Queensland Cousins

by Eleanor Luisa Haverfield

  CHAPTER XVI.

  WHAT THE TIDE BROUGHT IN.

  The stranded party was much in need of a leader till one of thecrew volunteered the information that some miles higher up thecoast there was a beche-de-mer station where they would probablyget some means of communicating with the rest of the world, and atleast find food, of which every one was much in need. Beche-de-merfisheries are a feature of the coast, the beche-de-mer being a hugesea-slug, thought to be a great delicacy.

  This particular station was owned by some half-caste Portuguese,and worked by a mixture of aborigines and Malays, a mostunpromising and ruffianly-looking set. However, they received theunhappy boatload quite civilly, promised that a messenger should bedispatched across country to the nearest civilized centre, andprovided a good meal of salt junk, sweet potatoes, rice, and tea.It did not matter to the exhausted men and women that they had toeat off tin plates, drink out of tin pannikins, and that the foodwas more roughly prepared and served than any they had ever tastedbefore.

  They camped under some trees for the meal; and many sad eyeslooked towards the great calm sea, where not a trace of lastnight's tragedy was to be seen. In the distance there was the sailof an outgoing vessel--one of the beche-de-mer boats off on aseveral months' trip. Besides that, there was just one tiny speck,not so far out as the sail, but much smaller.

  "It's a boat," said the captain of the station, a swarthyPortuguese. He had been watching the speck for some time through atelescope. "So far as I can make out it is something of the samebuild as yours."

  There was instant excitement. Could it be another of the ship'sboats?

  It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discoverthat she did indeed belong to the ill-fated _Cora_. The crowd onthe beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and herworn-out occupants were disembarked.

  Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful,feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though theypressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed,there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come.There was but one interpretation to put on this--they had neverleft the ship.

  "Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband wasmissing.

  "No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They onlygot one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was notime for anything."

  There is no describing the misery of the day that followed--theterrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all hadof the nightmare experience.

  The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their roughway. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrangesome comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks forthem to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on accountof snakes and other disagreeables.

  Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was verypainful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhapsfortunate for the poor lady--it gave her less time for broodingover her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and thenfell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on herto try.

  Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hoveringabout his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inactionbegan to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for awhile, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself.However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his motherlonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and hersorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.

  "She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," heargued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one tocomfort her."

  But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now andthen to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was givenher, but ate very little. Whatever she was thinking about, she didnot speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether sheand Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill orfever.

  "I wish father or Bob would come quick," thought the boyhelplessly; "we're no good. She is only thinking about taking careof us all the time; and I don't know how to look after her. Itwould have been better if I had been drowned instead of AuntDorothy; she would have known what to do."

  He was doing one of his violent pacings up and down, and every turnbackwards or forwards he had to change his course, for the tide wasrunning in fast. The sea fascinated him; he could not help watchingit, especially now when all sorts of bits of wreckage werebeginning to float in--lengths of rope, a life-belt or two, andthings belonging to the _Cora's_ deck. The men from the stationwere watching with the sailors and hauling things in to land.

  "Any bodies that went down will be carried by the under currentinto the next bay," Eustace heard the beche-de-mer owner explainingto the _Cora's_ crew.

  "Well, my name's not Swaine," said an old sailor with a telescope,"if that isn't one coming now."

  There was a thrill of excitement, an immediate demand for thetelescope, as every one pressed forward.

  "It will be a broken spar," said the beche-de-mer captain. "I'vebeen here fifteen years and there's never such a thing happenedyet."

  "I'm going out in one of the boats, mate," said the old sailorresolutely. "Who is coming with me?"

  There were many volunteers at once, and the boat was launched.

  Eustace remained as if frozen to the spot. He could just see thelog-like thing lying upon the water, gently tossed by the tinywaves that were slowly, slowly bearing it to shore. It certainlylooked no bigger than a broken spar, and very much that shape as,the boat drawn up alongside, two sailors leant over and lifted itin.

  It was all Eustace could do to make himself stay until the boat'sreturn, and he covered his face as the burden was gently liftedashore.

  "It's all right, youngster," said a kindly voice at his elbow, oneof the older sailors; "he is alive--only unconscious. It's amiracle; but there, miracles do happen, say what you will."

  The news made all the difference to Eustace, and he pressed roundwith the rest.

  "Here," said one of the _Cora's_ crew, catching sight of himsuddenly, "make way for this laddie--it's his own brother."

  In utter bewilderment Eustace felt himself forced to the centre ofthe crowd, and there, with a man kneeling beside him tryingrestoratives, lay Peter, with a life-belt round him, his faceashen, and his fair hair all sodden--but he was living. They saidhe was alive, but certainly he did not look it.

  Eustace turned, fought his way madly through the press, and dashedup the beach straight to the trees where his mother sat bendingover Becky.

  "Hush," she said warningly; "I am just getting her off to sleep."

  The quiet voice pulled the boy up just in time, before he hadblurted out his news in all its crudeness.

  "Mother," he said instead, "let me hold Becky--I can really. Peterwill want you."

  Mrs. Orban neither started nor changed colour; she just stared atEustace curiously, and said inquiringly,--

  "Peter?"

  "Yes, mummie, Peter," Eustace said in a shaking voice. "He isunconscious, but he will want you when he opens his eyes."

  He held out his arms for Becky; and Mrs. Orban rose and went as ifshe were dreaming, leaving him standing there with the baby.

  It was a very long time before Peter knew that he wanted hismother. Terror and the exposure in the water for so many hours haddone their work, and even when the little fellow recoveredconsciousness he was too ill to realize anything at all.

  Every one was very kind to the Orbans. The poor lady who had losther husband took entire charge of Becky; other fellow-passengersoffered to help with Peter, who needed nursing night and day. Thesurvivors from the wreck clung together, and found some comfort inhelping each other. The people of the station were very attentiveand good; but the relief party from Cooktown was hailed withthankfulness, for there were of course many discomforts andunpleasantnesses. The blacks had a disagreeable habit of prowlinga
bout in the night and peeping at their guests as they tried tosleep in the impromptu hammocks. The food was coarse andmonotonous; the men rough, and uncouth in their ways.

  When Eustace saw his father he felt a great burden lifted from hisshoulders; his powerlessness to help his mother did not matter anymore; no one could comfort her like his father. Then there was Bob;he would help the whole family to keep up in his usual splendidway!

  Fortunately Mr. Orban and Bob had not yet left Cooktown when thenews of the disaster arrived. They hastened to the beche-de-merstation on getting Mrs. Orban's message, without the leastknowledge whom they would find of their own party; and after thefirst explanations were over, no one could speak of the cloudshadowing the joy of meeting. To Eustace's infinite surprise, Bob,to whom he had looked for so much, failed him utterly--he could notrouse himself, let alone other people.

  The survivors of the wrecked _Cora_ were carried by steamer toCooktown, and Mr. Orban took his family to the best hotel, for noplans could be made till Peter was better.

  Alone with Eustace, Nesta gave vent to her feelings very often.

  "Eustace," she said, "wasn't it queer Aunt Dorothy saying the veryday before we left she didn't feel a bit as if we were going toEngland? Do you remember?"

  Eustace replied with a kind of grunt. He had not words for everyemotion as Nesta had.

  "And it seems so horrid," she proceeded chokily, "to know nothingabout what happened to her or even how it happened. If only someone could tell us!"

  "What's the good of talking when no one can?" said Eustacegruffly. "I can't think why you do. You only make yourself cry."

  The first person to speak of Miss Chase without tears was Peter. Hewas lying in their private sitting-room, and suddenly he said,--

  "I say, where's Aunt Dorothy?"

  He had asked before, but in his weakness the subject had easilybeen changed.

  "She is not here, dear," said Mrs. Orban.

  "That's funny," said Peter, in his old talkative way; "shedistinctly said she was coming."

  Bob got up from a deep chair and stood, with his back to the room,looking out of the window.

  "Did she, Peter?" said Mr. Orban quickly. "When?"

  "Why, on the boat," said Peter; "when she put the life-belt roundme."

  "Oh, she put the life-belt round you, did she?" said Mr. Orban."And what did she say?"

  Every one leant forward eagerly. It was the first time Peter hadshown any inclination to talk, and no one had guessed he couldpossibly know anything of Miss Chase.

  "She said," was his clear reply, "'That's right, Peter Perky. Nowmind you float; don't struggle, but lie on your back.'--Bob," hebroke off, "lucky you taught me to float, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, yes," said Bob; "never mind about that. Go on about Dorothy."

  Eustace stared at his back in wonder. For the first time in hislife he heard Bob irritable.

  "She said," Peter went on obediently, "'Don't be frightened; I amcoming too.'"

  "Well?" prompted Mr. Orban.

  "Then she took me up, and we jumped overboard. I don't know whathappened next."

  "Try to think," said Bob in a hard voice.

  "I can't," said Peter; "everything was noise and blackness. AskAunt Dorothy; she'll tell you."

  There was a solemn hush--so solemn that Peter stared round inamazement at the grave faces. Bob turned and walked heavily out ofthe room. Nesta buried her head in her hands.

  "Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter sharply.

  He had to be told then, and he wept as if his heart would break;but he could remember nothing after the jump into the sea. Itappeared that he was all by himself at the other side of the ship,very unhappy because he thought it was all his fault Becky had beenhurt. Then came the crash, and he was terrified. He was wonderingwhat had happened, when Aunt Dorothy came running towards him,crying, "Peter, Peter, where are you?" And then followed theputting on of the life-belt. It was so easy to picture her talkingto him all the time, to reassure him, in that quick, cheery way ofhers.

  "O Eustace," Nesta said afterwards, "wasn't she splendid? I guessBob must be sorry he teased her so now."

  "Pooh," said Eustace, "that was only his fun. Aunt Dorothy knewit."

  But Nesta could not stand teasing herself, and was sure no oneliked or understood it.

  "I don't know," she said; "she used to get red sometimes. And I'mnot so sure Bob did mean it all in chaff. He has a realdown-on-anything-English. I mean to ask him some day what he thinksof English girls' pluck now."

  "If you do," said Eustace, with sudden ferocity, "I'll never speakto you again."

  Nesta stared at him in dismay.

  "Why ever?" she asked dully. "Wouldn't he like to talk about her?Didn't he like her, really?"

  "Like her!" Eustace exclaimed. "Oh, you little stupid! Didn't yousee him when Peter was telling us about her? Didn't you hear Bobthen? Can't you understand?"

  Nesta stared in blank silence for some seconds.

  "Oh, I say!" she gasped, "I didn't know! I never thought of that!I--I wasn't looking at him."

  "I wasn't looking at anything else," said Eustace; "but I guess hewouldn't like to think any one knew, so we must hold our tongues.But I couldn't have you going and asking him blundering questions."

  "I won't," said Nesta, with unwonted meekness. "When did youguess?"

  "Only then," said Eustace; "but now I can remember lots of things.Bob always liked talking to her better than any one. Bob didn'twant her to go. Bob asked her to come back."

  He broke off short and slammed out of the room. It was as bad tothink of as it had been to bear his mother's helpless loneliness;for as he could do nothing then for her, he could do nothing nowfor Bob.

  It was a matter of conjecture between the twins what was likely tohappen next. They really expected that, when Peter was well enoughfor the rough journey, they would all go back to the plantation,and settle down again for ever and ever.

  A telegram had been dispatched with the bad news to Mr. and Mrs.Chase. The reply was an urgent appeal for them all to go on asfirst intended.

  Leaving everything on the plantation in Bob's care, Mr. Orbandecided to take his wife and family home himself. It would not bethe joyful home-coming they had anticipated; and Mrs. Orban wouldneed him, he knew.

  "We must do what we can for the poor dear old people," Mr. Orbanexplained to Bob. "Dorothy was their baby. It is a terrible loss tothem."

  "To every one," said Bob briefly.