Volume I Part 16 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p, 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.