Rupert stood at the stern of the vessel as the last bell rang, and she slowly swung out from her moorings and began to steam down the harbor.
His arms were tightly folded across his chest, which seemed laden with a hundred-pound weight; his face was pale and stern, his eyes moody and fixed upon the receding domes and spires of the great city that he had just left.
There was a conflict of emotions in his soul, and rebellion was the fiercest of them all—rebellion against his bitter disappointment and the unrequited love that filled his heart.
He never moved from his post for an hour; he had no interest in anything that was transpiring about him; he knew, or thought he knew, no one on board, and he had no desire for society just then, even if he had; he cared little or nothing about the location of his stateroom, or to learn who were to be his companions during the next eight days.
The day was perfect. It had been oppressively warm in the city, but there was a delightful breeze upon the ocean and the air was delicious. There was not a cloud to be seen, and the sun shone around that floating world in matchless splendor, tipping every wave and ripple made by the motion of the vessel with gleams of silver, while beyond the waters were darkly and beautifully blue.
But the young man was not conscious of any of this beauty, and he might have stood there still another hour, absorbed in his own sorrowful reflections, but for a little circumstance that startled and shocked him into new life.
A voice near him was saying:
“Mamma, do you think you would like to sit here? this life-boat makes a nice shelter. I will arrange your chair and wraps, and I am sure you will be comfortable.”
“It looks inviting,” was the pleasant rejoinder; “I will at least try it until I begin to experience those qualms which all voyagers so much dread.”
A merry little laugh rang out at this—a laugh that made Rupert Hamilton’s blood tingle and glow, and his heart beat with quickened throbs; then the first voice responded: