Part 36 (1/2)
”'It is good news, my dear lady,' said I, 'or I should not have come over to tell you. I saw him quite lately as near Sydney as Norfolk Island.'
”'Of course he was coming here--coming here; he would not have the heart to stay away from his poor father and mother any longer, when he was so near as that. And was he quite well? Oh! my boy--my precious Hilary!
What would I not give if he were to come here and settle down for good?'
”'He is thinking of doing so,' I said. 'His fixed intention was to marry and live in Sydney for the rest of his days.'
”'Thank G.o.d! thank G.o.d in His mercy!' she said, clasping her hands. 'And do you think he will be here soon--how many weeks?'
”'It will not be a matter of weeks, but days; I know that he took his pa.s.sage in a certain s.h.i.+p, and that you may expect him every hour.'
”Then she looked keenly at me. Your mother is a clever woman. She began to think I had been leading her on.
”'You are not treating me as a child, Charles Carryall, are you? My son is here, and you have been afraid to tell me so. Is it not so?'
”'Only a harmless deception, my dear Mrs. Telfer. Your son and his wife came here in my vessel. They stayed at Paul Frankston's last night, and will be here at mid-day.'
”The dear lady looked as if she could not realise it for a moment, then sat back in her chair, and raised her eyes as if in prayer.
”One of the girls moved as if to support her, but she waved her off.
'No, my dear, you need not be afraid. I shall not faint; I have borne many things, and can bear this. I am returning thanks to our Almighty Father, who has restored my son to me. ”My son, who was lost, and is found.” My son, who was dead to me, and is now restored to life. Oh, G.o.d! most heartily and humbly do I thank Thee--most merciful--most loving!'
”After this we were a very happy party. The girls, of course, wanted to know all about Miranda here”--here my darling smiled, and took his hand; ”I dashed off a sketch, and some day you can ask Mariana and Elinor--both great friends of mine they are--if it is a good likeness.”
”I am afraid it was too good,” sighed Miranda, ”and they will be dreadfully disappointed.”
The end of it was that we left the _Florentia_ at eight bells, in great state and majesty, in a whaleboat--upon which Miranda insisted, despising the captain's gig as a trumpery skiff--and a picked crew, with the skipper himself as the steer-oar.
”That's really something like,” she said, as she stepped lightly on to the thwart. ”If there was a little swell on, I should feel quite myself again, and think of the dear days when I was a happy little island girl, bare-footed and bare-headed, and thought going off to a strange vessel through the great, solemn, sweeping rollers the wildest enjoyment. But I am a happy girl now,” she added, with a look in her deep eyes which expressed a world of love and rich content; ”only the thought of learning to be a lady sometimes troubles me.”
”You will never need to do _that_,” I said.
”There is the house?” I cried; ”there's Isola Bella!” as we rounded a point, and a picturesque stone house came full into view. It had been built in the early days of the colony by an Imperial officer, long resident in Italy, and showed the period in its ma.s.sive stone walls, Florentine faade, and wide, paved verandah. The site was elevated above the lake-like waters of the bay, towards which a winding walk led, terminating in a ma.s.sive stone pier, into which iron rings and stanchions had been let. The beach was white and smooth, though the tide ran high, and the wavelets rippled close to the pale sandstone rocks, which lent a tone of delicacy and purity to the foresh.o.r.e.
The weather-stained walls of the house were half covered with climbers, a wilderness of tropical shrubs, and richly-blooming flower-thickets.
There were glades interspersed, carpeted with the thick-swarded couch or ”dhoub” gra.s.s, originally imported from India, and which, nourished by the coast showers, and delighting in a humid atmosphere, preserves its general freshness of colour the long Australian summer through.
I had been so preoccupied with speculations as to Miranda's reception by my family, that my own emotions, on returning to my childhood's home, lay in abeyance. Now, however, at the near view of the house--the pier, the walled-in sea-bath--the scenes and adventures of my earliest youth came back with overwhelming force and clearness. There was the boat-house, into which I had paddled so many a time after nightfall, returning from fis.h.i.+ng or sailing excursions. There was the flagstaff on which was displayed the Union Jack and other flags on great occasions.
The old flag floated in the breeze to-day. I knew for what reason and celebration. I could see my mother, as of old, walking down to the pier to welcome and embrace, or to remonstrate and fondly chide when I had remained absent in stormy weather. How many fears and anxieties had I not caused to agitate that loving heart! And my stern and mostly silent parent--did I not once surprise him in scarce dignified sorrow at my night-long absence and probable untimely decease. Yet all his words were, ”G.o.d forgive you, my boy, for the misery you have caused us this night.”
And now the years had pa.s.sed--had flown rather, crowded as they were with incident--that had changed the heedless boy into the man,--matured, perhaps, by too early worldly knowledge, and the grim comrades.h.i.+p of danger and death. I had returned safely, bringing my sheaves with me in the guise of one dearer to me than life. I had, during the intervals of reflection I had lately enjoyed, repented fully of the unconsciously selfish sins of my youth, and was fixed in firm resolve to atone, so far as in me lay, by care and consideration in the future.
As we dashed alongside of the pier, the years rolled back, and as of old I saw my mother pacing the well-known path to the boat. She was followed by my father at a short distance. I fancied that the dear form told of the lapse of time, in less firm step and the bent figure which age compels. My father was erect as ever, and his eye swept the far horizon of outer seas as of old; but surely his hair and beard were whiter.
Miranda's step was first upon the pier--she needed no help in leaving or entering a boat. Side by side we walked to meet my mother, who, with a sob of joy, folded me in her arms. ”My boy! my boy!” was all she could articulate for some moments; then, gently disengaging herself, ”and this is my new daughter?” she said. ”May G.o.d bless and keep you both, my children, and preserve for us the great happiness which His providence has ordained this day.”
”Well, neighbour!” in the well-remembered greeting which he affected, rang out here my father's clear tones, ”and so you have finished your cruise for a while! What a man you have grown!” he exclaimed, as he looked upwards half-admiringly at my head and shoulders, markedly above his own. ”Filled out, bronzed, you look a sailor, man, all over.”