On—on they sailed with wind and tide, until night set in, and then the former suddenly changed, and a high sea arose. Minnie had lain down dressed beside her boy; her mistress slept in a berth above her. Suddenly there arose a noise more than usual over-head, footsteps, and voices calling fore and aft. She sat up and listened. Some of the ladies slept, others were partially awakened by the noise, and murmuringly called the attendant. Some sat up, the better to listen. Minnie was very pale, but spoke not. At this moment a man appeared at the cabin door; he was in a sailor's heaviest dress, for weathering rough weather. He whispered the attendant, who grew paler; then he crept almost noiselessly in, and commenced putting in and securing, what are called the dead-lights. Then he stole away as he had entered; but, as he mounted the companion ladder, he closed and fastened the door. Minnie did not shriek, but she arose, and, though scarcely able to keep her footing, held on to the side of the berth, and whispered her mistress, "Madame, madame, awake and dress!" The lady started up; just at that moment something crashed on deck, and went over the side. A simultaneous scream burst from all in that cabin; then for an instant, which seemed as an age in duration, there were breathless silence and watching for the expected signal again, of disaster; but nothing was heard save hurrying footsteps over-head, and the heavy ploughing of the steamer through the waves, which broke with a monotonous sound against the vessel, which seemed like some poor, breathing, overwhelmed animal, struggling for its life. After this moment's suspense, wherein every ear expected to be startled by some fierce cry of despair, all in that cabin looked from one to another in terror. This lasted another minute—then one, endowed with a sudden desire to fly the gloomy silence of that almost dark cabin, where only one small lamp flickered to and fro in the centre, sprang up the ladder and endeavoured to open the door; but it resisted all her efforts. With a wild cry she shook it madly; then, struggling in her fear, fell headlong downwards, and lay on the floor, terrifying the inmates of that prison-house by her shrieks of wild, hysterical agony. Some rose, some kneeled and prayed, with trembling upraised hands. Others were too lifeless to think, but leaned stupefied against the side of the cabin. One woman lay still—perfectly still, and beside her were two beautiful sleeping children; her pale lips alone breathed a prayer for mercy, as she clasped both to her bosom. Minnie had awakened her mistress, whose personal attendant was too much alarmed to think except of herself; and Tremenhere's deserted wife, with her boy clasped in one arm to her heart, yet found courage with the other to enfold the almost paralyzed lady, and breathe words of hope; and thus the vessel toiled on with its death-expecting cargo. For nearly an hour, it seemed as if for one plunge she took despairingly forward, she was driven double the distance back again; assuredly she made no way in that heavy sea. At length there was a pause, as though she had some impossible wave to cut through; every heart stood still; then her sides creaked and heaved; the timbers seemed like complaining spirits. She had had both wind and tide against her; in an instant, as if by magic, she appeared to swing round, with her head to the wind, and onward she flew, like a soul loosened from bondage, and seeking its haven of rest. She was returning to Marseilles. It was a race for life; but, like many an overwrought gallant steed, her strength failed where her spirit upheld. Onward she dashed, and one wild shriek mingled with the severing crash, as "L'Hirondelle" broke upon the rocks, her crew was powerless to keep her off, and went to pieces in that dark, dreary night.
It is not our province, even though we portray a true scene, to speak of all in that doomed steamer; it is with Minnie we have to buffet over the waves of that dark sea, in a small boat, into which many—far too many, had crowded. Her child was clasped in a grasp like death, (for only that could have parted them,) to her shivering breast powerless to warm it, while its faint cry broke in agony on her stricken heart. Still she hoped; she knew something more than human force would be requisite to separate her from her infant, strained as it was to her bosom. So the shivering mother sat still, uncomplaining in her anguish, and thus they drifted on in that laden boat. Morning broke, and the boat was keel uppermost, riding on a calm sea; to that keel clung two living beings, the mother and child, yet the latter scarcely lived. The tone of that little voice was a faint murmur of expiring nature, which echoed in a heavy sob from the mother's heart, as she clung to the keel in almost despairing hope, and thus they drifted to and fro, a mockery of life, so nigh death they seemed on that calm sea, until her benumbed hand, for one grasped her child, could scarcely cling on, and insensibility was stealing over both, slowly and gradually, so much so that it seemed as a dream, two rough, but friendly arms, lifting her into a boat, where she was gently laid at the bottom on sails and coats, and covered up carefully from the spray, which dashed over her, as in playfulness. What means of restoration they had at hand, were supplied by those rough nurses, two fishermen on the Marseilles coast, who, quitting their toil for that day, sailed in, as quickly as possible, to their humble village-home, of a few poor cottages up the coast. A long, insensible sleep was Minnie's, when she was laid in the cotter's bed. Her long, fair hair hung in heavy, damp masses on the coverlet, and on her bosom lay the living thing she still clasped in her straining arms, loving almost unto death. It was nearly two long days before she awoke to perfect consciousness, to find herself tended with care and every kindness their poverty could afford, by the two men who had rescued her, and who, calling in a woman from a neighbouring hut, placed the mother and child under her care. Her first awakening was a loud cry of terror, as in a horrid dream she saw the past, and her first thought was her boy. Startled by her cry, the woman ceased a low monotonous song she was singing, to lull an infant to sleep with by the fire. Minnie sprang from the bed towards her, and in an instant memory gave her back all; for one doubting moment she held her child at arm's length to recall the features, then folding those arms in gentle, but strong hold around it, she sunk tremblingly on her knees, and the fair veil of hair sweeping the ground, made her seem a spirit from another world, in purity and holiness, as, raising her streaming eyes upwards, her lips murmured in deep, heartfelt gratitude—"Oh, I am not worthy of so much mercy! so great a blessing! teach me to deserve it!"
And her tears baptized anew her child, spared from death.
CHAPTER XI.
With her memory and return to life, came a strange desire over Minnie's heart. She learned by the inquiries of the fisherman, that almost all on board the ill-fated Hirondelle had been lost. Only one or two of the passengers, and a few of the crew, had been picked up. Her sorrow was keen and heart-rending, on hearing that the lady whom she had vainly endeavoured to save, was amongst the lost—all were reported so, except the few we have named; and one of the men returning from Marseilles one day, brought her a paper containing a list of those lost, or supposed to be; and almost the first name she read there was, "Madame Tremenhere, and child." Her first feeling was a shudder, as she thought of what might have been. Then an idea rushed through her brain of, "What would Miles's feelings be should he read this? Would he regret her?—still hate her? Or, his once strong love reviving, would he remember her only through that medium, and sorrow over her fate?"
"Should he," she mentally said, "what heartfelt joy it would be to seek him, and, casting myself at his feet, pray him to take me once again to his arms and heart!"
This thought gave rise to the earnest desire of proving him. This task did not seem difficult or impossible. Her humble friends were not of that class to carry the news of her existence far and wide; her name, too, was unknown to them. More than thanks she had little to give, reserving to herself in some hereafter, to reward them amply. Her object was to gain Paris once again, and then ponder upon the best means of carrying out her project; it seemed to her as a last hope. The only articles of value she possessed were a watch and chain, which her ill-fated mistress had given her the day before they sailed. On these, her late friends, the fishermen, had raised her a sum of money in Marseilles; a small sum she forced upon them, and with the remainder, after purchasing a few absolute necessaries, the still hoping woman left, unrecognized, for Paris. She had confided to her friends a wish to be unknown, until she reached her relatives, and thus a passport was obtained in the name of Deval. With her she took the paper containing the list of passengers supposed to be lost, and thus she started for Paris.
Minnie had not calculated all in doing this; she overlooked, in her haste to put a last hope of reconciliation in practice, the grief many might feel. But it was done, and thought came afterwards. She knew that, by sending the paper to Tremenhere's artist-friend, in Paris, it assuredly would reach him, directed to himself; consequently, on her arrival, her first act was to seek the box of one of those curiously occupied persons in that large city, who sit at the corners of some streets, and, for a trifle, write letters for the illiterate or mysterious. Here she got her paper addressed to Tremenhere, to his friend's care, in a strange hand, and sent it by a porter, with an order to leave it in the loge de concièrge, without answering any questions, merely inquiring if they knew the address of the gentleman. The man returned to her, and said—
"The person to whom it was addressed, was daily expected in Paris, and it should be given to him." Her heart bounded with a joy, long a stranger to it, at this information; all seemed to favour her scheme. Then, however, for the first time she sat down to reflect, and thought of Mary's certain grief—Dorcas—Skaife—all, perhaps; but she consoled herself with the reflection—"It will not be for long: Miles will come to Paris—when he receives the paper, he will go to Mary. I will watch for him near her house, and his friend's; and when I see his fine head bowed in sorrow, I will bid it raise itself up, rejoicing!"