His letter, penned at such a distance from her, in a humble little posada, frequented by seamen, in the Campo de Santa Anna, though duly forwarded by the mail from Rio to Liverpool (for reasons which the reader will learn ere long) never reached the hand of Ethel Basset.
This, happily for himself, Morley could scarcely anticipate. The return steamer from Liverpool would not leave Rio, he learned, until its usual day of sailing (the 29th of every month); thus he knew that the letter on which his very life seemed to depend would be lying uselessly in the mail-bag for nearly three weeks. Tom Bartelot urged that Morley should remain with him, and he, poor fellow, at present had no other resource, and no immediate views.
"One chance remains," said Tom: "the Princess may get a freight for India or China, and, if so, it will go hard with me if I don't contrive somehow to get a sight of the Isle of France."
But this hope was speedily dissipated by the ship being chartered for Tasmania, or "Wan Demon's Land," as old Noah Gawthrop persisted in calling it.
Bartelot and Morrison were busy daily about the ship. Cast thus upon himself, Morley rambled listlessly about the streets of Rio, feeling downcast, forlorn, strange, and miserable.
The glorious climate, the endless summer, the wonderful fruits and flowers of the province, with the beauty of its capital city, alike failed to soothe, to charm, or to interest him, for Ethel was not there.
In vain he visited the gay and beautiful Rua do Ouvidor, the Regent Street of Rio, with its magnificent shops, some of which have their enormous windows piled with massive gold and silver plate, the produce of Brazilian mines, while others sparkle with jewels. He saw nothing to interest him in the quaint old palace of the Portuguese viceroy, and equally little in the noble residence of San Chris to val.
In vain he ascended the lofty hill which is crowned by the Church of Our Lady of Glory, and saw, spread at his feet, the vast Bay of Rio, with all its eighty isles and fleet of shipping, under steam, canvas, and bare poles; its verdant eminences, every one of which is crowned by a church or a convent, the surrounding mountains studded with villages and villas, and all this visible by the warm and golden light of a gorgeous Brazilian sunset in July.
There, on the western shore, rises the City of Palaces, where the early voyagers, 300 years ago, saw but a savage waste, a howling wilderness. What a change in the New World since these times, when, as quaint Richard Hakluyt informs us:
"Old Master William Hawkins, of Plymouth, a man esteemed for his wisdom, valour, experience, and skill in sea causes, much esteemed and beloved of Henry VIII., and being one of the principal sea-captains in the west port of England in his time, not contented with the short voyages commonly made then to the coasts of Europe, armed out a tall and goodlie ship, of the burthen of 250 tons, called the Paul, of Plymouth, wherewith he made three long and prosperous voyages unto the coast of Brazil—a thing in those days very rare, especially in our nation."