During all our buggy and railway stages, and our little sojournings here and there, en route to Melbourne and the mail steamer, I was too profoundly miserable to see, or feel, or care for anything. But my natural vivacity, and the spirit of enterprise that always possessed me more or less, awoke in spite of me under the novel conditions of sea life. At the end of a fortnight or three weeks I had revived sufficiently to take a vigorous interest in my fellow-passengers, and to scandalize mother by a special partiality for a bearded young Queenslander who taught me to play chess. I was no good at chess, and gave no signs of promise that I ever should be. My head was not of that construction which the intricacies of the game demanded. But the learning of the moves, and of a few rudimental calculations, was a pleasant occupation when the teacher was so exceptionally agreeable. I thought it was very hard on me when mother objected to two or three games of chess a day, just when I was beginning to find a little amusement to drown the thought of all my troubles—until, to my unspeakable surprise and disgust, the Queensland gentleman made me an offer of marriage; which unpleasant incident, occurring on board ship, was unavoidably one of the widest public interest. This happened before we reached Galle, and threw me back into my original low spirits for a day or two. I recovered myself when we came to anchor in that lovely port, and I found myself furnished with unlimited pocket-money (surreptitiously, from father’s pockets) for all the charming native rubbish that I cared to purchase. And the addition of a number of little Indian children to our passenger-list made the rest of the voyage delightful. I am glad to say my rejected lover took himself off (though I was really very sorry for some things to see him go) and sought distraction in the pleasures of the chase with some coffee-planting acquaintances. So I and my little friends had no restraint upon our intercourse. There were some dear little girls, coming home with an invalid mother and no servant, to whom I particularly attached myself. I washed their hands and faces, and saw that their little wants were not overlooked at their own table; and we played together all day long, whensoever we had an opportunity. They were precocious little things, and not very strong, and had no idea of romping; so we entertained ourselves with quiet games.
One day we were absorbed in our favourite amusement—“keeping shop.” A sort of barricade was built up of chairs in a retired spot of deck, to represent the counter; the two little sisters sat on cushions on one side, and I knelt on the other, displaying scarfs, and veils, and handkerchiefs as my stock-in-trade.
“And what can I show you to-day, madam?” I inquired of the elder child, with much ceremony, when we had arranged ourselves to our satisfaction.
She considered for a moment, with her wise little face full of importance, and then she asked for some pink satin for a ball dress. I immediately spread out a snuff-coloured pocket-handkerchief of daddy’s, and she passed it through her little fingers, knitted her brows, shook her head; and when I told her it was cheap at £16 a yard, said she was afraid it was not good enough. Acting on this hint I produced a gossamer veil, which I told her was a very sweet thing in satins, that I thought I could let her have, as a favour, for £500 the dress. “It is a piece that was made for the Duchess of Edinburgh,” I explained confidentially; “only the Duchess found that she really had so many dresses in her trousseau that she would never have an opportunity of wearing it.”
The little one’s face shone with delight at this announcement, and she consulted with her sister as to the advisability of securing such an undoubted bargain. Forty-seven yards was rather more than she required, she said; but I told her that was the quantity for a court dress with a train, and that of course I could not cut it. So she purchased the whole, and it was laid on one side; and then it was her sister’s turn to be served. This little mite had been in a fever of impatience for the pink satin to be disposed of; and now she burst out breathlessly, “Please, I want some purple velvet—no, some crimson velvet—for a ball dress, and some diamond fringe to trim it with.”
I gravely brought out a woollen scarf, and told her that that was the richest crimson velvet that was made. It was £200 a yard, but, of course, that was a mere trifle for such a superior article. She trembled with excitement as she poked her thin little finger through the holes in the knitting, and inquired anxiously whether I was sure that it was quite the latest fashion.
“Oh dear, yes,” was my unhesitating reply. “It is the most fashionable of all materials this season. The Queen sent for a dress exactly like this, only last week.”
“It couldn’t have been the Queen,” broke in the elder child, who had been watching the proceedings critically. “Mamma says the Queen never wears anything but black.”
“Dear me, no, of course not! What could I have been thinking of? It was the Princess of Wales I meant. The Princess wore it at a garden-party at Chiswick, and it was immensely admired. Crimson velvet has been quite the rage ever since.”
“And diamond fringe?”