Midsummer's Eve

On the High Seas

IT WAS THE BEGINNING of September when we set sail. We stayed a few nights in the house in Albemarle Street before going on to Tilbury to join the cargo ship in which we would be sailing. I was sure the excitement of the coming journey was good for Helena. She was still very sad and at times lapsed into deep melancholy, but I did feel that she had come a little way from the terrible lassitude which implied that she simply did not care what became of her.

Amaryllis was sorry that she was going but at the same time she felt that it was the best thing for her. As for Peter Lansdon, his resilience continued to amaze me. He behaved as though there was nothing extraordinary about a man who had aspired to become a leading politician being at the same time, to put it crudely, a brothel owner. He simply shrugged off politics and I had no doubt that he would soon be applying his immense energies to something else.

We went to the house in the square for dinner and it was almost as it had been in the past. He was insouciant, talkative and informative about what was going on. I did notice once the sardonic smile he sent in my mother’s direction and I guessed he was reminding her of that long-ago pact, and telling her that exposure did not worry him all that much. Yet he had gone to great lengths to keep the nature of his business secret. He was, no doubt, making the best of an ugly situation, and in spite of everything I knew about him, I could not help feeling a grudging admiration for him.

He did talk a great deal about the Queen and Lord Melbourne and the growing certainty that there would soon be an election which would put Melbourne out.

“And what Her Majesty will do when she loses her beloved minister, I cannot imagine. Stamp her little foot, no doubt. But it won’t do any good. And they say she has an aversion to Peel. Well, one has to admit he is too serious a politician to appeal to a young girl … and of course his lordship has all the charm in the world, to which is added a somewhat scandalous past.” He smiled at us in a kind of wry triumph. “It seems odd that the naughty prosper in this world and the good are considered somewhat dull.” I could see that he was certainly not going to let adversity deter him.

I think my father was inclined to admire him, too. He had always been one to look lightly on the sins of others. My mother naturally felt a great antipathy towards him and I could well understand that, after what she told me of the anxiety he must have caused her all those years ago.

I had several talks with Peterkin. He told me he had seen Joe at Frances’s Mission and Joe had given up all thought of politics. It was the only thing he could do. He would not have a chance this time, but it might be that in a few years the name would be forgotten and he would pursue his ambition. For the time being he had gone up North and was working with a company in which his father had interests.

As for Peterkin himself, he was seeing Frances frequently and becoming more and more interested in the work she was doing.

He said: “My father is not averse to this. He thinks it is good publicity to have a son who is interested in social welfare; and it makes a nice touch that I am working with the daughter of Joseph Cresswell, because as you know there have been rumours that my father trapped Joseph Cresswell into that situation. So for once I have his approval of what I am doing.” He smiled at me. “It suits me. For the first time I feel I am doing something I really want to do. My father has given money to the Mission … a sizeable sum, so that Frances is going to get that house she wants. Of course, Papa likes the press to know where the money comes from.”

“I suppose he feels it’s a sort of expiation.”

“Not him. He just feels it’s a neat touch for people to ask if the money goes to do such good service does it matter how it was come by?”

“He’s very cynical.”

“He’s just about the shrewdest and most cunning person I know.”

“And you and Frances—you don’t mind using his money?”

Peterkin looked at me quizzically. “No. I suppose we ought to. Frances and I have talked about it. Not that she thought of refusing it for a moment. Frances would take money from any source if it helped with her work. She needs that money. If you could see some of those people, you’d understand. Frances is a very wise young woman. ‘If good cometh out of evil,’ she says, ‘let’s make the most of the good.’”

I thought a good deal about them all and it was brought home to me that life is not neatly divided between good and evil; and after that I began to make less critical judgements.

After that brief visit we went down to Tilbury to join our ship which was taking ready-made garments, corn, oats, sugar, tea and coffee as well as some livestock out to Australia. There were only a few passengers so I supposed we should get to know our fellow travellers well during the voyage.

Helena and I shared a small cabin with two bunks, one above the other, a little cupboard for our clothes and a small table on which was fixed a mirror. It was fortunate that most of our baggage had been put into the hold until our arrival. My parents had a similar cabin next to ours and Jacco was sharing with another young man.

It was an exciting moment when we slipped away from the dock.

The Captain invited us to his cabin. He was a pleasant man with a dark curly beard, the same dark curly hair and heavy-lidded brown eyes.

“Welcome,” he said. “I hope you are going to have a pleasant voyage with us. Have you travelled on a cargo ship before?”

We said we hadn’t and my father added that he had been out to Australia, but had travelled on a different kind of ship and that was more than twenty years ago.

“Things have changed,” said the Captain. “In fact they are changing all the time. There are three other passengers besides yourselves. A young man who is going out to study something and a couple who want to settle. We should all get along fairly well. It just needs a little give and take if you know what I mean.”

“I understand,” said my father. “To be in such close proximity for so long could in some cases be rather trying.”

“We shall try to make the voyage as pleasant as possible. There are card games, and there is a piano in one of the rooms. We have a good pianist among us. We’ll make it tolerable but the main purpose of our voyage is to carry goods. That is why we are never quite sure how long we stay at certain ports, or even which ports we shall be calling at.”

“We understand all that,” said my father. “What we want is to be taken to Australia as quickly as possible.”

“Then we shall be able to satisfy you. I have invited the other passengers here so that we can all get acquainted. Ah, here are Mr. and Mrs. Prevost. This is Sir Jake and Lady Cador and their son and daughter …” He looked at Helena and added, “… and their niece.”

We shook hands. The Prevosts were a pleasant-looking couple in their early thirties, I imagined, and while we were exchanging a few pleasantries with them the other passenger arrived. He was the one who was sharing a cabin with Jacco and as soon as he came in I thought there was something familiar about him.

“This is Mr. Matthew Hume,” said the captain, introducing us.

The young man smiled as we shook hands. He looked steadily at me and said: “We have met before.”

“I thought so,” I replied. “I was wondering …”

“Frances Cresswell’s Mission.”

“Of course. You let us in when we called.”

“We only met briefly but I remembered.”

“That’s a strange coincidence,” said my father. “There are only three passengers apart from my family and one of these knows one of us.”

“It was just a case of hail and farewell,” said the young man. “I was working at the Mission.”

“I know something of it,” said my mother. “I believe it does very good work.”

His face lit up. “Wonderful work,” he said. “Frances Cresswell is a remarkable woman.”

“Well,” put in the Captain, “it is a pleasant surprise to find that you are not absolute strangers. We dine in half an hour and by that time I hope you will have decided that you are going to get along very well together during the coming weeks.”

“I’m so excited to be going,” Matthew Hume told us. “I’ve been trying to get a passage for some time. I am longing to see Australia.”

“We can’t wait,” said Mrs. Prevost. “Can we, Jim? It’s going to mean so much to us.”

By the time we went in to dinner we felt we knew each other quite well.

We sat at table with the Captain and his Chief Officer and I found myself in earnest conversation with Matthew Hume. He seemed to want to talk to me. I supposed because I was not exactly a stranger. The Mission kept coming into the conversation. He said that he had at one time thought of going into the Church and then he had visited Frances’s Mission and had been amazed by what he saw there.

“Dear Frances,” he said, “she looks to people like me to help all the time. She said she wants people with a social conscience, people who were born into the world of wealth—or comparative wealth—to give something of themselves to those who were born in less fortunate circumstances. Frances knows exactly where she is going, and as soon as I went to the Mission I began to feel I did.”

I nodded and thought of Peterkin. “My cousin feels like that, I believe,” I said.

“I have seen some terrible sights,” he went on. “Heartrending. And I’ve been to some of the prisons. That’s why I am going out here … to study the conditions of those who have been transported. I am going to write a book about it. I want to call attention to it. I think it is wrong. I think it is evil. We’ve got to stop it.”

He was fervent and he seemed to me very young. I wondered how old he was. Twenty-three? Hardly that.

“I have had the honour of meeting Mrs. Elizabeth Fry,” he told me. “She has talked to me about prisons and she has done a great deal …”

We were interrupted by someone’s asking the Captain about the ports we should call at and wondering how long we should stay at them.

The Captain said it would depend on what had to be set ashore and what taken on board. We would be informed of when we must return to the ship.

“But we should like you to obey orders in that respect,” he said. “The tides have to be considered before the wishes of the passengers, especially in ships of this kind.”

The Prevosts were talking about what they wanted to do.

“We’re going to acquire a little land,” said Jim Prevost. “It’s going very cheaply. Life was getting difficult at home. Trouble over the Reform Bill, the Corn Laws and the bad harvests. They say the climate out there is just wonderful.”

My father pointed out that in no part of the world could the climate be relied on and there were such things as droughts and plagues in Australia. He knew because he had lived there for nine years. True, that was more than twenty years ago, but the weather patterns had not changed.

The Prevosts looked abashed and he went on quickly: “I am sure the advantages will make up for the disadvantages. And I have heard that in some parts of Australia no price at all is asked for the land.”

The Prevosts brightened and my father began to talk about his experiences of farming in Australia.

So the evening passed.

Helena had hardly spoken, but she did display a little curiosity in her surroundings and I was sure the voyage was going to be of great interest.

I could not be anything but exhilarated to be at sea. The crew was friendly and ready to explain anything we asked and the weather was benign even in the notoriously hazardous Bay of Biscay.

Helena wanted to stay in the cabin a good deal. She was quite ill which seemed a bad omen when we were not experiencing any really bad weather. She said it was the movement of the ship. Jacco and I revelled in the life. We would race each other along the open decks which were rather restricted, but we enjoyed it; then we would lean over the rail and look right down into the swirling sea-green water.

There was so much to learn about the ship and we awakened each day to a feeling of excitement.

My father and mother used to walk along the deck arm in arm with a smile of contentment on their faces while he talked about his experiences as a convict for he said the journey and the prospect of being in Australia again brought it all back to him most vividly.

There were our fellow travellers, too. The Prevosts were so enthusiastic about their project and they were constantly trying to corner my father to make him tell them all he knew. One evening, when he was in a particularly mellow mood, he told them that he had been sent out as a convict, recounting the story with a certain amount of wit, making light of his sufferings so that it was quite entertaining.

When Matthew Hume discovered that my father had actually experienced life as a convict he was beside himself with joy.

“First-hand knowledge!” he cried. “That is what I am after.”

“I daresay it has changed a lot since my day,” my father reminded him. “Life is changing all the time.”

“But what an opportunity!”

He would sit beside my father, notebook in hand.

“Such a piece of luck,” he said.

“It wasn’t for my father,” I reminded him.

He was serious. “But look. Here he is now, a man of standing, and he has gone through all that.”

“He did have an estate to go to and a title waiting for him.”

“I want the whole story,” said Matthew.

He was very earnest, a little lacking in humour, but he was a young man with a purpose and I liked him for that.

I said to my mother: “There is an innate goodness about him.”

She replied: “He certainly has reformation at heart, but it is often like that with the young. They have dreams of making this and that right and often they are not very practical. Their world is made of dreams rather than reality.”

“Don’t tell him that. He is intoxicated with his dream.”

Our first port of call was Madeira where we were putting off goods and taking on wine. It gave us an opportunity to go ashore and my father arranged for us to go round the island in a carriage. My parents and the Prevosts were in one, Helena, Matthew Hume, Jacco and myself in another.

It was a beautiful sight with its mountains and magnificently colourful flowers and it was wonderful to be ashore after being so long at sea. We were all rather merry—with the exception of Helena, but we did not expect her to be otherwise as she never was. We had a meal in a tavern in Funchal close to the red stone Cathedral and the flower market. Then we went back to the ship and very soon were at sea again.

We were a day out from Madeira. At dinner we had been more vociferous than usual, talking of our experiences in Madeira and telling each other that we must make the most of the next port of call.

We were all given a taste of the Madeira wine which had been taken on board and we were very convivial. Glancing at Helena I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. I thought, She is not getting any better. Is she going on grieving for the rest of her life? After all, as my mother had said, if John Milward had been man enough he would have defied his parents. I wanted to say to her: “Think of the Prevosts going out not knowing what they are going to find. Think of that nice earnest Matthew Hume with his mission in life. Helena, you will have to make the best of it.”

When we retired that night I wondered if I could talk to her. But it seemed there was little one could say to someone who was so wrapped up in her grief.

I did try.

We were in our bunks—she was in the one above—and the ship was rocking slightly as it often did.

I said: “This is like being rocked to sleep.”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Are you sleepy?”

“No.”

“There is something I wanted to say. Couldn’t you try to be interested? Everything is so new to us. Madeira was lovely but you might have been anywhere. I don’t think you noticed anything.”

She was silent.

“You’ve got to try to forget. Don’t you see, you’ll never get over it until you do.”

“I’ll never get over it, Annora. There’ll be something to remind me always. You don’t understand what happened.”

“Well, tell me then.”

“I don’t think I can. Though I suppose you’ll have to know. Annora, I think I’m going to have a baby.”

“Helena!” I whispered.

“Yes. In fact … I’m almost sure.”

“It can’t be.”

“It is. You see, when John came back … and he was going to defy his family … it happened. Nobody had ever really cared for me before. It seemed wonderful. And now it’s all finished and I’m going to have this little baby.”

I felt so shaken I did not know what to say.

I wanted to get up and go straight to my parents and ask them what was to be done.

I could only say: “Oh, Helena, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m terrified.”

“I daresay my mother will know what to do.”

“A baby, Annora. Think what that means. I’ll never be able to go home. What would my father say?”

“He can hardly set himself up as a pillar of respectability,” I reminded her.

“I know. That makes it worse.”

“I’m glad you told me, Helena.”

“I’ve wanted to … ever since I knew.”

“When …?”

“I think about April.”

“That gives us time to work something out.”

“What can we work out?”

“What can be done. My mother will know what is best … and so will my father. It’s a good thing you’re here with us.”

“I know.”

“A baby,” I said softly. “A dear little baby. In a way it’s wonderful.”

“It would be,” said Helena, “if …”

“But still there’ll be the baby.”

I couldn’t stop thinking of the baby. I saw it … fair-haired, rather like Aunt Amaryllis, with a sweet flowerlike face. For a few moments I forgot Helena’s dilemma contemplating it.

“I haven’t known what to do. Sometimes I’ve thought it would all be settled if I jumped over the side of the ship.”

“What an awful thing to say! Put that right out of your mind. This is going to give us problems but we’re all here to help—my parents, Jacco, me—all of us. It’ll all come right. It really will and there’ll be the dear little baby.”

“I can’t think of it like that. There’s too much to be faced. I never thought this would happen. I thought we were going to be happy together.”

“You should perhaps let John know.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Then you could be married.”

“No, no.” She sounded hysterical so I said quietly: “No, I suppose not. Do you mind if I tell my mother?”

“I don’t want anyone to know.”

“But they will know in time and they’ll help. I know they will.”

“I feel so much better now you know.”

“Poor Helena. What you must have gone through … and all because of what happened …”

I thought, If it hadn’t been for that chairmanship they would have gone on as planned and nobody would have known.

“Helena,” I said, “you have been very sick. Ever since you came on board.”

“Yes, I think that’s what it was. I feel awful sometimes in the mornings.”

“You should have told me right away.”

“I couldn’t. But you know now.”

“Helena, I want to tell my mother in the morning. She will know what is best to be done. Do let me tell her.”

After some hesitation she said: “All right. And you’ll help me, won’t you, Annora?”

“We all will. I’ll do anything in the world, I promise.”

“I’m so glad to be with you.”

“I’m glad we’re here. It will be all right, Helena, I know it will.”

“I feel it might be, now that you know,” she said. “It’s like a great weight being lifted from my mind.”

I felt immensely gratified, and a great tenderness swept over me and with it a desire to protect Helena.

I took the first opportunity of talking to my mother. I told her that I had something very important to say and that I wanted to talk to her alone.

We found a spot on deck. The sea had turned choppy and we were alone there. We sat down on a bench and I burst out: “Helena is going to have a baby.”

I had rarely seen her so startled.

“A baby!” she echoed.

“Yes. She thought she and John were going to be married, you see.”

“Oh yes. I see.”

“What shall we do?”

My mother was silent for a while. Then she said: “Poor girl. No wonder she’s been looking as though she would like to jump overboard.”

“She did actually mention that.”

“For Heaven’s sake, watch her. She could be hysterical. Then goodness knows what would happen.”

“I want to reassure her. I’ve told her we’ll look after her.”

My mother nodded. “It’s a good thing we are going to Australia. That’ll help a lot. No one will know her there and we’ll manage it. When?”

“She thinks April.”

“I see. Well, that gives us time.”

“But what are we going to do?”

“There is nothing we can do here … only reassure her. We’ve got to make her see that it is not such an unusual situation and she is by no means the first girl to whom it has happened. … Then we’ll decide what we’re going to do when we get to Sydney. She should take care of herself now. I’m glad she is in with you. Just reassure her. Don’t let her get overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. I’ll speak to your father. He’ll know what to do when we get there. We’ll arrange it all. As I say, it is a good thing we are not at home. That could have been decidedly more difficult. I daresay they have midwives and doctors in Sydney. Lots of children must be getting born out there. We’ll see to it all. Don’t let her worry. That’s the great thing.”

“I think she is glad not to be at home.”

“Amaryllis would have helped all she could.”

“She wouldn’t want her father to know.”

“He’s in no position to condemn anyone,” said my mother shortly.

“I shall tell her you know and that you have said you will help. What will happen when we take the baby home with us?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Let’s get her out of that suicidal mood and make her see that what has happened to her is not all that unusual and above all that she is with her family and we are going to help.”

“Oh thank you. I knew you’d make it seem better.”

She smiled at me and pressed my hand; and we went on talking about it for a long time. My father came and found us.

“I wondered where you were,” he said. “What is this? The women getting together for a little peace and quiet?”

My mother looked at me and said: “I’ve just heard a startling piece of news.”

“Oh?” He looked from her to me and she went on:

“Helena is going to have a baby.”

“Good God!” he cried. Then: “John Milward?”

I nodded.

“He’ll have to marry her.”

“She won’t hear of his being told.”

“Though,” went on my father, “how we’d get him out here I can’t imagine.”

“This must be treated with the utmost tact, Jake.”

“Is that an indication that I should keep out of it?”

“No, no!” I cried. “We very much want you in it. Mama thinks it will be fairly easy until we get the baby. What then … when we have to take it home to England?”

“We could invent a marriage which was fruitful in a short time, and a husband who came to an untimely end.”

“You’re going too fast, Jake,” said my mother. “Let’s get Helena in the right frame of mind. Let’s not think so far ahead as that. Annora is being so helpful with her.”

“I am going to tell her that you know and understand,” I said, “and that you don’t think she is wicked or anything like that. I’ll tell her that Papa says it often happens and there is nothing for her to be ashamed of because she loved John and he loved her; and it was only due to his proud family that it turned out like this.”

“You’re putting words into my mouth.”

“But you do feel that. You’re not condemning Helena.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“I’ll tell her that. I’m going to see her now. She’ll be lying on her bunk as she almost always is. I am glad we all know. Now we can do something about it.”

I went back to the cabin. As I thought, she was there lying on her bunk.

I said: “Come down, Helena, where I can see you. I’ve told my parents. My father says it happens to lots of people and it isn’t going to be so very difficult. They know exactly what we shall have to do.”

She had climbed down and stood facing me.

I went to her and put my arms round her. She clung to me and again that desire to protect her swept over me.

Now that we knew, Helena was a little brighter. She had lost that desperately frightened look. She was often sick and felt ill but some of the despair had gone. I think that from then on she started to think about the baby and, in spite of everything, that could not fail to bring her some joy.

She was probably meant to be a mother; and I think that if she could have married John and settled down to bringing up a big family she would have found perfect happiness.

She did spend quite a lot of time lying on her bunk. Pregnancy was not easy with her but I think the mental anguish had been greater than physical discomfort.

I spent a good deal of time with Matthew Hume; we were becoming good friends. Jacco got on very well with Jim Prevost. Jacco would, in due course, join my father in the management of Cador and he was already learning something about the estate and that meant he had a knowledge of what was going on in some of the farms.

Jim Prevost would talk of little but the land he was going to acquire and therefore he and Jacco had a good deal in common.

Matthew Hume interested me because of that earnestness of his. He was a man with a purpose, and very unusual, for although he was ambitious to a great degree to succeed in what he was doing, it was rare to find such an ambition which was not self-centered.

He had brought one or two books with him and the subject of all of them was prisons. He could hold forth eloquently. He had seen the inside of Newgate once when he had gone there with Frances to visit one of the people she had been looking after and who, she believed, had been wrongfully accused.

“Frances is wonderful,” he said. “So strong. She could force her way in anywhere. She has a way with her. Oh what a place, Annora. Dark high stone walls without windows. It’s opposite the Old Bailey at the west end of Newgate Street. I shudder every time I see it. Do you know there was a prison there in the thirteenth century? Imagine all the people who must have been locked up there. The suffering, the misery that has gone on in that spot! It’s not the original building standing there of course. It was burned down during the great fire of London. This one was built over a hundred years after that in 1780. You’ve heard about the Gordon Riots? Well, it was almost destroyed then by fire and lots of the prisoners were let out. People don’t care about prisoners. They put them away to be rid of them. They are a nuisance. A child steals a loaf of bread because he is hungry and he goes to the same place as a murderer. It’s all wrong. People don’t care enough. That great lady, Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, worked hard for them. I am privileged to have met her.”

“Did she come to Frances’s Mission?”

“No. I wrote to her. I told her of my interest in prisons and prisoners and she invited me to call on her. I went to see her in her house at Plashet. It was a great experience. I talked to her of Frances and the work she is doing. She was so interested. She is no longer young, alas, but she has devoted her life to reform. She spoke heartrendingly of a visit she had paid to Newgate more than twenty years ago. She said she would never forget the sight. There were women there … three hundred of them with their children … some who had never been brought before a court of justice. They had no bedding. They slept on the floor. Their rags scarcely covered them. She could do little then but take them clothes, and this she did. She called on her friends to help. She worked for these people. She has given her life to this cause. She formed a society for the improvement of female prisoners. Goodness flowed from her. She has had a school and a manufactory set up in Newgate. Not only did she confine her efforts to Newgate but she has visited prisons all over the country and even in the Continent. Annora, I want to do something like that with my life.”

“Frances feels that too.”

“Frances is different from Mrs. Fry. Mrs. Fry is gentle. Frances is without sentiment, almost cynical. Frances is angry with society.”

“She gets things done. That is what matters.”

“Oh yes, I greatly admire Frances.”

“I think my cousin Peterkin Lansdon is impressed by Frances’s work, too.”

“You feel like that when you go to her Mission. You feel there is something there worthwhile. It’s a good thing to devote your life to such a cause … like Mrs. Fry. I think of her often. And there is so much more which needs to be done. Transportation, for instance. I think that is a very cruel way of treating men and women.”

I told him the story of Digory.

“Seven years for stealing a pheasant! Torn from his home, from his family, for such an offence … and a boy, a young boy!”

“He had no home and family. He was by no means innocent. He was a thief and I believe always had been. I often wonder whether he would have changed if he had had the chance.”

“Perhaps you will see him when you get to Australia.”

“My father thinks that very unlikely. He says he could have been sent anywhere in Australia.”

“I shall be travelling all over Australia. I want to get first-hand accounts from prisoners. Why they were accused. What the journey out was like. What happened to them when they arrived.”

“My father, of course, told you something of his experiences. He was fortunate. He was allotted to a man who was just, even though he demanded a great deal from his workers. My father became a friend of his. And my father has some land over there which he has kept for years.”

“I know. His is a most interesting story. His was, of course, a rather special case.”

“Yes. He always says it would have been the gallows for him had it not been for my mother, who forced my grandfather to save him from that fate.”

“Well, before I die I want to see transportation abolished. I want to see our prisons changed. When I have my information and my book is finished and published I want it to be widely read. I want it to awaken people’s consciences. I want a bill brought in to change the law.”

“You are very determined, Matthew.”

“The way to get something done is to make up your mind you are going to do it.”

“You are so … selfless.”

“It is easy for me to be. Quite a number of people have to work to keep themselves and that has to be their first consideration. I am fortunate in having inherited an income which keeps me adequately if not in comfort. I can devote all my time to what I really want to do and don’t have to be bothered with that tiresome business of earning a living.”

“It’s a great help.”

“I thank God for it.”

“I am so glad you are here,” I said.

As we approached the Cape we encountered storms. Our ship seemed to have become frail—vulnerable to rough winds and high seas. There were times when it was impossible to stand upright. Helena wanted nothing but to lie in her bunk but Jacco and I went on deck for we found the fresh air good for the queasiness which I think we all felt to some extent.

We clung to the rail and watched the angry water pounding against the ship’s side. I think we were both wondering whether our flimsy craft could continue to take such a battering.

The crew were all at their posts and had little time for us. Jacco and I cautiously made our way to one of the benches which was slightly sheltered from the shrieking wind.

“I wonder what it’s like to be thrown into the sea,” said Jacco.

“We’d not have a chance.”

“They say your whole life flashes before your eyes.”

“I should have imagined one would have been thinking about the present rather than the past,” I commented wryly. “Trying to keep afloat would take up all your energies, mental and physical.”

“The Chief Engineer said this morning that he had seen worse storms. But perhaps we haven’t seen the end of this.”

“How cheerful you are!”

“Mrs. Prevost is laid low and I don’t think her husband feels very well either. Where is Helena?”

“In her bunk. I wonder if she is very frightened. Perhaps I ought to go down and see.”

“Mind how you go.”

“I shall take the utmost care.”

I went to the cabin. “Helena,” I called. “I think the storm is abating. How do you feel?”

There was no answer.

“Helena,” I said again.

I looked up. She was not there.

I was amazed. She must have gone up on deck and she had said she felt very unwell that morning and the movement of the ship greatly upset her.

I looked into the cupboard where our clothes hung very closely together as the space was so limited.

Her raincoat and boots were missing.

So she must have gone on deck.

I felt a thrill of fear run through me. She would have to walk so carefully up there. And what was her intention?

I went on deck. There was no sign of her. Jacco was not there either.

“Helena!” I cried. My voice was lost in the howling of the wind. “Helena, where are you?”

I clung to the rail and looked down with horror at the swirling waters.

Yesterday when the sea had been rough I had said, “I hope the ship can stand up to the weather. It seems a little frail.” And she had replied: “If it didn’t that would be an answer to everything for me, wouldn’t it?”

Even that she could have had such a thought disturbed me.

Now that conversation came back to me and with it a fearful apprehension.

I felt numb suddenly. I remembered the hopeless look in her eyes. True, I had felt she was better since we all knew. She had my support and that of my parents and Jacco. None of us had allowed a shadow of reproach to come into our attitude; it had been as though we believed there was nothing reprehensible about an unmarried girl’s bringing a baby into the world—and that was, without doubt, contrary to general convention.

We had all declared we would be with her. She was not alone.

And yet … I could not get those words out of my mind.

I hurried along the deck. Perhaps she was still there contemplating this terrible thing. Quite a lot of people thought of it when they were in a situation which seemed too tragic to face, but carrying it out to the conclusion was another matter.

I had to find her.

I went on calling her name. If I had stayed with her instead of going on deck … I ought never to have left her. I should have seen the mood she was in, read the despair in her eyes. How many girls over the centuries had found themselves in such a position after recklessly submitting to the demands of a lover? And how many had taken this way out?

I thought of Aunt Amaryllis who loved her daughter so dearly. I thought of Uncle Peter. What would he think when he heard his daughter had been unable to face the consequences for which he in a way was responsible? John Milward was responsible. Joe was, too, because he had exposed her father and his action had cost Helena her future happiness. I was responsible for not taking care of her, for not seeing the danger signals. It seemed to me like a chain of guilt and I was a link in that chain.

“Helena!” I cried desperately. “Where are you?”

No answer … just the mocking shriek of the wind and the sound of the sea battering the side of the ship.

I staggered along the deck. I must find my father and mother. I must give the alarm. But what could be done? The ship could not turn round and go back. How would they ever find her in such a sea?

I went along the deck as quickly as I could. The wind tore at my cloak; my hair was streaming about my face. I was wet with the spray for the seawater was spilling over the decks.

I clung to the rail and made my progress as quickly as I could. At the end of the deck was a small alcove overhung by a life boat. It was a little sheltered from the wind.

As I approached I saw someone huddled there.

“Helena!” I cried in joy.

Yes, it was indeed Helena and she was not alone. Matthew Hume was sitting close to her.

I hurried into the comparative shelter of the alcove.

“Helena,” I gasped. “I wondered where you were. You gave me a fright.”

She did not speak. She lifted her eyes to my face and they seemed full of tragedy.

Matthew said: “She’s all right now. She’s going to be all right. You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

“Annora has been very good to me,” said Helena. “She is the best friend I ever had.”

“I know,” he said.

She looked at me. “Annora, I was going to do it. It would have been so easy. I thought that in this weather they could have thought—or pretended to think—I had fallen over.”

“What are you saying, Helena?”

“I came up to do it. I thought it the best way. I was thinking I couldn’t go on. It was best for me and the little baby. You see, my child won’t have a name …”

“It will have a name,” I said sternly, “Your name.”

“But that’s not good for a baby. It’s a stigma. It’s not good to come into the world at a disadvantage. It’s bad enough without.”

She was talking as though she were in a trance. I had almost forgotten Matthew Hume.

Then he said: “Come and sit with us, Annora. It’s a little sheltered here.”

I sat down beside Helena.

“I was so worried,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Annora.”

“If you had … do you realize how unhappy we all should have been?”

“Just for a while. It would have been forgotten soon. This time next year you would hardly think of me at all.”

“What nonsense! I should always think of you.” I suddenly realized that Matthew Hume knew our secret.

I said to him: “I’m sorry you’ve been brought into all this.”

“I thank God I was. It was fortuitous. Here I was just at the right moment. There is a purpose in it. I was sent on this ship for just this.”

He was, of course, an idealist and I thought at the moment I needed someone who was practical, like either of my parents.

“Yes,” said Helena, “I was going to do it. I wanted it to seem like an accident. It could have. It could seem as though I had come up here for some fresh air and fallen overboard.”

“Helena, how could you think of doing such a thing? How could you hurt us so!”

“I didn’t think. I just believed that it would be better for us all.”

I put my arm round her and held her against me.

I said: “I am going to take you back to the cabin. You’re going to lie down.”

“No,” she said. “I want to stay here. I feel comforted by you … both of you. Matthew knows about everything. I’ve told him.”

“I knew there was some trouble,” he said. “I did not know of what kind. I have just been praying that I could help, and this was God’s answer. I was here at the right moment.”

“You saved me from that,” said Helena.

“Thank you, Matthew,” I said.

“Now we have to convince her that she must never try to do this again. It’s wicked. It’s criminal. It’s taking life … your own and your child’s.”

“Yes,” said Helena, “I know. But I felt so lost and frightened. I really don’t know how I can go on. I know that Annora and her parents will look after me until the baby is born, but what then? I’ve got to go on for the rest of my life with everyone knowing that I have a child and no husband. How can I do that?”

“You can,” I said. “We’re going to help you.”

Silence fell on us and we sat there for a long time listening to the sea thrashing the sides of the ship.

There seemed to grow up between Helena and Matthew a special relationship. He had saved her and I was sure he could not help feeling a glow of satisfaction because of that. Anyone would be gratified to save someone’s life—but with Matthew it went deeper than that. He had made it his mission in life to succour his fellow human beings and Helena had given him the most obvious chance he had ever had.

He talked to her a great deal about his object in life. I would come upon them sitting in the alcove; he would be talking and she would be staring out to sea; whether she was listening or not I was not sure, but she sat on silently while he talked.

We went ashore at Capetown—a party of us, as we had done in Madeira. It was wonderful, after so much rough weather at sea, to be on dry land and in warm sunshine. Moreover Capetown will always be for me one of the most beautiful places in the world. I think it was because I felt happy on that day.

I was so relieved that Helena was still with us. I could not have borne it if she had succeeded. In my heart I should have blamed Joe and I could never forget the sight of him, standing there putting the incriminating papers into his pocket. Between them he and Uncle Peter had ruined Helena’s life; and I had played my little part in the drama by making Joe’s task easy.

But she had been saved in time by Matthew and from now on I was going to be extra watchful. I looked at the blue calm waters, the great Table Mountain and the beautiful Bay and I felt more at peace than I had for a long time.

The day passed all too quickly and we were at sea again. Now we were in the calm and peaceful waters of the Indian Ocean and delightful weather seemed to have its effect on us all.

Helena said to me: “I wish I could go on sailing like this forever. I never want this to stop. But it will have to soon and then …”

I said: “Remember we are here with you, and when the baby is born we are going to love it so much that everything will have been worthwhile.”

“Promise you won’t leave me,” she said. “Promise you’ll stay with me forever.”

“I will be with you as long as you need me.”

She smiled and seemed almost happy.

We were astounded when the news broke.

Matthew announced it after we left the dinner table. There were my parents, Jacco and I, and of course Matthew and Helena and the Prevosts.

Matthew said: “Helena and I are going to be married.”

We all stared at them. We had seen no real sign that there was any special attraction between them. Of course they had talked now and then, but Matthew was so enthusiastic about his mission in life that he talked earnestly about it to anyone who would listen.

For a few seconds no one spoke. Jacco recovered himself first.

“Well, congratulations. They say this sort of thing does happen on ships.”

“Helena and I have made up our minds,” said Matthew. “We shall be married as soon as we reach Sydney.”

My mother kissed Helena and I said: “I hope you will be very happy, dear Helena.”

“This calls for a celebration,” said my father. “I wonder what they can offer us.”

Helena was blushing and the unusual colour in her face made her look quite pretty. Matthew seemed delighted. His face was shining with virtue; and the thought came into my mind that the proposal was another of his good works. He looked very young and I thought: Is he being very noble? And does he understand what this means?

Helena stood there holding Matthew’s hand. There was a look in her eyes which I had noticed in the alcove during the storm. She was like a drowning person clinging to a raft. I felt very uneasy.

My father was saying, “I am going to organize something. We must drink to this engagement. I’ll see what I can get. We’ll ask the Captain to join us in half an hour in our cabin.”

We left Helena and Matthew walking the deck and went down to my parents’ cabin.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said my mother.

“It’s Matthew performing another of his good deeds, I believe,” put in Jacco.

“I feared that,” added my mother.

“He is so earnestly good,” I said. “He really does want to spend his life helping others.”

“Supplying their needs,” mused my father. “What does Helena need most now? A husband. So Matthew offers himself.”

“And Helena … what does she think, I wonder,” said my mother.

“Helena is so lost and bewildered,” I told them, “so frightened that she will cling to anyone who offers help.”

“This is a very special sort of help,” said my mother. “Oh dear, I hope it works out well for them.”

“He has the rest of the voyage to think about it,” my father reminded us. “Perhaps it was all suggested on the spur of the moment. It may be that by the time they get to Sydney …”

“Who knows?” I said.

“They’ll be able to marry easily in Sydney if they are still in the mind to,” my father explained. “There won’t be a lot of ceremony. They are so used to girls coming out to be married and so they get through the performance with the utmost speed.”

“She was so worried about the baby,” I said. “That’s what she is doing it for.”

“I understand that is her reason,” put in my mother. “As for him … I imagine he has rather a simplified picture of life.”

“Most good people have,” I replied.

My father looked at me and smiled. “There speaks our wise girl. Now listen to me. This is their affair. What we think of this hasty marriage is of no account. They have to work it out for themselves. They have to live it. It’s up to them.”

“It may well be that it will work out all right,” said Jacco. “I should imagine Matthew is just about as easygoing as anyone could be.”

“As long as he can pursue his own virtuous road,” said my father. “And Helena knows him up to a point. I know their acquaintance has been brief, but they have met every day, so compared with friendships at home when a friend or lover is seen perhaps once a week, their meetings on this ship are tantamount to months of acquaintanceship on shore. Let us wish them good luck and hope that all will be well.”

“There is nothing else we can do,” my mother pointed out. “They have made up their minds.”

Helena, I thought, because she needs marriage for her baby and he because he needs to make sacrifices and do good works.

I wondered if they were really the right reasons for a marriage.

The Captain arrived with two bottles of what he said he kept for special occasions. Mrs. Prevost was tittering with excitement and even Mr. Prevost seemed to have forgotten his absorption with the land for a while. The Captain made a little speech in which he said that it was not the first time romance had come to his ship. There was nothing like ships for romance.

Helena and Matthew stood there accepting the congratulations—Helena still flushed and looking almost happy, or perhaps that was relief; and Matthew had a look about him of such shining pleasure which could only come from the awareness of his virtue.

He was a very good young man and I felt that I loved him for saving Helena from the rough stormy sea and then giving her a chance to escape from a situation which she found so intolerable that she was ready to die to be rid of it.

The days began to speed by. The atmosphere of the ship was changing. We were about to leave that closed world in which we had lived for so many weeks. It had been rather an unreal world, I thought, looking back. Now we were coming into reality.

People changed subtly. The Prevosts were abstracted and in Jim Prevost’s eyes there was a look of faint anxiety. He had been so sure on the way out that he was going to find what he wanted. Now he was not so sure. As for his wife, I thought she seemed a little nostalgic, as though she was suddenly realizing all she was losing. After all, it must be a great wrench to go to a new country, a new life. I could understand their feelings.

And Matthew? He was becoming very excited at the prospect of finding the material he needed for his book. I could see the dreams in his eyes. He was going to marry Helena; she was to be his disciple who would share in his work. He had a simple uncomplicated way of ordering his life. Helena had changed too. It may have been that the baby was having an effect on her. Perhaps it seemed to her now like a living person—her very own child. I wondered how often she thought of John and whether she was peacefully contemplating a life ahead with Matthew. I think she was still in a bemused state, but I believed she felt herself fortunate to have found a man who would act as father to her child.

As for myself and my family—it was different with us. This was merely a visit and when it was over we should all go back to life as it had been before.

My father was perhaps a little quieter than usual. I daresay he remembered a great deal of that part of his life when he had come to her in chains—figuratively—a prisoner of Mother England, to submit to the humiliating ordeal of being chosen as someone’s slave during seven years of bondage. And my mother would share his mood for their lives were so closely interwoven, and even, at periods, when she was a child, she had known him and thought of him in that land overseas.

Jacco was exuberant. He was longing to explore. He had found the entire voyage exciting and interesting, as it had been for me but for Helena’s problems.

And so we came to Sydney.

I stood on deck as we approached what has been called the finest harbour in the world. And what a sight is was! It was early morning; the sun was just coming up and the sea was pale aquamarine, calm and beautiful. My father, standing beside me, slipped his arm through mine. I turned to look at him and I saw the faraway look in his eyes. I knew he was thinking of arriving here all those years ago. I turned from him to look at the magnificent harbour with its cove-like indentations fringed with foliage and numerous sandy beaches.

My mother came and joined us and we stood silently together.

It was some time before we could go ashore. We had said our goodbyes to the Captain and those members of the crew with whom we had become friendly. The Prevosts were with us when we went off. They said we must keep in touch and my father explained that we should be staying at the Grand Hotel in Sydney for a little while and then we should be going to a property he owned some hundred or so miles north of Sydney. It was known simply as Cadorsons and was near a place called Sealands Creek. Knowing a little of the land, he would be happy to advise them at any time they cared to call upon him. That seemed to give them a certain comfort and it was clearer than ever that now their dreams were about to be realized they were growing very apprehensive.

Helena and Matthew were to stay with us for the time being. I knew that Helena wanted to stay with me, but Matthew wanted to go off in search of material as soon as possible. But for the time being we should all stay at the hotel until my father had discovered what accommodation there would be for us at the property at Sealands Creek.

We went from the dock to the Grand Hotel in our buggy and as we rode along my father expressed his amazement at the change in Sydney since he had last seen it.

“It is quite different,” he said. “When I was last here the narrow streets were quite dangerous because of the pigs, dogs and goats which would be getting under your feet. The buildings were shacks. Now the streets have been made wider and the buildings …”

“Well, it was rather a long time ago,” said my mother.

“Yes. I heard that Macquarie had worked wonders.”

I said: “It must be an extraordinary experience … coming back after all these years.”

He nodded. “It brings it all back. I can see myself standing on deck with the rest of us, half blinded by the brilliant light after weeks shut up in the hold, waiting to be selected by those who would be our masters for the next seven years. But that is all in the past. Here I am with my family, and soon I shall be seeing the property I managed to acquire in spite of my degrading arrival.”

“You should be proud,” said my mother. “How many could do what you did?”

“Quite a number, I assure you. Just look at this city. It might be an English provincial town. It shows what can be done with energy, determination and convict labour. Look at those warehouses. Some of them are quite imposing. I would never have believed it.”

We had arrived at the Grand Hotel which though it did not quite live up to its name was comfortable. There were red felt curtains everywhere held back by brass chains. They added a cheerful colour to the surroundings.

We were regarded with some curiosity by the people in the foyer of the hotel, but I expect they were accustomed to arrivals from England for I learned later how many people, like the Prevosts, were coming out attracted by the cheapness of the land and the labour of convicts which meant that they could start to build a fortune without a big initial outlay.

My father had arranged for the bulk of our baggage to remain at the docks until it could be sent straight to the property.

And so we had arrived in Australia.