sensible of our danger, watched with eager eyes through the gloom to
distinguish whether we gained ground in our desperate encounter. For an
instant, perhaps, as the darkness hid the breakers from sight, or their
roar came fainter to the ear in the increasing fury of the gale, we
would fancy that our distance from the surf was slowly increasing; but
as often, when the gale lulled, or the darkness on our lee broke
partially away, our hearts sank within us at the conviction that our
peril still continued as imminent as ever, and that the struggles of our
gallant craft had been in vain. Meantime, the hurricane grew wilder and
fiercer, and at length we saw that we were losing ground. The schooner
still battled with a spirit as undaunted as before against her combined
enemies, but she labored more and more at every opposing wave, as if
fast wearing out in the conflict.
“We must crowd the canvass on her,” said the skipper, after a long and
anxious gaze on the shore under our lee, “if we strike out here, a mile
at least from land, we shall all be lost. Better then jerk the mast out
of her in clawing off.”
The order was accordingly given to take a reef out of the fore and
mainsail, and, after a desperate struggle with the canvass, the men
succeeded in executing their duty. When our craft felt the increased
sail, she started nervously forward, burying herself so deeply in the
head sea that I feared she would never emerge, while every rope, shroud
and timber in her cracked in the strain. At length, however, she rose
from the surge, and rolled heavily to windward, slowly shaking from her
the tons of water that had pressed on her decks and buried every thing
forward in the deluge. With another partial check, and another
desperate, but successful struggle, we breathed more freely. Yet there
still came to our ears the sullen roar of the breakers on our lee,
warning us that peril was yet imminent.
“Hark!” suddenly said Merrivale, “surely I heard a cannon. There is some
craft nigh, even more dangerously situated than ourselves.”
“And there goes the flash,” I exclaimed, pointing ahead, while
simultaneously the boom of a signal gun rose on the night. “God help
them, they are driving on the breakers,” I added, as another flash lit
up, for a moment, the scene before us, revealing a dismantled ship
flying wildly before the tempest.
“They are whirling down to us with the speed of a racer—we shall
strike,” ejaculated Merrivale.
As he spoke, the shadowy ship emerged from the tempest of snow and
sleet, not a pistol shot from our bow. Never shall I forget the
appearance of that spectral craft. She had no mast remaining, except the
stump of the mizzen. From her size we knew her to be a sloop-of-war. So
far as we could see through the obscurity, her decks were crowded with
human beings, some apparently stupefied, some in the attitude of
supplication, and some giving way to uncontrollable frenzy. As all power
over her had been lost, she was driving directly before the tempest. The
time that was consumed in these observations occupied but an instant,
for the darkness of the storm was so dense that the eye could not
penetrate the gloom more than a few fathoms; and a period scarcely
sufficient for a breath elapsed from the first discovery of the ship
before we saw that ere another instant she would come in contact with
us. Already she was in fearful proximity to our bows. The danger was
perceived by us and by the crew of the dismantled ship at the same
moment, and a wild cry rose up which drowned even the frenzied tempest.
Escape seemed impossible. We were between two dangers, to one of which
we must fall a prey. Our only chance of avoiding the breakers was to
keep our craft close to the wind, while, by so doing, a collision with
the stranger appeared inevitable. Yet a single chance remained.
“Jam her up,” shouted the skipper, catching at the only hope, “aye! hard
down till she shivers.”
We held our breath for the second that ensued. So close had the ship
approached that I could have pitched a biscuit on her decks. Her
bowsprit already threatened to come into collision with our bows, and
involuntarily I grasped a rope, expecting the next instant to be at the
mercy of the waves. On—on—she came, her huge hull, as it rose on the
wave, fearfully overtopping our own, and threatening, at the first
shock, to crush us. A second and wilder cry of agony burst from every
lip, but, at that instant, she swerved, what seemed a hair’s breadth, to
one side, her bowsprit grazed ours in passing, and she whirled by like a
bird on the wing.
The scene did not occupy a minute. So sudden had been the appearance of
the ship, so imminent had been our peril, and so rapidly had the moment
of danger come and gone, that the whole occurrence seemed to me like a
dream; and when, after a second’s delay, the ill-fated ship passed away
into the darkness under our lee, and the shrieks of her crew were lost
in the uproar of the gale, I almost doubted whether what we had just
beheld had been real. But a glance at the faces of my messmates
dissipated my incredulity, for on every countenance was written the
history of the few last moments of agonizing suspense. A profound
silence, meanwhile, reigned on our decks, every eye being strained after
the drowning man-of-war. At length Merrivale spoke.
“It is a miracle how we escaped,” and then in a sadder tone he added,
“the Lord have mercy on all on board yonder ship. But hark!” he suddenly
exclaimed, and a wild, thrilling cry, as if a hundred voices had united
in a shriek of agony, struggled up from leeward. Years have passed since
then, and the hair that was once fair has now turned to gray, but that
awful sound yet rings in my ears; and often since have I started from my
sleep, fancying that I saw again that spectral ship flitting by through
the gloom, or heard that cry of agony drowning, for the moment, the
raging tempest. Our blood curdled at the sound, and we gazed into each
other’s faces with horror on every line of countenance. More than a
minute elapsed before a word was said; and, during the interval, we
sought to catch a repetition of the cry, however faint; but only the
singing of the sleet through the hamper, the whistle of the hurricane
overhead, and the wild roar of the breakers under our lee, came to our
ears. No further token of that ill-fated ship ever reached us. Not a
living soul, of the hundreds who had crowded her deck when she whirled
across our course, landed on that coast. With all their sins on their
heads, afar from those they loved and by whom they were loved in return,
her crew went down into the deep, “unknelled, uncoffined and unknown.”
When that wintry storm had passed away, the timbers of a wreck were
found strewing the inhospitable shore, with here and there a dead body
clinging to a fragment of a spar, but neither man nor child survived to
tell how agonizingly they struggled against their fate, to practise the
reformation which they had promised in their hour of bitter need. And
when the summer sun came forth, kissing the bright waters of the
Atlantic, and children laughingly gathered shells along shore, who would
have thought that, a few months before, the heavens had looked down, in
that very spot, on the wild struggles of the dying? But I pass on.
At length that weary night wore away, and when morning dawned, we saw
the full extent of the danger we had escaped. All along the coast, at a
distance of more than a mile from the shore, stretched a narrow shoal,
over which the breakers were now boiling as in a maelstrom. It needed no
prophet to foretell our fate, had we struck amid this surf. No boat
could have lived in that raging sea, and our frail craft would have been
racked to pieces in less than half an hour. Nothing but the energy of
the skipper in crowding the canvass on the schooner, though at the
imminent hazard of carrying away the masts and thus ensuring certain
destruction, enabled us to escape the doom which befell the ill-fated
man-of-war.
In a few days we made Block Island, and hauled up for Newport, where we
expected to meet The Arrow. It was a beautiful day in winter when we
entered the outer harbor, and the waves which a light frosty breeze just
rippled, glittered in the sunlight as if the surface of the water had
been strewed with diamonds. The church bells were merrily ringing in
honor of the intelligence, which had been just received, of the alliance
with France. We came to anchor amid a salvo from the batteries of the
fort, and of our consort who was already at anchor in the inner harbor.
Merry was our meeting with the ward-room and cock-pit of The Arrow, and
many a gay sally bore witness to the hilarity with which we greeted each
other after our mutual adventures. For a week, the town rung with our
mirth. At the end of that time, I managed to obtain leave of absence,
and remembering my promise to Mr. St. Clair, started for Pomfret Hall.
As I lay back in the coach, and was whirled over the road behind two
fast hackneys, I indulged in many a recollection of the past, in not a
few reveries over the future. But most of all I wondered how Annette
would receive me. The thoughts of our last parting were fresh in my
memory, but months of changes had since elapsed, and might not
corresponding changes have occurred in her feelings towards me? Would
she meet me with the delightful frankness of our childhood, or with the
trembling embarrassment of our few last interviews? Or might she not,
perhaps, as too many before had done, welcome me with a cold politeness,
that would be more dreadful to me than even scorn? The longer I thought
of the subject, the more uncertainty I felt as to my reception. At first
I had pictured to myself Annette, standing blushing and embarrassed on
the steps, to greet me as soon as I alighted; but when I came to reflect
I felt that, like all lovers, I had dreamed impossibilities; and I
almost laughed at my wild vision when I recalled to mind that I stood in
no other light to Annette than as an acquaintance, at most as a friend.
My feelings then took a sudden revulsion, and I asked myself, might not
she love another? What had I ever said to induce her to believe that I
loved her? Could she be expected to give her affections, unasked, to any
one, but especially to a poor adventurer, whose only fortune was his
sword, when the proudest of the land would consider her hand as a boon?
What madness to think that, surrounded as she doubtless had been by
suitors, her heart before this had not been given to another! As I
thought this, I fancied that I was going only to behold the triumph of
some more fortunate rival, and I cursed myself for having come on such
an errand. At one moment I was almost resolved to turn back. But again
hope dawned in my bosom. I felt that Annette must have seen my love, and
I recalled to mind how tremblingly alive she had been, during our last
interview, to my attentions. Surely then she had not forgotten me. I was
doing her injustice, and with this conviction, I leaned out of the
carriage window, and ordered the postillion to drive faster.
The second day brought me in sight of the gates of Pomfret Hall, and as
I dashed up to them, and felt that my suspense would soon be terminated,
my heart fluttered wildly. As the carriage whirled into the avenue, I
saw a procession of the neighboring village girls proceeding to the
hall. They were dressed in white, and bore flowers, as if going to some
festival. At that instant I recollected that the church bells had been
ringing merrily ever since I came within hearing of them, and, with a
sudden thrill of agony, I stopped the coach as the village girls stepped
aside to let it pass, and inquired the meaning of their procession. My
voice was so husky that, at first, it was undistinguishable; and I was
forced to repeat the question.
“Oh! it’s the meaning of our going to the hall, the gentleman would
know,” said a female at the head of the procession; then turning to me
she said, with a curtsey, “The young mistress was married this morning,
and we are going to the hall to present her with flowers. This is her
school, sir, and I am the mistress.”
I sank back in the carriage with a groan. At first I thought of ordering
the postillion to return, but then I resolved to go forward, and,
concealing my sufferings, appear the gayest of the gay.
“Yes!” I exclaimed in bitter agony, “never shall she know the misery she
has inflicted. And yet, oh, God! that Annette should thus have deserted
me—” and, with these words, I sternly bid the postillion drive on. But
I felt like a criminal bound to his execution.
* * * * *
TO MY SISTERS.
WRITTEN AFTER THEIR DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE.
BY ANNA CORA MOWATT.
Sweet sisters! have I on your lips
The farewell kiss imprest!
And are you sadly sundered now
From all who loved you best!
Must years roll on ere I again
Shall spring your kiss to meet?
Ere fondly clasped to yours this heart
Once more shall wildly beat?
Ye ocean waves that round them dash,
Oh, bear them on your breast,
E’en as the mother’s bears the babe
That sinks on hers to rest!
Oh! swell their sails, ye prosperous winds!
And waft them gently on,
And tell them with their smiles, alas!
Our sweetest joys are gone.
Though wide that ocean is, and deep,
Not all its waters blue
Could from my memory raze one hour,
Dear sisters! spent with you.
And though the wild wind’s angry roar
Might fill my soul with fear,
It could not drown the tones—your tones
Still sounding in mine ear.
It may be I no more shall list
That cherished music here;
Yet shall I greet it where ’twill sound
More softly sweet, more dear.
And though our lips must first be cold,
Our next kiss may be given,
Where angels smile upon the pledge,
When we are met in heaven!
* * * * *
THE SISTERS.
A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
BY H. W. HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” “THE BROTHERS,”
“CROMWELL,” ETC. ETC.
(Continued from page 30.)
PART II.
The morning after Marian’s arrival at the Manor was one of those bright
lovely dawns, sure harbingers of sweet and sunny days, that often
interrupt the melancholy progress of an English autumn, fairer and
softer as the season waxes older, and more enchanting from the contrast,
which they cannot fail to suggest, between their balmy mildness and the
chill winds and gloomy fogs of the approaching winter. The sky was
altogether cloudless, yet it had nothing of the deep azure hue which it
presents in summer, resembling in its tints and its transparency a
canopy, if such a thing could be, of living aqua-marine, and kindled by
a flood of pure, pale yellow lustre. None of the trees were wholly
leafless, though none, perhaps, unless it were a few old oaks, but had
lost something of their summer foliage; and their changed colors,
varying from the deepest green through all the shades of yellow down to
the darkest umber, although prophetic of their coming doom, and
therefore saddening, with a sort of chastened spiritual sorrow, the
heart of the observer, added a solemn beauty to the scenery that well
accorded with its grand and romantic character. The vast round-headed
hills, seen through the filmy haze which floated over them, filling up
all their dells and hollows, showed every intermediate hue from the red
russet of their heathery foreground to the rich purple of their farthest
peaks. The grass, which had not yet begun to lose its verdant freshness,
was thickly meshed with gossamer, which, sprinkled by the pure and
plenteous dews, flashed like a net of diamonds upon a ground of emerald
velvet to the early sunbeams. It had been summer, late indeed in that
lovely season, but still full summer with all her garniture of green,
her pomp of full blown flowers—the glorious mature womanhood of the
year!—when Marian left her home; not a trace of decay or change was
visible on its bright brow, not a leaf of its embroideries was altered,
not a bud in its garland was blighted. She had returned, and every
thing, though beautiful and glowing, bore the plain stamp of
dissolution. The west wind blew as softly as in June through the tall
sycamores, but after every breath, while all was lulled and peaceful,
the broad sere leaves came whirling down from the shaken branches, on
which their hold was now so slight that but the whisper of a sigh was
needed to detach them—the skies, the waters, were as pure as ever, as
beautifully clear and lucid; but in their brightness there was a chill
and glassy glitter as different from their warm sheen under a July sun,
as is the keen unnatural radiance of a blue eye in the consumptive girl
from its rich lustrous light in a mature and healthy woman. Was it the
contemplation of this change that brought so sad a cloud on the brow of
lovely Marian Hawkwood, so dull a gloom into her speaking eye, so dead a
paleness on the ripe damask of her cheek? Sad indeed always is such
contemplation—sorrowful and grave thoughts must it awake in the minds
of those who think the least, to revisit a fair well-known scene which
they have quitted in the festal flush of summer, when all the loveliness
they dwelt on so fondly is flown or flying. It brings a chill upon the
spirit like that which touches the last guest
“who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all save he departed.”
It wakes a passing anguish like that which thrills to the heart’s core
of him who, after years of wandering in a foreign clime, returns to find
the father whom he left still in the prime of vigorous and active
manhood, bowed, bent, gray-haired and paralytic; the mother, whom he saw
at their last parting glorious in summer beauty, withered and wrinkled,
and bereft of every trace of former comeliness. All this it does, at
times to all, to the reflective always—the solitary contemplation of
the decaying year. Yet it was not this alone, it was not this _at all_,
that blanched the cheek and dimmed the glance of Marian, as, at a very
early hour of the morning, she was sauntering alone, with downcast eyes,
and slow uncertain gait, beside the margin of the stream in the warm,
sheltered garden; for she did not, in truth, seem to contemplate at all
the face of external nature, or so much as to note the changes which had
taken place during her absence; yet were those changes very great, and
nowhere probably so strongly marked as on the very spot where she was
wandering; for when she stood there last, to cull a nosegay ere she
parted, the whole of that fair nook was glowing with the brightest
colors, and redolent with the most fragrant perfumes, while hundreds of
feathered songsters were filling every brake and thicket with bursts of
joyous melody; and now only a few, the hardiest of the late autumnal
flowers, displayed their scattered blossoms, and those, too, crisp and
faded among sere leaves and withered branches; while for the mellow
warblings of the thrush and blackbird nothing was heard except the
feeble piping of a solitary robin, mixed with the wailing rush of the
swollen streamlet. For nearly an hour she walked to and fro buried in
deep and melancholy silence, and thinking, as it seemed from her air and
gestures, most profoundly—occasionally she paused for a few seconds in
her walk to and fro, and stood still gazing abstractedly on some spot in
the withered herbage, on some pool of the brooklet, with her mind
evidently far away; and once or twice she clasped her hands and wrung
them passionately, and sighed very deeply. While she was yielding thus
to some deep inward sorrow—for it could be no trivial passing grief
that could so suddenly and so completely change so quick and gay a
spirit—a gentle footstep sounded upon the gravel walk behind a cluster
of thick leafy lilacs, and in a moment Annabel stepped from their screen
upon the mossy greensward; her pale and pensive features were even paler
and more thoughtful than was common, and her eyes showed as if she had
been weeping, yet her step was as light and elastic as a young fawn’s,
and a bright smile dimpled her cheek as she addressed her sister.
“Dear Marian, why so early? And why did you not call me to share your
morning walk? What ails you, dearest, tell me? For I have seen you from
my window walking here up and down so sorrowful and sad—”
“Oh! can you ask me—can you ask me, Annabel,” exclaimed the lovely girl
in a wild, earnest burst of passion—“can you not see that my heart is
breaking?”—and with the words she flung her arms about her sister’s
neck, and burying her face in her bosom fell into an agony of tears.
Annabel clasped Marian to her heart and held her there for many moments,
kissing away the big drops from her cheeks, and soothing her with many a
kind and soft caress, before she replied to her incoherent and wild
words; but when her violent sobbing had subsided,
“Dearest,” she said, “I do not understand at all, nor can I even guess
what should so grievously affect you—but if you fancy that we shall be
parted, that our lives will hereafter be divided, and weep for that fond
fancy, it is but a false apprehension that distresses you. I go not
hence at all, dear sister, until these fearful wars be over; and then I
go not till the course of time shall place De Vaux in his good father’s
station, which—I pray Heaven—shall not fall out for years. And when I
do go—when I do go away from this dear happy spot, you cannot, no you
_did_ not dream, my sister, that you should not go with me. Oh, if you
did dream that, it would be very hard for me to pardon you.”
“Oh no—no! no! dear Annabel,” replied the other, not lifting up her
eyes at all from the fond bosom on which she hung so heavily, and
speaking in a thick husky voice, “it is not that at all—but I am so
unhappy—so miserable—so despairing! Oh, would to God—oh, would to
God! that I had never gone hence—or that Ernest De Vaux, at least, had
not come hither!”
“Nay! now, I must know what you mean,” Annabel answered mildly, but at
the same time very firmly—“I must, indeed, dear Marian—for either such
words have a meaning, in which case it is absolutely right that I,
_your_ sister and _his_ affianced wife, should know it—or, if they have
not any, are cruel equally and foolish. So tell me—tell me, dear one,
if there be aught that I should know; and in all cases let me share your
sorrow—”
“Oh! do not—do not ask me, Annabel—oh! oh! to think that we two who
have been so happy should be so wretched now.”
“I know not what you would say, Marian, but your strange words awake
strange thoughts within me! We have, indeed, been happy! fond, happy,
innocent, dear sister—and I can see no cause why we should now be
otherwise—I, at least, am still happy, Marian, unless it be to witness
your wild sorrow; and, if I know myself, no earthly sorrow would ever
make me wretched, much less repining or despairing.”
“Yes, you—yes, you, indeed, may yet be happy—blessed with a cheerful
home, a noble, gallant husband, and, it may be, sweet prattlers at your
knee—but I, oh God!” and she again burst into a fierce agony of tears
and sobbing. Her sister for a time strove to console her, but she soon
found not only that her efforts were in vain, but that, so far as she
could judge, Marian’s tears only flowed the faster, her sobs became more
suffocating, the more she would have soothed them; when she became aware
of this, then, she withdrew gradually her arms from her waist, and spoke
to her in a calm melancholy voice, full at the same time of deep
sadness, and firm decided resolution.