That afternoon old Mr Damerell and his daughter were, according to their usual custom, on the Nothe, Eva with a piece of dainty embroidery work wherewith to amuse herself, and her father with his somewhat ancient but trusty telescope, without which, indeed, he was scarcely ever seen out of doors. They had hardly reached the old gentleman’s favourite point of look-out when his quick eye detected the ship reaching down along the east land, and even before he had adjusted the telescope he had a presentiment that she might be the Flying Cloud. He had received a hastily-scribbled line or two from Ned—forwarded by means of the shore-boat, which had taken off the passengers’ luggage at Gravesend—which had made him acquainted with the day and hour of the ship’s sailing; and his long experience and intimate acquaintance with the navigation of the Channel, aided by his habitual observation of the weather, enabled him to follow the subsequent movements of the Flying Cloud almost as unerringly as though his eye had been on her the whole time. In one particular only had his calculations been inaccurate, and that was in the speed of the ship; he had not reckoned on her being either so fast or so weatherly as she had proved to be, and his reckoning located her as being at that moment within sight of but to the eastward of the Wight. When, however, he saw a large ship, loaded, and evidently by the course she was steering, bound out of the channel, and when he further noted the clean, white, new appearance of the stranger’s canvas, the peculiar painting of her hull, and the very marked similarity of appearance which she bore to the picture at that moment hanging in the place of honour on the walls of his snug little parlour, he was quite prepared to admit a possible error in his calculations sufficient to account for the appearance of the ship where she actually was; and when he saw the colours hoisted, he had, of course, no further doubt upon the matter. The ship, it is true, was heading so obliquely towards him that he could only see the house-flag at her main-skysail-mast-head; but that was quite sufficient. The broad snow-white field, the blue border and cross, and the large red B in the centre, were plainly distinguishable through his telescope; and turning to his daughter he said, with just a faint tremor of excitement in his voice:
“Eva, do you see that ship reaching down under the east land, yonder?”
“The one you have been watching so intently, father? Yes, I see her,” was the reply. “What a noble object she looks, with her white canvas gleaming in the sun! It is not often that we see such large ships as that so close in with the land, is it? I wonder where she is going!”
“She is bound to Melbourne. She is called the Flying Cloud, and she has a young gentleman named Edward Damerell on board her, who, I’ll be bound, is at this moment intently looking in this direction,” answered the old gentleman decisively.
“Oh, father, you can’t mean it!” exclaimed the young lady impetuously, though she knew very well that her father did mean it. “Pray let us make haste down to the boat and go out to meet him.”
Her father looked irresolute, took another glance at the ship, then shook his head sorrowfully.
“It would be of no use, my dear,” he said. “Before we could reach the boat and get her under weigh yonder ship will have tacked, and fast as the Eva is she would never catch her in this light breeze. No; we must be satisfied to remain here and see as much of the Flying Cloud as we can. Perhaps when the ship goes about we may even succeed in catching a glimpse of dear Ned himself through the glass.”
At this moment the loud clanging of a bell, which was being rung somewhere down in the harbour, smote noisily upon their ears.
“The very thing!” exclaimed Eva, starting eagerly to her feet. “Come, father, we have not a moment to lose! That is the first bell. The Victoria is to make an excursion to the Bill this afternoon, and if we go on the trip we shall surely pass not very far from Ned’s ship.”
“Capital!” exclaimed the old man cheerily. “Come along, my girl; we are neither of us rigged exactly in a style suited to our mingling with swells; but never mind, we shall both pass muster, I dare say, and, whether or no, we have no time to shift our canvas.”