"We stood there until the latest glories died, and then the moon stole slowly up, with only one star beside her, like the one bright hope of a human heart. We conversed but little. My soul was too full of the home we had left, and I knew, by the expression of Harrington's face, that he understood and shared my feelings. It was late when I left him, and I cannot write more. My hand is tremulous with the strange feelings which thrill at my heart; the excitement of these last few days has been too much for me, but in the quiet of this new life I shall grow calm again, perhaps. Just now something of Mrs. Harrington's fears seems to oppress me.
"A month has passed. Our voyage is almost at an end, for to-morrow the captain promises that we shall be safely anchored in the harbor of Cadiz. The sun went down this evening in an embankment of clouds, shedding pale, watery gleams upon the sea, that threatened rough weather. As the darkness came on, the clouds spread upward, blackening the whole sky, and flashes of lightning now and then tore through them, like fiery chain shot through the smoke of a battle. There was consternation on board, for we were nearing the coast, and a storm like this threatened danger.
"I remained on deck till the rising wind almost swept me over the bulwarks. James Harrington was with me, and as the lightning gleamed athwart his face, I saw that it was anxious and very pale. He strove to appear unconcerned, and went down to the cabin, with a strong effort at cheerfulness, which neither deceived me, nor checked the terrible fears of his poor mother. General Harrington had retired to his state-room, where he sat in moody silence, wrapped in a large travelling cloak. When his invalid wife joined him, trembling with nervous terror, he only folded his cloak the tighter around himself, and muttered that she need apprehend no danger.
"Young Mr. Harrington wrung my hand with more of warmth than he had ever exhibited before, when he bade me good night. He has gone on deck, while I am cowering in my state-room, unable to seek rest, and striving to write, though the storm is howling louder and louder, and every lurch of the ship flings the book from my lap."
CHAPTER XXXV.
AFTER THE STORM.
"Alive and on land. In the country, back a little from the coast, we have found a shelter from the shipwreck. That we live at all is owing to the bravery of a seaman who superintended the making of a raft after the ship struck, and almost forced us to save our lives by risking them upon it. The other passengers refused to go, and for a long time we hesitated, but Ben Benson was so determined, that at last we trusted every thing to his frail craft, which, alas! was all of our brave vessel that ever reached the shore.
"I shudder even now, as I remember the fearful rush of waters around us when our craft was cut loose from the sinking vessel. A hundred ghostly forms looked down upon us from the crowded stern, dreading the death for us, which too surely fell on them.
"It was a terrible venture. The storm still raging, the sea rising high, and breakers howling on either hand, like hungry tigers tearing at their chains. It all seems like a hideous dream to me now, but I remember one thing that kept the life in my heart, when it seemed turning to stone. In the midst of the storm, as the raft reeled and plunged over the lightning-stricken waves, I found myself gathered to his bosom, and while the warmth of that embrace reached my heart, I heard such words as sent the blood thrilling like a gush of wine, back through all my veins. In the rage and whirl of the storm, while we were quivering in the very jaws of death, James Harrington uttered in many a wild word, the love that I had felt to be mine before. He seems to have forgotten it now, for since we have been housed safely on land, with the breath of a dozen orange groves awaking nothing but sweet emotions, he seems to have lost the passion of those delirious words, but that they are burned like enamel on my heart, I might fancy them a dream and nothing more.
"Why is this? What makes him so reserved and yet so gently courteous. There is no impediment to free speech. Are we not equals in birth—and as for fortune, thank Heaven, I am rich enough for both. Why should he almost shun me then, and spend so much time wandering along the coast, looking upon the waves that have almost proved fatal to us? These thoughts make me very sad. Does he repent, or has a passion that seemed so strong when death was nigh, gone out with the storm that witnessed its first utterance."