Few words were spoken. The younger of the two passengers, absorbed completely in the loveliness of the night, had lost herself in a succession of those bewitching dreams which haunt the imagination in youth. The dim obscurity of the scene, when the moon was hidden for any considerable period, affected her with a sense as of the presence of eternity; and when her relative, complaining that the air grew cool, proposed an adjournment to the cabin, she was astonished to see her niece’s eyes full of tears.
“I think it will rain,” said the aunt, scarcely knowing what to say, yet wishing to dissipate what she supposed must be sad thoughts of the past.
“The wind sighs mournfully,” answered her companion, vacantly, as if pursuing some secret train of thought, “mournfully as a lost child, alone on a moor, calling for its mother.”
Again the dame looked at her. But there were often thoughts and feelings in the imaginative niece, which the good prosaic lady could not comprehend; and so she wisely made no reply, but called the captain, who stood not far off.
“Will we continue to have clear weather, captain?” she said. “It would be a pity, after so fine a voyage, to meet a storm at the end.”
“A night like this is no sign of the morrow, ma’am,” was the reply. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if it was to blow great guns before morning. The wind has a treacherous feel about it.”
“Dear me, you frighten us,” exclaimed the good lady, with a slight scream, and visibly turning paler.
“Your niece does not look scared, at any rate, Mrs. Warren,” said the captain, laughingly, as the young girl raised herself, proud and self-collected, at her aunt’s remark. “I confess that I almost regret we have had no storm,” he added, “for I would like to see Miss Aylesford’s courage put to the test. She looks as if nothing would make her afraid.”
“Oh! she’ll be the death of me yet,” replied the aunt, “she’s so reckless. You’d tremble to see her ride, captain, leaping fences and galloping like a wild huntsman. She’ll get thrown and killed yet: she has, all the time, such fractious horses; I never had a minute’s peace in England, and I’m sure I shan’t have any here either.”
“Never fear, aunty,” said the niece, affectionately, putting her arm around the other’s waist, and yet with something of the manner with which one would soothe a timorous child. “I’ll not be so lucky as to be thrown romantically from my horse, like heroines in novels, and rescued by some handsome cavalier—”