Upon ascertaining this last disconcerting fact, Leslie turned to Miss Trevor, who was on deck, and said—
“Fate appears to have a grudge against you, and to be determined that you shall not yet leave us. I had confidently reckoned upon falling in with something hereabout to which I could transfer you; but the continuance of this breeze—which most sailors would regard as a stroke of marvellous good fortune—has enabled everything bound south to slip across the Line without suffering the exasperating experience of a more or less prolonged period of calm; while, as your ill-luck will have it, there happens to be nothing northward-bound on the spot just when we are most anxious to meet it. Furthermore, every mile that we now sail will lessen your chance of effecting a trans-shipment, because our course will be ever diverging from that of northward-bound shipping. Of course, now that I am in command, I can continue to steer for a day or two longer in such a direction as may enable us, with luck, still to fall in with a homeward-bounder, but—”
“Is my presence on the ship then, so very embarrassing to you, Mr Leslie?” she interrupted with the ghost of a smile. “It would certainly appear so; for the burden of your conversation, ever since we came on board, has been my trans-shipment!”
“Embarrassing!” ejaculated Leslie, in extreme surprise. “Most certainly not; on the contrary—” he interrupted himself. “That is not the point at all,” he continued. “I have assumed—very naturally, I think—that you are anxious either to return home and make a fresh start, or else to continue your outward journey, according as circumstances may determine; and I, on my part, have been most anxious to meet what I conceived to be your wishes. But, as to your presence aboard the brig being an embarrassment to me, I assure you that the longer you are compelled to remain here, the better I shall be pleased.”
“Thank you,” answered the girl; “I suppose I must accept that admission as a compliment. Well, Mr Leslie, of course you are quite right in assuming that, if a favourable opportunity should offer, I would gladly avail myself of it. But my greatest anxiety is to allay that of my friends; which, I imagine, they will not begin to experience until some little time has elapsed after the date at which the Golden Fleece might reasonably be expected to reach Melbourne. And about that time I should think we ought to be at Valparaiso, ought we not? Very well. In that case, it will be easy for me to despatch from there a reassuring cable message to my Australian friends, following it up with a letter of explanation, and all will be well. Moreover, though you would perhaps never suspect it, I am of a decidedly roving and adventurous disposition, and I shall not at all object to visiting Valparaiso; you need, therefore, worry yourself no further upon that feature of the matter. But, of course, if you would rather not have me—”
“Pray say no more, I beg you,” interrupted Leslie. “Your continued presence on board this brig can only be a source of the keenest pleasure and satisfaction to me; and if you can be content to remain, I shall be more than content that you do so.”
And thus was settled a matter that was destined to exercise a most important influence upon the lives of these two people.
Singularly enough, within an hour of the occurrence of the above-recorded conversation, a sail was sighted ahead, steering north; which upon her nearer approach proved to be a South Sea whaler, homeward-bound. She was steering a course that promised to bring the two craft close alongside each other; and at Leslie’s suggestion Miss Trevor at once went below and hurriedly penned three letters—one to her people at home, one to her father in India, and one to her friends in Australia—briefly detailing the particulars of the loss of the Golden Fleece and what had subsequently befallen the writer, together with her intention to proceed to Valparaiso, if necessary; after which she would act according to circumstances. At the same time Leslie wrote to the owners of the Golden Fleece apprising them of the loss of the ship, and the fact that, as far as his knowledge went, there were but three survivors, namely, Miss Trevor, himself, and the seaman whom he had taken off the wreckage.
By the time that these letters were ready, the whaler was close at hand, upon which the brig’s ensign was hoisted, and the signal made that she wished to communicate. Thereupon both craft were brought to the wind, and hove-to; the brig’s quarter-boat was lowered, and the carpenter, with three hands, pulled alongside the whaler, taking the letters with him, with the request that the skipper would kindly post them at the first port arrived at. This the man readily agreed to do—such little courtesies among seamen being quite usual; and then, with mutual dips of their ensigns, the two craft proceeded upon their respective ways.
The Mermaid was singularly fortunate in the weather experienced by her on this occasion of crossing the Line, as it often happens that ships in these latitudes are detained—sometimes for weeks—by persistent calms, during the prevalence of which, by constantly box-hauling the yards and taking the utmost advantage of every little draught of air that comes along, they may succeed in gaining a mile or two in the course of every twenty-four hours; whereas she carried a breeze with her that ran her, without a pause, from the north-east trades, across the calm belt, right into the south-east trade winds, which happened just then to be blowing fresh. She therefore made excellent progress to the southward after parting from the friendly whaler.