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.’

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