Two great red conveyances, each drawn by four horses, came clattering up the jetty. They were the mail carts. With lightning swiftness their contents were transferred to the deck and to the hold. The captain, resplendent in buttons and gold lace, was on the bridge. The steam-pipe was roaring as though impatient of further restraint. Already the passing to and fro between the steamer and the jetty had about ceased.
“Violet—Violet! Oh, where can she be?” cried the old lady, in a perfect agony of mind.
Ah, she might have gone back to the cabin. She would go and see. Turning, she was hastening to carry out that idea when again the brazen clang of the bell, this time startling in its peremptory note, caused her to stop short.
“Now, marm—if you’re not going with us it’s time to leave,” said a gruff voice at her side. “Quick, please, she’s a-moving already,” and half thrusting, half lifting the bewildered old lady, the burly quartermaster transferred her to the gangway plank, which no sooner had she crossed than it was withdrawn.
The great steamer slid gently from her moorings, a crowd following her to the end of the jetty, hooraying violently, waving handkerchiefs, bawling out parting fragments of chaff and snatches of songs, and amid all this champagne-bred enthusiasm, its blaring clamour drowning the real grief of the sorrowing few, the propeller of the good ship Siberian throbbed faster and faster, as she swung steadily into her course en route for the Old Country.
Left there upon the jetty, hardly knowing whether she stood on her head or not, poor old Mrs Aldridge was quite overcome. What had become of Violet? Could any harm have happened to the girl? Could she have fallen overboard unseen? No, that could hardly be. They must have missed each other in the crowd and confusion. That was it. Still the thought that she had not taken a last and more affectionate farewell filled the good old lady with profound regret. Well, standing there would not mend matters. She must get home.
And as she turned to leave the jetty, the warning notes of the shore bell on board the New Zealand steamer came floating across the bay.
Through the creaming surges of Table Bay the Rangatira is speeding on her southward course. The loom of the mountainous coast has faded into night, and now the dark velvety vault above is ablaze with mysterious stars, crowding the zenith, hanging literally in patches of sheeny gold rather than twinkling with the feeble and scattered glimmer of more chilly latitudes. There is a damp, sensuous richness in the atmosphere, just tempered by the keen whiff of the salt sea.
The prow of the mighty vessel cleaves up a rushing lustrous wave on either side, and streaming afar in her wake lies a broad band of milky phosphorescent whiteness, striving to rival the very heavens in the starry atoms gleaming in its depths. The tall, tapering masts reel wildly against the spangled sky, and the harsh clang of the labouring engines make weird harmony with the thunderous throb of the propeller as the great ship drives in her power before the chasing billows.