“When I was a boy at school,” said Adam, “I used to think that God sent all the rain upon holidays, on purpose to disappoint us of our sport. I found that most things in life happened contrary to our wishes; and I used to pray devoutly, that all the Saturdays might prove wet, firmly believing that it would be sure to turn out the reverse.”
“According to your theory, Mansel,” said Mr. Hawke, “Mrs. Lyndsay must have prayed for a very fine day.”
“Dost thee call this a holiday?” returned the Quaker, with a twinkle of quiet humour in his bright brown eyes.
Mr. Hawke suppressed a sigh, and his glance again fell on his boy; and, hurrying to the window, he mechanically drew his hand across his eyes.
Here the old Captain came bustling in, full of importance, chuckling, rubbing his hands, and shaking his dripping fearnaught, with an air of great satisfaction.
“You will not be disappointed, my dear,” addressing himself to Mrs. Lyndsay. “The wind has fallen off a bit; and, though the sea is too rough for the small craft, Palmer, the captain of the pilot-boat, has been with me; and, for the consideration of two pounds (forty shillings),—a large sum of money, by-the-bye,—I will try and beat him down to thirty,—he says he will launch the great boat, and man her with twelve stout young fellows, who will take you, bag and baggage, on board the steamer, though the gale were blowing twice as stiff. You have no more to fear in that fine boat, than you have sitting at your ease in that arm-chair. So make up your mind, my dear; for you have no time to lose.”
Flora looked anxiously from her husband to her child, and then at the black, pouring sky, and the raging waters.
“There is no danger, Flora,” said Lyndsay. “These fine boats can live in almost any sea. But the rain will make it very uncomfortable for you and the child.”
“The discomfort will only last a few minutes, Mrs. Lyndsay,” said old Kitson. “Those chaps will put you on board before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“It is better to bear a ducking than lose our passage in the Chieftain,” said Flora. “There cannot be much to apprehend from the violence of the storm, or twelve men would never risk their lives for the value of forty shillings. Our trunks are all in the boat-house, our servants discharged, and our friends gone; we have no longer a home, and I am impatient to commence our voyage.”