The October winds, tossing the late oats and the frosted heather, were
lashing the Otter sea into heaving waves and flakes of foam. That
western sea has its annals and its trophies, as well as den and moor.
Edward Bruce crossed it to give to Ireland as dauntless a king as he
whom a woman crowned, and who found a nameless grave; and there, in the
glassy calm of a summer night, the vessel, with its passengers lulled in
fatal security and slumber, sank like lead, fathoms beyond the aid of
modern science with its myriads of inventions and its hardy
self-confidence.
The few fishers of Otter were exposed to the swell rolling from New
England and Labrador to Galloway and Argyle; many a lamp stood day and
night in cottage windows, many an anxious woman forsook her brood, and
under her sheltering plaid ran here and there, dizzy and desperate, to
beg for counsel, and for tidings of the husband and father whose boat
was due, and who was still exposed to the pitiless fury of the tempest.
Hector Garret was early summoned to marshal his men in order to succour
those who were within his reach; to think, plan, and act to the last
for those who were amissing, but might yet be rescued. He had been upon
the beach all day; he had been handling rope and line; he had been ready
at any moment to launch his own boat among the breakers.
Leslie, too, had been abroad. She had been in several houses, especially
in those whose young children were of the same age as Leslie. In all she
met the same abandonment; whether the heads of the families chanced to
be young or old, worthy or unworthy, mattered not; they were now the
sole thought, the object of racking anxiety, lamented over beforehand
with sore lamentation. If they were safe, all was well; if they were
lost, these wives and mothers were bereaved indeed. The Sabine women did
not cling to their rough masters with more touching fidelity. The men
were in trouble--their imprudence, their intemperance, their violence
were blotted out.
Leslie went home in disturbance and pain. She, too, placed a light in
her window; she, too, left her infant untended, and strained her eyes to
pierce the storm. Hector Garret must have descried her figure as he
approached the house, for he came straight to her room, and stood a
moment with his dripping clothes and a glow on his face.
"Don't go, Leslie; I'll be back presently."
She put a restraint upon herself, and became busied with the
refreshments laid out for him. He came in immediately, and advanced
towards her with the same eager phrase, "Don't go, Leslie," and he
grasped her gown lightly. She sat down while he ate and drank.
"I'll have a cup of tea, Leslie; pour me out my tea as you used to do."
She had always poured out tea for him, but not always with him close by,
and his detaining hand upon her dress.
"This is like old times. They were very foolish--those old times, but
they have their sweetness to look back upon them."