“Here is half the fare—twenty-five pounds,” said Captain Mangles, counting out the sum, which the master pocketed without saying “thank you.”
“Be on board tomorrow,” said he. “Whether you are here or not, I shall weigh anchor.”
“We will be here.”
Thereupon Glenarvan, the major, Robert, Paganel, and Captain Mangles left the vessel, without Will Halley’s having so much as touched the brim of his hat.
“What a stupid fellow!” was their first remark.
“Well, I like him,” replied Paganel. “He is a real sea-wolf.”
“A real bear!” remarked the major.
“And I imagine,” added Captain Mangles, “that this bear has at some time traded in human flesh.”
“What matter,” replied Glenarvan, “so long as he commands the Macquarie, which goes to New Zealand? We shall see very little of him on the voyage.”
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were very much pleased to know that they were to start the next day. Glenarvan observed, however, that the Macquarie could not equal the Duncan for comfort; but, after so many hardships, they were not likely to be overcome by trifles. Mr. Olbinett was requested to take charge of the provisions. The poor man, since the loss of the Duncan, had often lamented the unhappy fate of his wife, who had remained on board, and would be, consequently, the victim of the convicts’ brutality. However, he fulfilled his duties as steward with his accustomed zeal, and their food might yet consist of dishes that were never seen on the ship’s table.
In the meantime the major discounted at a money-changer’s some drafts that Glenarvan had on the Union Bank of Melbourne. As for Paganel, he procured an excellent map of New Zealand.
Mulready was now quite well. He scarcely felt his wound, which had so nearly proved fatal. A few hours at sea would complete his recovery.
Wilson went on board first, charged with arranging the passengers’ quarters. Under his vigorous use of the brush and broom the aspect of things was greatly changed. Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, but allowed the sailor to do as he pleased. As for Glenarvan and his friends, he scarcely noticed them; he did not even know their names, nor did he care to. This increase of cargo was worth fifty pounds to him, but he valued it less than the two hundred tons of tanned leather with which his hold was crowded—the skins first, and the passengers next. He was a real trader; and by his nautical ability he passed for a good navigator of these seas, rendered so very dangerous by the coral reefs.
During the afternoon, Glenarvan wished to visit once more the supposed place of the shipwreck. Ayrton had certainly been the quartermaster of the Britannia, and the vessel might really have been lost on that part of the coast. And there, at all events, the Duncan had fallen into the hands of the convicts. Had there been a fight? Perhaps they would find on the beach traces of a struggle. If the crew had perished in the waves, would not the bodies have been cast ashore?
Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful captain, undertook this examination. The landlord of Victoria Hotel furnished them with two horses, and they set out. But it was a sad journey. They rode in silence. The same thoughts, the same anxieties, tortured the mind of each. They gazed at the rocks worn by the sea. They had no need to question or answer; no sign of the Duncan could be found—the whole coast was bare.
Captain Mangles, however, found on the margin of the shore evident signs of an encampment, the remains of fires recently kindled beneath the few trees. Had a wandering tribe of natives passed there within a few days? No, for an object struck Glenarvan’s eye, which proved incontestably that the convicts had visited that part of the coast.
It was a gray and yellow jacket, worn and patched, left at the foot of a tree. It bore a number and badge of the Perth penitentiary. The convict was no longer there, but his cast-off garment betrayed him.
“You see, John,” said Glenarvan, “the convicts have been here! And our poor comrades of the Duncan—”
“Yes,” replied the captain, in a low voice, “they have certainly been landed, and have perished!”
“The wretches!” cried Glenarvan. “If they ever fall into my hands, I will avenge my crew!”
Grief and exposure had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For several moments he gazed at the vast expanse of water, seeking perhaps to discern some ship in the dim distance. Then his eyes relaxed their fierceness, he regained his composure, and, without adding a word or making a sign, took the road to Eden.
Only one duty remained to be fulfilled—to inform the constable of the events that had just transpired, which was done the same evening. The magistrate, Thomas Banks, could scarcely conceal his satisfaction at making out the official record. He was simply delighted at the departure of Ben Joyce and his band. The whole village shared his joy. The convicts had left Australia because of a new crime; but, at all events, they had gone. This important news was immediately telegraphed to the authorities of Melbourne and Sydney.
Having accomplished his object, Glenarvan returned to the Victoria Hotel. The travelers passed this last evening in Australia in sadness. Their thoughts wandered over this country, so fertile in misfortunes. They recalled the hopes they had reasonably conceived at Cape Bernouilli, now so cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay.
Paganel was a prey to a feverish agitation. Captain Mangles, who had watched him since the incident at Snowy River, many times pressed him with questions which Paganel did not answer. But that evening, as he went with him to his chamber, the captain asked him why he was so nervous.
“My friend,” replied Paganel evasively, “I am no more nervous than usual.”
“Mr. Paganel, you have a secret that troubles you.”
“Well, as you will,” cried the geographer; “it is stronger than I.”
“What is stronger than you?”
“My joy on the one hand, and my despair on
