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Chapter I.

Oh sea! I love to hear thy voice
When all around is still;
Thou speakest such a diverse tone:
To mortal ears thou leav'st unknown
The purpose of the will,
That makes thy heart rejoice.

Oh sea! the secrets of thy breast
Are yet unknown to man;
Thy vast and never-ageing face,
That smiles or frowns throughout the space
Of universal span,
Is fraught with strong unrest.

Oh sea! I fain would learn the tale
Hid in thy inmost heart.
I hear thy voice, but cannot know
The thoughts that move thee to and fro:
Nor does thy face impart
The story of thy wail.

Oh sea! thy wonders all supreme
Are in thy bosom deep;
But still I see thy marv'lous power.
Thy constant course from hour to hour,
At Nature's laws I peep,
And praise becomes my theme.

“Come, Harry, make haste, or we shall miss this tram!”

These words were spoken in a tone which indicated full consciousness of the fact that the speaker had performed the extraordinary feat of “dressing” in less time than her companion of the opposite sex, and was now standing waiting for him, pulling on her gloves as she spoke.

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Harry Williams was on a visit to his Uncle and Aunt Bruce in Dunedin, and on this particular afternoon had arranged to take his cousins Lizzie and Flora to the beach at St. Clair.

Lizzie, the speaker who sought to hasten her cousin's coming, was the younger of the sisters, but in general was put before her elder sister, she being a tall, handsome girl, full of life and spirit, fond of all kinds of fun, not without some of the reputation of a flirt, and not anxious to deserve a better. As she stood in the hall performing the last act which completed her preparation for the outing, she was a perfect picture of the health and loveliness characteristic of New Zealand girls, and gave the observer every indication that she possessed that independence of character and capacity for taking care of herself to which the majority of colonial maidens can justly lay claim.

Flora was almost the antithesis of her sister. Older by four years, she was “the baby” when Mr. and Mrs. Bruce arrived in Dunedin, nearly twenty years ago. Somewhat diminutive in stature as compared with her sister, and extremely staid and elderly in all her ways, she had earned the sobriquet of “mother” amongst her companion school-fellows, which, now that she had more scope for the exercise of motherly attributes, did not seem much out of place in its application. Although not exactly delicate, she gave the impression of having been the subject of more than one attack of illness. Flora showed not the slightest desire for active amusement, and nothing delighted her more than to get away to her own room, where she could pass the afternoon alone with a book.

The inclination to seek solitary perusals of the latest successful novel, or the last number of a fashionable journal, is one to which most young girls are extremely prone—one, too, of which insufficient parental notice is taken. The page 7 inclination soon becomes a habit destructive of all desire for more profitable reading, even injurious to health, and interfering with the proper training of mind and body in the more useful and important duties of life. When the excursion to St. Clair was planned, Flora had been found hard at work with a periodical called Week by Week, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could be persuaded to lay it aside and join her sister and cousin in their holiday. Long before Lizzie's voice was heard, Flora had completed all she thought necesssry in her apparel, and resumed her reading.

Harry lost no time in joining his companion after the warning she had given.

“Here I am; but where is Flora? Is she not coming after all?”

Lizzie ran off, and soon returned with her sister.

“Surely you're not going to take that rubbish out to the beach with you?” said Harry, on seeing Flora still clinging to the much-prized journal.

“Oh! yes I am; and I'm going to read it, too.”

“Well, I never saw such a girl; think of the insult you offer to Nature in preferring such company to the grandeur she unfolds before you at the seaside. But come, let us be off, or Lizzie will be deprived of another half-hour at the beach.”

The cousins then hurried down to the tram, and were just in time to get seats in the 2.45, by which they reached St. Clair half-an-hour later. The day was all that could be desired for such an excursion—calm and mild as only a Dunedin autumn afternoon can be.

St. Clair, whither the cousins went, had only lately become a fashionable Saturday afternoon promenade. It was a lovely spot at the extreme south-western end of a long open beach. Sheltered by high hills and a rugged, page 8 jutting cliff, the few houses lately erected there nestled snugly at the foot of the slope, free from the keen southwest breezes of the locality. Distant about three miles from Dunedin, and connected by a line of horse-tram way, it had become a favourite summer resort. Shortly before the occasion with which we are interested, a swimming bath had been hewn out of the rock, over which the sea washed at high water, and being self-supplying and freshened by every flow of the tide, this bath had become much frequented by swimmers and those desirous of learning the art. The promotion of some swimming tournaments by the local refreshment vendors had added to the popularity of the pastime, and increased the crowds who flocked to the seaside on holiday excursions.

The beach, on the arrival of the cousins, presented a somewhat animated appearance. It was ebb tide, and the sands were crowded with children skipping about and running in and out of the water, to the no small amusement, and sometimes consternation, of their mothers and nurses.

The bath, too, was liberally patronised, while a considerable number of loungers were gathered upon the rocks overlooking it, indulging in a peep at Nature unadorned, and passing opinions on the merits of the different swimmers. It was remarkable to see so many ladies, who would blush to be accused of peeping at a bare ankle or uncovered calf, calmly gazing at the numerous bathers arrayed only in the scantiest of bathing trunks. But such was the fact there disclosed, and such too is a very important fact in human history, that acts which in the individual are looked upon as wrong or reprehensible, become fashionable in the mass, and lose all the attributes of ill. A solitary murder sets all the nation astir with feelings of horror and dismay, while we quietly read in our morning paper, without the slightest interference with our page 9 appetite, of whole battalions being slaughtered to uphold a paltry sentiment, or of thousands of human beings butchering each other without understanding or even enquiring the cause of the strife.

“One murder makes a villain, millions a nero.
Princes are privileged to kill, and numbers sanctify the crime.”

Union serves to display the strength and virtues of mankind, but it also tends to exaggerate their weaknesses and to exhibit traits that the individual would strive hard to hide. This was the direction of Harry's thoughts as he silently accompanied his cousins along the path which leads round the cliff to the picturesque beach beyond the St. Clair bath. Here the cousins sought out and seated themselves upon a jutting rock, which enabled them to get close down to the breakers, so that each succeeding wave seemed to break its strength nearer and nearer to the spot on which they sat. A few minutes of delightful silence followed—silence, at least so far as they were concerned; for talking seems an idle pleasure when accompanied by the roar of the restless ocean, or the continual splashing and turning of the tide.

“See, girls,” said Harry, presently, pointing to a rock on the right, “watch how the waves break over that corner,” and for some moments longer the three sat silently contemplating the grand rush of water down the sides of an isolated rock over which every second or third wave larger than its fellows dashed with majestic strength, as if conscious of its resistless force.

“Well, Flo, are you not wasting time neglecting your book for this idle pleasure?”

She blushed, and seemed lost in thought. Lizzie answered for her.

“Oh! ‘mother’ has moments of delightful dreamy-do- page 10 nothingness which almost fit her for a philosopher. You must leave her to herself, but,” she added with a mischievous smile, “you have me to talk to.”

Harry good-naturedly took the hint.

“Very well, tell me what are your usual thoughts by the seaside?”

“Oh! I don't know. All sorts,” Lizzie replied, laughing.

“But surely you must have some that constantly recur in the association of the waves and the beach.”

“Well, yes, there are some, I suppose. I generally think of delightful afternoon holidays gathering shells and seaweed, and rambling over cliffs and rocks.”

“Yes, and what more?”

“And of crowds of happy children playing on the sandy beach.”

“Yes.”

“And of the great number of ships and steamers, and——and——and——” seeing Harry watching her—“Oh! how tiresome you are. Do you want me to say, ‘I wonder where all the water comes from, and how much salt it takes to keep it fresh?’”

“Well, no, not exactly that,” said Harry, quietly, “Salt for keeping the water fresh is something like a ‘bull.’ But pardon my seeming persistency,” he continued; “there are some thoughts that always rise in my mind at the seaside, and I wished to know if you shared any of them.”

“Tell us some of them,” said Flora, who had been a silent listener for the last few minutes, and appeared to take a peculiar interest in Harry's words and to understand his manner.

“I don't know that they are worth listening to,” he said; “but I often think that to the reflective mind the ocean is fraught with messages, and that community wit page 11 Nature is most perfect by the seaside. Why can we not see in every wave tidings from friends on other shores, and follow the great moving water from the time it licked the sands of distant countries that hold those most dear to us, until we receive its greetings by our own sea-beach? Although we cannot join hands across the ocean, we must recognise that a stretch of water seems to link us more intimately with friends beyond the seas, and makes us feel more within their reach than we should with the same distance of land between us. It may be that this is only an idea grown up in association with the progress of our navigation, or identified with our constant commerce on the sea; but when we go on a sea voyage we find ourselves so comfortably housed, that, forgetting our surroundings, we can feel perfectly at home. Then, think what grand ideas the sea itself gives rise to! Do we not see in its every movement a majestic embodiment of conscious power? See with what grandeur of silent force it seems to throw its mighty arms in an encircling embrace around the island of which this spot forms part, advancing and receding, as if conscious that it washes the shores of the proudest and most fertile country in civilization with the same freedom as it dashes against the most barren rock in the abode of barbarism, and deems itself not unworthy to hold fellowship with man in his grandest form of social life!”

“Why! Harry, how you talk? You have even made ‘mother’ lay down her book!”

Harry thus having his attention directed to Flora, saw that she had indeed been listening to his words, and finding herself made the centre of attraction, would fain have resumed her reading without remark. Had he been able to read her thoughts, or comprehend her inner consciousness, he would have learned that there was then awakening page 12 in her young life a new existence—that there was springing up within her the mysterious feeling that there is some object of desire beyond ourselves which tends to purify and ennoble human nature, and which, while yet akin to the instincts of all animal life, forms the chief line of advance man shows over the other beings of creation. He would have seen that, unconsciously he had been the cause of aspirations in a young soul which, once kindled, burn with all-consuming fervour until realised or turned aside by a stronger passion. Seeing only, however, that she had been giving more than usual attention to what had been passing around her, and seemed now to be ashamed of the fact, his finer instincts prompted him not to regard her with curiosity, but to allow her to be the first to speak of her feelings.

Turning to Lizzie, he said that it was time for them to move homewards, whereupon she rose with the remark—

“Come, ‘mother,’ dreaming again! Shall we have to leave you with your book?”

Flora rose in silence, and, without appearing to look at them or to be interested in their doings, followed them closely for some distance along the path. After a moment or two, perceiving that Harry and Lizzie were engaged in conversation, she walked up by the side of the former as if more desirous of being close to him than of joining in the talk. In this way they reached the tram, and save for the attempt to sit between her companions on entering the car, in which she was foiled by Lizzie, Flora gave no outward evidence of being interested in their proceedings. A close observer might have seen, however, that while engaged with her book and pretending to read, she was eagerly bent on seeing and hearing all that passed between her sister and cousin.