CHAPTER XVIII.
[AN ADIEU].
The cloud-masses in the east had risen over half the sky. They now presented only a rim of flashing white along the upper edge towards the sun. The concave vault within was dim and lowering, and was advancing visibly upon the darkened sea. Low sighing voices came across the water, with the continuous flickering of far-off lightning and the grumble of distant thunder. The sea was no longer asleep, as it had been an hour ago beneath the placid light. A rolling glassy swell, which momentarily grew heavier and higher, was coming in from the ocean. The steamer at its mooring no longer lay firm and still like part of the adjacent rocks. It rose and fell obedient to the undulations, and strained upon its cables. The tide was ebbing. Not many inches now interposed between the bottom and its keel; and as the swell grew higher, there was danger that ere long she would bump upon the rocks.
The captain, watch in hand, grew restless and impatient. The passengers' time ashore was hardly yet run out, but every minute had grown precious, and he longed to be afloat. He tugged the whistle-chain, and startled the still air with loud discordant yells, then ran, gesticulating and shouting, to the poop, to warn those at hand that they must hurry on board, as there was no time to lose. The loungers rose and stretched themselves, unwilling to be disturbed; but there was something imperious in the short shrill screeches of the whistle, and they obeyed. The strollers heard and turned, and even ran when they came in sight and saw the excited skipper swinging his arms, and the men already preparing to cast loose from the shore.
In a wonderfully short space the deck was alive with passengers and the shore deserted. The skipper cast a searching look along the higher grounds within sight. There was no sign of human presence remaining on the island. The whistle uttered a last long melancholy scream of parting, and was silent, the steamer lurched upon the swell, and they were out in deep water.
The passengers separated into groups and rested, like the sediment of troubled water in a pool, watching the oncoming of the storm, as to which there could now be no mistake. Already the first eddies of the rising wind were coming from the east, and the sea was rising rapidly, making landsmen feel sedate in anticipation of that worst evil of the deep, the qualms of sickness.
There was one, however, on whom the heavings had no effect. Her mind was disturbed; bodily discomfort was forgot, or only added to her anxiety. She got up from her seat and reeled across the deck to Mrs Naylor, who sat buried in pathetic silence, awaiting whatever might be in store.
"Mrs Naylor, what ever has come of my Peter?" she said. "I cannot see him anywhere. He always comes to look after his old mother. Where is he now?"
"I do not know, Mrs Wilkie. This motion is dreadful. Oh, how could I be so foolish as venture out to sea on this horrid little boat!"
"But you must know, Mrs Naylor; I saw that girl of yours taking him away, and I have not seen sight of him since. What has she done with him? Oh, those girls! they will be the death of me."
"He certainly took Margaret for a walk, but I have not seen them since. No doubt they are in the cabin lying down. I wish I were there. I wish I were anywhere rather than here. This see-saw motion is dreadful."
"What a woman! And she calls herself a mother! I wonder ye don't think shame, ma'am, sitting there at your ease, and never minding what comes of your own daughter. But she's foisted her on my poor Peter, and that's all she cares for. And she's not minding what I say wan bit. Oh, thae Canadian women!"
Mrs Naylor was too poorly to rejoin. Engrossed in her own misery, she probably did not hear.
"Here you! Steward, waiter, whatever ye are," cried Mrs Wilkie, "go down to the cabin. I would break my neck if I ventured through this feckless crowd. See if ye can find Mr Wilkie--a big handsome gentleman. Ye can't mistake him. Tell him his mother's up here, and wants him."
The messenger went, and returned, and was sent over all the ship, in vain. The missing man was neither to be found nor heard of, and it was discovered that Margaret Naylor was missing likewise.
"Oh, captain, captain! put back--put back! You've left Mr Wilkie behind."
"Impossible, ma'am. We couldn't get in at the landing now. The weather is growing worse, and we must make what speed we can back into the bay. This is not a sea-going craft."
"But you've left my boay on a desert island, and ye'll have murder or marrich on your soul. Ye must go back; or I'll have the law of ye as soon as ever I get my fut on dry land."
"We might never reach dry land at all, if we were to put back in the weather that is coming on. The gentleman is quite safe. The fishermen have a cabin, round the island at the other landing. He'll be all right, and comfortable."
"Why will ye not go to the other landing, and see? to ease a mother's feelin's."
"There's a sand-bar there. We could not get near the shore."
"Ye might try. Ye could send your boat for them.... Yonder! I see a black thing moving.... He'll be dead or married before morning. Oh, captain!... Turn!... For pity's sake!"
The captain turned and looked in the old woman's face, whose eyes, already full, were on the point of brimming over. The alternative she named seemed rather an anticlimax, and not so very harrowing. He would have liked, himself, to be offered such a choice, but fate had never so favoured him.
"He'll do, ma'am. She ain't half bad, the craft he has in tow. She's right and tight. I saw them steering off together."
"He'll be done for, ye scoffin' reprobate! Ye think it fine fun, I daresay; but it's no joke to a man in his poseetion. The girl's well enough, for anything I know. In fack, I thought her not amiss. But marryin's an expurriment ye can try but wance; and I want to make sure before I give my leave.... Do you no see yon black thing movin', captain? It's him! I'm sure of it. Turn!... like a lamb!" and she held out her hands.
The lamb smiled within his beard; but the blandishment was unavailing. "There's nothing moving but the ship, ma'am; and she'll have to move faster, or worse will happen;" and so saying, he escaped to the engine-room to crack on more steam.
Mrs Wilkie was in despair. She clasped her hands and staggered to the taffrail, to gaze her last and fondest on the retreating island. She clung to the flagstaff, with eyes streaming tears, and her short grey curls draggling in the wind. She even waved her parasol in sad adieu; but the wind, ere long, caught hold of that, and spread it out, and twitched it from her grasp, and sent it spinning through the air away to leeward. Anon she waved her handkerchief, when she could spare it from its duty at her eyes, clinging to her flagstaff, swaying and swinging, heaving and falling, with the motion of the vessel, till the pitiless ocean asserted its cruel rights, and she sank a sea-sick Niobe upon the deck.