“It was, indeed, a fearful moment,” he continued, “and yet I did not feel deserted by hope; I was prepared for death, I prayed fervently, and I felt that my prayer was not unheard; even then, in that strife of foaming sea and roaring blast, God sent the vision of an angel to comfort and sustain me! It wore the form of one who has ever dwelt in my thoughts by day, and in my dreams by night; who seemed as near to me then, as she does now that her gentle tears are flowing at this recital of my trials.”
While speaking the last words, his low voice trembled until it fell into a whisper, and Lucy, overcome by her feelings, would have fallen from her chair, had not his ready arm supported her. A dead silence reigned in the room; Aunt Mary wept aloud, and Colonel Brandon walked to the window to conceal his emotion. After a few minutes, as he turned again towards them, Ethelston, who still supported Lucy, beckoned him to approach, and, addressing him in a tone of deep and earnest feeling, said,
“Colonel Brandon, my guardian, friend, and benefactor; add yet this one to all your former benefits, and my cup of gratitude will be full indeed:” as he spoke he took the unresisting hand of Lucy in his own: the Colonel looked inquiringly and affectionately at his daughter, who did not speak, but raised her tearful eyes to his, with an expression not to be misunderstood. Pressing their united hands between his own, and kissing Lucy’s forehead, he whispered,
“God bless you, my children:” after a pause he added, with a suppressed smile, “Ethelston shall finish his narrative presently;” and, taking Aunt Mary’s arm, he left the room.
We will imitate the Colonel’s discretion, and forbear to intrude upon the sacred quiet of a scene where the secret, long–cherished love of two overflowing hearts was at length unreservedly interchanged; we need only say that ere the Colonel returned with Aunt Mary, after an absence of half an hour, Lucy’s tears were dried, and her cheeks were suffused with a mantling blush, as she sprung into her father’s arms, and held him in a long and silent embrace.
“Come, my child,” said the Colonel, when he had returned her affectionate caress: “sit down, and let us hear the conclusion of Ethelston’s adventures—we left him in a perilous plight, and I am anxious to hear how he escaped from it.”
“Not without much suffering, both of mind and body, my dear sir,” continued Ethelston in a serious tone of voice; “for the sea dashed to and fro with such violence the frail basket–work to which Cupid and I were clinging, that more than once I was almost forced to quit my hold, and it was soon evident that its buoyant power was not sufficient to save us both, especially as Cupid’s bulk and weight were commensurate with his gigantic strength. His coolness under these trying circumstances was remarkable: observing that I was almost fainting from the effects of a severe blow on the head from a floating piece of the wreck, he poured into my mouth some rum from a small flask that he had contrived to secure, and then replacing the stopper, he thrust the flask into my breast pocket, saying, ‘Capt’n drink more when he want:’ at this moment a large spar from the wreck was driven past us, and the faithful creature said, ‘Capt’n, hencoop not big enough for two, Cupid swim and take spar to ride;’ and, ere I could stop him, he loosed his hold and plunged into the huge wave to seize the spar: more I could not see, for the spray dashed over me, and the gloom and the breakers hid him in a moment from my sight. I felt my strength failing, but enough remained for me to loose a strong silk kerchief from my neck, and to lash myself firmly to the hencoop. Again and again the wild sea broke over me; I felt a tremendous and stunning blow—as I thought, the last, and I was no more conscious of what passed around.
“When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon some soft branches, and sheltered by low bushes, a few hundred yards from the sea–beach; two strange men were standing near me, and gave evident signs of satisfaction when they saw my first attempts at speech and motion; they made me swallow several morsels of sea–biscuit steeped in rum, and I was soon so far restored as to be able to sit up, and to learn the particulars of my situation. The island near which the brig had been wrecked, was one of the Tortugas; the two men who had carried me up to a dry spot from the beach, belonged to a small fishing–craft, which had put in two days before the hurricane for a supply of water and in hopes of catching turtle. Their vessel was securely moored in a little natural harbour, protected by the outer ledge of rocks: the reef on which the brig had struck was upwards of a mile from the spot where they had found me; and I could not learn from them that they had seen any portion of her wreck, or any part of her crew, alive or dead.
“As soon as my bruised condition permitted me to drag my limbs along, I commenced a careful search along the low rocky shore, in hopes of learning something of the fate of Cupid, and at length was horrified on discovering the mutilated remains of the faithful creature, among some crevices in the rocks. He had clung to the spar which still lay beside him with the pertinacious strength of despair: his hands and limbs were dreadfully mangled, and his skull fractured by the violence with which he had been driven on the reef. I remembered how he had resigned the hencoop to save my life; and the grief that I evinced for his loss moved the compassion of the fishermen, who aided me to bury him decently on the island.
“We remained there two days longer, until the gale had subsided, during which time I frequently visited poor Cupid’s grave; and though many of our countrymen would be ashamed of owning such regret for one of his colour, I confess that when on that lonely spot I called to mind his faithful services, and his last noble act of generous courage, I mourned him as a friend and brother.