Her voice gave way, and she put her hand to her eyes; then, as he stood by pale, distressed, with an oppression in his throat, she thrust her hand forth with a wild gesture, and swept by him to the bridge. Frank stood awhile, then went slowly forward.
When, with a start, he came out of his reverie, it was to find the ship free of the fog, and dashing along in the grey of the evening towards the golden glory of an exquisite sunset. The sea stretched away to where glowed a rim of molten gold upon the horizon; and from this glowing band there shot streaks of fire into the sky, and rippling bars of silver on the waters, while the deepening dusk turned the blue of the ocean to a wonderful hue, shading from grey to deep black.
Chapter Eight.
Lieutenant Gobo.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, with lockers almost exhausted of coal, they sighted the outposts of Madeira—jagged rocks, with the clearest of outlines—and made for Funchal with some apprehension as to their reception from the Portuguese.
They had not passed scathless through the Bay. The funnels were coated with salt, the mark of a curling sea which had swept over the bows, and the starboard boat was missing. The deck was soaked, and grimy from coal-grit,—while all on board looked worn and unwashed, as though they had been without sleep, and, indeed, they had passed through a wearying time, tossed about like corks, compelled to hold on at every step, and drenched with spray. But though the catcher had plunged and rolled in a manner that tried the nerves of the oldest seaman, she had gone safely through those huge rollers, and they had learnt to trust in her. What they wanted now was her full capacity of coal, with some tons over for storage on the deck, to enable her to make the long passage to Rio, if possible. The question was, Had the Portuguese been warned by the Brazilian Consul in London, and would they give them coal?
Very soon she was steering a course parallel to the vast slope of the Island, ploughing through waters of deepest violet. Innumerable little white houses dotted that seemingly inhospitable slope of coloured sandstone, many as the white crests of the waves, and each one of them when viewed through a glass was seen to be embedded in a wealth of vegetation. So steep was the slope, and so limited each settlement, that every bit of land was terraced, so that not one spadeful of the precious soil should escape. From where, at the foot, the slope terminated in a precipitous descent to the foaming wave, these terraces ascended like irregular steps far up to the heights. And there lived a frugal people, with that brilliant sea below them, and the blue, unclouded sky above, with the air tempered by the mists on the mountain ridge above to the most balmy softness, and with a soil, once saved and scraped together, that grew all they needed without much toil. Theirs is the life of repose, with grapes and bananas for their principal food, varied with onions and fish, and washed down with the wine of that iron soil.
A slothful people, perhaps, but they have discovered the secret of living on the soil and out of the soil, developing the idle ruminating pleasures of sleek cattle; happy in their little houses, their tiny plots of fruitful ground; rich in their climate, and most fortunate in their situation. What to them the aspirations of the struggling hordes of Europe, the agonised cry of the hopeless poor of more powerful countries, the ambitions and the social schemes of the proud Northerners, but the echoes of a stormy life?