"In with you all then—that is Captain Harvey's voice, I'll be sworn; the rumor was only too true."
"Ay, old Collins!" returned the captain; "we thought to perish in sight of our own homes; now, Mr. Hamilton, not a man will stir till you are safe!"
His companion leaped into the boat without reply, and, sinking on one of the benches, drew his cloak closely round his face. Peril was indeed still around him, but compared with the—even to that Heaven-directed heart—terrible struggle of beholding death, rising slowly but surely round him in the water-filling ship, almost within sight and sound of his home, his beloved ones, the mere hope of life seemed almost overpowering. The crew of the hapless Siren quickly deserted her. Captain Harvey was the last to descend, and, as he did so, a block of iron, loosened from its place, fell cornerwise, and struck sharply on Edward's forehead, almost stunning him for the moment, as he watched the captain's descent. He felt the blood slowly trickling down his temple and cheek; but he was not one to be daunted by pain: he resumed his station at the helm in unbroken silence, only speaking when directions were absolutely necessary, and then only in a few brief sailor-terms. They had scarcely proceeded a third of their way, when the waters boiled and foamed as tossed by some strange whirlpool, and it required all Edward's address and skill as steersman to prevent the frail boat from being drawn into the vortex. The cause was soon displayed, and every heart shuddered, for ten minutes later, and help would indeed have been in vain. The unfortunate vessel had sunk—been swallowed up in those rushing waters; the suction of so large a mass, producing for a brief interval the effect of a whirlpool. The silence of awe and of intense thankfulness, fell on the heart of every man, and more than all on his, who had so far recovered his first emotion as to gaze wonderingly and admiringly on the boyish figure at the helm, whose voice was utterly unknown, and whose features the fitful light, and the youth's steadfast gaze on his rowers, prevented his tracing with any certainty.
The crowds had increased on the shore, watching with intense eagerness the return of the boat; but the expectation was too deep for sound, silence almost portentous reigned. A huge sea had concealed her for several minutes, and Mr. Howard, who during these two long hours had remained spell-bound on the beach, groaned aloud in his agony; again she was visible, driven on with fearful velocity by the tide, nearer, nearer still. He thought he could distinguish the figure of his friend: he was sure he could hear the voice of Edward, urging, commanding, directing a landing somewhere, in contradiction to the opinion of others. They were within a dozen yards of the shore, but still not a sound of gratulation was heard. Every eye was fixed, as in the fascination of terror, on a wave in the distance, increasing in size and fury as it rapidly approached. It neared the boat—it stood impending over the frail thing as a mighty avalanche of waters—it burst; the boat was seen no longer, and a wild and terrible cry sounded far and near along the beach!
CHAPTER XII.
FOREBODINGS.
The whole of the day Mrs. Hamilton had vainly tried to shake off a most unwonted gloom. Convinced herself that it was greatly physical, from the unusual oppressiveness of the weather relaxing the nerves, which had so many months been overstrained, yet her thoughts would cling to Mr. Maitland's words, that her husband might be coming home himself; but if the accounts of Ellen's danger and Edward's confession had recalled him, he ought to have arrived full two or three weeks previous. The gale that swept round her—the awful and unnatural darkness—the remarkable phenomena, at that season, of lightning—and the long, loud thunder-claps[4] which inland could be fearfully distinguished from the gale, appalled the whole household; and therefore it was not much wonder that the vague idea of her husband's having left Feroe, and exposure to such a tempest, should become in that fearful anxiety almost a certainty of agony. It was well, perhaps, that her unselfish nature had an object to draw her in some slight degree out of herself, for her firmness, her trust beyond the accidents of earth, all seemed about to fail her, and make her for the time being most wretched. As the storm and closeness increased, so did Ellen's feverish restlessness; her nerves, not yet fully restored, felt strung almost to torture with every flash, and clap, and blast. She tried to laugh at her own folly; for, though often terrified, when a little child, at the storms in India, those of England had never affected her at all, and she could not understand why she should feel this so childishly. But argument is of little moment in such cases; and Mrs. Hamilton, satisfying her that she could no more help her present sensation than her physical weakness, tried to soothe and amuse her, and in so doing partially cheered herself. She did not leave her till past midnight; and then desiring Mrs. Langford to sit up with her till she was comfortably asleep, retired to her own bed-room. Never since her husband's absence had its solitude felt so vast—so heavily oppressive; thought after thought of him thronged her mind till she fairly gave up the effort to struggle with them. "Will his voice ever sound here again, his heart give me the support I need?" rose to her lips, as she gazed round her, and the deep stillness, the gloom only broken by a small silver lamp, and the fitful light of the fire, seemed but a solemn answer. She buried her face in her clasped hands, and the clock struck two before that inward conflict permitted her once more to lift up heart and brow in meek, trusting faith to Him who still watched over her and her beloved ones; and after an earnest, voiceless prayer, she drew her little table, with its books of devotion, to the fire, and read thoughtfully, prayerfully, for another hour, and then sought her couch. But she could not sleep; the wind had again arisen, and fearing to lie awake and listen to it would only renew her unusual agitation, she rose at four, dressed herself, and throwing on a large shawl, softly traversed the passage, and entered her niece's room; finding her, as she fully expected, as wakeful and restless as herself, with the addition of an intense headache. She had persuaded nurse Langford to go to bed, but the pain had come on since then, and made her more restless and feverish than before. She could not lie in any posture to get ease, till at last, about six o'clock, completely exhausted, she fell asleep, sitting almost upright in her aunt's arms, her head leaning against her, as she stood by the bedside. Fearing to disturb her, Mrs. Hamilton would not move, desiring the morning prayers to be said without her, and Miss Harcourt and her daughters not to wait breakfast, as she would have it with Ellen when she awoke. That she was stiff and exhausted with three hours' standing in one position, she did not heed, perhaps scarcely felt, for woman's loveliest attribute, that of a tender and utterly unselfish nurse, was hers to perfection. But she did not refuse the cup of chocolate Caroline brought her herself, and with affectionate earnestness entreated her to take.
"You look so fatigued and so pale, dearest mother, I wish you would let me take your place; I would be so quiet, so gentle, Ellen would not even know her change of nurses."
"I do not doubt your care, love, but I fear the least movement will disturb this poor child, and she has had such a restless night, I want her to sleep as long as she can. Your thoughtful care has so refreshed me, that I feel quite strong again, so go and finish your breakfast in comfort, dearest."