The stranded party was much in need of a leader till one of the crew volunteered the information that some miles higher up the coast there was a bÊche-de-mer station where they would probably get some means of communicating with the rest of the world, and at least find food, of which every one was much in need. BÊche-de-mer fisheries are a feature of the coast, the bÊche-de-mer being a huge sea-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 most unpromising and ruffianly-looking set. However, they received the unhappy boatload quite civilly, promised that a messenger should be dispatched across country to the nearest civilized centre, and provided a good meal of salt junk, sweet potatoes, rice, and tea. It did not matter to the exhausted men and women that they had to eat off tin plates, drink out of tin pannikins, and that the food was more roughly prepared and served than any they had ever tasted before.

They camped under some trees for the meal; and many sad eyes looked towards the great calm sea, where not a trace of last night's tragedy was to be seen. In the distance there was the sail of an outgoing vessel—one of the bÊche-de-mer boats off on a several 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 swarthy Portuguese. He had been watching the speck for some time through a telescope. "So far as I can make out it is something of the same build as yours."

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

It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discover that she did indeed belong to the ill-fated Cora. The crowd on the beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and her worn-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 they pressed 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 never left the ship.

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

"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no time for anything."There is no describing the misery of the day that followed—the terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had of the nightmare experience.

The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account of snakes and other disagreeables.

Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps fortunate for the poor lady—it gave her less time for brooding over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her to try.

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

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

But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was given her, but ate very little. Whatever she was thinking about, she did not speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether she and Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill or fever.

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

He was doing one of his violent pacings up and down, and every turn backwards or forwards he had to change his course, for the tide was running in fast. The sea fascinated him; he could not help watching it, especially now when all sorts of bits of wreckage were beginning to float in—lengths of rope, a life-belt or two, and things belonging to the Cora's deck. The men from the station were watching with the sailors and hauling things in to land.

"Any bodies that went down will be carried by the under current into the next bay," Eustace heard the bÊche-de-mer owner explaining to 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 the telescope, as every one pressed forward.

"It will be a broken spar," said the bÊche-de-mer captain. "I've been here fifteen years and there's never such a thing happened yet."

"I'm going out in one of the boats, mate," said the old sailor resolutely. "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 the log-like thing lying upon the water, gently tossed by the tiny waves that were slowly, slowly bearing it to shore. It certainly looked no bigger than a broken spar, and very much that shape as, the boat drawn up alongside, two sailors leant over and lifted it in.

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

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

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

"Here," said one of the Cora's crew, catching sight of him suddenly, "make way for this laddie—it's his own brother."

In utter bewilderment Eustace felt himself forced to the centre of the crowd, and there, with a man kneeling beside him trying restoratives, lay Peter, with a life-belt round him, his face ashen, and his fair hair all sodden—but he was living. They said he was alive, but certainly he did not look it.

Eustace turned, fought his way madly through the press, and dashed up the beach straight to the trees where his mother sat bending over 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 had blurted out his news in all its crudeness.

"Mother," he said instead, "let me hold Becky—I can really. Peter will want you."

Mrs. Orban neither started nor changed colour; she just stared at Eustace curiously, and said inquiringly,—

"Peter?"

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

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

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

Every one was very kind to the Orbans. The poor lady who had lost her husband took entire charge of Becky; other fellow-passengers offered to help with Peter, who needed nursing night and day. The survivors from the wreck clung together, and found some comfort in helping each other. The people of the station were very attentive and good; but the relief party from Cooktown was hailed with thankfulness, for there were of course many discomforts and unpleasantnesses. The blacks had a disagreeable habit of prowling about in the night and peeping at their guests as they tried to sleep in the impromptu hammocks. The food was coarse and monotonous; the men rough, and uncouth in their ways.When Eustace saw his father he felt a great burden lifted from his shoulders; his powerlessness to help his mother did not matter any more; no one could comfort her like his father. Then there was Bob; he would help the whole family to keep up in his usual splendid way!

Fortunately Mr. Orban and Bob had not yet left Cooktown when the news of the disaster arrived. They hastened to the bÊche-de-mer station on getting Mrs. Orban's message, without the least knowledge whom they would find of their own party; and after the first explanations were over, no one could speak of the cloud shadowing the joy of meeting. To Eustace's infinite surprise, Bob, to whom he had looked for so much, failed him utterly—he could not rouse himself, let alone other people.

The survivors of the wrecked Cora were carried by steamer to Cooktown, and Mr. Orban took his family to the best hotel, for no plans 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 very day before we left she didn't feel a bit as if we were going to England? Do you remember?"

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

"And it seems so horrid," she proceeded chokily, "to know nothing about what happened to her or even how it happened. If only some one could tell us!"

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

The first person to speak of Miss Chase without tears was Peter. He was 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 easily been changed.

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

"That's funny," said Peter, in his old talkative way; "she distinctly 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 round me."

"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 had shown any inclination to talk, and no one had guessed he could possibly know anything of Miss Chase.

"She said," was his clear reply, "'That's right, Peter Perky. Now mind you float; don't struggle, but lie on your back.'—Bob," he broke 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 his life he heard Bob irritable.

"She said," Peter went on obediently, "'Don't be frightened; I am coming too.'""Well?" prompted Mr. Orban.

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

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

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

There was a solemn hush—so solemn that Peter stared round in amazement at the grave faces. Bob turned and walked heavily out of the 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. It appeared 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 been hurt. Then came the crash, and he was terrified. He was wondering what had happened, when Aunt Dorothy came running towards him, crying, "Peter, Peter, where are you?" And then followed the putting on of the life-belt. It was so easy to picture her talking to him all the time, to reassure him, in that quick, cheery way of hers.

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

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

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

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

"If you do," said Eustace, with sudden ferocity, "I'll never speak to 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 you see him when Peter was telling us about her? Didn't you hear Bob then? 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 he wouldn'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 you guess?"

"Only then," said Eustace; "but now I can remember lots of things. Bob always liked talking to her better than any one. Bob didn't want her to go. Bob asked her to come back."

He broke off short and slammed out of the room. It was as bad to think 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 now for Bob.

It was a matter of conjecture between the twins what was likely to happen next. They really expected that, when Peter was well enough for 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 as first intended.

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

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

"To every one," said Bob briefly.

Back to contents