The tears were in her voice as well as in her eyes, and her lip trembled. Softly one brown hand stole into her white one, and another brown hand stole round her waist, and she felt Amiria’s warm lips on her cheek. The two girls had been playmates as children, they had been at school together, and had always shared each other’s confidences, but this matter of Annabel Summerhayes was one which her father had forbidden Rose to mention; and around the memory of her mother there had grown a mystery which the girl was unable to fathom.
“Now that this has occurred, there is no harm in disobeying my father,” she said. “He told me never to speak of my mother to him or anyone else, but when you give me her picture, it would be stupid to keep silence. She looks good, doesn’t she, Amiria? I think she was good, but my father destroyed everything belonging to her: he even took the trouble to change my name from Annabel to Rose—that was after we arrived here and I was three years old. I do not possess a single thing that was hers except this picture; and even that I must hide, for fear my father should destroy it. Come, we will go in.”
They passed along the shady verandah, and entered the house. Its rooms were dark and cool, and prettily if humbly furnished. Rose took Amiria along a winding passage, up a somewhat narrow flight of stairs, and into a bedroom which was in one of the many gables of the wooden house. The Maori girl took off her hat and gloves, and Rose, drawing a bunch of keys from her pocket, opened a work-box which stood on the dressing-table, and in it she hid the miniature of her mother. Then she turned, and confronted Amiria.
The dark girl’s black hair, loosened by riding, had escaped from its fastenings, and now fell rippling down her back.
“It’s a great trouble,” she said. “Nothing will hold it—it is like wire. The pins drop out, and down it all comes.”
Rose was combing and brushing the glossy, black tresses. “I’ll try my hand,” said she. “The secret is plenty of pins; you don’t use enough of them. Pins, I expect, are scarce in the pa.” She had fastened up one long coil, and was holding another in place with her white fingers, when a gruff voice roared through the house:—
“Rosebud, my gal! Rosebud, I say! What’s taken the child?”
Whilst the two girls had been in the bedroom, three figures had come into sight round the bend of the beach-road. They walked slowly, with heavy steps and swaying gait, after the manner of sailor-men. As they ascended the winding pathway leading to the house, they argued loudly.
“Jes’ so, Cap’n Summerhayes,” said the short, thick-set man, with a blanket wrapped round him in lieu of a coat, to the big burly man on his left, “I stood off and on, West-Nor’-West and East-Sou’-East, waiting for the gale to wear down and let me get into your tuppeny little port. Now you are pilot, I reckon. What would you ha’ done?”
“What would I ha’ done, Sartoris?” asked the bulky man gruffly. “Why, damme, I’d ha’ beat behind Guardian Point, and took shelter.”