The Tasmanian Sisters

BY

E. B. MOORE

 The evening shadows were settling down over Mount Wellington in Tasmania. The distant city was already bathed in the rosy after-glow.

It was near one of the many lakes which abound amongst the mountains round Hobart that our short tale begins.

It was in the middle of January--midsummer in Tasmania. It had been a hot day, but the heat was of a dry sort, and therefore bearable, and of course to those born and bred in that favoured land, it was in no way trying.

On the verandah of a pretty wooden house of the chalet description, stood a lady, shading her eyes from the setting sun, a tall, graceful woman; but as the sun's rays fell on her hair, it revealed silver threads, and the sweet, rather worn face, with a few lines on the forehead, was that of a woman of over forty; and yet she was a woman to whom life's romance had only just come.

She was gazing round her with a lingering, loving glance; the gaze of one who looks on a loved scene for the last time. On the morrow Eva Chadleigh, for so she was called, was leaving her childhood's home, where she had lived all her life, and going to cross the water to the old--though to her new--country.

Sprinkled all down the mountain sides were fair white villas, or wooden chalet-like houses, with their terraces and gardens, and most of them surrounded by trees, of which the eucalyptus was the most common. The soft breezes played round her, and at her feet the little wavelets of the lake rippled in a soft cadence. Sounds of happy voices came wafted out on the evening air, intermingled with music and the tones of a rich tenor voice.

That voice, or rather the owner of it, had made a havoc in that quiet home. Till its owner had appeared on the scene, Eva and her sister had lived quietly together, never dreaming of change. They had been born, and had lived all their lives in the peaceful chalet, seeing no one, going nowhere.

A Belated Traveller

One night, about a year previously, a belated traveller knocked at the door, was given admittance, and, in return for the hospitality shown him, had the audacity to fall in love with Blanche Chadleigh, Eva's twin sister. Then, indeed, a change came into Eva's life. Hitherto the two sisters had sufficed to each other; now she had to take a secondary position.

The intruder proved to be a wealthy settler, a Mr. Wells, a man of good family, though alone in the world. In due course the two were married, but Blanche was loath to leave her childhood's home. So it resulted in their remaining there while his own pretty villa, a little higher up the mountain, was being built.

And now Eva too had found her fate. A church 'synod' had been held; clergymen of all denominations and from all parts of the earth being present. The sisters had been asked to accommodate one or two clergymen; one of these was an old Scotch minister with snowy locks, and keen dark eyes.

How it came about Eva Chadleigh never knew; she often said he never formally proposed to her, but somehow, without a word on either side, it came to be understood that she should marry him.

'Now you're just coming home with me, lassie,' said the old man to the woman of forty-five, who appeared to him as a girl. 'I'll make ye as happy as a queen; see here, child, two is company, and three is trumpery, as the saying goes. It isn't that your sister loves ye less,' seeing a pained look cross her face, 'but she has her husband, don't ye see?' And Eva did see. She fell in love, was drawn irresistibly to her old minister, and it is his voice, with its pleasant Scotch accent, that is now rousing her from her reverie at the time our tale begins.

'Come away--come away, child. The night dews are falling; they're all wearying for ye indoors; come now, no more looking around ye, or I'll never get ye away to-morrow.'

'But you promise to bring me back some day, Mr. Cameron, before very long.'

'Ay, ay, we'll come back sure enough, don't fret yourself; but first ye must see the old country, and learn to know my friends.'

Amongst their neighbours at this time was a young man, apparently about thirty years old; he had travelled to Hobart in the same ship as Mr. Cameron, for whom he had conceived a warm feeling of friendship. Captain Wylie had lately come in for some property in Tasmania, and as he was on furlough and had nothing to keep him at home, he had come out to see his belongings, and since his arrival at Hobart had been a frequent visitor at the chalet.

Though a settled melancholy seemed to rest upon him, his history explained it, for Captain Wylie was married, and yet it was years since he had seen his wife. They had both met at a ball at Gibraltar many years ago. She had been governess in an officer's family on the 'Rock' while his regiment had been stationed there. She was nineteen, very pretty, and alone in the world. They had married after five or six weeks' acquaintance, and parted by mutual consent after as many months. She had been self-willed and extravagant, he had nothing but his pay at that time, and she nearly ruined him.

Captain Wylie

It ended in recriminations. He had a violent temper, and she was proud and sarcastic. They had parted in deep anger and resentment, she to return to her governessing, for she was too proud to accept anything from him, he to remove to another regiment and go to India.

At first he had tried to forget all this short interlude of love and happiness, and flung himself into a gay, wild life: but it would not do. He had deeply loved her with the first strong, untried love of a young impetuous man, and her image was always coming before him. An intense hunger to see her again had swept away every feeling of resentment. Lately he had heard of her as governess to a family in Gibraltar, and a great longing had come over him just to see her once more, and to find out if she still cared for him.

He and Mr. Cameron had travelled out together on a sailing ship, and during the voyage he had been led to confide in the kindly, simple old gentleman; but so sacred did the latter consider his confidence that even to his affianced bride he had never recalled it.

All these thoughts crowded into the young officer's mind as he paced up and down in the stillness of the night, disinclined to turn in. He was startled from his reverie by a voice beside him.

'So you have really decided to come with us to-morrow?' It was Mr. Cameron who spoke. 'Ye know, lad, the steamer is not one of the fine new liners. I doubt she's rather antiquated, and as I told ye yesterday, she is a sort of ambulance ship, as one may say. She is bringing home a good many invalided officials and officers left at the hospital here by other ships. It seems a queer place to spend our honeymoon in, and I offered my bride to wait for the next steamer, which won't be for another fortnight or three weeks, and what do you think she said? 'Let us go; we may be of use to those poor things!' That's the sort she is.'

'She looks like that,' said Captain Wylie, heartily. 'I should like to go with you,' continued the young man. 'Since I have decided on the step I told you of, I cannot remain away a day longer. I saw the mate of the Minerva yesterday, and secured my cabin. He says they have more invalids than they know what to do with. I believe there are no nurses, only one stewardess and some cabin boys to wait on us all.'

The night grew chill, and after a little more talk the older gentleman went in, but the younger one continued pacing up and down near the lake, till the rosy dawn had begun to light up the summits.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in the month of February, a beautiful bright morning; brilliant sunshine flooded the Rock of Gibraltar, and made the sea of a dazzling blueness, whilst overhead the sky was unclouded.

A young lady who stood in a little terraced garden in front of a house perched on the side of the 'Rock' was gazing out on the expanse of sea which lay before her, and seemed for the moment oblivious of two children who were playing near her, and just then loudly claiming her attention. She was their governess, and had the charge of them while their parents were in India.

The house they lived in was the property of Mr. Somerset, who was a Gibraltarian by birth, and it was the children's home at present. Being delicate, the climate of Gibraltar was thought better for them than the mists of England. Major and Mrs. Somerset were shortly expected home for a time on furlough, and there was great excitement at this prospect.

'Nory, Nory, you don't hear what I am saying! When will mamma come? You always say 'soon,' but what does 'soon' mean? Nory, you don't hear me,' and the governess's dress was pulled.

This roused her from her reverie, and like one waking from a dream she turned round. 'What did you say, dear? Oh, yes, about your mother. Well, I am expecting a letter every mail. I should think she might arrive almost any time; they were to arrive in Malta last Monday, and now it is Wednesday. And that reminds me, children, run and get on your things, we have just time for a walk before your French mistress comes.'

At Gibraltar

'Oh, do let us go to the market, Nory, it is so long since we went there. It is so stupid always going up the 'Rock,' and you are always looking out to sea, and don't hear us when we talk to you. I know you don't, for when I told you that lovely story about the Brownies, the other day, you just said 'yes' and 'no' in the wrong places, and I knew you were not attending,' said sharp little Ethel, who was not easily put off.

'Oh, Nory, see the monkeys,' cried the little boy, 'they are down near the sentry box, and one of them is carrying off a piece of bread.'

'They are very tame, aren't they, Nory?' asked Ethel. 'The soldiers leave bread out for them on purpose, Maria says.'

'Yes, but you know I don't care for them, Ethel. They gave me such a fright last year they came down to pay a visit, and I discovered one in the bathroom. But run to Maria, and ask her to get you ready quickly, and I will take you to the market.'

In great glee the happy little children quickly donned their things, and were soon walking beside their governess towards the gay scene of bargaining and traffic.

Here Moors are sitting cross-legged, with their piles of bright yellow and red slippers turned up at the toe, and calling out in loud harsh voices, 'babouchas, babouchas,' while the wealthier of them, dressed in their rich Oriental dress, are selling brass trays and ornaments.

The scene is full of gaiety and life, and it is with difficulty that the young governess drags the children away. But now fresh delights begin: they are in the narrow streets where all the Moorish shops with their tempting array of goods attract the childish eye--sweets of all sorts, cocoanut, egg sweets, almond sweets, pine-nut sweets, and the lovely pink and golden 'Turkish delight,' dear to every child's heart.

'Oh, Nory!' in pleading tones, and 'Nory' knows that piteous appeal well, and is weak-minded enough to buy some of the transparent amber-like substance, which is at all events very wholesome. The sun was so powerful that it was quite pleasant on their return to sit in the little terraced garden and take their lunch before lesson-time, and while their governess sipped her tea, the children drank their goat's milk, and ate bread and quince jelly.

The warm February sun shone down on her, but she heeded it not; a passage in Mrs. Somerset's letter, which had just been handed to her, haunted her, and she read again and again: she could get no farther. 'I believe it is very likely we shall take the next ship that touches here, it is the _Minerva_ from Tasmania. They say it is a hospital ship, but I cannot wait for another, I hunger so for a sight of the children.'

The young governess was none other than Norah Wylie. She had never ceased following her husband's movements with the greatest, most painful interest. She knew he had lately gone to Tasmania; suppose he should return in that very ship? More unlikely things had happened. She was at times very weary of her continual monotonous round, though she had been fortunate enough to have got a very exceptional engagement, and had been with Mrs. Somerset's children almost ever since she and her husband had parted.

As Norah sat and knitted, looking out to sea and wondering where her husband was, he, at the very moment, was pacing up and down the deck of the _Minerva_. They had so far had a prosperous journey, fair winds, and a calm sea. Some of the invalids were improving, and even able to come to table, for sea air is a wonderful life-giver. But there were others who would never see England. It was a day of intense heat in the Red Sea, and even at that early season of the year there was not a breath of air.

Amongst those who had been carried up out of the stifling cabin was one whose appearance arrested Captain Wylie's attention, as he took his constitutional in the lightest of light flannels. He could not but be struck by the appearance of the young man. He had never seen him before, but he looked so fragile that the young officer's kind heart went out to him. He was lying in an uncomfortable position, his head all twisted and half off the limp cabin pillow.

Something in the young face, so pathetic in its youth, with the ravages of disease visible in the hectic cheek, and harsh, rasping cough, touched the strong young officer. He stooped down and put his hand on the young lad's forehead; it was cold and clammy. Was he dying?

Mrs. Cameron had come over and was standing beside him. She ran down and brought up the doctor, explaining the young man's state.

The Doctor's Verdict

'He will pass away in one of these fainting fits,' said the tired man as he followed her. He was kind in his way, but overwhelmed with work. 'This may revive him for the time being,' he went on as they ascended the cabin stairs, 'but he cannot live long. I do feel for that young fellow, he is so patient. You never hear a word of complaint.'

By this time they had reached the sick man. 'Here, my good fellow, try and take this,' said the doctor, as Eva Cameron gently raised the young head on her arm. The large dark eyes were gratefully raised to the doctor's face, and a slight tinge of colour came to the pale lips.

'NOW I AM GOING TO FAN YOU,' SHE SAID.

'Now I am going to fan you,' said Mrs. Cameron, as she sat beside him. Now and then she sprinkled lavender water on his head and hands.

'Thank you,' he said; 'how nice that is! Would you sing to me? I heard you singing the other day.'

Eva softly sang a Tasmanian air which was wild and sweet.

'Will you do me a favour?' asked the young man. 'Please sing me one of the dear old psalms. I am Scotch, and at times yearn for them, you would hardly believe how much.'

She sang:

 
'God is our refuge and our strength,                 
In straits a present aid:           
Therefore, although the earth remove,                 
We will not be afraid.'

As she sang tears rolled down the wan cheek, but a look of perfect peace came over the pale face. She went on:

'A river is, whose streams do glad                  
The city of our God,           
The holy place, wherein the Lord                  
Most High hath His abode.'

He was asleep, the wan young cheek leaning on his hand in a child-like attitude of repose. Eva sat and watched him, her heart full of pity. She did not move, but sat fanning him. Soon Mr. Cameron and Captain Wylie joined her; as they approached she put her finger on her lips to inspire silence.

She had no idea what the words of the dear old psalm had been to the young Highlander--like water to a parched soul, bringing back memories of childhood, wooded glens, heather-clad hills, rippling burns, and above all the old grey kirk where the Scotch laddie used to sit beside his mother--that dear mother in whom his whole soul was wrapped up--and join lustily in the psalms.

The dinner-bell rang unheeded--somehow not one of the three could leave him.

'How lovely!' he said at last, opening and fixing his eyes on Eva. 'I think God sent you to me.'

'Ay, laddie,' said the old Scotchman, taking the wasted hand in his, 'but it seems to me you know the One who 'sticketh closer than a brother'? I see the 'peace of God' in your face.'

'Ah, you are from my part of the country,' said the lad joyfully, trying to raise himself, but sinking back exhausted. 'I know it in your voice, it's just music to me. How good God has been to me!'

They were all too much touched by his words to answer him, and Eva could only bend over him and smooth his brow.

'Now mother will have some one to tell her about me,' he added, turning to Mrs. Cameron, and grasping her hand. Then, as strength came back in some measure to the wasted frame, he went on in broken sentences to tell how he had been clerk in a big mercantile house in Hobart, how he had been invalided and lying in the hospital there for weeks. 'But I have saved money,' he added joyfully, 'she need not feel herself a burden on my sister any more; my sister is married to a poor Scotch minister, and she lives with them, or was to, till I came home. Now that will never be. Oh, if I could just have seen her!'

'But you will see her again, laddie,' said the old man. 'Remember our own dear poet Bonar's words:

'Where the child shall find his mother,            
Where the mother finds the child,           
Where dear families shall gather            
That were scattered o'er the wild;               
Brother, we shall meet and rest              
'Mid the holy and the blest.'

'Thank you,' said the dying lad. 'I think I could sleep.' His eyes were closing, when a harsh loud voice with a foreign accent was heard near.

'I say I will!'

'I say I will, and who shall hinder me?'

'Hush, there is a dying man here!' It was the doctor who spoke. A sick-looking, but violent man, who had been reclining in a deck chair not far off, was having a tussle with a doctor, and another man who seemed his valet.

'Indeed you should come down, sir,' the man was saying, 'there is quite a dew falling.'

'You want to make out that I am dying, I suppose, but I have plenty of strength, I can tell you, and will be ordered by no one!'

'Well, then, you will hasten your end, I tell you so plainly,' said the doctor sternly.

The man's face altered as he spoke, a kind of fear came over him, as he rose to follow the doctor without a word. As he passed near the young Highlander, he glanced at him and shuddered, 'He's young to die, and have done with everything.'

'He would tell you he is just going to begin with everything,' said Mr. Cameron, who had heard the words, and came forward just then. 'Doctor, I suppose we need not move him,' he added, glancing at the dying lad, 'you see he is going fast.'

'No, nothing can harm him now, poor young fellow. I will go and speak to the captain--will you help Mr. Grossman to his cabin?'

As they reached the state-room door, Mr. Cameron said, 'Friend, when your time comes, may you too know the peace that is filling the heart of yon lad.'

'He is believing in a lie, I fear,' said the other.

'And yet, when you were in pain the other day, I heard you call loudly, 'God help me!''

'Oh, well, I suppose it is a kind of instinct--a habit one gets into, like any other exclamation.'

'I think not,' said the old man. 'I believe that in your inmost, soul is a conviction that there is a God. Don't you remember hearing that Voltaire, with almost his last breath, said, 'Et pourtant, il y a un Dieu!''

Returning on deck, Mr. Cameron took his watch beside the young Highlander. There was no return of consciousness, and very soon the happy spirit freed itself from its earthly tenement without a struggle.

Next morning they consigned all that was mortal of him to the deep, in sure and certain hope that he shall rise again. God knows where to find His own, whether in the quiet leafy 'God's acre,' or in the depths of the sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

The year was advancing. It was towards the end of February. At Gibraltar great excitement prevailed in the house perched on the side of the 'Rock.' Major Somerset and his wife were expected! Norah paused suddenly to look out over the blue expanse of sea, to-day ruffled with a slight breeze--and then exclaimed:

'Children! children! come, a steamer with the British flag is coming in! Hurry and get on your things.'

There was no need for urging them to haste--the outdoor wrappings were on in no time, and they ran down to the landing-stage just as the ship had cast anchor. Numerous boats were already making their way out to her. They soon learnt that the ship was from Malta, though she was not the _Minerva_ they had expected.

How Norah's heart beat as she eagerly, breathlessly, watched the passengers descend the ladder and take their places in the different boats. A keen breeze had got up, and even in the harbour there were waves already.

'There is Mamma!'

'There is mamma!' exclaimed little Ethel--'see her, Nory, in the white hat! Oh, my pretty mamma!' she exclaimed, dancing with glee as the boat came nearer and nearer.

Then came exclamations, hugs and kisses, intermingled with the quick vivacious chattering of the boatmen bargaining over their fares. A perfect Babel of sound! Several passengers were landing--so a harvest was being reaped by these small craft.

The children clung to their parents, and Norah followed behind, feeling a little lonely, and out of it all--would there ever come a time of joy for her--a time when she too would be welcoming a dear one?--or should she just have to go on living the life of an outsider in other people's lives--having no joys or sorrows of her own, she who might have been so blessed and so happy? How long those five years had seemed, a lifetime in themselves, since she had last heard her husband's voice! Well, he had not come, that was clear.

That evening as Norah was preparing to go to bed, a knock came to her door, and Mrs. Somerset came in.

'I thought I might come in, Norah dear; I wanted to tell you how pleased my husband and I are with the improvement in the children, they look so well, and are so much more obedient. You have managed them very well, and we are very grateful,' and Mrs. Somerset bent forward and kissed her. 'Now, dear, we want you to accept a small present from us--it is very commonplace--but there is little variety where we are stationed.'

Norah undid the cedar box put into her hand and drew out a most lovely gold bracelet of Indian workmanship.

'Oh, how very good of you, it is far too pretty!' she exclaimed, returning Mrs. Somerset's embrace. 'But, indeed, I have only done my duty by the children: they are very good, and I love them dearly.'

'Well, dear, I hope you will long remain with them--and yet--I cannot wish it for your sake, for I wish a greater happiness for you. You remember when you first came to me, telling me your history, Norah, and begging me never to refer to it? Well, I have never done so, but to-night I must break my promise, as I think I ought to tell you that I have actually met Captain Wylie, though he did not know who I was.'

Norah's colour came and went; she said nothing, only fixed her eyes on Mrs. Somerset in speechless attention, while a tremor ran through her being.

'Now, dear, listen to me; I believe you will see him in Gibraltar very soon. You know we were to have come here in the Minerva, which is actually in port in Malta now, but as she is detained there for some slight repairs, we did not wait for her. I went on board the Minerva with my husband, who had business with the captain--and there he was. The captain introduced us. When he heard I was a native of the 'Rock,' he became quite eager, and asked me many questions about the different families living there, and told me he intended staying a few days here on his way to England. He was standing looking so sad when we came on board, looking out to sea, and he brightened up so when he spoke of Gibraltar. But, dear child, don't cry, you should rejoice.'

For Norah had broken down and was weeping bitterly, uncontrollably. She could not speak, she only raised Mrs. Somerset's hand to her lips. The latter saw she was best alone, and was wise enough to leave her.

'Oh Edgar! Edgar!' was the cry of her heart. 'Shall I ever really see you? Can you forgive me?'

Just about the same time as Norah Wylie was weeping in her room, her heart torn asunder with hopes and fears, her husband was again pacing the deck of the _Minerva_. They had sailed from Malta the previous day, but owing to fogs, which had checked their progress, were hardly out of sight of land.

Captain Wylie's thoughts as he passed up and down were evidently of a serious nature. For the first time in his life he had began to think seriously of religious things. Ever since the death of the young Highlander, Kenneth McGregor, he had had deep heart-searchings. Besides, another event had occurred that had cast a shadow over the whole ship, so sudden and so awful had it been.

'In Spite of the Doctor'

Mr. Grossman had made a wonderful recovery. Contrary to all explanations, he was apparently almost well. It was his constant boast that he had recovered 'in spite of the doctor.'

One evening dinner was going on, and Herr Grossman, who was still on diet, and did not take all the courses, got up and declared that he would go on deck. It was misty and raining a little. He sent for his great coat and umbrella, and as his valet helped him on with his coat, the doctor called out to him:

'Don't stay up long in the damp.'

'Oh, I'll be down directly,' he had answered. 'I've no wish to lay myself up again.'

The company at table fell into talk, and it was some time before they dispersed.

'It is time Mr. Grossman was down,' said the doctor; 'did you see him, steward?'

'I saw him near an hour ago, sir, he stopped on his way up to light his cigar at the tinder lamp on the stairs.'

The doctor went up, but no Herr Grossman was to be seen. He and others hunted all over the ship. At last a sort of panic prevailed. Where was he? What had happened? The ship was stopped and boats lowered. Captain Wylie was one of those who volunteered to go with the search party. Clouds of mist hung over the sea, and although lanterns were held aloft, nothing was visible.

The search was in vain. No one ever knew precisely what had happened, nor would know. Whether a sudden giddiness seized him, or whether he leaned too far forward, misled by the fog which makes things look so different; certain it is that he had disappeared--not even his umbrella was found.

No one slept that night; a great awe had settled down over the whole ship.

The next day a furious gale sprang up. Captain Wylie, who was an old sailor, crawled up on deck; he was used to roughing it, and the waves dashing over him as they swept the deck had an invigorating effect.

'We ought to be in this afternoon,' shouted the captain, as he passed, 'but the propeller has come to grief; you see we are not moving, and hard enough it will be to fix the other in in such weather,' and he looked anxiously around. The wind almost blew his words away.

Captain Wylie then perceived that they were in the trough of the sea, helplessly tossed about, while the waves were mounting high, and any moment the engine fires might be extinguished. Should that happen, indeed they would be in a bad strait.

With difficulty he made his way to where the men were vainly trying to fix the monster screw. Each time they thought they had it in place, the heavy sea shifted it, and the men were knocked down in their attempts. Captain Wylie willingly gave a hand, and after a long time, so it seemed to the weary men, the screw was in its place, and doing its work.

The brave ship battled on. Already in the far distance the great 'Rock' was visible, and the young soldier's heart turned passionately to her whom he loved.

And now a fresh disaster had arisen; the steam steering-gear had come to grief, and the old, long-neglected wheel had to be brought into use. It had not been used for years, and though constantly cleaned and kept in order, the salt water had been washing over it now for hours, and it was very hard to turn. The question now was, should they remain in the open sea, or venture into the harbour?

A discussion on the subject was taking place between the captain and the first mate. The steering-gear did not seem to do its work properly, and the captain anxiously kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as they were drawn irresistibly nearer and nearer to the harbour. 'It is the men-of-war I dread coming near,' the captain was saying to his mates; 'those deadly rams are a terror in this weather.'

A Critical Moment

It was a critical moment. Darkness was coming down, the rain became more violent, the wind cold and cutting, with now and then fierce showers of hail.

On, on they were being driven; nothing could keep them back. The captain shouted orders, the men did their best, but the wheel did not work properly. Captain Wylie as he stood near, holding on while the waves dashed over him, saw the lights twinkling in the town, and felt that the cup of happiness so near might now at any moment be dashed from his lips.

The danger was clear to all, nearer and nearer they drew. 'Out with the life-belts!' shouted the captain; 'lower the boats!'

There was no time to be lost, faster and faster they were being driven into the harbour.

Captain Wylie rushed downstairs; and here confusion and terror reigned, for bad news travels fast, and a panic had seized the poor fellows who were still weak from recent illness. They were dragging themselves out of their berths.

'Get her ready, here are two belts,' he cried, and, throwing them to Mr. Cameron, he hurried to the assistance of the invalids. All were soon provided with belts. A wonderful calm succeeded to the confusion, and great self-control was exercised.

'Courage!' cried the young soldier; 'remember we are close to shore. If you can keep your heads above water you will speedily be rescued.' The one frail woman was as calm as any.

It came at last! A crash, a gurgling sound of rushing water, a ripping, rasping noise.

'Up on deck,' shouted Captain Wylie, as seizing the one helpless invalid in his arms, he hastened on deck. An awful scene met the eye. What the ship's captain feared had indeed come true!

The boats were soon freighted and pushed off.

       *       *       *       *       *

While this terrible scene was taking place, anxious eyes were taking it all in from the shore.

Early that day the Minerva had been signalled, and Norah with her heart in her mouth had watched almost all day from the veranda, scanning the sea with a pair of binoculars. Mrs. Somerset kept the children entirely, knowing well what her poor young governess was going through.

A Weary Night

The storm had raged fiercely all day, but as night came on it grew worse. Norah could remain no longer in the house, and had gone down to the quay. As she reached it she saw a large ship driving furiously forward to its doom. There she stood as though turned to stone, and was not aware of a voice speaking in her ear, and a hand drawing her away.

'This is no place for you, Mrs. Wylie; my wife sent me for you. You can do no good here; you will learn what there is to learn quicker at home--one can't believe a word they say.'

Her agony was too great for words or tears. She had gone through so much all those years, and now happiness had seemed so near, she had believed it might even yet be in store for her since Mrs. Somerset had spoken to her on the subject, and now? . . . She let herself be led into the house, and when Mrs. Somerset ran to meet her and clasp her in her arms, it was as if she grasped a statue, so cold and lifeless was Norah.

'She is stunned,' the major said; 'she is exhausted.'

Mechanically she let herself be covered up and put on the sofa, her feet chafed by kind hands--it gave a vague sense of comfort, though all the time she felt as if it were being done to some one else.

And yet had Norah only known, grief would have been turned into thanksgiving. Her husband was not dead.

The weary night came to an end at last, as such nights do. Several times Mrs. Somerset had crept in. They had been unable to gather any reliable news about the Minerva's passengers. The ship had gone down, but whether the people had been saved they had been unable as yet to ascertain.

A glorious sunrise succeeded a night of storm and terror, and its crimson beams came in on Norah. Hastily rising, and throwing on her hat and jacket she ran out into the morning freshness longing to feel the cool air.

She only wanted to get away from herself.

She climbed the steep ascent up the 'Rock,' past the governor's house, then stood and gazed at this wonderful scene.

And she stood thus, wrapped up in sad thoughts and anticipations of evil, a great, great joy lay very near her.

Edgar Wylie had thrown himself into the sea, and lost consciousness from the effects of a blow. Several boats had braved the furious sea, and come out to save the unfortunate people if possible.

Thus it was that he was picked up, as well as a young fellow he had risked his life to save.

When he came to himself, he found he had been brought to the nearest hotel, and a doctor was in attendance. There was, however, nothing really the matter with him. He had, it is true, been stunned by the sharp spar that had come in contact with his head, but no real injury had been done.

A good night's rest had restored him to himself. He woke early the following morning, and rising went out to breathe the fresh pure air.

Thus it came to pass that the husband and wife were passing each other in their morning walk, and they did not know it.

And yet, as his tall figure passed her, a thrill of memory went through her, a something in the walk reminded her of her husband.

Both had arrived at the supreme crisis of their lives, and yet they might never have met, but for a small incident, and a rather funny one.

Norah had taken off her hat and had laid it carelessly beside her on the low wall on which she was leaning, when she became aware of some one taking possession of it, and looking round she saw the impudent face of a monkey disappearing with it up the steep side of the 'Rock.'

She had no energy to recover it, and was standing helplessly watching his movements when she saw the stranger who had passed her set off in pursuit of the truant.

She soon lost sight of him, and had again sunk into a reverie when a voice said: 'Here is your hat; I have rescued it. I think it is none the worse for this adventure.'

Oh, that voice! Norah's heart stood still, she was stunned and could not believe that she heard aright. Was she dreaming? 'The rascal was caught by one of the sentries, evidently he is quite at home with them, and the soldier on duty coaxed it from him.'

Then Norah turned, there was no longer room for doubt, her eyes were riveted on the grey ones fixed on her.

'You are not Dead!'

'Then you are not dead,' was the thought that flashed through her mind. Her tongue was dry and parched; her heart, which had seemed to stop, bounded forward, as though it must burst its bonds.

'Oh, Edgar!' she cried, losing all self-command; 'oh, if it is you, forgive me, don't leave me. Don't let me wake and find it a dream!'

A strange whizzing and whirling came over her, and then she felt herself held securely by a strong arm and a face was bent to hers. When she recovered herself somewhat, she found that she was seated on a bank, supported by her husband.

It was his voice that said in the old fond tones: 'Oh, Norah, my Norah, we are together again, never, never more to part. Forgive me, darling, for all I have made you suffer in the past.'

'Forgive you! Oh, Edgar! Will you forgive me?'

The sun rose higher, and sounds of everyday life filled the air, drawing those two into the practical everyday world, out of the sunny paradise in which they had been basking while Norah sat leaning against that strong true heart that all these years had beat only for her.