In the first hurry and joy of such a meeting as this much will be said that the memory cannot carry. There was a score of questions to answer and put, none of which had any reference whatever to my strange experiences. She was looking somewhat thin and worn, as though fretting had grown into a habit which she could not easily shake off. Her snow-white hair, her dear old face, her dim eyes, in which lay a heart-light of holy, reverent exultation, the trembling fingers with which she caressed my hair—the homely little parlour, too, with the dance of the fire-play in the shady corners of the room, its twenty details of pictures, sideboard—I know not what else—all my life familiar to me, upon which, indeed, the eyes of my boyhood first opened——I found it as hard to believe that I was in my old home again at last, that my mother's voice was sounding in my ear, that it was her beloved hand which toyed with my hair, as at times I had found it hard to believe that I was at sea, floating helplessly aboard a tiny raft under the stars.
'Mother, did you receive the message that was written upon a board, and read by the people of the Cape steamer homeward bound?'
'Yes, four days ago; but only four days ago, Hugh! I believed I should never see you again, my child!'
'Well, thank God! it is well with us both—ay, well with three of us,' said I: 'the third presently to be as precious in this little home, mother, as ever a one of us that has slept beneath its roof.'
'What is this you are saying?' she exclaimed.
'Be composed, and give me your ear and follow me in the adventures I am going to relate to you,' said I, pulling out my watch and looking at it.
My words would readily account for her perceiving something in my mind of a significance quite outside that of my adventures; but the instincts of the mother went further than that; I seemed to catch a look in her as though she half guessed at what I must later on tell her. It was an expression of mingled alarm and remonstrance, almost as anticipative as though she had spoken. God knows why it was she should thus suggest that she had lighted upon what was still a secret to her, seeing, as one might suppose, that the very last notion which would occur to her was that I had found a sweetheart out upon the ocean in these few weeks of my absence from home. But there is a subtle quality in the blood of those closely related which will interpret to the instincts as though the eye had the power of exploring the recesses of the heart.
I began my story. As briefly as I might, for there was no longer an hour before me, I related my adventures step by step. I had only to pronounce the girl's name to witness the little movement of jealousy and suspicion hardening in the compressed lips and graver attention of the dear old soul. I had much to say of Helga. In truth, my story was nearly all about Helga: her devotion to her father, her marvellous spirit in the direst extremity, her pious resignation to the stroke that had made her an orphan. I put before my mother a picture of the raft, the star-lit gloom of the night, the dying man with his wife's portrait in his hand. I told her of Helga's heroic struggle with her anguish of bereavement, her posture of prayer as I launched the corpse, her prayer again in the little forepeak of the lugger, where the dim lantern faintly disclosed the picture of her mother, before which the sweet heart knelt. My love for her, my pride in her, were in my face as I spoke; I felt the warm blood in my cheek, and emotion made my poor words eloquent.
Sometimes my mother would break out with an exclamation of wonder or of admiration, sometimes she would give a sigh of sympathy; tears stood in her eyes while I was telling her of the poor Danish captain's death and of Helga kneeling in prayer in the little forepeak. When I had made an end, she gazed earnestly at me for some moments in silence, and then said:
'Hugh, where is she?'