in London. Her sojourn among the natives has elicited much interest there, as well as concern.’
‘But Colonel Crawley,’ replied Sir George ‘we are to have an armed escort, and then I have brought with me an Indian bughi, four wheeled rather than two, which has a hood to shade the occupants from the sun’s harmful rays. The lady will ride in this, though I must state that she may accompany me only if the landscape is such that the vehicle may proceed without hindrance.’
‘There isn’t a track suitable for it,’ declared the governor, then added as he came under the hard eye of Mrs Fraser: ‘But the land is dashedly flat, as flat as a billiard table, and I suppose where carts can go so can that bughi. India is not noted for the smoothness of its roads, is it?’
‘No, that is why I chose such a vehicle,’ replied the knight. ‘Well, if it is to be, it must be. So, let us pass from this subject and enjoy the company of these delightful ladies. Perhaps they will treat us to a song or two. My good wife has a sweet voice. Some have compared it to that of an angel. Please, Lucille, treat us to a song.’
‘I can play the piano tolerably well too,’ said a petulant Lucy, who since her protest had withdrawn from the subject of the expedition.
Her eyes, swimming with tears, accused her friend of desertion; but proud of her skill she went to the piano, sat in front of it and ran her fingers over the keys. It was somewhat out of tune, but no one called attention to it and she didn’t care. She banged out a discordant chord which suited her mood, then looked around and said: ‘When we were taking ship, I brought this broadsheet which was to warn young girls about the perils of the South Land. I have not found such dangers here, but then, thank God, I am not one of those poor creatures sent to languish at the ends of the earth.’ She flung a glance at her friend, attempted an introduction, then using the out-of-tune piano sparingly began to sing:
‘Come all young girls, both far and near, and listen unto me,
While unto you I do unfold what proved my destiny.
My mother died when I was young, it caused me to deplore,
And I did get my way too soon upon my native shore.’
Her clear young voice rose into a lament and everyone listened, though not with the same feelings. Mrs Crawley found the sentiments tedious and her husband soon lost interest. Sir George disliked the subject matter and wished that his young wife had chosen a more fitting song. It was only Amelia who seemed to appreciate the ballad and tapped out the time on her wrist. Then, as the song ran its course, she got to her feet and went to stand beside the singer. The girl, still out of sorts, scowled up at her grumpily before shaping her quivering lips into a little sad smile and thumping out the melody. Both sang out the final verses in a charming duo.
‘Come all young men and maidens, do bad company forsake,
If tongue can tell our overthrow it will make your heart to ache;
Young girls I pray be ruled by me, your wicked ways give o’er,
For fear like us you spend your days upon this weary shore.’
‘A noble sentiment,’ observed Rebecca sardonically. ‘It would have done well for me if I too had heeded such advice; but enough of this levity. I remember a similar simple melody which I sang to my sweet child when last I saw him. How I miss him.’ She wiped away a fanciful tear before adding: ‘It was well received by Lord Steyne. Ah, those joyful, happy days, and so, like the convict lass, I shall sing my mournful lay.’
She rose from the sofa, arranged the voluminous folds of her skirt, then went to the piano, took Lucy’s place and sang:
‘The rose upon the balcony the morning air perfuming
Was leafless all the wintertime and pining for the spring;
You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming.
It is because the sun is out and the birds begin to sing.’
Mrs Crawley’s voice, it must be admitted, still retained some sweetness; but since the time she had sung the lyric to the appreciation she had described, it had dropped and the song was pitched too high for her. Still, she sang on to the end and curtsied to the polite applause.
‘Such beautiful sentiments,’ declared Sir George. ‘And so well projected that one would think oneself listening to an opera diva.’
‘Oh, Sir George,’ simpered Rebecca. ‘It brings a tear to my eye when I think of my once life. Here, there is nothing but harshness, a dreary harshness in which I languish.’
‘May you soon return to those pleasure groves in which you roamed,’ Sir George said with some feeling. He turned away as her eye lingered on his, then thinking awhile, he returned to that dark gaze and said: ‘I have been so concerned about those poor creatures that I have quite forgotten my wife. She is too delicate to essay the parched hinterland. I must find a place for her and a companion whilst I am on my journey of mercy.’
‘Sir George, I am at your service,’ quickly replied Rebecca. ‘Fear not, your life’s companion shall reside safely here whilst you brave the perils of your expedition. Such a soft dove needs a shelter and she shall have it here with me.’ And putting action to words, she turned and embraced Lucy, who had not been asked for her opinion or assent.
‘And so it is decided,’ Sir George said. ‘Lucy, you shall find a home here while I am on my travels. And as I have some excellent wine, we shall raise our glasses to the success of my expedition. Lucy, go and get two bottles of the claret.’
His wife obeyed and when she was passing through the door, Amelia slipped out behind her. They had gone along the verandah only a few steps when the girl, with a little cry, flung herself into her friend’s arms.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ she cried petulantly. ‘I won’t let you go.’
‘Hush, child,’ Amelia replied, stroking her cheek. ‘When you are lonely, think of me and I shall be in your dreams.’
‘But I don’t want to be with that horrid old woman either. She smells of mothballs and dust. I want your smell. It’s ... it’s ...’ and not finishing her sentence she tugged her friend’s head down and tried to push her lips against her neck.
‘No, child, no,’ Amelia whispered, gently detaching herself from the embrace. ‘Now get the wine and when you return make excuses for me, say that I am indisposed or at prayer, or some such thing.’ And she slipped away, leaving Lucy alone except for a soft wet nose that slipped into her hand.
‘And I expect that you are going too,’ she exclaimed in mock anger at the dog. ‘Well, poof, who cares! I shall be as Clotho, the youngest Fate, and embroider a tapestry with scenes that show your mistress returning to me. I have that piece of canvas and now I shall begin on it when she leaves and continue on until she returns. O let there not be that other Fate, the third, Atropos, who cuts the thread that ends a life. Enough, I mix up the stories. The canvas is there and I will but place thereon the scenes in bright thread. Sweet Mela, I will get her to sketch in the scene for me.’
CHAPTER TWO
Once, the governor and his lady wife had added the bon to the ton; but that was years ago in the metropolis. In his scarlet jacket and plumed hat, Colonel Crawley, Governor of Westland, still looked resplendent,
