It was a dreary day.  Great Customs House buildings blotted out any possible view, reminding her very much of the ugliness of Tilbury.  The rain drizzled down, warm rain that covered the walls of the cabins in streams of moisture; the sailors loading and unloading cargoes with loud creakings of donkey engines swore in sheer irritation; somewhere on the wharf sheep kept up an incessant and pitiful bleating all the day while sirens shrieked out in the stream.  Jimmy was the only happy person on board, loading his train with chocolates and unloading them into his mouth after a tortuous trip along the dining table amongst glasses, knives and forks.  It was the longest day Marcella had ever known; as the swift twilight passed, the passengers came aboard damp and damped; most of them were grumbling; all looked thoroughly pessimistic about Australia.  The schoolmaster was one of the first to come solemnly along the deck under an umbrella.  He had avoided Marcella rather pointedly lately, but he came and talked quite affably for a while, didactically contrasting Melbourne with Naples and Colombo.

The Oriana was to sail at eight o’clock; Marcella would not let herself be anxious; she had resolved that she must trust Louis now, and, knowing that he had scarcely any money and no friends, she could not imagine he would get into mischief.  But as the last passengers came aboard and the first warning bell rang out, she began to grow cold with fear.  The rain was pouring now in a sheet of water; she stood on deck in the green white glare of the arc lamps, which only lighted a circumscribed pool of radiance, and made the surrounding darkness blacker.

The second bell went; she heard the engine-room telegraph ring and the ship began to vibrate to the throb of the engines.  She was feeling choked with fear:  a thousand apprehensions went through her mind:  he had been run over and was dead:  he had lost his way:  he was ill in hospital, crying out for her.

“Has your friend not come aboard?” asked the schoolmaster at her elbow.

She shook her head.  It was impossible to speak.

“I suppose he has mistaken the time of sailing,” said the schoolmaster soothingly.

“Do you think I ought to go ashore to look for him?” she cried, articulate at last in her misery, and ready to take advice.

“I think he should be able to take care of himself,” he said carefully.

“Ah, but he isn’t.  I must go and find him,” she cried wildly.  “What sort of hands will he get into if he’s left to himself?”

At that moment the last bell rang, and the boat began to move very slowly away from the wharf—­perhaps a minute early.  Knollys told Marcella afterwards that he guessed the captain had sailed early on purpose, for just at that moment he saw a group of four people dripping with rain rush on to the slippery boards of the jetty.  They were four who had been pretty noticeable as law-breakers during the whole trip—­at least, so the captain thought.  Marcella gave a cry of hapless disappointment as she saw Louis with Ole Fred, the red-haired man and another.  They were laughing wildly, and almost close enough to touch the rails of the ship.