“Who named the King of Morven?—Alas, he lies
In his blood on Lena:—Why did they tell me
That he fell? I might have hoped, a little
While, his return—I might have thought I saw him
On the far heath—A tree might have deceived me
For his form—The wind of the hill sounded
As his shield in mine ear.”
The grief of all at Lodore was so great, that Julia’s overwhelming share
of it did not cause any suspicion as to the nature of her sentiments.
The feeling of every one, down to the lowest servant in the house, was
the same, as if Edmund had really been the son or grandson of Mrs.
Montgomery. Every one’s heart was full, no one had time to be sagacious.
Frances alone, though without any formal confidence, had for some time
understood the secret of her sister’s heart. As soon, therefore, as
Mr. Jackson had gone, and Mrs. Montgomery retired, she dismissed all
attendants, and through a long and dreadful night continued to whisper
to an ear, which yet seemed not to hear: “The account is not official,
Julia, and Mr. Jackson does not believe it. Julia! Julia! Mr. Jackson
does not believe it.” This, however, was a sort of pious fraud; for
Frances, who had seen Henry’s letter, and the supplement to the paper,
had herself no such hope, as her words were meant to inspire. Julia did
not speak in reply; but, from time to time, by a scarcely perceptible
pressure of her sister’s hand, she showed there was a consciousness of
the kindly efforts to offer comfort. After the lapse of some hours spent
thus, she betrayed, by a slight movement, that she was watching for the
day-light. As soon as it dawned, she quietly and silently left her bed.
Frances, without asking any questions, folded a wrapper carefully round
her sister. Julia seated herself, and became again motionless. Frances
knelt beside her, put her arms about her, and watched her countenance.
For a long time all was still; nothing was heard but Julia’s heavy sighs,
following each other at regular intervals, and the gentle, and but
occasional soothings of Frances’ voice.
At length the servants began to move about. At each slightest noise,
Julia started, listened, and the throbbing of her heart became audible,
increased till it shook her frame, and then, as the sounds that had
caused it, died away, subsided gradually, till a footstep, or an opening
door, being again heard; it would again leap up, and run on with a
tumultuous rapidity that scarcely left her power to breathe. This fearful
state lasted some hours, when, at length, the postman’s well known knock
on a door already open, was heard. Julia had disappeared before Frances
had time to comprehend the nature of the sudden movement with which she
had started from her seat. Frances followed, and found her in the hall,
endeavouring, with fingers as powerless as those of a new born babe, to
open a letter. Frances assisted to break the seal. It was from Edmund
himself, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery. He was alive! He was well! When
Julia, by Frances’s good management and a few hours passed quietly in her
own apartment, was enabled to assume something like self command, the
joyful tidings were spread throughout the house. The letter, and a paper
which came by the same post, were then read with eager delight by all.
Edmund, in his letter, expressed a hope of seeing them soon, if it were
but for an hour; and much kind solicitude respecting their feelings,
should the false report of his death reach them before this precautionary
epistle. The sum of the contents of the paper, which accompanied this
letter, was as follows:—
The last statement, it may be remembered, left Fitz-Ullin crossing the
space between the two ships. While getting on board the Euphrasia he
beheld the figure of an officer, who was busily engaged on the quarter
deck, and whose proportions and air instantly riveted his whole
attention. The officer turned round; the countenance was Edmund’s. He
was giving hasty orders for taking advantage of the tide, which was now
beginning to flow. Occasionally he passed his hand across his forehead,
or held it a moment before his eyes, while his officers were collected
round him, earnestly recommending a few moments repose.
“I am quite well now,” he replied, “if we do not get her off this tide
she will go to pieces before the next. When there is time to think
of it, I shall lose a little blood,” he added, in answer to a strong
remonstrance from the surgeon.
Fitz-Ullin, at the moment, rushed through the circle into the arms of his
friend.
“The exertions of Captain Montgomery,” continued the paper, “to get his
ship afloat, were ably seconded by Lord Fitz-Ullin and the officers and
crews of both vessels, and finally crowned with success.”
After which, the next object became to secure the numerous captures made
in the course of that brilliant day. This was effected with much labour,
by literally towing them out from under their own silenced batteries.
And when, at length, the two detached ships were seen returning from
their victorious expedition, and approaching the fleet with their little
squadron of prizes in tow, the hearty and general cheering with which
they were received was such as baffles all description; still less would
it be possible to convey any adequate idea of the enthusiasm with which
that cheering was doubled and redoubled, when Captain Montgomery, who,
from the accounts brought to the fleet by the cutter, was believed to
have fallen, was discerned standing on his quarter deck, waving his hat,
and bowing, in return for the congratulations of all.
On joining the fleet, our hero learnt, for the first time, the report
which had prevailed of his death, and that it had been carried to
England. In consequence, he dispatched the letter to Mrs. Montgomery,
which we have seen Julia and Frances, as soon as they perceived Edmund’s
writing on the cover, so unceremoniously tearing open.
The paper, as might be expected, expatiated at great length on the
gratified feelings with which they found themselves enabled to contradict
the report of Captain Montgomery’s death. The subject, in short,
engrossed every column of every public print of the day. There was
scarcely room for an advertisement! Wherever you cast your eye, Captain
Montgomery, in large letters, appeared before you. Every figure of
newspaper rhetoric was set forth: the pathetic, the heroic, the sublime,
but above all, the triumphant.