Like dew upon the arid desert, or healing balm to a throbbing wound, so did those few and simple words fall on Ellen's ear; but the fervent thanksgiving that rose swelling in her heart, wanted not words to render it acceptable to Him, whose unbounded mercy she thus acknowledged and adored.
Mrs. Hamilton pressed her closer to her bosom, again and again she kissed her, and tried to speak the words of affectionate soothing, which seldom failed to restore Ellen to composure.
"You told me once, my Ellen, that you never, never could repay the large debt of gratitude you seemed to think you owed me. Do you remember my saying you could not tell that one day you might make me your debtor, and are not my words truth? Did I not prophesy rightly? What do I not owe you, my own love, for sparing me so much anxiety and wretchedness? Look up and smile, my Ellen, and let us try if we can listen composedly to our dear Edward's account of his providential escape. If he were near me I would scold him for giving you such inexpressible joy so suddenly."
Ellen did look up and did smile, a bright beaming smile of chastened happiness, and again and again did she read over that letter, as if it were tidings too blessed to be believed, as if it could not be Edward himself who had written. His letter was hasty, nor did he enter into very many particulars, which, to render a particular part of our tale intelligible, we must relate at large in another chapter. This epistle was dated from Rio Janeiro, and written evidently under the idea that his sister had received a former letter containing every minutiae of his escape, which he had forwarded to her, under cover to Captain Seaforth, only seven days after his supposed death. Had the captain received this letter, all anxiety would have been spared, for as he did not write to Mr. Hamilton for above a week after Edward's disappearance, it would have reached him first; it was therefore very clear it had been lost on its way, and Edward fearing such might be the case, from the uncertain method by which it had been sent, wrote again. He had quite recovered, he said, all ill effects from being so long floating in the water on a narrow plank; that he was treated with marked kindness and attention by all the crew of the Alma, a Spanish vessel bound to Rio Janeiro and thence to New York, particularly by an Englishman, Lieutenant Mordaunt, to whose energetic exertions he said he greatly owed his preservation; for it was he who had prevailed on the captain to lower a boat, to discover what that strange object was floating on the waves. He continued, there was something about Lieutenant Mordaunt he could not define, but which had the power of irresistibly attracting his respect, if not affection. His story he believed was uncommon, but he had not yet heard it all, and had no time to repeat it, as he was writing in great haste. Affectionately he hoped no alarm amongst his friends had been entertained on his account, that it would not be long before he returned home; for as soon as the slow-sailing Spaniard could finish her affairs with the ports along the coast of Spanish America and reach New York, Lieutenant Mordaunt and himself had determined on quitting her, and returning to England by the first packet that sailed. A letter to New York might reach him, but it was a chance; therefore he did not expect to receive any certain intelligence of home—a truth which only made him the more anxious to reach it.
Quickly the news that Edward Fortescue lived, and was returning home in perfect health, extended far and wide, and brought joy to all who heard it. A messenger was instantly despatched to Trevilion Vicarage to impart the joyful intelligence to Arthur and Emmeline, and the next day saw them both at Oakwood to rejoice with Ellen at this unexpected but most welcome news. There was not one who had been aware of the suspense Mr. Hamilton and Ellen had been enduring who did not sympathise in their relief. Even Mrs. Greville left her solitary home to seek the friends of her youth: she had done so previously when affliction was their portion. She had more than once shared Ellen's anxious task of nursing, when Mrs. Hamilton's fever had been highest; kindly and judiciously she had soothed in grief, and Mrs. Greville's character was too unselfish to refuse her sympathy in joy.
A few weeks after the receipt of that letter, Mr. Hamilton, his wife, and Ellen removed to a beautiful little villa in the neighbourhood of Richmond, where they intended to pass some of the winter months. A change was desirable, indeed requisite for all. But a short interval had passed since the death of their beloved Herbert, and there were many times when the parents' hearts yet painfully bled, and each felt retirement, the society of each other, and sometimes of their most valued friends, the exercise of domestic and religious duties, would be the most efficient means of acquiring that peace of which even the greatest affliction cannot deprive the truly religious mind. At Christmas, St. Eval had promised his family should join them, and all looked forward to that period with pleasure.
CHAPTER X.
Although we are as much averse to retrospection in a tale as our readers can be, yet to retrace our steps for a short interval is a necessity. Edward had written highly of Lieutenant Mordaunt, but as he happens to be a personage of rather more consequence to him than young Fortescue imagined, we must be allowed to introduce him more intimately to our readers.
It was the evening after that in which Lieutenant Fortescue had so rashly encountered the storm, that a Spanish vessel, of ill-shaped bulk and of some hundred tons, was slowly pursuing her course from the coast of Guinea towards Rio Janeiro. The sea was calm, almost motionless, compared with its previous fearful agitation. The sailors were gaily employed in their various avocations, declaring loudly that this respite of calm was entirely owing to the interposition of St. Jago in their favour, he being the saint to whom they had last appealed during the continuance of the tempest. Aloof from the crew, and leaning against a mast, stood one apparently very different to those by whom he was surrounded. It was an English countenance, but embrowned almost to a swarthy hue, from continued exposure to a tropical sun. Tall and remarkably well formed, he might well have been supposed of noble birth; there were, however, traces of long-continued suffering imprinted on his manly face and in his form, which sometimes was slightly bent, as if from weakness rather than from age. His dark brown hair was in many parts silvered with grey, which made him appear as if he had seen some fifty years at least; though at times, by the expression of his countenance, he might have been thought full ten years younger. Melancholy was the characteristic of his features; but his eye would kindle and that cheek flush, betraying that a high, warm spirit still lurked within, one which a keen observer might have fancied had been suppressed by injury and suffering. It was in truth a countenance on which a physiognomist or painter would have loved to dwell, for both would have found in it an interest they could scarcely have defined.
Thus resting in meditative silence, Lieutenant Mordaunt's attention was attracted by a strange object floating on the now calm ocean. There were no ships near, and Mordaunt felt his eyes fascinated in that direction, and looking still more attentively, he felt convinced it was a human body secured to a plank. He sought the captain instantly, and used every persuasion humanity could dictate to urge him to lower a boat. For some time he entreated in vain. Captain Bartholomew said it was mere folly to think there was any chance of saving a man's life, who had been so long tossed about on the water, it would be only detaining him for nothing; his ship was already too full either for comfort or profit, and he would not do it.