“You need not offer any excuse; my aunt told me you were coming,” she answered, in just such a voice as I should have expected to hear when looking at her.
In a very few minutes she made me quite at home, and her aunt came in, and we soon were talking away just as if we were old friends. I will not say that I forgot my grandmother and aunt, but I should be wrong if I did not confess that my sorrow was very much soothed, and what is more, that in some respects I felt happier than I had done for a very long time. Tea was made, and I began to talk to them about my adventures and my shipwrecks.
“The most dreadful,” said I, “was the first, when I and all my companions nearly lost our lives aboard the Kite.”
“The Kite!” exclaimed the young lady, “the Kite! What do you know about her? Oh, in mercy tell me, young man!”
I saw she was very much agitated, but as I could not tell what part of the narrative to pass over or to touch on slightly, I told her all about the vessel from the time we left Plymouth till we got aboard the French brig; especially I could not help speaking of Seton and his bravery, and how he was wounded, and how he entreated me to bear his dying messages to his family, and to the girl to whom he was to be married. She seemed almost breathless as I proceeded with my story, but every now and then she would say, “Go on—in mercy go on.” So I continued with my story to the end; “and,” said I, “the first time I have freedom on shore, I will, please heaven, go and fulfil my promise to poor Seton. I remember the young lady’s name—Margaret Troall.”
“You have fulfilled it already,” said the young lady, with a faltering voice, and bursting into tears; “I am Margaret Troall. And oh, believe me, I am most grateful to you.”
I was astonished, I found that the rest of her family in England were dead, and that she and her aunt had come to live at Plymouth just as my aunt and her husband had left the place, and they had taken my grandmother’s house, which was then vacant. At first, after all this, the young lady was very sad, but by degrees she recovered her spirits, and we talked on very pleasantly till Miss Rundle came in.
She wasn’t half as stiff as at first, when she saw how well I was received by Mrs Sandon (that was the name of the old lady) and her niece, and she promised to write to my aunt to tell her that I was alive and well, and that she might expect to see me some day.
“When you see her, as I hope you will soon,” said she, “remember to tell her that I am looking well, and that you knew me at once.”
“That I will, Miss Rundle,” said I; “I’ll tell her that you look as young and handsome as you ever did, and for that matter younger to my eyes,—and that’s the truth.”