THE DEPARTURE.
It was the dawn of day when Flora started from a broken, feverish sleep,
aroused to consciousness by the heavy roaring of the sea, as the huge
billows thundered against the stony beach. To spring from her bed and
draw back the curtains of the window which commanded a full view of the
bay, was but the work of a moment. How quickly she let it fall in
despair over the cheerless prospect it presented to her sight! Far as
the eye could reach the sea was covered with foam. Not a sail was
visible, and a dark leaden sky was pouring down torrents of rain.
"What a morning!" she muttered to herself, as she stole quietly back to
bed. "It will be impossible to put to sea to-day."
The sleep which had shunned her pillow during the greater part of the
night, gently stole over her, and "wrapped her senses in forgetfulness;"
and old Kitson, two hours later, twice threw a pebble against the
window, before she awoke.
"_Leaftenant_ Lyndsay--_Leaftenant_ Lyndsay!" shouted the Captain, in a
voice like a speaking-trumpet--"wind and tide wait for no man. Up, up,
and be doing."
"Ay, ay," responded Lyndsay, rubbing his eyes, and going to the window.
"See what a storm the night has been brewing for you," continued old
Kitson. "It blows great guns, and there's rain enough to float Noah's
ark. Waters is here, and wants to see you. He says that his small craft
won't live in a sea like this. You'll have to put off your voyage till
the steamer takes her next trip."
"That's bad," said Lyndsay, hurrying on his clothes, and joining the old
sailor on the lawn. "Is there any chance, Kitson, of this holding up?"
"None. This is paying us off for three weeks fine weather, and may last
for several days--at all events, till night. The steamer will be
rattling down in an hour, with the wind and tide in her favour. Were you
once on board, _Leaftenant_, you might snap your fingers at this capful
of wind."
"We must make up our minds to lose our places," said Lyndsay, in a tone
of deep vexation.
"You have taken your places then?"
"Yes; and made a deposit of half the passage money."
"Humph! Now, _Leaftenant_ Lyndsay, that's a thing I never do. I always
take my chance. I would rather lose my place in a boat, or a coach, than
lose my money. But young fellows like you never learn wisdom. Experience
is all thrown away upon you. But as we can't remedy the evil now, we
had better step in and get a morsel of breakfast. This raw air makes one
hungry. The wind may lull by that time." Then gazing at the sky with one
of his keen orbs, while he shaded with his hand the other, he
continued--"It rains too hard for it to blow long at this rate; and the
season of the year is all in your favour. Go in--go in, and get
something to eat, and we will settle over your wife's good coffee what
is best to be done."
Lyndsay thought with the Captain, that the storm would abate, and he
returned to the anxious Flora, to report the aspect of things without.
"It is a bad omen," said Flora, pouring out the coffee. "If we may judge
of the future by the present--it looks dark enough."
"Don't provoke me into anger, Flora, by talking in such a childish
manner, and placing reliance upon an exploded superstition. Women are so
fond of prognosticating evil, that I believe they are disappointed if it
does not happen as they say."
"Well, reason may find fault with us if she will," said Flora; "but we
are all more or less influenced by these mysterious presentiments; and
suffer trifling circumstances to give a colouring for good or evil to
the passing hour. My dear, cross philosopher, hand me the toast."
Flora's defence of her favourite theory was interrupted by the arrival
of two very dear friends, who had come from a distance, through the
storm, to bid her good-bye.
Mr. Hawke, the elder of the twain, was an author of considerable
celebrity in his native county, and a most kind and excellent man. He
brought with him his second son, a fine lad of twelve years of age, to
place under Lyndsay's charge. James Hawke had taken a fancy to settle in
Canada, and a friend of the family, who was located in the Backwoods of
that far region, had written to his father, that he would take the lad,
and initiate him in the mysteries of the axe, if he could find a person
to bring him over. Lyndsay had promised to do this, and the boy, who had
that morning parted with his mother and little brothers and sisters, for
the first time in his life, in spite of the elastic spirits of youth,
looked sad and dejected.
Mr. Hawke's companion was a young Quaker, who had known Flora from a
girl, and had always expressed the greatest interest in her welfare.
Adam Mansel was a handsome, talented man, whose joyous disposition, and
mirthful humour, could scarcely be trammelled down by the severe
conventional rules of the Society to which he belonged. Adam's exquisite
taste for music, and his great admiration for horses and dogs, savoured
rather of the camp of the enemy. But his love for these forbidden
carnalities was always kept within bounds, and only known to a few very
particular friends.
"Friend Flora," he said, taking her hand, and giving it a most hearty
and cordial shake, "this is a sad day to those who have known thee long,
and loved thee well; and a foul day for the commencement of such an
important journey. Bad beginnings, they say, make bright endings; so
there is hope for thee yet in the stormy cloud."
"Flora, where are your omens now?" said Lyndsay, triumphantly. "Either
you or friend Adam must be wrong."
"Or the proverb I quoted, say rather," returned Adam. "Proverbs often
bear a double meaning, and can be interpreted as well one way as the
other. The ancients were cunning fellows in this respect, and were
determined to make themselves true prophets at any rate."
"What a miserable day," said the poet, turning from the window, where he
had been contemplating thoughtfully the gloomy aspect of things without.
His eye fell sadly upon his son. "It is enough to chill the heart."
"When I was a boy at school," said Adam, "I used to think that God sent
all the rain upon holidays, on purpose to disappoint us of our sport. I
found that most things in life happened contrary to our wishes; and I
used to pray devoutly, that all the Saturdays might prove wet, firmly
believing that it would be sure to turn out the reverse."
"According to your theory, Mansel," said Mr. Hawke, "Mrs. Lyndsay must
have prayed for a very fine day."
"Dost thee call this a holiday?" returned the Quaker, with a twinkle of
quiet humour in his bright brown eyes.
Mr. Hawke suppressed a sigh, and his glance again fell on his boy; and,
hurrying to the window, he mechanically drew his hand across his eyes.
Here the old Captain came bustling in, full of importance, chuckling,
rubbing his hands, and shaking his dripping fearnaught, with an air of
great satisfaction.
"You will not be disappointed, my dear," addressing himself to Mrs.
Lyndsay. "The wind has fallen off a bit; and, though the sea is too
rough for the small craft, Palmer, the captain of the pilot-boat, has
been with me; and, for the consideration of two pounds (forty
shillings),--a large sum of money, by-the-bye,--I will try and beat him
down to thirty,--he says he will launch the great boat, and man her with
twelve stout young fellows, who will take you, bag and baggage, on board
the steamer, though the gale were blowing twice as stiff. You have no
more to fear in that fine boat, than you have sitting at your ease in
that arm-chair. So make up your mind, my dear; for you have no time to
lose."
Flora looked anxiously from her husband to her child, and then at the
black, pouring sky, and the raging waters.
"There is no danger, Flora," said Lyndsay. "These fine boats can live in
almost any sea. But the rain will make it very uncomfortable for you and
the child."
"The discomfort will only last a few minutes, Mrs. Lyndsay," said old
Kitson. "Those chaps will put you on board before you can say Jack
Robinson."
"It is better to bear a ducking than lose our passage in the
_Chieftain_," said Flora. "There cannot be much to apprehend from the
violence of the storm, or twelve men would never risk their lives for
the value of forty shillings. Our trunks are all in the boat-house, our
servants discharged, and our friends gone; we have no longer a home, and
I am impatient to commence our voyage."
"You are right, Flora. Dress yourself and the child, and I will engage
the boat immediately." And away bounded Lyndsay to make their final
arrangements, and see the luggage safely stowed away in the pilot-boat.
Captain Kitson seated himself at the table, and began discussing a
beefsteak with all the earnestness of a hungry man. From time to time,
as his appetite began to slacken, he addressed a word of comfort or
encouragement to Mrs. Lyndsay, who was busy wrapping up the baby for her
perilous voyage.
"That's right, my dear. Take care of the young one; 'tis the most
troublesome piece of lumber you have with you. A child and a cat are
two things which never ought to come on board a ship. But take courage,
my dear. Be like our brave Nelson; never look behind you after entering
upon difficulties; it only makes bad worse, and does no manner of good.
You will encounter rougher gales than this before you have crossed the
Atlantic."
"I hope that we shall not have to wait long for the steamer," said
Flora. "I dread this drenching rain for the poor babe, far more than the
stormy sea."
"Wait," responded the old man, "the steamer will be rattling down in no
time; it is within an hour of her usual time. But Mrs. Lyndsay, my
dear,"--hastily pushing from him his empty plate, and speaking with his
mouth full--"I have one word to say to you in private, before you go."
Flora followed the gallant captain into the kitchen, marvelling in her
own mind what this private communication could be. The old man shut the
door carefully behind him; then said, in a mysterious whisper--"The old
clothes; do you remember what I said to you last night?"
Taken by surprise, Flora looked down, coloured, and hesitated; she was
afraid of wounding his feelings. Simple woman! the man was without
delicacy, and had no feelings to wound.
"There is a bundle of things, Captain Kitson," she faltered out at last,
"in the press in my bedroom, for Mr. Charles--coats, trowsers, and
other things. I was ashamed to mention to you such trifles."
"Never mind--never mind, my dear; I am past blushing at my time of life;
and reelly--(he always called it reelly)--I am much obliged to you."
After a pause, in which both looked supremely foolish, the old man
continued--"There was a china cup and two plates--pity to spoil the
set--that your careless maid broke the other day in the washhouse. Did
Mrs. K. mention them to you, my dear?"
"Yes, sir, and they are _paid_ for," said Flora, turning with disgust
from the sordid old man. "Have you anything else to communicate?"
"All right," said the Captain. "Here is your husband looking for you.
The boat is ready."
"Flora, we only wait for you," said Lyndsay. Flora placed the precious
babe in her father's arms, and they descended the steep flight of steps
that led from the cliff to the beach.
In spite of the inclemency of the weather a crowd of old and young had
assembled on the beach to witness their embarcation, and bid them
farewell.
The hearty "God bless you! God grant you a prosperous voyage, and a
better home than the one you leave, on the other side of the Atlantic!"
burst from the lips of many an honest tar; and brought the tears into
Flora's eyes, as the sailors crowded round the emigrants, to shake
hands with them before they stepped into the noble boat that lay rocking
in the surf.
Precious to Flora and Lyndsay were the pressure of those hard rough
hands. They expressed the honest sympathy felt, by a true-hearted set of
poor men, in their present situation and future welfare.
"You are not going without one parting word with me!" cried Mary
Parnell, springing down the steep bank of stones, against which
thundered the tremendous surf. The wind had blown her straw bonnet back
upon her shoulders, and scattered her fair hair in beautiful confusion
round her lovely face.
The weeping, agitated girl was alternately clasped in the arms of
Lyndsay and his wife.
"Why did you expose yourself, dear Mary, to weather like this?"
"Don't talk of weather," sobbed Mary; "I only know that we must part. Do
you begrudge me the last look? Good-bye! God bless you both!"
Before Flora could speak another word, she was caught up in the arms of
a stout seaman, who safely deposited both the mother and her child in
the boat. Lyndsay, Mr. Hawke, his son, Adam Mansel, and lastly Hannah,
followed. Three cheers arose from the sailors on the beach. The gallant
boat dashed through the surf, and was soon bounding over the giant
billows.
Mr. Hawke and friend Adam had never been on the sea before, but they
determined not to bid adieu to the emigrants until they saw them safe on
board the steamer.
"I will never take a last look of the dear home in which I have passed
so many happy hours," said Flora, resolutely turning her back to the
shore. "I cannot yet realize the thought that I am never to see it
again."