“LIBITINA”
THE DROWNING MAN CATCHES AT A BOAT-HOOK--A BRITISH
FISHERMAN--THE MOTHER STRUCK DOWN--THE SICK-ROOM--WATCH AND
WARD--THE VISITOR THAT WILL NOT BE DENIED--A PRESSING
SUITOR--THE CHIEF MOURNER
To keep a gentleman waiting any length of time, either in hot water or
cold, is decidedly a breach of the laws of politeness, to repair which
we must return as speedily as possible to “Cousin Charlie” and his
friend, lying somewhat limp and blue at the bottom of “Hairblower’s”
dinghy; this worthy, under Providence, having been the means of saving
the rash swimmer and the gallant boy who strove to rescue him from an
untimely death, which a very few seconds more of submersion would have
made a certainty. That Hairblower’s boat-hook should have been ready
at the nick of time was one of those “circumstances,” as he called
them, which he designated “special,” and turned upon the fact of his
having started a party of amateurs in the morning on a sort of marine
picnic, from which they had returned prematurely, the gala proving a
failure, with no greater loss than that of a spare oar and one or two
small casks belonging to the seaman. It was on the hopeless chance of
picking up these “waifs and strays” as they drifted down with the
tide, that “Hairblower” was paddling about in a shallow skiff,
denominated “a dinghy,” when his attention was arrested by an
adventurous swimmer striking boldly out at a long distance from the
beach. As he said himself, “There’s no depending on these gentlemen,
so I thought it very likely I might be wanted, and stood ‘off and on’
till I saw Mr. Hardingstone making signals of distress. It’s no joke
that cramp isn’t, half-a-mile out at sea; and I might have been too
late with the boat-hook if it hadn’t been for Master Charles--dear,
dear, there’s stuff in that lad you might cut an admiral out of, and
they’re going to make ‘a soger’ of him!”
He had contrived to pull the two exhausted swimmers into his little
craft; and although Charlie very soon recovered himself, his friend,
who was farther gone in his salt-water potations, gave them both some
uneasiness before he came thoroughly to his senses.
Whilst our hardy seaman is putting them upon their legs, and
administering hot brandy-and-water in a fisherman’s house near the
beach, we may spare a few lines to give some account of “Hairblower,”
and the qualities by which he earned that peculiar designation. Born
and bred a fisherman, one of that daring race with which our sea-board
swarms, and from which Her Majesty’s navy and the British merchant
service recruit their best men, he was brought up from his very
childhood to make the boat his cradle, and the wave his home. Wet or
dry, calm or stormy, blow high, blow low, with a plank beneath his
foot, and a few threads of canvas over his head, he was in his
element; and long ere he reached the full strength of manhood he was
known for the most reckless of all, even amongst those daring spirits
who seem to think life by far the least valuable of their earthly
possessions. Twice, as a boy, had he _volunteered_ to make up the crew
of a lifeboat when the oldest hands were eyeing with doubtful glances
that white, seething surf through which they would have to make their
way to the angry, leaden sea beyond; and the men of Deal themselves,
those heroes of the deep, acknowledged, with the abrupt freemasonry of
the brave, that “the lad was as tough as pin-wire, _heart_ to the
backbone.” His carelessness of weather soon became proverbial, and his
friends often expostulated with him on his rashness in remaining out
at sea with a craft by no means qualified to encounter the sudden
squalls of the Channel, or the heavy seas which come surging up from
the Atlantic in a real Sou’-Wester. His uncle at length promised to
assist him in building a lugger of somewhat heavier tonnage than the
yawl he was accustomed to risk, and the _Spanking Sally_, of ill-fated
memory, was the result. On the first occasion that the young skipper
exultingly stamped his foot on a deck he could really call his own, he
earned the nickname by which he was afterwards distinguished. His
uncle expressed a hope that the owner would now be a trifle more
careful in his ventures, and suggested that when it blew hard, and
there was a heavy cargo on board, it was good seamanship to run for
the nearest port. “Blow,” repeated the gallant lad, while he passed
his fingers through thick glossy curls that the breeze was even then
lifting from his forehead--“Blow, uncle! you’ll never catch me putting
_my_ helm down for weather, till it comes on stiff enough to blow
every one of these hairs clean out of my figure-head!” From that hour,
and ever afterwards, he was known by the _sobriquet_ of Hairblower,
and as such we verily believe he had almost forgotten his own original
name.
Hardingstone was soon sufficiently recovered to walk back to his
hotel, and with his strong frame and constitution scouted the idea of
any ill effects arising from what he called “a mere ducking.” Once,
however, on their way home, he pressed Charlie’s hand, and with a tear
in his eye--strange emotion for him to betray--whispered, “Charlie,
you’ve the pluck of the devil; you’ve saved my life, and I shall never
forget it.” We are an undemonstrative people: on the stage, or in a
book, here would have been an opportunity for a perfect oration about
gratitude, generosity, and eternal friendship; but not so in real
life; we cannot spare more than a sentence to acknowledge our rescue
from ruin or destruction, and we are so afraid of being thought
“humbugs,” that we make even that sentence as cold as possible.
Mrs. Kettering, though, was a lady of a different disposition. She was
in a terrible taking when her nephew returned, and she observed the
feverish remains of past excitement, which the boy was unable to
conceal. Bit by bit she drew from him the whole history of his gallant
efforts to save Hardingstone, and the narrow escape they both had of
drowning; and as Charlie finished his recital, and Blanche’s eyes
sparkled through her tears in admiration of his heroism, Mrs.
Kettering rang the bell twice for Gingham, and went off into strong
hysterics.
“Dear me, miss, how providential!” said the Abigail, an hour or so
afterwards, popping her head into the drawing-room, where Blanche and
Charlie were awaiting news of his aunt, having left her to “keep
quiet”--“Dr. Globus is down here for a holiday, and Missus bid me send
for him if she wasn’t any better, and now she _isn’t_ any better. What
shall I do?”
“Send for him, I should think,” said Charlie, and forthwith despatched
a messenger in quest of the doctor, whilst Blanche ran up-stairs to
mamma’s room with a beating heart and an aching presentiment, such as
often foretells too truly the worst we have to apprehend.
The curtains were drawn round Mrs. Kettering’s bed, and Blanche,
hoping it might only be one of the nervous attacks to which her mother
was subject, put them gently aside to see if she was sleeping. Even
that young, inexperienced girl was alarmed at the dark flush on the
patient’s face, and the heavy snorting respirations she seemed to draw
with such difficulty.
“O mamma, mamma!” said she, laying her head on the pillow by her
mother’s side, “what is it? I beseech you to tell me! Dear mamma, what
can we do to help you?”
Mrs. Kettering turned her eyes upon her daughter, but the pupils were
distorted as though from some pressure on the brain, and she strove to
articulate in vain. Blanche, in an agony of fear, rushed to the
bell-rope, and brought Gingham and Charlie running up hardly less
alarmed than herself. What could the lad do in a case like this? With
the impetuosity of his character, he took his hat and hastened to Dr.
Globus’s house with such speed as to overtake the messenger he had
previously despatched; Gingham was sent down to hunt up a prescription
of that skilful physician, which had once before been beneficial; and
Blanche sat her down in her mother’s room, to watch, and tremble, and
pray for the beloved form, stretched senseless within those white
curtains.
She could scarce believe it. In that very room, not six hours ago, she
had pinned her mother’s shawl, and smoothed her own ringlets. Yet it
seemed as if this had occurred to some one else--not to herself. With
the unaccountable propensity great excitement ever has for trifling,
she arranged the disordered toilet-table; she even counted the
curl-papers that lay in their little triangular box; then she went
down on her knees, and prayed, as those pray who feel it is the last
resource. When she rose, a passion of weeping somewhat relieved her
feelings, but with composure came the consciousness of the awful
possibility--the separation that might be--to-night, even; and the
dim, blank future, desolate, without a mother. But the familiar noises
in the street brought her back to the present, and it seemed
impossible that this should be the same world in which till now she
had scarcely known any anxiety or affliction. Then a soothing hope
stole over her that these dreadful misgivings might be groundless;
that the doctor would come, and mamma would soon be better; and she
would nurse her, and love her more and more, and never be wilful
again; but in the midst, with a pang that almost stopped her heart,
flashed across her the recollection of her father’s death--the
suspense, the confusion, the sickening certainty, the dreary funeral,
and how, in her little black frock, she had clasped mamma’s neck, and
thought she had saved all, since she had not lost her. And now, must
this come again? And would there be no mother to clasp when it was
over? Blanche groaned aloud. But hark! the door-bell rings, there is a
steady footstep on the stair, and she feels a deep sensation of
relief, as though the doctor held the scales of life and death in his
hands.
Gingham, in the meantime, whose composure was not proof against
anything in the shape of serious illness or danger, had been wandering
over the house with her mistress’s keys in her hand, seeking for that
prescription which she had herself put by, not three days before, but
of which she had totally forgotten the hiding-place. Music,
work-boxes, blotting-books were turned over and tumbled about in vain,
till at length she bethought her of her mistress’s writing-desk, and
on opening that “sanctum,” out fell a paper in her lady’s hand, which
ignorant Gingham herself at once perceived was meant for no such eyes
as hers. She caught a glimpse, too, of her own name between its folds,
and even in the hurry and emergency of the moment we are not prepared
to say that female curiosity could have resisted the temptation of
“just one peep,” but at that instant “Cousin Charlie” and the doctor
were heard at the door, and as Gingham thrust the mysterious document
into her bosom, the former entered the room, and rated her soundly for
prying about amongst Aunt Kettering’s papers when she ought to have
been up-stairs attending to herself.
Dr. Globus felt Mrs. Kettering’s pulse, and turned to Blanche (who was
watching his countenance as the culprit does that of the juryman who
declares his fate) with a face from which it was impossible to gather
hope or fear.
“Your mamma must be kept _very_ quiet, Miss Blanche,” said the doctor,
with whom his young friend was a prime favourite. “I must turn you all
out but Mrs. Gingham. I should like to remain here for a while to
watch the effect of some medicine I shall give her; but we cannot have
too few people in the room.” And to enhance this significant hint he
pointed to the door, at which Charlie was lingering with a white,
anxious face.
“But tell me, _dear_ doctor,” implored Blanche, in an agony of
suspense, “_pray_ tell me, is there any danger? Will _nothing_ do her
any good?”
Poor girl, did you ever know a doctor that would reply to such a
question?
“We must keep her quiet, my dear,” was all the answer she got; and
Blanche was forced to go down-stairs, much against her will, and wait
in blank dismay, with her hand clasping Cousin Charlie’s, and her eyes
turned to the clock, on which the minutes seemed to lengthen into
hours, whilst ever and anon a footstep overhead seemed to indicate
there would be some news of the patient; yet no door opened, no step
was heard upon the stairs. Not a word did the cousins exchange, though
the boy moved at intervals restlessly in his chair. The calm,
beautiful evening deepened into the purple haze of night over the
Channel, the lamps began to twinkle in the street, and still the
cousins sat and waited, and still nobody came.
When the door was shut, and Globus was left alone with his patient, a
solemn, sagacious expression stole over the worthy doctor’s face. He
had long been the personal friend of Mrs. Kettering, as well as “her
own medical man”; and although he would probably have felt it more had
he not been called in professionally, yet it was with a heavy heart
and a desponding brow that he confessed to himself there was little or
no hope. He had put in practice all that skill and experience
suggested--he had sent for a brother physician of high local repute,
and now there was nothing more to be done save to wait for the result;
so the kind-hearted man sat himself down in the chair Blanche had so
lately occupied, and pondered over the many changing years, now like a
dream, during which he had known that life which in yonder bed was
dribbling out its few remaining sands. He remembered her the merry,
black-eyed girl (once he thought her eyes brighter than those of Mrs.
Globus); he saw her again the sparkling bride, the good-humoured
matron, the doting mother, the not inconsolable widow. It was only
yesterday he bowed to her on the parade, and thought how young she
looked with her grown-up daughter; he was to have dined with them
to-morrow; and the uncertainty of life looked him startlingly in the
face. But the pride of science soon came to the rescue, and the
practised healer forgot his private feelings in his professional
reflections. And thus Dr. Globus passed his holiday--one afternoon of
the precious fourteen, in which he had promised himself the fresh
breezes and the out-of-doors liberty of St. Swithin’s. Mrs. Globus and
the children were picking up shells on the beach; his brother, whom he
had not seen for ten years, was coming to dinner; but the doctor’s
time is the property of the suffering and the doomed, and still Globus
sat and watched and calculated, and saw clearly that Mrs. Kettering
must die.
The hours stole on, candles were brought into the drawing-room, and
the cousins tried in vain with parched lips and choking throats to
have some tea. A ring at the door-bell heralded the arrival of the
other doctor, a stout man in a brown greatcoat, smelling of the
night-dew. Blanche ran out to meet him--it was a relief to do
something--and beckoned him silently up-stairs. She even stole into
the sick-room, and caught a glimpse of her mother’s figure, recumbent
and covered up; but the curtains were half closed, and she could not
see the dear face. Globus kindly drew her away, and shut her out, but
not before the frightened girl had glanced at a dark-stained
handkerchief on the floor, and sickened with the conviction that it
was clotted with blood. Outside, the little housemaid was sitting on
the stairs, crying as if her heart would break. Poor Blanche sat down
by her in the darkness, and mingled her tears with those of the
affectionate servant. She began to get hopeless now. After a while she
went down again to Cousin Charlie, and was surprised to find it so
late; the clock pointed to five minutes past ten; and with trembling
hands she closed the windows, listening for an instant to the dash of
the waves outside, with a strange, wild feeling that they never
sounded so before. Then she covered up “Bully,” who had been whistling
ever since the lights were brought; but she had not the heart to
exchange a syllable with Cousin Charlie; and that poor lad, affecting
a composure that his face belied, was pretending to spell over the
evening paper, of which he was vacantly staring at the advertisement
sheet. Again there is a movement above, and the two doctors adjourn to
another room to discuss the patient’s case. Great is the deference
paid by the local Esculapius to the famous London physician. What Dr.
Globus recommended--what Dr. Globus said--what Dr. Globus
thought--were quoted by the former ever afterwards; yet could one have
witnessed the consultation of these two scientific men, it might have
been instructive to observe how professional etiquette never once gave
way to the urgency of the moment--how the science of curing, like that
of killing, has its forms, its subordination, its ranks, its
dignities, and its “customs of war in like cases.” Gingham was left
with the patient, and the weeping housemaid stood ready to assist, the
latter showing an abundance of nerve and decision, when called upon to
act, which her behaviour on the staircase would scarcely have
promised. Even Gingham was less flustered than usual, now there was
really something to be frightened at. Woman is never seen to such
advantage as when tending the sick; the eye that quails to see a
finger pricked, the hand that trembles if there is but a mouse in the
room, will gaze unflinchingly on the lancet or the cupping-glass, will
apply the leeches without a shudder, or pour the soothing medicament,
drop by drop, into the measured wine-glass, with the steadiness and
accuracy of a chemical professor. Where man with all his boasted nerve
turns sick and pale, and shows himself worse than useless, woman
vindicates the courage of her sex, that unselfish heroism, that
passive devotion, which is ever ready to bear and be still. They seem
to have a positive pleasure in alleviating the pangs of the sufferer,
and taking care of the helpless. Look at a bustling matron, blessed
with a large family of children, and whatever may be the opinion of
the “paterfamilias,” however much he may grunt and grumble (so like a
_man_!) at having the quiver as full as it will hold, she, in her
heart of hearts, welcomes every fresh arrival with the hospitable
sentiment of “the more the merrier”; and much as she loves them all,
lavishes her warmest affections on the last little uninteresting
morsel of underdone humanity, which, on its first appearance, is the
most helpless, as it is the least attractive, of Nature’s germinating
efforts; unless, indeed, she should own a dwarf, a cripple, or an
idiot amongst her thriving progeny--then will that poor creature be
the mother’s chiefest treasure, then will woman’s love and woman’s
tenderness hover with beautiful instinct round the head which Nature
itself seems to have scouted, and the mother will press to her heart
of hearts the wretched being that all else are prone to ridicule and
despise. So in the sick-room, when “pain and anguish wring the brow,”
woman wipes the foaming lip and props the sinking head. Woman’s care
speeds the long doubtful recovery, and woman’s prayers soothe the
dying hour, when hope has spread her wings and fled away. In works
like these she vindicates her angel-nature, in scenes like these she
perfects that humble piety of which it appears to us she has a greater
share than the stronger sex. The proud Moslem boasts there will be no
women in his material paradise; let us look to ourselves, that the
exclusion for us be not all the other way.
Blanche sits vacantly in the drawing-room, and thinks the doctors’
consultation is to be endless, and that it is cruel to keep her so
long from her mamma. Charlie puts down the paper, and drawing kindly
towards his cousin, finds courage to whisper some few words of
consolation, which neither of them feel to be of the slightest avail.
He has been thinking that Uncle Baldwin ought to be sent for, but he
dares not excite more alarm in his companion’s mind by such a
suggestion, and he meditates a note to his friend Hardingstone to
manage it for him. Uncle Baldwin, better known in the world as
Major-General Bounce, is Mrs. Kettering’s brother, and lives in the
midland counties--“he should be sent for immediately,” thinks Charlie,
“if he is to see my aunt alive.” Blanche is getting very restless, and
thinks she might soon go up-stairs and see----Hush! the bedroom door
opens--a rapid footstep is heard on the stairs--it is Gingham running
down for the doctors--Blanche rushes to the door and intercepts her on
the landing-place--the woman’s face is ashy pale, and her eyes stand
strangely out in the dubious light--her voice comes thick and husky.
The young girl is quite composed for the instant, and every syllable
thrusts straight to her heart as the maid stammers out, “O Miss
Blanche! Miss Blanche! your mamma----”
* * * * *
The sun rose, and the waters of the Channel glittered in the morning
light, but the shutters were closed at No. 9--and honest Hairblower
drew his rough hand across his eyes, as he sought to get some news of
“poor Miss Blanche.” He met Hardingstone coming from the house,
whither the “man of action” had repaired on the first intelligence of
their calamity, and had made himself as useful as he could to the
afflicted family. “Do she take on, poor dear?” said Hairblower,
scarcely restraining the drops that coursed down his weather-beaten
cheeks. “Such a young thing as that, Mr. Hardingstone, to go loose
without a mother--and the poor lady, too, gone down like in a calm.
They will not be leaving, sir, just yet, will ’em? I couldn’t bear to
think of Miss Blanche cruising about among strangers, till she begins
to hold up a bit--she should come out and get the sea-air, as soon as
she is able for it, and I’ll have the boat covered in and ready day
and night----O Mr. Hardingstone, what _can_ I do, sir, for the poor
young lady in her distress?” Frank shook the honest fellow’s hand, and
could scarcely command his own feelings enough to reply. He had done
everything that was necessary in the house of death, had sent off an
express for the General, sealed up Mrs. Kettering’s jewel-boxes,
writing-cases, etc., and performed all those offices of which the two
children, for so we might almost call them, were incapable, and which,
even in the presence of the Destroyer, are still hard, cold matters of
business, and _must_ be attended to, like the ordering dinner, and the
arrangement for the funeral, though the survivors’ hearts may ache,
and their wounds burst out afresh, till they too wish their bodies
were laid at rest beneath the sod, and their spirits were away, free
and unmourning, with the loved one in those realms with which, sooner
or later, we are all to be acquainted.
On the child’s misery it would not become us to dwell. There are
feelings over which a veil is drawn too sacred to be disturbed by
mortal hand. Well might Margaret Douglas exclaim, in the old ballad--
“True lovers I may have many a one,
But a father once slain, I shall never see mair.”
And when a young, affectionate girl is wailing for a parent, the voice
of sorrow cannot be hushed, nor the tears dried, till grief has had
its course, and time has cured the wounds now so excruciating, which
ere long shall be healed over and forgotten. “Cousin Charlie,”
boy-like, was more easily consoled; and although at intervals his kind
aunt’s voice would seem to sound in his ears, and the sight of her
work, her writing, or any other familiar object associated with
herself would bring on a fresh accession of grief, yet in the society
of Frank Hardingstone, and the anticipation of Uncle Baldwin’s
arrival, he found objects to divert his thoughts, and direct them to
that brilliant inheritance of the young, the golden future, which
never _shall_ arrive. He was, besides, a lad of a sanguine,
imaginative disposition, and these are the spirits over which sorrow
has least power. The more elastic the spring, the more easily it
regains its position; and a sensitive organisation, after the first
recoil, will rise uninjured from a shock that prostrates more material
souls to the very dust.
Over the rest of the household came the reaction that invariably
follows the first sensations of awe inspired by sudden death. There
was an excitement not altogether unpleasing in the total derangement
of plans, the uncertainty as to the future created amongst the
domestics by the departure of their mistress. The butler knew he
should have to account for his plate, and was busied with his spoons
and his inventory; the footman speculated on the next place he should
get, with “a family that spent nine months of the year in London”; the
very “boy in buttons” thought more of his promotion than of the kind
mistress who had housed, clothed, and fed him when a parish orphan.
Gingham herself, that tender damsel, was occupied and excited about
Miss Blanche’s mourning, and her own “breadths” of black and “depths”
of crape usurped the place of unavailing regrets in a mind not
calculated to contain many ideas at a time. Besides, the pleasure of
“shopping,” inexplicable as it may appear to man’s perverted taste, is
one which ravishes the female mind with an intense delight; and what
with tradesmen’s condolences, the interminable fund of gossip created
thereby, the comparing of patterns, the injunctions on all sides “not
to give way,” and the visits to linen-drapers’ shops, we cannot but
confess that Gingham’s spirits were surprisingly buoyant, considering
the circumstance under which she swept those costly wares from their
tempting counters. Tom Blacke, too, lost no time in assuring her of
his sympathy.
“O, Miss Gingham,” said wily Tom, as he insisted on carrying a huge
brown-paper parcel home for her, and led the way by a circuitous route
along the beach, “O, Miss Gingham, what a shock for your affectionate
natur’ and kindly ’eart! Yet sorrow becomes some people,” added Tom,
reflectively, and glancing his dark eyes into Gingham’s muddy-looking
face, as he offered her an arm.
“Go along with you, Mr. Blacke,” replied the sorrowing damsel,
forgetful of her despondency for the moment, which emboldened him to
proceed.
“You ought to have a home, Miss Gingham--you ought to have some one
to attach yourself to--you that attaches everybody” (he ventured a
squeeze, and the maiden did not withdraw the brown thread glove which
rested on his arm; so Tom mixed it a little stronger)--“a ’onest man
to depend on, and a family and such like.”
Tom flourished his arm along a line of imaginary olive branches, and
Gingham represented that “she couldn’t think of such a thing.”
“Service isn’t for the likes of you, miss,” proceeded the tempter;
“hindependence is fittest for beauty” (Tom peeped under the bonnet,
and “found it,” as he expressed himself, “all serene”); “a cottage and
content, and a ’eart that is ’umble may ’ope for it ’ere;” with which
concluding words Mr. Blacke, who was an admirer of poetry, and
believed with Moore _that_ would be given to song “which gold could
never buy,” imprinted a vigorous kiss on those not very tempting lips,
and felt that the day was his own.
Ladies of mature charms are less easily taken aback by such advances
than their inexperienced juniors. The position, even if new in
practice, is by no means so in theory, and having often anticipated
the attack, they are the more prepared to receive it when it arrives.
Ere our lovers reached No. 9 he had called her by her Christian name,
and “Rachel” had promised to think of it. As she closed the
“area-gate” Gingham had given her heart away to a scamp. True, she was
oldish, uglyish, wore brown thread gloves, and had a yellow skin; yet
for all this she had a woman’s heart, and, like a very woman, gave it
away to Tom Blacke without a return.
In good time General Bounce arrived, and took the command from Frank
Hardingstone, with many gracious acknowledgments of his kindness. The
General was a man of far too great importance to be introduced at the
conclusion of a chapter. It is sufficient to say, that with military
promptitude and decision (which generally means a disagreeable and
abrupt method of doing a simple thing) he set the household in order,
arranged the sad ceremony, over which he presided with proper gravity,
packed Cousin Charlie off to his private tutor’s, paid the servants
their wages, and settled the departure of himself and niece for his
own residence.
Do we think ourselves of account in this our world?--do we think we
shall be so missed and so regretted? Drop a stone into a pool, there
is a momentary splash, a bubble on the surface, and circle after
circle spreads, and widens and weakens, till all is still and smooth
as though the water had never been disturbed; so it is with death.
There is a funeral and crape and weeping, and “callings to inquire,”
then the intelligence gets abroad amongst mere acquaintances and utter
strangers, a line in the _Times_ proclaims our decease to the world.
Ere it has reached the colonies we are well-nigh forgotten at home.
Mrs. Kettering was at rest in her grave; the General was full of his
arrangements and his responsibilities; Charlie was back amongst his
mathematics and his cricket and his Greek and Latin; the servants were
looking out for fresh places; and the life that had disappeared from
the surface was forgotten by all. By all save one; for still Blanche
was gazing on the waters and mourning for her mother.