded Iris.

‘You just keep quiet, my dear, and let me say what I choose.’

‘I shall be delighted to be of use to both of you,’ replied Farrell, who had not failed to observe that Iris was a very pretty woman; ‘and as an earnest of my goodwill, I will go and bring down these boxes at once.’ And off he ran.

‘Now, ain’t that a good sort?’ cried Maggie admiringly.

‘He seems so,’ replied Iris. ‘But, Maggie, I think I shall go to my berth at once. I shall never feel safe until we are well out to sea.’

‘All right, my dear. But here comes that chap with the boxes. Let me just go and see where he puts mine first, and then I’ll come back, if they’ll let me, and help you get to bed. Will you promise me to sit here quiet till I come?’

‘Yes,’ said Iris mechanically, as she took up a newspaper, and commenced to read.

Many eyes were turned towards her as she sat there, with her pale, beautiful face half-shaded by the brim of her hat and the thick veil, which was only partially withdrawn; and many conjectures were raised as to why so young a creature was going out to the new country alone.

Perhaps it was the little drama he had seen enacted on her arrival which induced Vernon Blythe to pay a visit to the second cabin that evening. Perhaps it was the fate which stalks us all, and pulls the strings of our lives as if we were so many puppets, bound to caper at its will. Any way, when his watch was relieved, he bent his steps there, instead of going down to the saloon. As he entered, Iris Harland was sitting where Maggie had left her, at the end of the long table furthest removed from the door; and Vernon Blythe stood on the threshold, and regarded her for some minutes before she was even aware of his presence. He had not caught a single glimpse of the face of the lady who had arrived so late, he had scarcely seen the outlines of her figure, and yet he felt sure that that was she sitting under the swinging lamp, with her graceful form bent forward, her eyes cast down upon the paper, and one slim white hand resting on the table. How strangely her appearance startled and affected him. He had never, to his knowledge, seen her before, and yet his heart almost stood still to look at her. Who was she? Where were her friends? What was she doing here alone, in an atmosphere so evidently uncongenial to her? Jack Blythe had not been so many years at sea without gaining a thorough knowledge of the different classes of passengers a vessel is accustomed to carry. And this passenger, he could tell from merely looking at her, was out of her class and her own sphere altogether. Could there be any error in the matter? She seemed very shy, and inexperienced. Was it possible she had got into the wrong cabin by mistake? Jack determined to find out, and with that view walked up to the further end of the table. As Iris perceived that some one was approaching her, she drew the thick veil she wore right over her features, and pretended still to be reading through it, although it was impossible she could decipher a word. Jack threw himself into a seat near her, and whistled a few bars of music carelessly, just to show that he was completely at his ease. Then after the pause of a minute, he addressed her:—

‘I beg your pardon! I hope that you are comfortable, and have everything you require. Things are apt to be a little confused on starting, but I am one of the officers of the ship, and if there is anything I can do for you, you have but to ask me.’

He paused for a reply, but it was long in coming. Iris’s thick veil did not prevent her hearing, and the sound of his young manly voice had struck on her heart like a knell. She recognised it at once, and even through her veil she recognised him. She remembered distinctly when she had heard that voice last,—its earnest, passionate tones,—the strangled agony in it on her refusal to listen,—the sob with which he had turned to leave her for ever! She had often thought of that scene, and of her boyish lover since then,—had often asked herself whether she had not been a blind fool to turn from his suit to listen to that of Godfrey Harland,—had even wondered if she should ever meet Vernon Blythe again, and tell him she regretted the pain which she had given him. And here he was—in the very same ship with herself, and speaking to her in that unforgotten voice. At the first blush, it seemed to Iris Harland as if everything were lost. Her own voice shook so in answering him that it would have been hard for any one to recognise it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, in the lowest possible tone, ‘but there is nothing.’

‘Introductions are not supposed to be necessary aboard ship,’ continued Jack, ‘so I hope you will not think me forward in asking your name.’

‘Miss Douglas.’

‘And mine is Vernon Blythe, at your service,’ he said, lifting his cap and putting it on his head again. ‘Are you going out to Lyttleton?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have friends there, perhaps?’

‘No.’

This answer puzzled him. What on earth could so young a lady intend to do in a strange country without friends? He hazarded another conjecture.

‘You know the country then?—you have been there before?’

‘No, never!’ replied Miss Douglas, in the same agitated tones.

After this, Jack felt that he must ask no more. She evidently did not wish to be communicative, and further questioning would devolve into impertinence. He was wondering if he dared speak to her again, when Maggie Greet rushed back into the cabin, and up to her mistress’s side.

‘Now, my dear,’ she cried, ‘I’m going to put you to bed.’

‘Yes, yes!’ whispered Iris convulsively, clinging to her, ‘take me away at once—take me to bed.’

Maggie saw she was on the point of breaking down, and looked round for the cause. Her eyes fell on Vernon Blythe, sheepishly watching them both.

‘What have you been a-saying to her?’ she demanded curtly.

‘Nothing—nothing, Maggie!’ sobbed Iris.

‘I hope, indeed,’ said Vernon, ‘that I have not offended Miss Douglas by my offers of assistance. They were made with the best intentions, I can assure you.’

‘Yes, yes! I know—’ gasped Iris; ‘but I’m tired—and—and a little faint, and I’d rather go to bed.’

‘She’s overdone—that’s where it is, sir,’ explained Maggie, as she cuddled Iris’s head to her bosom, ‘and the sooner she’s asleep the better. Come along, my pretty!’ and she half led, half dragged Iris into No. 12.

She went without even bidding Jack a formal good-night. He felt a little mortified when he thought of it, but, after all, what was Miss Douglas to him? He rose up, and went whistling out of the cabin as she disappeared; but he thought more than once of the mysterious second-class passenger before they met again.

CHAPTER X.
GOOD-BYE TO ENGLAND.

THE sun shone brightly on the dark, turbid waters of the Indian Docks, making the binnacles sparkle like burnished gold, under the influence of his rays. The Blue Peter floated gaily at the fore royal masthead of the Pandora, and all was in readiness to receive the pilot. The decks were cleared up, and the hatches battened down. The anchors were hanging in their tackles, the cables were overhauled over the windlass and ranged along the deck, and innumerable lines and warps were coiled down, all ready to be paid out into the boat.

Punctual to time, a short, dark man in blue uniform stepped aboard, and having exchanged salutations with the captain, took his place upon the bridge and gave the order to ‘Slack away for’ard,’ and as the shellbacks tramped around the capstan aft, the Pandora moved slowly away from the quay.

Then, after a great deal of shouting—of paying out warps, and hauling them in—of encroaching upon the kindness of the captains of other vessels by asking them to ‘make fast’ and ‘let go,’ the Pandora reached the dockhead, where she was slewed round, and a tug caught hold of her hawser.

A small crowd of friends and relations were here gathered together, anxious to have a last look at those dear ones who were going so far away, perhaps never to return. Some were brave enough to step aboard, and go down as far as Gravesend, where the vessel was to wait a couple of hours. But others were detained by work or business in London, and could not afford to indulge their inclination. All had time, however, while the Pandora slowly crawled through the narrow entrance, to whisper their last farewells—to implore the travellers ‘to be sure to write,’ and tell them all their news—to wish them a prosperous voyage, and, above all, to give them a warm grip of the hand, or a parting kiss.

Ah! these long uncertain partings are very Death in Life. They have all the agony of Death about them, and none of its peace. They are the most cruel trials this miserable world affords us!

When the vessel was clear of the docks, and had glided into the broad river, the helm was put to starboard, and her head pointed eastward—then the hawser gradually ‘taughtened’ as the tug went ahead, and many of the passengers, realising that they were really ‘off,’ strained their eyes, brimming with tears, towards the shore, and with a choking sensation in their throats, waved their handkerchiefs as a last farewell to the friends they had left behind them. But their emotion soon subsided as they watched the lively scene spread out upon all sides. It is those who stay at home who feel parting most. The river was alive with barges, which had taken advantage of the wind to stem the tide. Large passenger steamers took their way carefully amongst the smaller craft, and channel and river boats plied fussily backwards and forwards, with groaning deckloads of gaily-dressed pleasure seekers.

Large wooden ships lay moored to the buoys, discharging blue casks of petroleum, and in their wake fruiters and colliers were similarly employed. Trinity boats, with their decks crowded with red and white buoys, had made fast under the shears, and innumerable tugs, and ferryboats, and watermen were waiting for something to ‘turn up.’

At two o’clock Gravesend was reached, where dozens of vessels had come to a standstill, and half-an-hour afterwards the Pandora was brought up and moored to a buoy close to the red powder-hulks, with her burgee flying at the masthead.

The powder having been brought alongside in lighters, laden with small wooden tubs, a double line of men was ranged from the port to the locker, and the kegs quickly passed along.

Whilst the powder was being taken in, a boat pulled by four men approached the vessel. In her stern were seated the coxswain, and another man who was evidently a passenger. When she reached the Pandora’s side the gangway was lowered, and the mysterious stranger who had chosen this late hour to arrive, ascended the ladder.

He was a tall, dark man with curly hair, and a heavy moustache, which joined a pair of mutton-chop whiskers. His face was much lined, and there was a haggard look beneath his keen grey eyes. He wore a soft felt slouch hat, a black morning coat, and loose trousers. His baggage apparently consisted of a large portmanteau, which was carried up by one of the sailors, and tumbled on to the deck.

‘What name?’ inquired Mr Sparkes, who waited at the head of the gangway to receive him.

‘I wish to see the captain,’ was the stranger’s only answer.

‘You will find him on the bridge,’ said Richard Sparkes, and without another word the new-comer hastily mounted the companion, and confronted the skipper.

‘Captain Robarts?’ he inquired briefly.

‘The same, sir,’ replied the captain. ‘What is your business?’

‘There is my card,’ returned the other, producing it.

‘Oh, yes! of course,’ said Captain Robarts, as he looked at the card; ‘very pleased to see you, Mr Fowler, and if you will ask the steward, he will show you your berth.’

During this short colloquy, the passengers assembled on the deck eyed the new-comer curiously, and many were the speculations raised concerning him.

‘Who can he be, Captain Lovell?’ asked Alice Leyton, who had become quite friendly with the gentleman in question.

‘I should say he had come to take charge of the powder,’ replied Lovell. ‘He is evidently going to remain, as he has brought his luggage.’

‘Perhaps he is (what Jack calls) a supercargo,’ suggested Alice.

‘No, Miss Leyton, they don’t have such things now-a-days, although the highly-favoured individual whom you call “Jack” may have told you so.’

‘Jack is likely to know best, though, all the same, because he is a sailor,’ cried Alice merrily. ‘But do you really think, Captain Lovell,’ she continued, opening her blue eyes, ‘that there is any danger from the gunpowder?’

‘Not unless the ship catches fire, and then we should be blown to “smithereens.” I daresay if we had any one on board evilly disposed to the rest of us, he could, with very little trouble, put an end to our existence.’

‘But he would blow himself up at the same time,’ said Alice.

‘True; but in such company,’ replied Lovell, looking ineffable things at her, ‘a fellow might even feel glad to be blown up.’

‘Don’t let us talk of such horrible things, Captain Lovell, and when we have not yet commenced the voyage. Do you see that lady talking to the gentleman who is leaning against the rail? She is a Miss Vere. She is an actress, and is going all through Australia and New Zealand.’

‘By George! Is that really Miss Vere?’ said Captain Lovell, putting up his eyeglass. ‘I really didn’t recognise her off the stage. She ought to be good company. She’s very clever.’

‘Don’t you think she is very handsome?’

‘Perhaps. But she’s not my style,’ replied the captain, glancing at Alice’s fair hair.

‘Would you like to be introduced to her?’ continued the girl. ‘I made her acquaintance last night, and found her most agreeable. Will you come with me, and talk to her?’

‘Delighted to follow you anywhere,’ said Lovell gallantly, as he walked after his lively companion.

Vernon Blythe, who was close at hand, saw the little incident, and only smiled at it. He was not the man to suspect any woman whom he professed to love, without good cause. And when he was assured of her infidelity to him, he would be silent on the subject. He might leave her, but his pride would forbid him to complain because she preferred another fellow to himself. But he did not doubt at that moment that Alice loved him, and, believing so, he allowed her to do just as she chose.

‘Miss Vere,’ she exclaimed, as she came up to the lady in question, ‘may I introduce one of our fellow-passengers to you—Captain Lovell—who is longing to make your acquaintance?’

Miss Vere bowed, and the two immediately engaged in conversation.

Emily Vere was a high-class society actress, who had appeared that season at a leading London theatre, and taken the town by storm. Now, she was going out to make the tour of Australia, tempted thereto by exceptionally high terms, and the promise of an efficient company to support her on the other side. In appearance, she was more charming perhaps than handsome, but her figure was perfect, and her manners courteous and refined. She was one of those artists who give the lie pointblank to those libellers who say that virtue does not exist upon the stage, and who (if the truth were known) have not kept their own lives nearly so clean as that of many an actress. Miss Vere’s character had never been attacked, except by those who knew nothing about it. She was essentially a lady, and one of rather reserved and quiet habits than otherwise. She was dressed plainly, but in exquisite taste. Her grey cashmere dress showed off each curve of her beautiful figure, and seemed to cling lovingly about her full bosom and slender waist. Her long plush mantle was of the same delicate tint, and a grey straw hat, trimmed with seagulls’ wings, and long grey chevrette gloves, completed her costume. She smiled pleasantly as she recognised her little acquaintance of the night before, but did not evince any especial emotion on being introduced to Captain Lovell, which, for the moment, rather staggered that hero.

‘So proud to know you,’ he murmured, as the introduction was effected; ‘so charmed to meet one whom I, in common with all who have had the great privilege of seeing her upon the stage, cannot fail to admire.’

‘How long did it take you to get that up?’ asked Miss Vere quietly. ‘Seriously, Captain Lovell, I hope I am going to be spared listening to empty compliments for a while. I am so very very tired of them, and I want to make this voyage a time of rest for both mind and body.’

‘But I can assure you I had no intention to flatter,’ stammered Lovell.

‘Then you cannot know what your intentions are, and consequently must be a very dangerous acquaintance. He can’t get out of it any way, can he, Miss Leyton?’

‘I think most people would find it loss of time to cross swords with you, Miss Vere,’ said Alice.

‘Indeed I am a very peaceable person by nature. But some things put one on one’s metal; and you must understand, Captain Lovell, that the last person I care to talk about, is myself.’

‘Which makes you so unlike other women, that the first person we all want to talk about is you. Ah! Miss Vere, you must not be so hard upon me. I have seen you play at the “Star” Theatre dozens of times, and left my heart behind me on every occasion.’

‘Dear me! what a number of hearts you must possess. You are quite a natural curiosity. I hope you did not part with your brains at the same time.’

‘You think I have none to spare, I suppose?’

‘Not quite that, but we shall want all we can scrape together, to make this long voyage pass pleasantly. Have you mapped out any plan of employment for the next three months, Miss Leyton?’

Alice blushed most becomingly.

‘I haven’t thought of it yet. I suppose when we shake down, we shall have plenty of music and dancing, and—’

‘Flirtation,’ continued Miss Vere.

‘Well, a little of that, too, I suppose.’

‘A great deal, I hope,’ amended the captain; ‘life would be worth very little without it.’

‘Yes! when it’s legitimate, it’s very nice,’ said Miss Vere; ‘but, for my part, I mean to flirt with my books. I have promised myself a long course of study before we arrive at Lyttleton.’

‘Oh, look, Miss Vere,’ cried Alice, ‘they are slipping the warp! I believe we are really going at last. Are we off, Jack?’ she asked excitedly of Vernon Blythe, who passed them at that moment.

He only gave her a nod and a smile in answer, but the action did not pass unperceived by Captain Lovell. However, he made no comment on it then.

‘It’s about time we were off,’ he grumbled; ‘they’ve been three hours shipping those confounded kegs of gunpowder.’

‘That are to blow us all up,’ said Alice merrily.

As the Pandora moved statelily down the river, a cold wind began to blow over the water, that drove the ladies to the shelter of the saloon, and left the gentlemen in possession of the deck and the smoking-room.

Vernon Blythe had found time more than once that day, in the midst of his active duties, to glance round the decks in search of Miss Douglas, but he had seen her nowhere, which, as they were still in fresh water, seemed rather strange to him. But perhaps she was very unhappy at leaving home, and could not trust herself in public. Godfrey Harland, on the other hand, had made himself generally conspicuous by his attentions to Mrs and Miss Vansittart, and the more Jack saw of him, the more he disliked him. His handsome face was knitted into a frown even now, as in the pursuit of his duty he passed Harland leaning over the bulwarks, and watching the lights of Gravesend gradually receding from view, as the vessel was towed towards the bend. Could Vernon Blythe have read the thoughts which were passing through Harland’s mind at that moment, he would have pitied, as much as he despised him. For no one is to be pitied more than the man who casts an honest love on one side, in order to pursue, with unfettered hands, the phantom Fortune.

He was thinking then of Iris. He had gained his object. The prize he had unlawfully striven for was in his hand. In a few more hours, miles of water would stretch between him and his domestic cares and troubles. Yet he was not elated with his good luck. His last thoughts, as he saw his country fading from his sight, were given to his deserted home and wife. What would Iris do when she found he did not return? Would she inform the police, and would they trace him to the shipping office? What a fool he was not to have sailed under another name! He might have thought of some excuse to satisfy the simple Vansittarts, and put himself for ever out of the clutches of his pursuers. But it was too late to think of that now. Still he did not believe it possible that Iris would betray him. She had always been an honest, generous, stout-hearted little woman, and he had more faith in her than in himself; but she was passionate and determined, and others might advise her to take the law into her own hand. How could he possibly prevent such a catastrophe? Bright thought! The sea pilot who had come aboard at Gravesend would land at the Start. He would send a carefully-composed letter to his wife by him, explaining that on account of being unable to meet some heavy losses at the Newcastle Meeting, he had been compelled to leave England, and finding Harfleur was too near for him, was on his way to Spain, under an assumed name, whence he intended to get across to the Brazils, where he had been promised employment. This would put her off the idea (if she had any) of applying to the police for his whereabouts, and he could wind up his letter with a few vague promises of sending her money as soon as he landed in Brazil.

That would do capitally, and set his mind completely at rest upon the matter. There was only one little flaw in the plan, and that was a vision of the pale face of the girl he had deserted, and which would rise before him, becoming plainer and plainer as the night fell. There is good as well as evil in the lives of all of us, and this was a good moment in the life of Godfrey Harland. There was a time when he had loved his young wife—with a selfish and worthless affection, it is true, but still the best his nature was capable of conceiving; and his conscience raked up the remembrance of this affection, now, with his own misdeeds. Again and again did the thought of Iris come into his head, until he felt almost remorseful. He tried to drive the unwelcome memory away. He left his position and paced the deck with rapid steps, but his deserted wife seemed to walk beside him. He lit a cheroot and nearly choked himself with its strong fumes; still some one seemed to whisper in his ear that he was committing a crime,—that he was a liar—a coward—everything that was base and cruel,—and that if Iris died of starvation during his absence, or sold her honour in exchange for bread, he would be worse—the murderer of both her body and her soul! And then the same voice seemed to tell him, as if by inspiration, that he would never return to England,—that some catastrophe would befall the ship that carried him,—she would be blown up by the powder, or lost at sea, and he was leaving his wife and his creditors behind him—for ever. The thought made his cheeks grow ghastly pale. It was a warning—a prophecy! Why should he not save himself from its fulfilment? There was still time to do so. It was nearly dark; he could just make out the green light at the end of Southend Pier. The tide was low. Why not drop overboard and swim? The distance was not a mile, and he was an excellent swimmer.

But no. He would be seen and picked up, and treated on board as if he were a lunatic. The Vansittarts would not know what to make of his conduct, and he might lose all the influence he had gained over them. The game was too risky. It would certainly not succeed. And if it did, what would he go back to? Poverty, tears, coldness, and certain arrest. Pshaw! what a fool he was. What had he been thinking of? His good angel flew away, and a spirit of a very different type took its place, and Godfrey Harland was himself again. The soft moment had passed, and it left him harder than before.

‘What have I to do with others?’ he thought, as he buttoned his coat across his chest; ‘my business at present is to look after number one. He wants enough looking after, poor devil, Heaven knows! I am on the highroad to fortune. Let me direct all my energies to seeing I keep there. And if things go as I wish them, why I’ll turn my back on England for evermore, and all my dear friends there may whistle for me.’ So having arrived at this comfortable decision, Harland crossed the quarter-deck, and, after swallowing a stiff brandy-and-soda, joined the other gentlemen at a game of poker.

CHAPTER XI.
A DISCOVERY.

THE Pandora was a full-rigged, three-masted ship, built by the famous firm of Oswald & Company, of Glasgow and Sunderland. Her registered tonnage was 1500 tons. Her hull, lower masts, topmasts, and lower yards were built completely of iron, and her standing rigging was composed of the same material. She carried six sails on her fore and mizen masts respectively, and seven on her main. She had six topsails, six topgallantsails, and a main skipsail. She was a heavy ship to work, as nearly all her running rigging was of chain, or wire, except the hauling part, and the larger ropes, such as the topsail halliards that were of coir, and brought forth many an expressive epithet from the sailors, whose hands were often sore after a night in the doldrums. The beautiful rake of her lofty masts, the delicate curve of her narrow beam, her sharp, fish-like bows, and nicely-rounded stern, gave her a stately appearance as she rode on the waters, and suggested exciting races in heavy squalls, and a fast sea passage, with little pay to receive. Yet she was not an exceedingly fast ship. She had made the run in ninety days, and her log had told sixteen knots; but, all the same, she was a clipper, and if she had had an enterprising captain, would have held her own with most ships, and shown her heels to not a few. But the commander of the Pandora did not believe in ‘cracking-on,’ and his vessel had never had a chance of showing her ability. As soon as a squall appeared to windward, he clewed up his smaller sails, and would not dream of bumping with crowded sail into a head sea if the least sign of danger attended him. In this respect he was right, since his first thought was ever for the safety of his passengers and crew.

There is intense pleasure as well as excitement in sailing with a jolly, straight-forward, fearless man, who knows exactly how much sail his vessel can carry till the last minute, who drives through the squalls, sending the seas dashing over his weather bulwarks, and gushing through his lee scuppers, shivering his leeches when an extra gust bursts upon him, glorying to watch the splendid behaviour of his ship as she bends to his command. But Captain Robarts was a very different sort of man from this.

It had been the intention of the pilot who had taken over charge of the Pandora at Gravesend to have come to an anchor off Southend, but as the breeze chopped round to the southward, and seemed likely to remain for some time in that direction, the vessel continued her course. The fore and aft sails were run up, and the topsails loosed, and before ten o’clock the Nore Light was passed, and she was towed out into the open sea. All that night the two vessels pursued their journey together, and early the next morning brought up with a head-wind in the Downs. Some of the passengers had already succumbed to the long, steady roll of the Pandora, as she swayed from side to side, sometimes dipping her martingale deep into the swells, and rising gracefully again before making another plunge. The smell of the new paint and varnish, the ‘swash’ of the water as it rushed against the sides of the ship, the swinging of the trays and lamps that were suspended to a brass rod, no less than the long sweeping rock of their new cradle, all combined to produce a queer sensation in their throats, which gave them a difficulty in swallowing, and a dizziness in their heads, which prevented their walking about lest their unseaworthy legs should bring them to the ground. But the captain of the Pandora steadily paced the weather side, heedless of the groans of his unfortunate passengers, and thinking only of the wind that had compelled the pilot to drop the anchor in that unlucky hour. Uneasily he moved to and fro, occasionally giving vent to an unmusical grunt, as his eyes roved along the horizon, and over the South Foreland and Walmer Castle.

Captain Robarts was a man of stunted growth of much the same build as his chief officer, but both broader and shorter. His figure approached insignificance, and his features were coarse and forbidding. His hands, horny from manual labour and hairy and freckled from exposure, were generally carried well down in the pockets of his monkey-jacket, from which he seldom extricated them. He was a good navigator and a diligent officer, but he was not a smart sailor. Had his duties required activity, he would have failed in fulfilling them, but as his sole work was to prick out the chart and give his orders, little fault could be found with him on that score. In manner he was voted on all sides to be a bear. He never addressed his passengers except when absolutely obliged to do so, confining his conversation to the officers of the vessel; and if any lady or gentleman ventured to ask him a question on the most ordinary subject, his answer was generally conveyed by a low grunt, as he turned away to the sacred precincts of the bridge, where none but those on business were allowed to follow him.

He professed to be a very religious man, and was in the habit of sending the steward round with a bundle of tracts for distribution, in the hopes thereby of counteracting the evil influence of flirtation and yellow-backed novels. He objected strongly to the use of tobacco, and, in fact, to every sort of indulgence in which he took no pleasure himself. But he was very partial to his glass of grog, and a cask of choice pine-apple rum was kept in the spirit-room expressly for his use. Every evening before he turned in, the steward brought the captain a glass of his favourite mixture, and during stiff gales and wintry nights he often drank a little more than was good for him, as was evidenced by a glowing blush at the end of his nose. His orders were given in an abrupt, gruff voice—indeed he was at all times a man of few words, and often directed the helmsman by the action of his hands; and at the dinner-table he sat like a dummy in his chair of office, leaving the steward to look after the wants of the passengers. That afternoon Captain Robarts continued his silent constitutional until the dinner-bell rang, and then dived below to take the edge off his appetite; and while the saloon dinner was going on, Vernon Blythe took his station on the look-out. He had not been there long before a dilapidated figure staggered, with uncertain footsteps, to the spare hencoops, which were lashed on either side, and mournfully sat down. It was the shade of Harold Greenwood, but what a contrast to his debonnair appearance of the morning. His face was ashen pale, and the corners of his mouth drawn down. There was a melancholy look about his eyes, and his crimped hair, now straight as a Skye terrier’s, hung down upon his forehead. He wore his hat upon the back of his head, and he had left his Malacca cane below. One end of his watch-chain, with the button-hook attached to it, dangled in front of him, in place of his eyeglass, which had been smashed when the treacherous ship gave a heavy roll, and threw him against the bulkhead, and the pink silk handkerchief was fast losing its festive appearance under its frequent calls to duty to wipe its owner’s mouth. A smile crossed Jack’s face as he caught sight of the unhappy youth, and approaching him, he said kindly,—

‘If you don’t feel well, Mr Greenwood, you had better go to the lee side of the vessel. You mustn’t stay here.’

‘Oh! I’m quite well, thank you. I’m used to this sort of thing, don’t you know?’ replied Greenwood quickly. ‘But it’s doosid hot in the saloon, and I feel a little queer, don’t you know? It’s that new paint, and—’

‘I quite understand,’ said Blythe; ‘but you’ll soon get used to it.’

‘Oh! I am used to it—have been all my life—you know. But, I say, do you think she will roll any more than she’s doing at present? For it’s really very uncomfortable. I suppose the captain did not expect to have had such bad weather when he started.’

‘Bad weather!’ exclaimed Jack, ‘why, my dear fellow, you don’t know what you’re talking about. This is splendid weather. A fresh head-wind and a heavy ground swell! We couldn’t have had it better if it had been made to order.’

‘Oh!—I see,’ groaned Mr Greenwood. ‘Well, if this is good weather, I hope it won’t get any better, that’s all. I think I will take your advice, Mr Blythe, and go over to the lee side, if you will tell me where it is.’

‘Why, it’s the other side, of course,’ replied Jack good-humouredly; ‘and I’d put my head a little over the taffrail, if I were you, and take a good look at the fishes. I am sure you will feel the better for it afterwards.’

‘Do you really?’ said Greenwood, with open eyes. ‘Well, you ought to know, so I will try it. Not that I feel ill, Mr Blythe, for I enjoy this sort of thing uncommonly, only I think the other side looks more comfortable than this. There’s so much wind here, it makes me quite giddy.’ And so, by dint of clutching the pinrail of the mizen-mast, and making a dart for the rigging, the unhappy youth managed to reach the opposite coop in safety.

When Jack turned his head again to look at him, he saw that he had taken his advice, and hung his head well over the taffrail, where he appeared to be looking for something in the water, with his mouth wide open, and his eyes full of tears. Jack laughed till the tears came into his own, to see the little boastful dandy thus hung out to dry.

In the second cabin and steerage the passengers were suffering the same tortures as their wealthier fellow-voyagers in the saloon. They had not to contend against the horrors of new paint and varnish, for their bulkheads were built of plain white wood, but their proximity to the cargo in the lower hold and the ’tween-decks rendered the creaking and groaning of the heavy merchandise very audible, and rendered it difficult for them to forget their troubles in sleep. Will Farrell, who was not subject to mal-de-mer, was untiring in his endeavours to help those who had succumbed to it. He did not forget Maggie in the steerage, and between ‘chaffing’ and feeding, he soon managed to bring her round again. The poor girl had been very ill at first, but she was a stout-hearted little woman, and when she heard that her mistress was much worse than herself, and steadily refused to take either medicine or food, she made a strenuous effort to go to her assistance, and she succeeded. She found Iris nearly prostrate, and broken down in mind and body. She was exhausted by sickness, but had resolutely refused to see the doctor, lest by some means he might find out who she was. The fact is, the poor child was quite ready to lie down and die. She would have been thankful not to get up again. There seemed nothing left for her to live for. The excitement of getting ready to follow her husband was over. Nothing remained now but a constant dread of detection, and when the terrible sea-sickness came to try her physical powers, all attempt at resistance seemed to abandon her, and she sunk under it. Maggie found her with a stone-cold body, and a pulse at its lowest ebb. The passengers were all alarmed about her, but she had steadily declined their proffered kindnesses, and, above all, she would not let Dr Lennard be informed of her condition. But when Maggie saw her, she asked no one’s leave, but went to find him at once. As she emerged from the cabin, with the tears running down her cheeks, she met Vernon Blythe.

‘Why! what’s the matter?’ he inquired, with a true sailor’s ready interest in every woman, high or low.

‘Oh, please, sir! can you tell me where to find the doctor? My poor, dear lady is so ill.’

‘Your lady! Let me see. Are you not the person who came on board with Miss Douglas?’

‘Yes, sir, and she is so bad with the sickness. She’s as cold as ice, and can hardly move a limb. And I’ve been sick myself till now, and ain’t half right yet, or I’d have fetched the doctor to her before. But he must come now, sir, as quick as he can, for the poor dear is just as bad as she can be.’

‘I will fetch him for her at once!’ exclaimed Jack, who had not forgotten his strange interest in the mysterious second-class passenger.

In another minute he had unearthed Dr Lennard from the smoking-room, where he was playing chess with the third officer, and carried him off to his patient. As they entered the cabin together, Maggie had disappeared to take up her watch beside Iris’s berth.

‘Which is Miss Douglas’s berth?’ inquired the doctor, addressing the assembled company.

‘Number twelve,’ replied Farrell eagerly.

‘This is it, doctor,’ said Jack, as he unlatched the door to let the medical officer pass in.

Iris’s berth was a lower one, facing the entrance. As Jack opened the door, he saw her plainly, lying back upon her pillows, with closed eyes, and loosened hair; and as he saw her, he started violently, and muttered something very like an oath beneath his breath.

‘Hullo, Jack! what’s up?’ exclaimed Dr Lennard jestingly; ‘seen a ghost, eh?’

‘Nothing, doctor, nothing,’ he answered, in a muffled voice; ‘that is the lady,’ and closing the cabin door hastily upon him, he leant against it for a moment, to recover himself.

At first his heart called out that he must be mistaken—that it was only a chance likeness he had seen lying on the pillows within that door. But his reason told him he was not, and that there could not be two faces in this world like the one that had been enshrined in his heart ever since he first beheld it. This then was the reason of his strange interest in Miss Douglas. His eyes had been too dull to recognise her, but his instincts had been stronger than his sight.

Dr Lennard might well ask him if he had seen a ghost. How the good doctor would ‘chaff’ him if he told him he had indeed seen the ghost of his early love—the memory of his life, sweet Iris Hetherley.

As Vernon Blythe left the cabin to return to his duty, he staggered like a drunken man.

CHAPTER XII.
AT SEA.

BEFORE noon on the following day, the lighthouse at Dungeness was sighted, and the Pandora parted company with her towboat. It was a joyous morning. A southerly wind blew its warm breath across the water, and filled the sails of the vessel. It was just the wind that suited her, for she could show off her powers far better on a bowline than when running, and she ploughed along with the freshening breeze at thirteen knots an hour. Her sharp stem cut through the swells, and made the seething foam rush angrily from her, leaving a long white streak of creamy froth in her wake. Little spits flew over the weather topgallantsail, as the boisterous waves dashed against her, and the sea gushed through the lee scupper-holes, oozed in at the ports, and ran in torrents aft with the backward roll. Her large, white canvas sails bulged out with the wind, and made her sheets crack again, as they hugged the belaying bits; and the leeches, stretched taut with the bowlines, trembled convulsively when she came up to windward.

The Pandora was behaving beautifully, and her passengers—who had mostly pulled round after their severe shaking in the Downs—all thought the movement delightful. And the scene by which they were surrounded added to their pleasurable sensations. The gulls sailed in half-circles about the vessel’s wake, now and then uttering hoarse cries as they dived after and engaged in a battle-royal for some tempting morsel tossed overboard by the black cook. The porpoises skimmed the waves in frolicsome gambols—often leaping straight out of the water, and falling back upon their sides with a loud splash, scaring the smaller fry, that fled in all directions, as they chased each other over the crested swells. The numerous vessels that passed, too, showed themselves off to advantage under such an inviting gale. The heavily-rigged East Indiaman, with her Lascar crew, homeward bound, after a twelve months’ voyage, followed by two small tugs, in the hope that the breeze would drop, and she would be obliged to have recourse to their assistance; the neat little Madeira fruiter, with a cargo of oranges and bananas, making all haste to London to get rid of her perishable freight; the Newcastle steamer, that enveloped every craft that came near her in clouds of smoke, and poured gallons of water from her black sides; the huge ocean liner, that looked like an enormous floating hotel, and sent forth ominous blasts as she altered her course to keep clear of the sailing vessels; the West Indian barque, that was chartered to bring home rum and sugar; and the humble collier, with her dusty cargo and begrimed hull and sails; these, and many others, passed the Pandora on her outward voyage, and kept her passengers interested and amused. Mr Vansittart, with a storm-cap strapped under his chin, and a pair of field-glasses slung in a case behind his back, was standing under the shelter of the wheel-house, talking to his daughter Grace, who looked rather paler than when she stepped aboard, but declared she felt quite well as long as she remained in the fresh air. Godfrey Harland was in close attendance on her, and she seemed pleased by his proximity. He had quite got over the ridiculous fit of self-reproach which had attacked him off Southend, and had nerved himself to go through everything that might lie before him—even to marriage with Grace Vansittart, if she and her parents consented to it. Mrs Leyton, too, was on deck for the first time, and sat on the skylight, enveloped in a warm shawl, whilst her little daughter Winifred (who was still known as ‘Baby’), a pretty child of about three years old, ran about the deck; and Alice carried on a laughing flirtation with Captain Lovell, which she refused to relinquish for all the warning looks she received from her mother. The fact is, Alice was piqued. Her lawful sweetheart, Jack Blythe, may have been too busy to stay by her side, and attend to her many little wants, and she was a sensible girl, and did not expect him to give up his duty for his pleasure; still, he might have spoken a word or two to her occasionally in passing, or thrown a look with a world of meaning in it. But though he had smiled kindly at her when they met in the morning, he had taken no notice of her since, and Alice could not help seeing that he was pre-occupied and serious. What could be the matter with him? Surely he was never going to be so stupid as to feel jealous of the little attentions Captain Lovell showed her, and which he himself had no time to pay! If that was to be the order of march at this early stage of the proceedings, what would Jack do before the voyage was over. The very thought made Alice’s only half-subdued heart rebellious, and her smiles became sweeter, and her laughter more hilarious, than there was any need they should be.

And, meantime, jealousy of her and her doings was the very last thought of Vernon Blythe. His mind was entirely set upon Iris Harland, and he had to drive her image, and the wild conjectures which the sight of her had eliminated, by force away, in order to fit himself for his duty. Where was her husband? What was she doing on board the Pandora? Why had she embarked under a false name? And had she recognised him when he recognised her? All these questions kept rushing through his brain, and driving him half crazy because he could not solve them. He had tried to pump Dr Lennard, but had derived little satisfaction from the attempt. The doctor could not guess the reason for his anxiety, and would not have sympathised with it, probably, if he had. He set down the young man’s queries to curiosity, and answered them in a very common-place manner. Miss Douglas was better, and would be all right in a day or two. Did he not consider her an unusually pretty woman? Well, she had good features, certainly, but was too thin and pale for beauty, and she was very silent. The doctor didn’t know if she was stupid or sulky, but she did not appear very grateful for the attentions shown her; and the girl from the steerage who was nursing her, and seemed to be her friend, was twice as interesting a person, in his eyes.

And so Vernon Blythe turned away with the secret of his burning heart untold, and waited feverishly for the moment when he should see Iris again and speak to her, although he could scarcely trust himself to think of it. He had borne the sting of his disappointment for five long years, and he believed that he was cured. He had never expected to meet Iris Hetherley (the only name by which he had known her) again. He had thought he should, in due time, marry Alice Leyton, and banish the last memories of his first love for ever from his heart. Yet here she was, and the very knowledge that she was here had the power to make the young sailor’s blood course like molten lava through his veins, and set his head spinning like a top. He knew that, in a few days at latest, he must see her again; but each hour seemed to mark a day as it dragged its weary length along.

Jack longed for a storm to arise,—for the vessel to be in danger,—for anything to occur that should take him out of himself, and make the time go faster. But the clerk of the weather would not listen to his prayer. The sky continued to be gloriously blue; the emerald waters sparkled in the radiance of the sun; the white cliffs of dear Albion, with the green fields beyond them, receded further and further away; the vessels of every nation, which the English Channel bears upon her bosom, became scattered and far between, and the Pandora stood out to the open sea.

CHAPTER XIII.
COURTSHIP.

WITH a light wind and a flowing sheet the Pandora, now more than a fortnight out, moved slowly through the water. Astern was the island of Madeira, standing like a huge rock in the sea, and various crafts on the deep blue waters looked, in the distance, like children’s toys. Not a cloud was to be seen. The sky was as blue as the sea—the air mild and pure.

The sun had become so oppressive that an awning was rigged over the after part of the vessel, and the passengers, having quite recovered their sea legs, were reclining on chairs and couches under its welcome shade. The occupiers of the second cabin were resting on the quarter-deck, sheltered by the cutters, which were kept in the chocks on the after-skids. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet aboard. A merry laugh from the girls, or the plaintive bleating of the sheep being the only sounds that broke the silence.

It was Vernon Blythe’s watch on deck, and his men were employed aloft setting up the topmast and topgallant rigging. There was but little work for the officer to do. Occasionally his services were required to serve out marline, amberline, and different stores, but that did not occur often, and left him far too much time for thought and speculation. Why did not Iris Hetherley appear amongst the other passengers on the quarter-deck? His wistful eye kept roving there every second minute in the hope of seeing her, but she did not come. What could be the reason of her enforced seclusion? Vernon had attempted to see her twenty times in the last fortnight without success. For a week she had kept her berth, and when she left it, she seemed never to be in the cabin when the second officer entered it. Maggie had answered his numerous inquiries respecting her mistress more than once, and always blushed and stammered so much over the operation, that Jack suspected she had been cautioned not to enlighten him. Which indeed was the case; for Iris had confided the fact of her former acquaintanceship with him to her humble friend, and had prayed the girl to warn her whenever he entered the cabin, so that she might escape to the shelter of her berth. Maggie had remonstrated with her ‘pretty’ on the absurdity of the proceeding.

‘You must meet the gentleman sooner or later, you know, mistress, so what’s the good of dodging him. And if he was a friend of yours, why should you dodge him? You say he don’t know that villain up in the saloon, and if he did, he wouldn’t betray you if you asked him not. Is it likely? And maybe he’ll help you, and be good company on this long voyage, and stand your friend on the other side, where you’ll want one, poor lamb, God knows! Now, mistress dear, do be wise, and meet the gentleman with a handshake next time he comes in, and then you’ll feel as you have one person at least aboard, who takes an interest in you.’

But Iris would not accept the advice offered her. Perhaps she was not quite so certain as Maggie seemed to be of Jack’s claim to be trusted. Perhaps she dreaded the questions he might put to her—or certain tender memories connected with her former rejection of his suit, combined with the miserable disappointment of her married life, warned her that a renewal of friendship between them might prove a dangerous solace under her present circumstances. Any way, she studiously avoided him, even to the length of refusing to take any fresh air on deck; and Vernon Blythe’s heart grew heavier and heavier under the daily disappointment of meeting her. It was not, however, for want of distraction that he brooded over the memory of his first love, for all the girls aboard ship showed their willingness to talk to, and even flirt with him.

As he walked to one end of the poop now, to take a look out, Grace Vansittart tried to detain him.

‘Mr Blythe,’ she said, ‘can you tell me what that vessel that is so near the land is doing?’

Vernon fetched the glass from the pilot-house, and leaning it against the for’ard mizen shroud, gazed for some moments at the vessel.

‘She is flat aback,’ he answered, as he finished his survey, ‘and I think will have some difficulty in getting away.’

‘But why? She has the same wind that we have.’

‘Not exactly. She is close under the land, where it is calm.’

‘How nice it must be,’ remarked Grace admiringly, ‘to know everything.’

She was looking very attractive that day, dressed in a costume of blue serge, that toned down the fulness of her outlines, with a broad leather belt encircling her waist, and a wide straw hat, trimmed with corn and poppies, sheltering her fresh young face. Had Vernon Blythe been heart whole, he might have fallen a victim to the fascinations of this handsome girl, who was looking at him very encouragingly out of her large brown eyes, and doing her level best to engage him in a conversation. But Grace Vansittart’s charms would have held no danger for him, even if Iris Harland’s proximity were not rendering him fireproof. He was engaged—not formally, indeed, but still by mutual consent—to Alice Leyton, and no temptation would have induced him to abrogate his rights. Not that Alice had made many demands upon his attentions lately; on the contrary, she rather ignored the fact of the tie between them, and generally kept away at the other side of the deck when they occupied it at the same time. But Jack was not sufficiently in love with her to resent the action. On the contrary, he thought it displayed a becoming reticence on her part, which he had often wished she possessed before. And so he contented himself with shaking her hand when they met in public, and kept all his loverlike confidences for the very rare occasions when they encountered each other alone. Alice had no reason, however, to be ashamed of her fiancé, who was one of the smartest young officers in the merchant service, and a pattern to the majority of his mates, who seem to imagine that neatness and cleanliness form no part of their duty whilst on shore.

He was always well and smartly dressed. His uniform showed traces of careful handling, and his peaked cap, with its gaily-embroidered badge, evidently received due attention from the clothes-brush. His boots shone with blacking, and his golden-flecked head was as perfectly groomed as if he were about to stroll through Hyde Park. Though, truth to say, you might have covered Jack Blythe with mud, and ducked him in a horse-pond, and he would still have emerged looking like a gentleman. It was this trait, as much as his beauty, that attracted the other sex to him. Women detest a slovenly man. Miss Vansittart’s evident liking for the young officer was viewed with jealous alarm by Godfrey Harland. He had not forgotten his causeless grudge against Blythe, and he was determined he should not take the wind out of his sails now.

‘What do you want to talk to that fellow for, Miss Vansittart?’ he asked, as Jack was called away to the main hatch.

‘Why should I not?’ inquired Grace. ‘Do you dislike him, Mr Harland? I think he is such a very pleasant young man.’

‘Pleasant young man!’ sneered Harland. ‘Do you suppose, Miss Vansittart, for an instant that any of these fellows are gentlemen? Why, they have all risen from common seamen.’

‘I am sure Mr Blythe is a gentleman,’ retorted Grace warmly.

‘Then I suppose you call Mr Coffin and the old skipper gentlemen? They have quite as much right to the title as young Blythe.’

‘I don’t agree with you,’ said Grace; ‘I know a gentleman when I speak to him, Mr Harland; and so long as my parents raise no objection to it, I shall continue my acquaintanceship with Mr Blythe.’

This answer nettled and alarmed Godfrey Harland. He had been on such friendly terms with the heiress hitherto, that he was jealous of the influence exercised over her by the second officer. Had he dared, he would have said anything to lower his rival in her estimation, but he was sharp enough to see that such a course would only injure his own cause. So he turned his attention to patching up the slight breach between them instead.

‘My dear Miss Vansittart,’ he commenced, ‘you must forgive me if I have spoken too strongly on the subject. You know how miserable it makes me to hear you speak in praise of any other fellow, and will excuse my transient ill-humour for the sake of its cause.’

He had never said so much to her before, and he waited rather nervously for her reply. He had not intended to give her an intimation even of his wishes until he was safe in New Zealand, and had had an opportunity of sounding her father’s mind upon the subject. But if other people were going to intrude their officious attentions upon her, it would be as well perhaps to let her have some inkling of his preference. And Grace Vansittart did not resent it.

With the quickness with which some young ladies recognise a would-be suitor, she had already seen (or thought she saw) that Harland had a fancy for her, and was not displeased with the idea. Her superior education had had the usual effect. It had opened her eyes to the inferiority of her parents, and infused a desire to rise above them. Beyond all things, she was determined to marry a ‘swell.’ She set her face resolutely against all stock-riders, or sheep-farmers, or bush gentlemen whatever. She wanted to marry some one who would take her back to England to settle, and Mr Harland was the very man to suit her. She thought him very good-looking (which undoubtedly he was), and perfect in his manner of address, and was ready to credit him, in addition, with all the minor virtues which are supposed to make the happiness of a married life. So when he spoke so meaningly to her concerning his jealousy of Vernon Blythe, she did not affect ignorance of his meaning, but took his excuse as a matter of course.

‘Well, I am glad you are penitent, at all events,’ she answered gaily, ‘for you have no real cause for ill-humour. You must be a terrible tyrant, if you forbid your friends talking to any one but yourself.’

‘Ah! my friends can do as they choose,’ he said significantly, ‘it is only you whom I would guard from all evil, as a miser guards his treasure. But perhaps you will be angry to hear me say so.’

‘Well, I don’t think you have any right to speak to me in that way, Mr Harland,’ replied Grace, looking down.

‘Give me the right, then, Grace,’ he whispered, bending over her chair. ‘Let me feel that when you are even speaking to others you are thinking of me, and I will cast all my wretched jealousy from me like some unholy thing.’

‘Oh, Mr Harland, how can I? Remember how short a time we have known each other. Barely six weeks.’

‘It has been long enough to bind me to you for ever.’

‘But I am not of age, you know. I have no power to decide such a question for myself. My father is the proper person to speak to about it. And I feel sure—quite sure—that he would say it is a great deal too soon.’

‘Then, don’t speak to him just yet, Grace. Let us keep our little secret till we get to Tabbakooloo. Only tell me one thing—that if Mr and Mrs Vansittart give their consent to it, you will be my wife.’

Grace blushed very becomingly as she answered in the affirmative.

‘Only, Mr Harland, I must make one condition—’

‘Oh, don’t call me “Mr Harland.” Say “Godfrey,” that I may feel you really look upon me as your own property.’

‘Godfrey, then. You must promise me, in case of papa’s consenting to—you know what—that you will not settle in New Zealand, but take me back to live in London. I am wretched at leaving it. I have not seen nearly enough of its sights or its pleasures, and the very idea of spending my life at the Antipodes is distasteful to me. I know that you, too, like society, and theatres, and all the rest of the amusements in dear, delightful old London. Promise to take me back to them, won’t you? or else I really cannot—’

‘Don’t finish the sentence, for Heaven’s sake!’ cried Harland. ‘I will promise anything and everything you exact from me, if you will agree in return to give me the opportunity to fulfil my promises.’

Of course the idea of his returning to England, where he had another wife and scores of creditors waiting for him, was utterly ridiculous; but it was impossible to tell her so at that moment. Let him once be her husband (or appear to be so), and he could find a dozen excuses for breaking his word. But he must snare the bird before he plucked it.

‘Yes! I promise, if my father and mother will permit me to do so,’ replied Grace Vansittart, as he took her hand in his.

‘And if they refuse, my darling, will you have the heart to give me up?’ he whispered.

‘Let us wait and see,’ said Grace. ‘It will be two months and a-half yet before we reach our destination.’

‘How can I ever wait till then!’ exclaimed the enraptured lover, who knew that delay was the very thing he wished for.

This little episode happened when they were sitting almost alone upon the poop, and believed themselves to be unnoticed. But Mrs Vansittart, sitting in her cane-backed chair, and nodding with the heat over her basket of knitting wools, was not so fast asleep but that she started up every now and then, and in one of her starts she opened her eyes upon Godfrey Harland holding Grace’s hand in his. The simple old lady had never ‘cottoned’ to this adventurer as her husband and daughter had. She was affable to him, but she had a slight distrust of him—just sufficient to make her wide awake where her only child was concerned. But she did not say anything to Grace. Whenever it came to finding fault, she was just a wee bit afraid of the educated young lady who knew so much more than herself. But when the dinner was over that day, and the passengers were again on deck, enjoying the evening breeze, Mrs Vansittart called her husband to her side on one of the saloon sofas.

‘Stay with me for a minute, John,’ she said, ‘for I want to speak to you on a matter of importance.’

CHAPTER XIV.
REMONSTRANCE.

‘WELL, old lady,’ commenced Mr Vansittart facetiously, ‘and what is it? I hope the skipper ain’t been taking liberties with you, nor nothing of that sort.’

‘Oh, now, John! do stop your nonsense, when you know well I’ve been your married wife for five-and-twenty years, and no man ever dared take a liberty with me yet.’

‘Come, come! you’re forgetting,’ replied her husband. ‘Didn’t I catch you once in our parlour at Tabbakooloo with Charlie Monro’s head in your lap, and you kissing his hair?’

‘Oh, go along with you, John! You know the poor lad had just lost his mother, and come to tell me so. And that reminds me how often I’ve thought and wished that our Grace and Charlie might come together by-and-by, and make a match of it.’

‘That will never be,’ said Mr Vansittart. ‘Charlie’s too rough for Grace. You forget what a lady our girl has grown.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t, John; and sometimes I almost wish we’d kept her alongside of us. But that’s not to the purpose. I don’t want her to choose in a hurry, and I’m afraid she’s getting on a little bit too fast with that Mr Harland.’

‘Why, what makes you think that?’

‘I was watching them together on deck this afternoon, and I saw him take her hand. John, did you hear anything more about Mr Harland’s family and antecedents before we left England?’

‘No, my dear, I hadn’t the opportunity.’

‘I never quite liked him,’ sighed the mother; ‘he has such sly eyes.’

‘Oh, come! that’s a very foolish reason. You mustn’t judge of a man by his eyes. His actions is all we need go by.’

‘Has he ever spoken to you about our Grace, John?’

‘No, nothing particular. But I can see he admires her. Why should you object to it? He seems a smart fellow, and he’s a thorough gentleman. Of course the rhino’s the trouble, but he’s very frank about that, and we’ve got more than we know what to do with, so it would be hard if our only child shouldn’t suit her own taste with a husband.’

‘Oh, John, don’t talk as if it was a settled thing. Don’t let it go on. Tell Grace it’s too soon to let Mr Harland get so intimate. I don’t know why, but I’ve such a feeling against it—as if it would be the cause of some great trouble. And I did so want her to take a fancy to Charlie Monro.’

‘Ah! that’s at the bottom of it all, old lady. You’ve taken to match-making in your old age. Now, look here, take my advice, and leave the young people to settle the matter for themselves. You wouldn’t have listened to your mother if she had told you to chuck me overboard and take another man.’

‘But I had known you, John, for years; and how long is it since you met Mr Harland?’

‘Not more than six weeks or so. We know nothing about him at all. And we don’t need as yet, wife. There’s plenty of time before us. Grace don’t want to marry him to-morrow, I suppose?’

‘Heaven forbid!’

‘Well, I can’t understand your taking such a sudden prejudice against the young fellow. I think you must be jealous of losing your daughter. After all, what has he done? Held her hand! Lord! I’d be sorry to have to marry all the girls whose hands I’ve held!’

‘It don’t look well though, John.’

‘Then tell your daughter it don’t look well, and she’ll keep out of your way next time she does it. Now, don’t you fret about nothing. I can’t see any objection to it, if the young people do fancy each other. Harland is a man of good birth and breeding, and will suit Grace a deal better than Charlie Monro.’

‘Then you won’t speak to her, John?’

‘No, my dear. You can do as you like about it, but I don’t care to put my finger between the fire and the wood. If the young man was objectionable to me, he wouldn’t be here. I sha’n’t take any notice of the affair until he asks my consent.’

‘And you will give it, John?’

‘Yes! I guess I shall give it, conditionally. He must see his way to making an income, of course, before he can marry a wife. But we’re in no hurry to part with Grace, and a very small certainty will satisfy me. All I think of is the girl’s happiness.’

‘That’s just what I’m thinking of too,’ sighed his wife.

‘Well, mother, then we’re of one mind as usual. But I’ve promised to join the gentleman in a game of poker, so I must leave you. Now, don’t sit here by yourself, fretting for nothing.’

‘John, does Mr Harland play high?’ demanded Mrs Vansittart anxiously.

‘Terrible high,’ replied her husband, laughing. ‘Farthing points, and generally loses them. I won tenpence three farthings off him last night. Oh! he’s an inveterate gambler. You may take my word for that.’ And chuckling over his own sarcasm, he went off to the smoking-room.

Mrs Vansittart, seeing it was of no use to speak to her husband on the subject, resolved to take the first opportunity to broach it with her daughter. She was a simple soul, and she felt nervous at the idea of offending Grace; but she was a fond mother, and, like the timid ewe, could fight to defend her young. But the opportunity did not occur for some days. Then Grace, happening to have lingered too long in the sun, contracted a violent headache, and came to her mother’s cabin to lie down, and be petted and made much of. And whilst Mrs Vansittart was bathing her daughter’s forehead with eau-de-Cologne, and fanning it to soothe the pain, she ventured to allude to the subject which occupied her mind.

‘You shouldn’t stand in the sun, my dear, when there’s an awning to sit under. You’ll get fever if you don’t take care. Whatever made you so careless?’

‘I don’t know, mamma. I was talking, and didn’t feel how hot it was.’

‘Who were you talking to—Mr Harland?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what were you talking of?’

‘How can I remember,’ replied Grace, colouring; ‘a dozen different things.’

‘A dozen different things don’t matter,’ said Mrs Vansittart oracularly. ‘It’s one thing I wouldn’t let Mr Harland speak of, if I was you, Grace, my dear.’

‘And what is that?’ asked the girl, in a low voice.

‘Marriage.’

‘Why not, mother? Why shouldn’t he speak of it as well as any other man?’

‘Because I don’t think he’d make a good husband.’

‘What right have you to say so?’ cried Grace, starting up. ‘What has he done to make you distrust him? Papa and he are such close friends; and if papa had not considered Mr Harland to be good and trustworthy, would he have asked him to accompany us to New Zealand?’

‘Ah, your papa and me don’t always think alike, my dear, although, I am thankful to say, a difference of opinion doesn’t make us quarrel. And men are blinder than women in such matters. They judge by the outside, but we have our instincts.’

‘Do you want to set me against Mr Harland?’ exclaimed Grace, with flashing eyes.

‘Do you like him so much, then, my dear?’

‘Yes; that is to say, of course we all like him. Who could help doing so, when he is so agreeable and good-looking?’

‘And he has told you that he likes you?’

Grace lay down on the pillow again, and turned her face slightly away.

‘Don’t be afraid of me, my dear girl,’ continued Mrs Vansittart; ‘I sha’n’t scold you, whatever may have happened. Is it a settled thing between you and this gentleman?’

‘Contingent on your consent and papa’s,’ replied Grace.

‘You mean if we say yes,’ corrected her mother, who was rather puzzled by the word ‘contingent.’

‘Just so, mamma. Mr Harland has asked me to marry him, and I have consented, provided you and papa have no objections to make to it.’

Mrs Vansittart began to cry.

‘Oh, my dear! it’s terrible quick. Why couldn’t you have waited till we got home to Tabbakooloo? There are so many nice young fellows about there, and you’d have had a much better choice.’

‘I don’t want to choose. I’m quite satisfied with Mr Harland,’ said Grace pettishly. ‘And why are you crying, mamma? What has he done? Really, it’s quite alarming to see you go on in this way.’

‘Oh, Grace, my darling girl! don’t give him a final answer yet. Wait a little longer,’ sobbed the old lady. ‘I can’t give you any reason, but I’ve a notion it won’t turn out well.’

‘But this is nonsense,’ replied her daughter, from the heights of her superior wisdom. ‘If you have any reasonable objection to Mr Harland, mother, tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to fall in with your wishes. But don’t condemn him for a chimera.’

‘A what, my dear?’ said Mrs Vansittart, opening her eyes. ‘I never heard of such a thing. But he hasn’t no money. You must allow that. He says so himself.’

‘I know he is in difficulties at present, but a year or so will clear them all off. And the most fashionable people get into difficulties sometimes, mamma, and have to mortgage their estates and let their houses. You have only to hear Mr Harland talk, to know what splendid circumstances he has been in. Besides, papa has always told me that the want of money need never influence my choice of a husband, because he has plenty for us all.’

‘You have made up your mind, then, to marry this Mr Harland, Grace?’

‘Yes, mamma, if papa and you give your consent.’

‘Oh, my dear child, I’d consent to anything for your happiness. Only—will he make you happy?’

‘I think so,’ replied Grace.

There was nothing more to be said, then—at least so Mrs Vansittart thought, as she returned, with a deep sigh, to her former occupation of bathing Grace’s forehead with eau-de-Cologne.

Whilst this little scene was being enacted in the stern cabin, Vernon Blythe was on deck, standing by the taffrail, and looking expectantly towards the companion-ladder. It was his first watch that night from eight to twelve. Mr Coffin had turned in, and the passengers were amusing themselves with music in the saloon, and cards in the house amidships. Suddenly Jack saw a pretty head, all covered with curls, appear at the top of the ladder, and in another moment Alice Leyton stood by his side. They were alone, but she did not hold up her face to be kissed as they drew near each other. She seemed to have been somewhat infected by Vernon’s low spirits the last few days, for she had certainly been less talkative and merry than usual.

‘Well, Jack,’ she said, as they came within hailing distance, ‘I thought it was about time I came and looked after you. They are so dull in the saloon. Almost everybody is reading, and all the gentlemen have deserted us for those horrid cards. And you must feel it stupid up here too. Let us try and enliven each other.’

‘Do you know,’ replied Jack, ‘that it is my watch, and you are not supposed to speak to the officer on duty, Miss Alice?’

‘Bother your watch!’ she retorted. ‘As long as I do not interfere with your duty, the captain will not object. Mr Coffin was telling me yesterday that there is no rule about it.’

‘So you have been trying your hand upon poor old Coffin now, have you? What a dreadful flirt you are. You’d coquet with your own shadow, sooner than with nothing at all.’

‘Would I?’ cried Alice. ‘Not if it had a petticoat on. That’s all you know about it, Jack. But what’s the matter with you. You’ve not been half yourself lately. Mother says she hasn’t heard you laugh since we came aboard.’

‘Too much to think of,’ replied Jack; ‘I have no time to laugh now.’

‘Too much to think of, you old humbug!’ laughed Alice. ‘Why, on a night like this, there is no work at all to do. That’s why I have inflicted my company on you. I was afraid you might go to sleep at your post.’

‘There’s no fear of going to sleep where you are, Alice, and as long as we don’t get a shift of wind, I hope you will stay here, and cheer me on my lonely watch.’

‘Well, it strikes me you want cheering, Jack. Your face is as long as a hatchet. Is it anything that I’ve done?’ inquired Alice, with a guilty fear that he would answer in the affirmative. But he didn’t.

‘You!’ he exclaimed, reddening in the moonlight. ‘Oh, dear, no! What have you been doing? Anything naughty? Because, if that’s the case, you had better make a clean breast of it at once, and receive my absolution before you go to sleep.’

‘You’re quite sure you would give me absolution?’ she said saucily.

‘I think so. Why not? It’s better than quarrelling with you, and it saves a lot of trouble. Only I must hear what you have been guilty of, before I can decide the amount of absolution you require, and whether it can be conveyed by one kiss or half-a-dozen.’

‘Jack,’ said Alice, pouting, ‘I don’t believe you love me one bit!’

She was becoming fast aware that she didn’t care for him, and yet she would not willingly have given him up to any other woman. Dogs in the manger are nowhere in comparison with the fair sex. They may be utterly sick of a man’s attentions, and wish never to receive them again, but they would endure them to the extent of martyrdom sooner than see them transferred to a rival. Their vanity cannot brook the idea of being forgotten.

‘What can I do or say to make you believe it?’ returned Jack. ‘I suppose you say that because I have so little time to devote to you now. But you know that I would lie all day long at your feet, if I had not these confounded watches to keep.’

‘But you never say anything nice when we do meet,’ continued Alice.

‘I didn’t know you cared for my nice things. You have so many people to say them to you. Captain Lovell, for instance! Isn’t he whispering soft nothings to you all day long?’

Alice blushed furiously.

‘Jack! you’re not jealous—are you?’ she whispered.

He burst out laughing.

‘Jealous! my dear child! Most decidedly not! I’m only too delighted to see my little girl so well appreciated. What sort of a fellow is Lovell? Has he got anything in him? He looks rather an ass to me.’

‘Not at all,’ cried Alice indignantly; ‘he is very clever, and most amusing. I never met any one who made me laugh so much. And he has travelled all over the world, and has a wonderful memory. It is a shame of you to call him an ass.’

‘I only said he looked like one! It is all right if he isn’t,’ remarked Jack coolly.

‘You are jealous of him; that’s what it is,’ said Alice, in a temper.

Jack walked straight up to her, and took her hand.

‘My dear little woman! you are perfectly wrong. I am jealous of no man. You have promised to be my wife, and I rest securely on that promise. Were I to see you flirting with the whole world, I should not suspect you of betraying me. Whilst I am engaged to you, I should consider it most dishonourable to make love to another girl. Why should I suspect you of possessing a lower nature than my own? So set your mind at rest upon that score, Alice. I trust you, my dear, as I hope you trust me.’

‘Good-night,’ said Alice, in a stifled voice, as she turned away. ‘Mother will be expecting me to join her in the cabin.’

‘Good-night,’ echoed her lover cheerfully.

Neither of them kissed the other as they parted, though when this ceremony had first been omitted between them, it would have puzzled them to say—only they seemed somehow to have involuntarily dropped it.

Alice ran down the companion almost too quickly for safety, and bolting herself into the cabin, threw herself upon the berth, and burst into a flood of tears.

‘He is too good for me,’ she thought remorsefully, ‘a thousand times over. He always was. He trusts me implicitly, and tells me to trust him in the same manner. Oh, if he only knew!—if he only knew!’

But at this juncture she heard the cheerful bustle outside of the gentlemen returning to the saloon to finish up the evening with singing and flirtation, so Alice dried her eyes, and arranged her curls afresh, and emerged to seek consolation at the hands of Captain Lovell.

END OF VOL. I.

COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- DRIVEN TO BAY.

- CONTENTS.

- CHAPTER I. JACK, THE SAILOR.

- CHAPTER II. VERNON, THE LOVER.

- CHAPTER III. IRIS HARLAND.

- CHAPTER IV. LES NOUVEAUX RICHES.

- CHAPTER V. BREAKERS AHEAD.

- CHAPTER VI. A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING.

- CHAPTER VII. TWO WOMEN’S HEARTS.

- CHAPTER VIII. THE ‘PANDORA.’

- CHAPTER IX. MR GREENWOOD.

- CHAPTER X. GOOD-BYE TO ENGLAND.

- CHAPTER XI. A DISCOVERY.

- CHAPTER XII. AT SEA.

- CHAPTER XIII. COURTSHIP.

- CHAPTER XIV. REMONSTRANCE.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE