CHAPTER XIV.

SETTLED.

The large vessel, which turned out to be the _Carrickfergus_, of Glasgow, bound for Calcutta, did not appear to interest Alice Leyton and Captain Lovell. They gazed at her for a few moments in silence, and then turned away, as if by mutual consent, and walked to the other side of the deck together.

‘Why don’t you stay and watch them pulling up the flags?’ said Alice, as she perceived that the captain had followed her.

‘Because I would far rather be with you. Alice, what is the matter? What have I done to offend you?’

‘Do I look offended?’

‘You do not smile as sweetly as usual, and I am miserable. Is it possible you are angry with me?’

‘Yes, I am--a little. Why did you call me “Alice” before all those people? You know you have no right to do so, and the next thing we shall hear, is that it is reported all over the ship we are engaged.’

‘Then let us forestall their gossip, and make the report true. Let us be engaged, Alice.’

‘How can we, when mother won’t hear of it? She says everything must remain _in statu quo_ until she sees my father. I believe she is half sorry I have broken with Jack Blythe. She is always extolling his bravery and courage to the skies, because he jumped in the sea after baby. I wish,’ continued Alice, with a suspicious moisture in her blue eyes, ‘I do wish, Robert, that _you_ had been the one to save her. Then mother would have thought nothing too good for _you_.’

‘Oh, my darling! don’t you believe I _would_ have done so if Blythe had not forestalled me? I was looking after _you_, you know; and it would have been of no use _two_ of us jumping into the water at the same time--would it, now?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ replied Alice, with a sigh; ‘but baby is all the world to mother.’

‘Then she will have the less trouble in making up her mind to part with you, Alice! I have been half afraid to speak openly to you since that interview with Mrs Leyton. She seemed so dead set against my suit. But I think we ought to understand each other. The matter really concerns only you and me, and I want to have something definite to say to your father when I meet him. Tell me the truth, then. Do you love me?’

‘Oh, Robert! I think you _know_ I do,’ whispered Alice.

‘Better than you loved Mr Blythe?’

‘I don’t think now that I ever really loved him. I _liked_ him very much. He is a dear, good fellow. I like him still, but I feel I could never _marry_ him.’

‘And could you marry _me_, darling?’

Alice’s blushes spoke for her. She was not much more than a child in years, but her womanhood was born at that moment, and she felt her heart leaping in mighty throbs to welcome it. But her tongue refused to utter the thoughts that were surging in her brain.

‘Can’t you speak to me?’ pleaded Captain Lovell presently. ‘Just say, “Robert, I love you, and I will be your wife,” and my heart will be at rest for ever more.’

Alice turned her big blue eyes suddenly upon him.

‘I love you,’ she said rapidly, ‘and I will be your wife.’

And then, as if frightened at the sound of her own boldness, she flushed scarlet from brow to bosom, and the tears rushed to her eyes. Lovell thought he had never seen her look so pretty as when she stood thus, burning with love and shame, before him.

‘My darling!’ he exclaimed, ‘how I wish that I could kiss you! But a hundred eyes are on us, and I can only thank you for your consent by word of mouth. Thank you a thousand times, my wife that is to be! I shall be as brave as a lion, Alice, with your sweet promise to urge me on. And now, let the people say what they choose. We _are_ engaged to one another, and no one can part us, unless your father does. So let us be as happy as we can till we reach New Zealand, and not anticipate an evil that may never come.’

‘Here are Miss Vere and Mr Fowler. Talk of something else,’ said Alice, in a fearful whisper.

‘Tell me how you employ yourself all day long at Paradise Farm, Miss Leyton,’ replied Lovell, taking the cue.

‘Oh, there are no end of things to be done! The day is not half long enough. I help mother in the house during the mornings, and in the afternoons I ride or drive or garden, according to the weather.’

‘Or pay horrid social calls,’ suggested the captain.

‘Not often--that is, in up-country stations. The distances are too great. The nearest dwelling-house to ours is ten miles off. But we drive to the town sometimes, and to afternoon dances and teas.’

‘And in the evenings?’

‘We read books or do crewel work, and go to bed at ten.’

‘Whew!’ said Lovell, giving a long, low whistle; ‘what an awful existence!’

‘Don’t try it, then,’ returned Alice archly; ‘for everybody does the same. We rise at four or five, have dinner at one (and it usually consists of mutton in every shape and form), tea at six, and all lights out at ten. You will soon fall into the custom, and begin yawning at nine o’clock.’

‘But what work can such little hands as yours do?’

‘Everything! There are very few servants in New Zealand, and the squatters’ wives and daughters do all the cooking, washing, and cleaning themselves. Sometimes I saddle father’s horse or my own, and if he is busy, I chop up wood for the fire, and draw the water for the use of the house.’

‘I cannot believe it. You are joking with me! Such work is not fit for such a delicate creature as you are,’ said Lovell, looking genuinely distressed.

‘Indeed, I am not delicate; and if I were, I would help my parents all in my power. I shall always work for them whilst I am at home.’

‘I hope you will not be at home long, my darling,’ whispered her lover.

‘If not, I shall work in the house I go to,’ whispered Alice, in return.

‘Not while I have a hand to do it for you,’ said Lovell. ‘Alice! if you will consent to come and brighten my poor home with the sunshine of your presence, you must promise to leave the hard work to some one else.’

‘I will promise to do exactly as you tell me, Robert,’ she answered; ‘but I’m afraid we are attracting attention, and it must be nearly time for luncheon. Here comes Mr and Miss Vansittart. Let me go back to mother! I feel as if everybody must guess what we have been talking of, from my face.’

‘Little goose--’ said Lovell fondly, as he handed her down the companion.

Mr Vansittart was talking so seriously to his daughter, that they had not even noticed the presence of the lovers.

‘Gracie, my dear,’ he had commenced by saying, ‘I wants to have a little chat with you about Mr Harland. You two seem to be taking up with one another, to my mind, and so I think it right to warn you before it goes too far.’

‘To _warn_ me, papa?’ said Grace, with open eyes. ‘Of _what_?’

‘Why, that before any gentleman proposes to be your husband, he must be prepared to satisfy me concerning his family, and his character, and his means of making a living. And I am afraid Mr Harland is _not_ prepared to do so.’

‘Why should you say that, papa? I think it is bitterly unfair.’

‘No, my dear! there ain’t no fairness nor unfairness about it. It’s just a matter of business. I’m sorry to see as Mr Harland is not a favourite aboard ship, and there’s one or two nasty tales floating about concerning his card-playing that have quite choked me off him. And so I consider it’s time I looked a bit after the way he’s going on with you. You see, my dear, I don’t know anything about the young man’s antecedents.’

‘Then I wonder at your bringing him out to Tabbakooloo with us, papa.’

‘Well, that was my mistake, Grace. But then I brought him out as a land-agent, remember, and not as a son-in-law! I can dismiss the one, but there’s no dismissing of the other. And so it behoves us to be careful. Now tell me candidly how far you’ve got with him.’

‘I don’t understand you, papa,’ said Miss Grace, who, when offended, often professed not to be able to comprehend her parents’ meaning.

‘D--n it all, then, I’ll put it plainer,’ said Mr Vansittart, getting angry. ‘How much sweethearting’s gone on between you? Has he spoken to you of marriage?’

‘Sometimes; naturally!’

‘Has he asked you downright to marry him?’

‘He has intimated that he wished it.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘Nothing, papa--’

‘You’re not engaged to him, nor any rubbish of that sort, then?’

‘Oh, no! How could I be, without asking your consent, and mamma’s? But Godfrey--I mean Mr Harland--has told me several times that he only waits till we arrive at Tabbakooloo to make formal proposals for my hand.’

‘Formal fiddlesticks! If he was half a man, he’d have spoken up at once. I’m very much afraid it ain’t all right. And so, look here, my girl, whatever Harland may do when he gets ashore, remember it’s my orders as nothing more goes on between you now. When he speaks to me, he’ll get my answer; but I won’t have any more sweethearting aboard this ship; and if you disobey me, I shall take means to keep you apart.’

‘But, papa, I can’t be cool to Mr Harland. Every one knows he is your agent.’

‘I don’t want you to be cool to him, but I won’t have any love-making. Your mother saw him kiss you last night in the cabin passage. You must put a stop to that sort of thing at once. Do you fully understand me?’

‘Fully,’ replied Miss Vansittart, who fully understood her own intentions also.

‘I don’t believe the fellow’s got a sixpence to jingle on a tombstone,’ continued Mr Vansittart, waxing warmer at his daughter’s reticence; ‘and a pauper don’t marry my only child. It’s like his impudence to dream of it. Not that I would have made his poverty an objection (having so much myself), if it hadn’t been for those other things. But a man as cheats at play, must be bad all round.’

‘Who _dares_ to say that he cheats at play?’ exclaimed Grace Vansittart, firing up in defence of her absent lover. ‘It’s a lie, father. I am sure of it. Mr Harland would be incapable of such a meanness.’

‘Well, I hope so, my dear, but I must know a little more about it before I decide. Besides, that’s not all. He had a violent quarrel with some low fellow in the second cabin the other night, and part of their conversation was overheard, and has got about the ship, and it isn’t nice--not nice at all. So, you see, until I can be satisfied of the falseness of such rumours, I can’t do less than warn you, my dear, not to show anything more than civility to Mr Harland. If I find on further inquiry that they are true, I shall give him his return passage-money, and his dismissal, as soon as ever we touch land, for I won’t have such a man at Tabbakooloo.’

Grace was weeping silently by this time beneath her veil. She was a proud, self-willed girl, and she would let her father see neither her tears nor her determination to have her own way. But she foresaw the trouble and opposition that would ensue, and felt much injured in consequence.

‘You don’t answer me,’ continued Mr Vansittart, perceiving she was sulky, ‘and I daresay you feel a bit disappointed; but I mean what I say, and I intend you shall obey me. And don’t forget I shall be keeping a sharp eye on you, my girl, so it’s no use trying to deceive me. And now go down to your lunch, and don’t let’s hear any more of the subject.’

Grace dried her tears, and obeyed her father’s behest, but she felt obstinately rebellious the while. Matters had gone much further between her and Godfrey Harland than her parents had any idea of, but they would never learn the truth now from her. She was one of those women--very few and far between--who have the power to keep their own secrets. The day came, and not so long after, when Grace Vansittart was forced to acknowledge the justice of her father’s commands, but she never gave him the satisfaction of hearing so. The day dawned also when the weeks she spent on board the _Pandora_ were things of the past, and a new life had opened before her--a life in which ‘Charlie Monro’ took a part, and Mrs Vansittart’s prayers for her daughter’s future were fulfilled.

But had Charlie been fully acquainted with all that had transpired during the voyage to New Zealand, would Grace Vansittart ever have been transformed into Mrs Monro? Who can tell? If all our inmost secrets were laid bare, would any one of us, male or female, occupy the positions which we hold in the estimation of the world?

The most exciting part of transmigration to another sphere, must surely be the fact that in that ærial ‘Palace of Truth’ we are promised the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.

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