Alas! how few of the comrades of that joyous time are left, even in middle age. Hope is fled; the anticipation of a perhaps romantic future no longer cheers the sober monotony of life. We know the best that can happen. We fear lest the worst should come suddenly into our life, like some [241] ]monster of the wood, unseen, unsuspected before. Such are, such may be, the brooding imaginings of the later life.
The Honourable Arnold Banneret, as for years he had been styled, was able to combat them by reflecting that, at any rate, he had played a man’s part in life, at first with moderate, then with exceptional success. He had sons wherewith to meet his enemies in the gate. There was little doubt—he thanked God—of their courage and intelligence. Why then this dark hour, these depressing doubts?
As a corrective, he proceeded at once to the office of the P. & O. Company, and took his passage for London. After securing the requisite number of comfortable cabins in the Lhassa—the latest addition to the fleet of noble liners which, since their introduction by the great Association of ship-owners, has enabled Australian colonists to travel with speed and economy, with comfort, even luxury—he returned to lunch at Redgrove, with spirits considerably improved, and in a frame of mind more nearly akin to that in which he was accustomed to prepare for a long overland journey in the days of ‘long ago.’ ‘How strange it is,’ he told himself, ‘that on the eve of an important voyage, or undertaking, a feeling of doubt and depression should so often manifest itself. One involuntarily recalls the presentiments which came true—of shipwreck, of hurricane, fire, or mutiny, following the gloom and almost despairing prevision of disaster. Of the numberless successful undertakings and fortunate voyages no record is [242] ]kept. “Fears of the brave and follies of the wise” are not far to seek in the connection.’
Sir Walter Scott, in success most modest, in adversity truly undaunted, even he owns to an unreasonable cloud of doubt and irresolution, including a ghostly murmur, ‘Do not go, Walter,’ which he solemnly affirms to, and that nearly led him to give up an expedition which afterwards turned out to be most beneficial, fortunate, and even marked by distinguished adventures.
. . . . . . . . .
The eventful day, fortunately fine, came at last. It was in the opening week of March—the first month of the southern autumn, mild with clear skies, cool bracing nights and mornings. The winds in that halcyon time were still: the north wind no longer swept across the plains of the inmost desert, bringing burning heat, dust-storms, and wrathful cyclones in its track to the cities of the coast.
All nature, before the advent of winter, appeared to be entering upon a dreamless slumber. The winter, dread season of the austere North, was but relatively severe—cool, rather than cold, with the exception of the mountain heights, where snow fell in early autumn and lay until spring was fairly advanced.
Packing and preparing for the momentous family event was therefore divested of its less agreeable features, while the inevitable process of leave-taking, with farewells to friends and relatives, was transacted under the most favourable circumstances—a bright sun and fair wind, not too [243] ]pronounced. At the appointed hour the bell rang, the shoreward division was politely requested to hasten their departure, and the huge liner moved gracefully from the wharf, and with calm, resistless force was soon breasting the wavelets between those frowning rock-portals, the Sydney Heads.
On that auspicious, long-remembered day, everything went well. The young people, for the first time in their lives on ‘blue water,’ walked the decks until the time for preparing for dinner arrived.
At this important function they were placed in the seat of honour at the captain’s table, and near that august, autocratic ruler—Mrs. Banneret, indeed, on the commander’s right hand, and other members of the family in close proximity. The whole service was admirable in their eyes; the menu varied, and excellently cooked. Military and naval officers, with Indian passengers getting off at Colombo, gave a pleasant, half-foreign tone to the company. By the time coffee was introduced, and the adjournment to the row of deck-chairs and lounges made, Hermione and Vanda were convinced that a ‘voyage home’ was a fairy-tale experience, merely the overture to a dramatic performance of dazzling variety and enjoyment.