Then would come her little husband’s horrified “Hush! hush! you are quite insulting, my dear.”

Oh! why do I remember it all after so many years when I have even forgotten the people’s names?  One of those little things that stick in the mind, I suppose.  The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles in the ponds.  Those poor turtles.  We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them lying on their backs in the forecastle flapping their fins feebly.  One of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell.  Afterwards I gave it as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Scroope, nicely polished and lined.  I meant it for a work-basket, and was overwhelmed with confusion when some silly lady said at the marriage, and in the hearing of the bride and bridegroom, that it was the most beautiful cradle she had ever seen.  Of course, like a fool, I tried to explain, whereon everybody tittered.

But why do I write of such trifles that have nothing to do with my story?

I mentioned that I had ventured to send a letter to Miss Margaret Manners about Mr. Charles Scroope, in which I said incidentally that if the hero should happen to live I should probably bring him home by the next mail.  Well, we got into Plymouth about eight o’clock in the morning, on a mild, November day, and shortly afterwards a tug arrived to take off the passengers and mails; also some cargo.  I, being an early riser, watched it come and saw upon the deck a stout lady wrapped in furs, and by her side a very pretty, fair-haired young woman clad in a neat serge dress and a pork-pie hat.  Presently a steward told me that someone wished to speak to me in the saloon.  I went and found these two standing side by side.

“I believe you are Mr. Allan Quatermain,” said the stout lady.  “Where is Mr. Scroope whom I understand you have brought home?  Tell me at once.”

Something about her appearance and fierce manner of address alarmed me so much that I could only answer feebly: 

“Below, madam, below.”

“There, my dear,” said the stout lady to her companion, “I warned you to be prepared for the worst.  Bear up; do not make a scene before all these people.  The ways of Providence are just and inscrutable.  It is your own temper that was to blame.  You should never have sent the poor man off to these heathen countries.”

Then, turning to me, she added sharply:  “I suppose he is embalmed; we should like to bury him in Essex.”

“Embalmed!” I gasped.  “Embalmed!  Why, the man is in his bath, or was a few minutes ago.”

In another second that pretty young lady who had been addressed was weeping with her head upon my shoulder.

“Margaret!” exclaimed her companion (she was a kind of heavy aunt), “I told you not to make a scene in public.  Mr. Quatermain, as Mr. Scroope is alive, would you ask him to be so good as to come here.”