"What a woman! And she calls herself a mother! I wonder ye don't think shame, ma'am, sitting there at your ease, and never minding what comes of your own daughter. But she's foisted her on my poor Peter, and that's all she cares for. And she's not minding what I say wan bit.

Oh, thae Canadian women!"

Mrs Naylor was too poorly to rejoin. Engrossed in her own misery, she probably did not hear.

"Here you! Steward, waiter, whatever ye are," cried Mrs Wilkie, "go down to the cabin. I would break my neck if I ventured through this f.e.c.kless crowd. See if ye can find Mr Wilkie--a big handsome gentleman. Ye can't mistake him. Tell him his mother's up here, and wants him."

The messenger went, and returned, and was sent over all the ship, in vain. The missing man was neither to be found nor heard of, and it was discovered that Margaret Naylor was missing likewise.

"Oh, captain, captain! put back--put back! You've left Mr Wilkie behind."

"Impossible, ma'am. We couldn't get in at the landing now. The weather is growing worse, and we must make what speed we can back into the bay. This is not a sea-going craft."

"But you've left my boay on a desert island, and ye'll have murder or marrich on your soul. Ye _must_ go back; or I'll have the law of ye as soon as ever I get my fut on dry land."

"We might never reach dry land at all, if we were to put back in the weather that is coming on. The gentleman is quite safe. The fishermen have a cabin, round the island at the other landing. He'll be all right, and comfortable."

"Why will ye not go to the other landing, and see? to ease a mother's feelin's."

"There's a sand-bar there. We could not get near the sh.o.r.e."

"Ye might try. Ye could send your boat for them.... Yonder! I see a black thing moving.... He'll be dead or married before morning. Oh, captain!... Turn!... For pity's sake!"

The captain turned and looked in the old woman's face, whose eyes, already full, were on the point of br.i.m.m.i.n.g over. The alternative she named seemed rather an anticlimax, and not so very harrowing. He would have liked, himself, to be offered such a choice, but fate had never so favoured him.

"He'll do, ma'am. She ain't half bad, the craft he has in tow. She's right and tight. I saw them steering off together."

"He'll be done for, ye scoffin' reprobate! Ye think it fine fun, I daresay; but it's no joke to a man in his poseetion. The girl's well enough, for anything I know. In fack, I thought her not amiss. But marryin's an expurriment ye can try but wance; and I want to make sure before I give my leave.... Do you no see yon black thing movin', captain? It's him! I'm sure of it. Turn!... like a lamb!" and she held out her hands.

The lamb smiled within his beard; but the blandishment was unavailing.

"There's nothing moving but the ship, ma'am; and she'll have to move faster, or worse will happen;" and so saying, he escaped to the engine-room to crack on more steam.

Mrs Wilkie was in despair. She clasped her hands and staggered to the taffrail, to gaze her last and fondest on the retreating island. She clung to the flagstaff, with eyes streaming tears, and her short grey curls draggling in the wind. She even waved her parasol in sad adieu; but the wind, ere long, caught hold of that, and spread it out, and twitched it from her grasp, and sent it spinning through the air away to leeward. Anon she waved her handkerchief, when she could spare it from its duty at her eyes, clinging to her flagstaff, swaying and swinging, heaving and falling, with the motion of the vessel, till the pitiless ocean a.s.serted its cruel rights, and she sank a sea-sick Niobe upon the deck.

CHAPTER XIX.

STORM-STAYED.

His niece's eyesight was not at fault when she thought that she recognised Joseph Naylor's figure silhouetted against the horizon. It was he indeed, and he was not alone. That was the sweetest walk, he told himself, which he had ever taken. It was the happiest day; and he looked back in his tranquil bliss, standing with eyes which rested dreamily upon the sea; and, forgetting to converse, he wondered if the unreasoning transports he had known in youth were to be compared to this.

It seemed like the warm radiance of an unclouded afternoon succeeding a day of rain which has been ushered in by deceitful sun-bursts, sent, as it were, to deepen the succeeding gloom. The peace and trust, and the contented sense of basking, without a wish left unfulfilled, were inexpressibly sweet. The sense of doubleness, which had disturbed his earlier intercourse with his companion, had disappeared. His spiritual eyes had focussed themselves into agreement, and now the two images were blended into one. It was the first and only tenderness of his life, stifled though still smouldering beneath the years of widowhood, on which this stranger had chanced to let in air; and the spark divine had awoke among its ashes, and was again aflame.

Words he had none just then. His being was strung too high for the vibrations to be made audible in common utterance. He was only receptive now, drinking in influence from her presence, but making no response. They had been together all the day. In the morning they had been gay at the cheerful starting. They had been conversational as the day waxed warmer, companionable when it threatened to grow oppressive, and they had felt like very old friends who understood each other thoroughly, when they set out to walk.

The extreme tranquillity at which they had now arrived was a little more complete than Rose Hillyard altogether enjoyed. Fortunately she was sympathetic by nature, and understood a great deal more than was conveyed to her by words. She appreciated the silence--felt, indeed, that it was the highest compliment, or rather something immeasurably beyond compliment; but ere long she began to wish that it would not last much longer.

The mind of Rose was not altogether so utterly at ease as it appeared, though she would not for the world that any one should have so suspected. She would have done violence to herself, even, sooner than acknowledge in her heart that she was not at peace; but still there was a fever in her blood, making her restless, and eager to be doing, and drown an inarticulate yearning for something she would not name.

The silence drove her back upon herself, and gave voices opportunity to make themselves audible within--voices she had endeavoured to silence, and forbidden to be there. "If the man would only say something! If he would even flirt!" That was a pretty game which she believed she understood and could play with the best. But this was not flirtation: it was right down solemn earnest; and she was pleased in thinking that it was. A good man's happiness was in her hands; and more, she liked the man, and believed, I dare affirm--though we must not say "intended to accept" what has not yet been offered--that when he declared himself she would lend a friendly ear.

And yet she had rather he would have flirted. The stir and interest of the game would have afforded the excitement for which she craved. It was but a game, and could be played without a second thought. The serious thing was different. So much depends on it, that people play it slower; and they play it with the heart, and not the head, which is the more nimble member. It was movement and excitement for which her fibres ached; though peace, if that had been attainable, had been far more precious.

"How fond you must be of the sea!" she said at last. "We seem to have been standing here a long time."

Joseph started, and turned. Her voice had broken in upon a reverie which could not be called a day-dream. It had been too pa.s.sive for succession of ideas, and was rather a receptive bathing in the blissfulness of the situation. But yet no waking could have been sweeter than the sound of that voice which now addressed him. It was the same which he remembered long ago, whose echoes had thrilled him in his dreams, and made his wakings sorrowful to find it was not there. It was with a smile and a deep full breath of satisfaction that he turned to his companion.

"Forgive me," he said. "It is so pleasant being here, that I forgot about pa.s.sing time.... Yes, I am fond of the sea. I always was. I left home to go to sea when I was a boy--could not stay away from it. It is so big and so even, and it changes under one's very eye, you can't tell how. It feels as if it were alive--a being that could understand your thoughts without your telling them."

"So it does. I know the feeling, although I never attempted to put it into words.... The sea is company--when one is alone; but now----?"

and she looked up in his eyes with the flicker of a smile which was scarcely reproachful, yet not quite humorous.

"Most true," he answered, smiling in reply. "The silent communion with Nature is not a sociable observance; and, as you say, we must have stood here a good while. Let's follow this footpath. It seems to run round the island on the inner side. The walking will be easier, and we shall get back sooner than by crossing the hill as we came."

The path ran for a time along the edge of cliffs, which stood some forty or fifty feet above the sea, and sank sheer down into deep water, fretting the smooth green billows rolling by into a fringe of foam. Turning with the rounding of the land, the path struck down upon the leeward side of the island and ran along the sh.o.r.e.

"Should we not hurry?" Rose Hillyard observed. "The tide must have sunk a long way since we left the steamer. See those rocks covered with wet sea-weed. They must have been under water this last tide, and now they are feet above it. The captain spoke about the tide, and his fear of stranding, and being forced to wait twelve hours for next high water. Must we not make haste?"

"I do not see why we should disturb ourselves. There are three of our people yonder, sitting on a sandhill and at ease. Had we not better do likewise? They seem happy.... As for me, I have no watch, and no care for time. Let us be guided by _them_."

"And my watch has stopped, or something. Well!... I hope those others are keeping track of the time.... Yes, it is nice here. The air is more still than it was on the cliffs, and yet not so hot. But is the light not growing dim? This is pleasanter than the glare of mid-day.

Why can it not be always afternoon? Yet, has it not come on us rather suddenly?"

They were sitting now, and their talk was dribbling along in an easy, drowsy way, such as might be expected from people who had been for so many hours in each other's company. It was after luncheon, after a walk, after a day whose heat and blazing brightness had only been made tolerable by fresh sea-air, in itself a form of stimulation. Their nerves, all day kept tense, were relaxing now, and a restful feeling, born of harmonious companionship, was extending from the mind into the physical system, and producing a tranquillity in which content was verging towards lethargy. In fact, they were a little tired, and more than a little sleepy. Head propped on hand, and that supported on the extended elbow, they reclined upon the bent which clothed a swelling sandhill. Conversation grew intermittent and monosyllabic, and then ceased--their eyelids growing momentarily heavier without their being aware.

A shrill reverberation broke upon the air. It stopped, and began anew, and ended in a volley of shrill, short, barking shrieks. Joseph lifted his head and looked about. He had forgot about the steamboat, and the idea of its whistling a recall did not occur to him It was sea-fowl he thought of in that solitary place, and he wondered drowsily at the harshness of their cry, and their strength of lung. He threw a listless glance aloft, but not a wing was visible over all the sky; only the sun was veiled now in a cloud, and did not dazzle--which was comfortable, and made the restful feeling more complete.

The next sensation he was conscious of was damp. Big drops of rain were lighting on his face, and wetting his limbs through the thin summer clothing. He started now. Yes, he must have slept. The sky was black, and the scene grown dim like twilight. Like twilight for an instant, and then a blinding flash made everything intensely visible, and the heavens seemed to crack above the trembling earth with loud reverberating thunder.

He started and laid his hand on his companion's shoulder.

"Rosa!"--How sweet the name felt on his lips, even in his hurry! It was his first time to use it. But had he the right?--"Miss Hillyard!

Arouse! A storm is coming on. You will be drenched. Arouse!"

Rose opened her eyes. She looked straight in his, and with a pleasant smile. It was an instant before she was fully conscious of the situation--so sweet an instant! Then she was herself, and sprang to her feet.

"We must run! But where? How wrong of me to sleep!" It was Joseph who spoke. "Ha! down yonder on the beach I see a boat. We may find shelter for you near there."

The lightning flashed incessantly. The air quivered with the resounding thunderclaps succeeding one another without interval or pause. The rain streamed down. The windows of heaven were opened, and the waters of the firmament descended in sheets, as if to overwhelm the earth.

He took her hand, and they hurried along the sands towards the boat, as quickly as they could, by the gleam of the intermittent flashes, which blinded while they lasted, and yet made the intervals between seem dark as night by contrast.

A halloo reached them as they stumbled on, and made them turn aside, where, in a sheltered corner, stood the fishermen's hut. They were inside in a moment, still dazed and panting from the buffeting storm, and streaming with rain, though the time they had been exposed to it was shorter than it has taken to relate. Grateful for the shelter, they recognised that it was Blount and Wilkie who had hailed them, while Margaret stood within, coaxing some dying embers into flame with the aid of a fan and some fresh fuel, preparatory to drying herself; for she too had been caught in the rain, though she had not been drenched as Rose was. The men, watching the storm from the open door, had seen the others hurrying by, and had hailed them to the shelter they would otherwise have missed.

"You?" cried Walter Blount, in a tone which betrayed perhaps a shade of disappointment as well as the natural surprise. He had known of the expedition to Fessenden's Island, and had sailed thither in hopes of what would scarcely be an accidental meeting, and he had been fortunate beyond his expectation. When the whistle of the steamer had sounded, he had heard, but Margaret had taken no heed, and Wilkie in his discomfiture, had seemingly not observed. It would have been gratuitous on his part, he thought, to disturb the harmony and precipitate a parting, seeing that he had a boat of his own, in which they could return at any time. If Wilkie would have gone, it would have been better still, only that Margaret must have accompanied him; wherefore he exerted himself to brighten the talk, and keep their thoughts as far as possible from the subject of the steamer; and to his own surprise he succeeded, for he could not understand why "_that fellow Wilkie_" should feel engrossed.

And perhaps the "fellow" was not, but only mortified and squelched at the unwonted neglect into which he, who had come to look on himself as an invincible lady-killer, had fallen. Anything seemed better to him than the shame of returning to the steamer alone. How would he feel when asked what he had done with his companion? And, foolishly, he had a misgiving that if he proposed to return, she would not accompany him. Her attention was now transferred entirely to the rival, and he found himself nowhere. But he would stick to her like a burr. One can sometimes spoil a game which one cannot join in. He was sure the rival wished him away; and that was reason enough for sticking fast and showing no sign. By-and-by, when the other was gone, the lady would be more amenable to his displeasure, and then would be his time to show it.