‘_Godfrey_, then. You must promise me, in case of papa’s consenting to--you know what--that you will not settle in New Zealand, but take me back to live in London. I am wretched at leaving it. I have not seen nearly enough of its sights or its pleasures, and the very idea of spending my life at the Antipodes is distasteful to me. I know that you, too, like society, and theatres, and all the rest of the amusements in dear, delightful old London. Promise to take me back to them, won’t you? or else I really cannot--’ ‘Don’t finish the sentence, for Heaven’s sake!’ cried Harland. ‘I will promise anything and everything you exact from me, if you will agree in return to give me the opportunity to fulfil my promises.’ Of course the idea of his returning to England, where he had another wife and scores of creditors waiting for him, was utterly ridiculous; but it was impossible to tell her so at that moment. Let him once be her husband (or appear to be so), and he could find a dozen excuses for breaking his word. But he must snare the bird before he plucked it. ‘Yes! I promise, if my father and mother will permit me to do so,’ replied Grace Vansittart, as he took her hand in his. ‘And if they refuse, my darling, will you have the heart to give me up?’ he whispered. ‘Let us wait and see,’ said Grace. ‘It will be two months and a-half yet before we reach our destination.’ ‘How can I ever wait till then!’ exclaimed the enraptured lover, who knew that delay was the very thing he wished for. This little episode happened when they were sitting almost alone upon the poop, and believed themselves to be unnoticed. But Mrs Vansittart, sitting in her cane-backed chair, and nodding with the heat over her basket of knitting wools, was not so fast asleep but that she started up every now and then, and in one of her starts she opened her eyes upon Godfrey Harland holding Grace’s hand in his. The simple old lady had never ‘cottoned’ to this adventurer as her husband and daughter had. She was affable to him, but she had a slight distrust of him--just sufficient to make her wide awake where her only child was concerned. But she did not say anything to Grace. Whenever it came to finding fault, she was just a wee bit afraid of the educated young lady who knew so much more than herself. But when the dinner was over that day, and the passengers were again on deck, enjoying the evening breeze, Mrs Vansittart called her husband to her side on one of the saloon sofas. ‘Stay with me for a minute, John,’ she said, ‘for I want to speak to you on a matter of importance.’ [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. REMONSTRANCE. ‘Well, old lady,’ commenced Mr Vansittart facetiously, ‘and what is it? I hope the skipper ain’t been taking liberties with you, nor nothing of that sort.’ ‘Oh, now, John! do stop your nonsense, when you know well I’ve been your married wife for five-and-twenty years, and no man ever dared take a liberty with me yet.’