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Over The Hills, and Far Away: A Story of New Zealand

Chapter II. Pages from Lucy's Diary

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Chapter II. Pages from Lucy's Diary.

On board theFlora Macdonald,” July 27th, 18—. —Yesterday, Louis and I went on board the “Flora Macdonald,” at Gravesend, and to-day we sailed; so I suppose I ought immediately to commence a diary of the voyage. Every one, I am told, begins one on first setting out, but people say it is very hard to find something to record every day at sea. I shall learn by experience if this is true or not.

To begin, then, with yesterday. It was rather a dull kind of day, and very hot, until in the middle of the day a breeze sprang up from the river. We dined in Gravesend, and went on board our ship just page 15 after the passengers who were already assembled had finished their dinner in the saloon. They were most of them on deck.

Just as I stepped on board, a gust of wind blew off my hat. It was immediately captured and restored to me by a gentleman with a dark beard, who was standing near.

As I took my hat from him, I distinctly heard him mutter to himself, “What beautiful hair!”

I felt myself grow scarlet, and was thankful to turn away to hide my hot cheeks; for the little scene had been so dramatic that it almost seemed as if I had lost my hat on purpose, for the sake of effect!

I had spirits enough to see the humorous side of everything; and, indeed, the day was not a sad one at all to Louis and myself. This was chiefly, I think, because we had no especial friends to come and see the last of us. My aunts were not strong enough to attempt it; Louis' friends are chiefly in New Zealand; and of my school-girl allies, not one could arrange matters so as to escort me to the ship.

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It was much better; and both Louis and I were relieve at having got through all our farewells on terra firma.

But pathetic little scenes were about us everywhere, and were taking place that day all over the ship, from the wheel to the forecastle. In one corner I saw a poor old woman crying bitterly over her son, whom she never hoped to see again.

A girl of my own age was lowered into a boat, looking as pale as death. As the boat pulled off, I saw that she had fainted, and her friends were trying to restore her, so far in vain. Her lover was on board our ship.

The “ship's husband,” as he is called, was on board, and the agent from Simpson and Seymour's, but not the captain, and no one seemed quite to know when he might be expected. At six o'clock we went down to a most uncomfortable tea in the saloon. Every one sat in the wrong place, and no one had any appetite.

All the other first-cabin passengers were at tea, and I may as well put down their names here.

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The stern-cabin next to mine is taken by a young married couple—a Mr. and Mrs. Grant; then comes my cabin, then Louis', then the doctor's; opposite to him is the gentleman with the beard, whose name I have not yet learnt.

Then comes a cabin belonging to a Mr. Lennox, who has a run in Otago, and is returning from a few months' visit to England. He is grave, grey-haired, and elderly; but with a pleasant, attractive face and manner. Then two ex-officers of the 200th, Mr. Prior and Mr. Meredith, share a cabin between them; and the other stern-cabin is taken by a Mrs. Mostyn, with her two children and nurse. She is going out to join her husband.

The saloon party is completed with the captain and first mate, who take the head and foot of the table.

After tea we went up on deck again. It was utter misery and confusion. The doctor was reviewing the sailors on one side of the deck, and some of the second-cabin passengers had pitched their camp-stools, and were actually trying to keep their heads sufficiently clear in the confusion as to admit of their studying page 18 cheap editions, in very small type, of the Waverley Novels!

It was a very hot night. The breeze died away again, and it became perfectly calm. Louis and I went and leant over the bulwarks, side by side, but were neither of us inclined to talk.

A small steamer, bound for Rotterdam, passed us; and the people clustered like bees on her deck, waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and cheered the emigrant vessel. Some of us returned the salute. It began to grow dusk. When it was getting quite dark, and I was tired of watching

“The lamp's quiver
So far in the river,”

I went below. Sleep, as I imagined, would be out of the question in that small closet of a cabin, with such strange noises all about me; but I was dead tired, and soon fast asleep.

The last thing I remember is hearing some one, standing close to my cabin door, in the saloon say, “Good-bye, Dacre. Dieu vous garde!”

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I looked through the slides of my cabin ventilator, and saw the bearded gentleman shaking hands with, apparently, a friend, who was just leaving. “Dacre? Dacre? Where have I heard that name lately? I cannot remember.”

The captain came on board late at night, and we sailed about four o'clock this morning. Grey dawn showed the water visible through my port-hole, glassy smooth, but turning green. After breakfast I went on deck. It was a lovely morning, without a breath of wind. We were towed by a steam-tug to Deal, where we anchored, and waited for a breeze.

Mr. Meredith, who is a very handsome, fair-haired man, introduced himself to Louis, and they rapidly made friends, while Mrs. Grant and I showed each other some new patterns in tatting. If we had been setting forth on a picnic in a pleasure-boat, we could not have had a more lazy, charming day of it, with novels and backgammon on deck.

July 28th, Thursday.—Sailed this morning. Another lovely day. At night, off Dungeness.

July 29th.—Our pleasant society has been quite page 20 broken up by the melancholy fact that almost all its members have succumbed to sea-sickness. There were several gaps at the breakfast table, and about ten o'clock Louis broke down. He went below, leaving me on deck, fully determined never to give in.

The first mate came to me, as I stood by the door of the companion-stairs leading from the saloon, and told me Beachy Head was in sight.

I was wild for a last glimpse of the dear old Sussex coast, so he helped me to walk up the deck, and, holding fast by one of the belaying pins, I looked at the distant coast-line out of my opera-glass.

After awhile a voice behind me said, “You must be tired of standing. Shall I fetch your easy chair up here for you?”

I looked round. Doctor Dacre, with his telescope in his hand, was close to me, standing, in spite of the rolling of the vessel, with sufficient ease and firmness as to show that this was not the first time he had been to sea.

Doctor Dacre is the gentleman whom I have page 21 mentioned in my diary before as “the man with the beard.” I should have added, “and with the eyes,” for his eyes are certainly uncommonly bright and handsome. For the rest, he looks about thirty, and has a pleasant face, with a square forehead. But he is not nearly as good looking as Mr. Meredith, who is by far our handsomest cabin passenger.

I thanked Doctor Dacre, and he fetched my chair. Then, standing by my side, he said, “No one has introduced us to each other; but, considering that we are likely to be near neighbours for a good many weeks, I think I may venture to present myself. Your name is Miss Cunningham, I know, and mine is Rylston Dacre.”

We both bowed very gravely and formally, in honour of the introduction, and then both laughed; and Doctor Dacre remarked, “You seem to be a good sailor, Miss Cunningham.”

I told him this was my first voyage, and I was afraid to boast too soon. “But you have been to sea before now, I am certain,” I added.

He asked me how I knew that. I said by the page 22 way he walked the deck. He smiled, and said I was right. He had been accustomed to spend days on board a Plymouth trawler, and the motion of this large ship seemed nothing to him after that.

Then, after a short pause, he told me that with his telescope he could see a thrashing machine on the downs, near Beachy Head.

I exclaimed—and he held the glass for me to look through.

When I raised my head, I saw that he was gazing at the white cliffs with a face, the expression of which had clouded during the last moment or two. I know his look rather startled me; and he must have noticed that it did, for, catching my eye, he said, “I was thinking of the last time I stood on the deck of an outward-bound, and looked at those cliffs. Six years ago. It's a long time.”

I did not know what to reply to this, so I made no answer. He also held his peace, and looked out darkly, for a few moments, at the distant coast.

The blue waves of the Channel were leaping and dancing all round us. A large Turkish vessel was page 23 passing us to leeward; and behind were the white chalk walls, with glimpses of the green down-land above.

“Do you know Sussex, Doctor Dacre?” I asked, more by way of something to say than because I took the slightest interest in the answer I might receive.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I have never even entered that county. I have no associations with it whatever.”

“All my pleasantest English associations centre in Sussex,” I said.

“And mine in Devonshire.”

I was beginning to grow intensely weary of the conversation. “This tiresome man!” I thought. “Will he never go away, and let me read in peace? What do I care which county he likes best? or about his life six years ago?”

I was glad when the first mate, Mr. Bruce, came up, and began to talk to Doctor Dacre, who presently left me, and they walked up and down the deck together.

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I pondered for a minute or two on a subject that puzzles me. Where did I see or hear the name “Dacre” before I left England? I never knew any one of that name. I must have read it somewhere, but where? and in connexion with what subject? I cannot remember.

Tired of worrying my memory, at last I took up my book again. It was the “Mill on the Floss,” and I was soon quite absorbed in the history of Maggie Tulliver and Stephen.