A Lady of England 38

A Lady of England 38

‘I was tired, but lingered on deck, till a lady came up to me,

and suggested that we had better go below, as she believed that

lights were put out at eleven, and if we did not go we might

have to retire to bed in the dark. Down I descended to my cabin

in the lower part of the vessel. Some of the passengers on

deck had been considering the possibility, on so fair a night,

and with Newfoundland near,--for we had sighted the light

on shore,--of our being saved by the boats, even should the

vessel be lost. But we remembered that there were more than 600

persons on board. The Captain would do well, if he could manage

to place half the number in the boats. It was clear that all

could not expect to be saved.

 

‘When I went to my cabin, I was not disposed at once to go to

rest. I knelt on my sofa, so as to be able to look out from my

port-hole on the ocean and its numerous floating fragments of

ice, seen in the starlight. Not only was the sense of sight

exercised, but that of hearing. Nine times I thought that

I heard the keel grate against the ice. I may possibly be

mistaken in the number of times; but the noise was distinct,

and its nature not to be mistaken. At a short distance--it did

not look a hundred yards--the clear, smooth sea appeared to be

skirted by a tall hedge. It was not _land_, for occasionally I

saw a light gleam through it. I asked a seaman afterwards what

it was,--it was, as I suspected, a bank of fog between us and

the coast of Newfoundland.

 

‘I watched till my cabin-light went out, and I was left in

darkness, save that my port-hole looked like a pale moon in the

dark cabin. I turned into my berth, but not at once to sleep.

I lay thinking, reflecting on the possibility of feeling the

vessel going down, down,--and reflecting on what an easy death

drowning would be. Still, I did _not_ really expect to be

drowned.

 

‘The vessel stopped dead still,--I listened for the sound of

pumping, or of preparing boats. I heard one--to me--strange

noise, I can hardly describe it, between a blast and a bellow.

I thought that it must be a signal, and I was not wrong; for I

hear this morning that it was the fog-whistle from the shore.

It seemed to me that it was useless for me to rise; if there

were any use in my returning to the deck, dear Louis would call

me. He would be sure to think of my life before his own.

 

‘After a while I went fast asleep, and did not awake till

the bright, clear morning, when there could no longer be the

shadow of danger. I rose, dressed, and went on deck. The sea

was beautifully smooth, blue, and clear from ice, except a few

bergs in the distance. I had a happy, thankful heart.

 

‘One lady had remained on deck till past three. She told me of

a field of ice, and great masses of ice, through and beside

which we had passed; and she had seen the Northern Lights,

which I am sorry to have missed. The Captain never slept till

the drift-ice was passed. He was at breakfast, however, this

morning, and I doubt not felt very thankful. I believe that he

has had three anxious, wakeful nights; but the change in the

weather must have been a very great help to him. We had had

such miserable dull weather, and such heavy rolling seas. Last

night all was so clear; and I saw the stars, I think, for the

first time since our starting. Please pass this letter on; for

I cannot write over the same thing to all dear ones.’

 

TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.

 

‘ON BOARD A HUGE RIVER STEAMER,

_June 9, 1875_.

 

‘Here we are steaming up the St. Lawrence to Montreal.... Quebec

is a wondrously fair city.... We went this morning to see the

Montmorency Fall, a cascade where a great volume of water

churned into foam dashes down a precipice 300 feet high....

 

‘_June 10._

 

‘I finish this off in Montreal, a very handsome,

thriving-looking city, with far grander buildings than Quebec:

but it wants the dreamlike, exquisite beauty of its sister.

More kindness meets us here.... Have you seen the account of the

loss of the _Vicksburg_ in the ice, just three days before

we encountered the ice off the same coast? Only five sailors

saved; not one passenger! We should have gone down faster than

the poor _Vicksburg_, because of our heavier cargo. I should

not have had a chance; and my gallant Louis would probably have

lost his (life), because he would never have deserted me.’

 

Although Charlotte Tucker’s Indian life lay still in the future, this

seems to be the right place for quoting a few words from her pen, written

after years of toil in the East. Her mind was plainly reverting to the

voyage above described:--

 

‘It seems strange that the idea of an ice-bound vessel should

suggest itself to a Missionary, working in the “glowing East”;

yet it is so. We, in Batala, seem for years to have been

labouring to cut a passage through hard, cold ice, with the

chilly bergs of Muhammadanism and Hinduism towering on either

hand. But though channels which had been laboriously opened may

be closed, _the crew are by no means disheartened_. The worst

of the winter is now, we hope, over. We see on various sides

cracks in the ice. A Brahmin convert, brave and true, has been

like a bright fragment broken from the berg, helping somewhat

to throw it off its balance. The way is becoming more open, and

there are tokens of melting below the surface of the ice. We

know that one day of God’s bright sunshine can do more to make

a clear way than our little picks can accomplish.’

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XV

 

1875

 

BESIDE NIAGARA

 

 

There can be no mistake about Charlotte Tucker’s enjoyment of fresh

sights and scenes across the Atlantic, or about the fact that increasing

years had at least not dimmed her appreciation of beauty. Most kind

and warm hospitality was shown to her at Quebec, at Montreal, and at

Toronto. She was met at Oakville Station by her younger nephew, Charles

Tucker,--the latter in ‘a state of joyous expectation’ which had kept him

awake through three previous nights. Then followed a welcome from his

wife, in their ‘pretty little home,’ elsewhere described by her as ‘a

Canadian settler’s little farmhouse.’

 

While there, finding the life quiet, and plenty of time on her hands, she

‘took to Persian characters,’ as ‘an interesting riddle to solve,’ and

also worked hard at her Hindustani, spending many hours over both.

 

Also she insisted on doing in Canada as Canadians do,--making her own

bed, and even essaying to accomplish some ironing. Perhaps the last

attempt did not meet with brilliant success. She wrote home about it:--

 

‘“‘Though seldom sure if e’er before

That hand had ironed linen o’er ...”

 

the great matter is that the things are _clean_; but I own I am glad that

I shall have a _dhobi_ in India.’

 

Another day she wrote to Mrs. Hamilton: ‘The little maid here amuses

me. She is very fond of music, and likes me to sing for her. She asked

me--kindly--if I would like my boots cleaned, and as I thought that I

should, the little dear cleaned them, and brought them to me to show off

her work,--as a six-year-old child of the house might have done. She

looks such an innocent duck!’

 

An expedition to Niagara was achieved with much success; after which she

wrote to one of her aunts in England: ‘My nephews think me amazingly

strong, and yet I have become almost a teetotaller. Except your little

bottle of sherry, I have only tasted wine twice since I left you. How I

did enjoy your lemon-juice!’

 

Her glowing description of the Falls themselves, sent to Mrs. Hamilton,

must be at least in part quoted. Though an oft-related tale, it may

perhaps gain some freshness from her mode of telling it:--

 

‘CLIFTON HOUSE, NIAGARA FALLS,

‘_June 22, 1875_.

 

‘I must write to some dear one while the sound of Niagara is in

my ears, whilst the impression of Niagara is fresh in my mind;

and I direct my letter to you, sweet Laura, knowing that you

will let others see it....

 

‘I have looked on the most glorious scene, I believe, that

is to be seen on this planet. How can I attempt to describe

Niagara? When I gaze on what is called “The American Fall,” I

ask myself a dozen times, “Is it possible that there can be

anything more beautiful?” ... though I have only to turn my head

a little to behold the “Horse-Shoe Fall,” which is even _more_