“… It is the noble brow
Of Fingall; the kindly look of his eyes.
It is not now a shadow which deludes
My sight.—These are his hands.—I feel their warm
Pressure.”
“Has the bright tear of joy no welcome told?”
Julia, supported and advised by Frances, made great exertions to seem to
partake, with a natural share of interest, in the general joy, without
betraying her own peculiar emotions.
In the evening, for the sake of appearances, she ventured to leave her
room. She had just taken her place at the tea-table, when a hasty step
was heard without.
The door flew open, and Edmund entered! Mrs. Montgomery threw over her
footstool and little table, and dropped her spectacles, in hastening
to meet him. She clasped him to her heart and wept! Frances, without
one thought of reserve, flew into his arms, and clung round his neck,
as she was wont to do when a child, exclaiming, “Dear, dear Edmund,
you are safe!” And Julia trembled and turned pale, as, emboldened by
the reception her sister had given him, yet colouring excessively, he
approached and folded her also for one moment to his breast; for by
an effort she had risen, and stood upright before her chair, though
literally unable to move from it. She sunk on her seat again, but kindly
smiled as she looked up through tears of joy, and Edmund still retaining
her hand, she returned the pressure of his, more than once, as a sort of
apology, each time, for her utter failure in an attempt to speak.
“And were you not even wounded, my dear boy?” said Mrs. Montgomery.
“Nothing more than slight contusions, ma’am,” he replied; “the ball
struck one fluke of the anchor, and the shock which I experienced, as I
stood on the other, was more like electricity than any thing else.”
“But tell me how you came to stand on the anchor?” asked Mrs. Montgomery,
“I could not comprehend one half of what the papers said about it.”
“I thought the anchor was always in the bottom of the sea!” said Frances.
“Why,” replied Edmund, to Mrs. Montgomery, after answering Frances’
interruption with an amused smile, “the enemy had ceased firing, so that
I thought it probable they were about to strike; and, in that case, you
know, it would not have been desirable to have fired into them again,
as we might have sacrificed lives unnecessarily, so that I merely ran
forward to the forecastle, and jumped from thence on the fluke of the
anchor, which was made fast to the bows, and where I stood waiting for
the dispersion of the smoke of our own guns, to ascertain the point, of
whether the last of the enemy had hauled down her colours or not.”
“Why, my dear, you are as bad as the papers!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I
hardly know what you are talking about!” Edmund laughed, and declared
he did not know how to explain himself more clearly. He tried, however,
practical methods; cups, saucers, snuffer-stand, sugar-tongs, &c., were
all put in requisition. At length, by means of the latter implement,
the ladies were made to comprehend, that when the ball struck one fluke
of the anchor, the shock was communicated to our hero as he stood on the
other.
Here he made his meaning still more obvious, by causing the bit of
biscuit, which, perched on one end of the sugar-tongs, had hitherto
personated himself, to spring off with a sudden jerk. It flew—where?—in
Julia’s face! and thence fell on her bosom, where it concealed itself
behind the neatly plaited cambrick tucker, of a certain snowy inner
garment of fine linen, and became the companion of a small gold heart
containing otto of rose, and appended to a thread-like gold chain, which,
any one who cared to notice such trifles might observe, Julia never went
without.
This chain, if truth must be told, was, in fact, one of Edmund’s boyish
keepsakes; when, out of the first prize money he ever received, he
brought one home to each of his little sisters. It would be a sad
betraying of secrets, however, to mention how often, on subsequent
returns, the course of that small shining line had been traced by the
adventurous eyes of our hero, till its further wanderings were lost to
view; or, how often, latterly, its trembling movement, had betrayed to
his eye only, the sigh which was inaudible to all, and to all but Edmund
imperceptible.
But to return, our hero made a thousand apologies for the first piece
of impertinence committed by his representative. Whether its further
intrusion had been observed by any one but Julia herself, we are not
aware. But what will sensible people say, when we confess that our
heroine actually preserved this strange likeness of a lover, and even
took a sly opportunity of slipping it into the interior of the said
golden heart.
“And you may judge,” continued Edmund, when, after concluding reiterated
apologies, he resumed his account of himself, “you may judge what force
there must have been in the impetus given by the shock I received, when
it flung me in on the forecastle, to all appearance lifeless.”
“And how long did you remain insensible?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, taking
his hand kindly, and looking in his face, with the greatest anxiety.
“I was myself again in a few minutes,” he replied, “it was the people on
the forecastle, who, when they saw me actually lifted from among them,
and borne through the air over their heads, very naturally supposed I
had been shot away, the same mistake it seems was made by the crew of
our Tender, which was at the time under orders to sail for the fleet,
with intelligence of the capture of the enemy’s ships, as soon as the
last should be seen to strike. But I really had not time to recollect
the possibility of such an occurrence, there was so much promptitude and
exertion necessary from the moment I was again on my feet, in getting the
ship afloat during the flood tide.”
“You must have had a great superiority of numbers to contend with;” said
Mrs. Montgomery, “the public prints describe your prizes as forming quite
a little squadron in themselves, as you led them towards the fleet.”
“How much better those cakes are than our sea biscuits,” said Edmund,
offering the plate to both the sisters. “It was rather a rash business!”
he added, in a grave tone, turning again to Mrs. Montgomery. Then, with
an effort at gaiety, he continued, “such as it was, however, I owe to
it my present happiness; for had not my ship suffered so severely, as to
render refitting indispensable, I should, at this moment, have been with
the fleet off * * * *. Fitz-Ullin too was obliged to come into port to
repair.” And Edmund here entered on the praises of his friend’s good and
amiable qualities with great warmth.
He was soon, however, interrupted, by the entrance of Mr. Jackson, whom
the joyful tidings of his arrival had summoned. Our hero had but one day
to remain at Lodore.