The steamer throbbed and snorted on its voyage round the bay, like some big amphibian of palæozoic times, parting the glassy waters right and left, and leaving a long regurgitating trail of swelling waves and eddies in its wake. The sun, now overhead, shed down his beams with an unmitigated ardour, and the water cast back the glare with blistering intensity. There really had arisen a languid air-current from the shore, as Walter Petty had predicted; but the boat was now heading down the bay towards the open sea, and travelling with the breeze, so that on board it seemed to have fallen calm, and was hot and stifling to a degree.
The chat among the voyagers flickered low, and then went out, like the flame of candles in an unwholesome well. Every one sought for shade, and gasped beneath an umbrella, or in some darkened corner of the saloon, collapsed and listless. But the steamer snorted on its way, regardless of their comfort, and gleeful, as it seemed, in the increasing heat; for now she belched forth smoke, and weltered in it, letting it curl and twist about her fore and aft, borne on the chasing breeze--as though the sportive monster were shaking out her mane, as is said to be the wont of the sea-serpent when he rises from the deep to fright lone mariners. She had grown fiendish in her mood, that misguided steamer, filling the air with foulness, and showering smuts on the white umbrellas, the fresh toilets, and even the dainty nose of beauty. It grew intolerable, and the passengers might have risen in mutiny and altered the vessel's course, but that the heat had left them limp and lacking energy. They only groaned and imprecated; while the steersman stood like a wooden image by the wheel, one turn of which would have blown away the mischief, looking at their misery with unwinking eyes, and laughing mayhap down deep within his wooden ribs.
The mouth of the bay was reached in time, and the islands with their straits and narrows, and winding channels running in between; and beyond, the blue Atlantic. A new life breathed on them the moment they passed the cape which terminates the bay. Like pent-up invalids escaping from a sickroom, they held up their faces to the sky to drink great breaths of freshness. Out there it is always cool, however the sun may beat. They threaded the channels among the islands, and then sailed out into the far-extending blue, and were refreshed.
Noon was long passed, although they had breakfasted early, before it occurred to any one to feel hungry; but at length the idea of luncheon presented itself to many minds about the same time, as something which would be agreeable. The steamer was put about, and they returned back among the islands. One of them, Fessenden's Island by name, lay most open to the ocean, and farther out than the others. On this they landed. It seemed intended by nature for their purpose, having a little cove with shelving bottom which admitted their vessel, and a seaward boundary of rocky ledges sinking perpendicularly in deep water on the inward side, so that they could moor themselves to the shore as comfortably as at a wharf, without the inconvenient intervention of the boats.
The hotel servants quickly got their hampers landed, and soon the repast was spread in the slowly broadening shadow of neighbouring rocks, while the party encamped beneath their umbrellas on the scrubby sea-grass, or fetched themselves seats from the ship hard by. The clatter of knives and plates, the popping of corks, and the din of voices, startled the sea-fowl where they perched overhead; they screeched and fluttered angrily at the unwonted disturbance, and taking to the wing, they wheeled and circled in the air above, surveying the intruders, and eyeing the meats which fear alone prevented their pouncing down on and bearing away, and finally, with a parting scream, flew seaward in a long white trail and disappeared.
The tide had turned. Two hours were allowed to spend on shore. After that, the steamer was to blow its whistle, and they must re-embark and get away, or the ship would be left stranded by the ebb, to await the following tide. The party having refreshed, broke up, and wandered apart as chance directed, to explore the island. Mrs Naylor found herself comfortable in her chair. Uneven walking over rocks presented no attractions. Digestion and fresh air, combined with snatches of light reading and chit-chat, seemed a more rational enjoyment. "But, Margaret, my dear, I will not interfere with your more energetic tastes," she said; "you can go, if you like, and scramble on the rocks like the rest. I shall do nicely with these ladies. Mr Wilkie, I am sure, will kindly see that you do not fall over a precipice."
Mr Wilkie rose alertly, and Margaret followed. She had meant to go away more quietly, later on, under the care of Walter Petty, whom she noticed lingering within call. He was so devotedly kind and respectful, that the girl could not but have a kindness for him. He would have liked to go, she saw, and he would have answered better for the purpose she had in view; though it was not, as he might fondly hope, to purr soft nothings in sequestered nooks. However, fate and her mother had imposed the more self-satisfied and confident gallant, and she must submit; though she felt a qualm of self-reproach in meeting the other's glance, in which disappointment seemed blended with a shade of remonstrance. Had she not shown a preference for him in the boat over that long-tongued rival, whom he cordially detested?--turned away from his longwinded rigmarole about travel, to ask sensible information from himself? There was no understanding those girls, and no use trusting them. And yet this one was so--so--what was she not, in fact? But it was desolating, all the same. He could not bring himself to join any one else, though there were "fellows" as well as girls who would have been glad of his company. There was his pipe, however, that silent friend, so soothing and so unobtrusive in its consolations. He would have recourse to that; and scrambling out to the extremity of the ledge beyond the steamboat, he sat him down beside the sad sea wave and blew a melancholy cloud.
Margaret and Wilkie scrambled along the shore, made difficult with rocks and heaped-up boulders. They clambered briskly enough until they had doubled a promontory which secluded them from observation, and then Mr Peter heaved a sigh of mingled relief and exhaustion.
"What an abominable way we have come, Miss Naylor! I am fairly blown. Here is a smooth rock at last; let us sit and enjoy the view."
"I am not tired at all, Mr Wilkie. Let us get on."
"I do not think we can, Miss Margaret. The shore grows steeper. We should have to take to those rocks lower down, all wet and slimy. It is scarcely safe. Look at the view from here! Look at the expanse of sea! It might be the Mediterranean, so blue and sunny. And those banks of cloud along the horizon--are they not fine?"
"Very fine, Mr Wilkie, but I want to see the island."
"My dear young lady, islands are all the same, and one part of one of them is just like another part. We need not flounder farther than we have come already, to know this one by heart. It is ditto all over--rocks sticking out of the water to support a little earth and a few sea-birds."
"But I have never been upon an island before, except those wooded ones on the St Lawrence, which do not at all answer to your description. They are nests floating on the water, and simply lovely. I want to see more of this one. Our St Lawrence islands are covered with trees. Are there none here?"
"Too exposed here, you may be sure. A gooseberry-bush would be blown down in the winter gales, not to speak of a tree. Besides, we really cannot go farther along this detestable shore. The sharp stones will cut the boot-soles off your feet."
"Then let us go inland. Why should we keep to the shore? The ground slopes up easily enough; let us go to the top and gain a bird's-eye view of the island. No, really, I could not think of sitting down. We shall have more than enough of that in the steamboat before we get home."
And so the young man, finding he could not persuade, had perforce to let himself be persuaded, and follow when he would have led--or rather, sat down.
The slope was not very steep, though it was longer than Peter would have expected a walk on so small an island could be; but at length they reached the rounded flatness of the summit, and looked around. The island spread out beneath on every side, and the sister islands were marshalled north and south like sentinels to guard the inner waters. Lippenstock Bay lay within them, a burnished glass throwing back the sunshine; and the country beyond looked higher, more varied and important than when seen from the water-level. An unmistakable breeze had now sprung up, and was carrying straggling wreaths of cloud before it, the vanguard of more solid masses which were creeping up the sky from the distant west. Eastward the ocean now had lost its sapphire blueness and grown dull and grey, while far out toward the horizon it lowered beneath the oncome of the rising clouds, great cumulus masses lifting themselves in heaven and advancing against the breeze. They caught the rays of the opposing sun upon their breasts, and flashed them back, and sprinkled them on the sea, turning its lively blue to a white sickly grey.
"What splendid clouds!" cried Margaret. "But there will be a storm. When those clouds from the east meet the clouds in the west, we shall have thunder."
"I remember a sky the day I crossed the St Gothard, going down into the plains of Italy. Very fine it was----"
"Yes; I daresay it would be. The Old World must be a very superior place to this poor continent of ours. Even the sun and moon must shine better over there, by all accounts. The wonder is, how any of you travelled folks ever cared to come here at all. But say! there is quite a breeze coming down the bay; where can that sail-boat we were watching have gone? I cannot make out a sail anywhere. Is it the dazzle from the water that conceals it, do you think? Or can it be hid behind one of the islands, I wonder?"
"I see something white flapping behind that promontory down there, where the channel narrows between this island and the next. There it falls! They have taken it down. The men must be landing."
"Where? Ah! let us run down and see."
Peter would have liked to bite his tongue. Found guilty of that offence unpardonable in trans-Atlantic eyes, of praising the Old World at the expense of the New, he had thought to make his peace by discovering for his companion the object for which her eyes were searching the prospect; and he had done it with a vengeance. Not only was the offence forgotten, but himself seemed likely to be forgotten or overlooked as well. To think that he could be gauche enough to conduct his fair one into the arms of the very rival who had aroused his suspicion that morning! He had forgotten since then; things had gone so smoothly and pleasantly. What an awakening! "Duffer!" he muttered below his breath, and felt humbled indeed. But he made one poor struggle with destiny ere he yielded. He pulled out his watch, and asked his companion with a start if she had any idea what was the hour.
"The tide is turning, you must remember," he added. "We shall hear the whistle within fifteen minutes, and the steamer cannot wait. The skipper says she will be grounded by the ebb if we are not off by four. And a storm is coming on. I declare I hear distant thunder already. How dim the light is getting, too! It will take all we can do to be back in time. We have only twenty minutes."
"Your watch must be fast," and Margaret pulled out her own. "Ten minutes past three I make it, and I know mine is fast. See the groups scattered all over the island! No one has thought of turning yet. There is Judge Petty with his hammer pounding specimens out of yon cliff. Yonder is my sister with somebody picking flowers for her. Nobody thinks of gathering me a bouquet, ever. There is a party down there in the hollow, and I can distinguish Lettice Deane's voice quite plainly; and far over are two people standing on the edge of a cliff showing like silhouettes against the open sea. Uncle Joseph is one of them. No one is thinking of turning back."
"But, Miss Naylor, the storm will be on directly. Observe how dim it grows. You will get drenched with rain."
"I don't think it will rain till evening."
"Indeed it will. See how the clouds are coming up! Hear to the rumbling thunder!"
"I am not afraid. But if you think otherwise, I should not like to spoil your pleasure with the prospect of a wetting. Good-bye. You can tell them to expect me shortly." And she skipped away.
There was nothing for Peter but to follow, little as he could expect his presence to be welcome when they should come on that rival at the bottom of the hill. He hated the fellow, of course, and wished him "far enough," but he could not help feeling curious to see him. Yet he followed without alacrity. For the sake of argument, he had spoken of the light as growing dim; now he felt it to be so indeed. The warmth and brightness had gone out of the day for him, and it was become a common thing. Not that he would have said so. The poet's trick of drawing voices from inanimate nature to express or sympathise with his momentary emotions was none of his. He was matter-of-fact and common-sensical to a degree, if at the same time lucid-minded and intelligent: but still he was human like the rest of us; and for that matter so is the poet, "fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases." If he were not, what would his utterances be worth? His gift is utterance, but the thing he utters must be within the possibility of all to feel. And Peter felt, though the influence had stolen on him unawares. He had been in Margaret's company through successive hours, and she was a flower too fresh and sweet for any insect to have fluttered round so long without becoming intoxicated somewhat with the fragrance.
At the bottom of the hill, behind an intervening rock, they came upon a sandy beach, the extremity of a bar which runs across to the nearest island, connecting the two at low water, and forming the only landing-place other than that of which the steamer had possession. The boatmen were securing their craft as the two came in view. One of them with a shout sprang forward and bounded up the steep to meet them. He seized both Margaret's hands and shook them rapturously; then, remembering that she had a companion, to be accepted as a necessary evil, he turned round to Peter, raised his hat, and ceremoniously wished him good-day.
Peter returned the salute, and looked curiously in the other's face to divine what manner of man this favoured one might be, if haply he might yet be dealt with, outmanœuvred, or supplanted, and recognised with astonishment that it was "that" young Blount who had spent a few days at Clam Beach. His feelings expressed themselves in a low, scarce audible whistle; and circumstances, looks, tones, details from the week before, so trivial that he had not been conscious of remembering them, sprang suddenly into knowledge and arranged themselves; as when a thread is dropped into a chemical solution, crystals gather from the fluid, and shape themselves with mathematical precision round the nucleus. The circumstances strung themselves in an induction amounting to demonstration, that Margaret Naylor had bestowed her regards, and that he had come too late into the field.
The young people were assiduously polite to Mr Peter. They did not wish that unkind rumours of their meeting should circulate in the hotel, and they would not request him to keep a secret for them--their feelings would not permit them to do that--so both endeavoured to conciliate his goodwill. They did what they could to include him in their conversation; but he was inattentive, answering at random or not at all. The sudden revelation had confused him like a blow, and his thoughts kept wandering back to the details on which his induction was based, trying them and endeavouring to shake their consistency, wondering that he had not read the truth before, and pitying himself in what now seemed his disappointment.
His answers were made at random, but they did not observe it. They were feeding their eyes upon each other's faces, after a three days' separation, and they had no thought for anything but the delight of being together. How good it was! They babbled, scarcely knowing what they spoke of, and any observation which Peter chose to interject was perfectly good as conversation in their eyes, sitting there together on the shore, touching one another, looking shyly in each other's eyes, hearing each other's voices, and being happy. Peter lounged beside them on the ground, twisting his awkward limbs into uncouth knots, and feeling dull and flattened out, defeated and humbled, though nobody had done anything to him whatever.
And time and tide went on their wonted course, but no one of the three took notice of their passing.
The cloud-masses in the east had risen over half the sky. They now presented only a rim of flashing white along the upper edge towards the sun. The concave vault within was dim and lowering, and was advancing visibly upon the darkened sea. Low sighing voices came across the water, with the continuous flickering of far-off lightning and the grumble of distant thunder. The sea was no longer asleep, as it had been an hour ago beneath the placid light. A rolling glassy swell, which momentarily grew heavier and higher, was coming in from the ocean. The steamer at its mooring no longer lay firm and still like part of the adjacent rocks. It rose and fell obedient to the undulations, and strained upon its cables. The tide was ebbing. Not many inches now interposed between the bottom and its keel; and as the swell grew higher, there was danger that ere long she would bump upon the rocks.
The captain, watch in hand, grew restless and impatient. The passengers' time ashore was hardly yet run out, but every minute had grown precious, and he longed to be afloat. He tugged the whistle-chain, and startled the still air with loud discordant yells, then ran, gesticulating and shouting, to the poop, to warn those at hand that they must hurry on board, as there was no time to lose. The loungers rose and stretched themselves, unwilling to be disturbed; but there was something imperious in the short shrill screeches of the whistle, and they obeyed. The strollers heard and turned, and even ran when they came in sight and saw the excited skipper swinging his arms, and the men already preparing to cast loose from the shore.
In a wonderfully short space the deck was alive with passengers and the shore deserted. The skipper cast a searching look along the higher grounds within sight. There was no sign of human presence remaining on the island. The whistle uttered a last long melancholy scream of parting, and was silent, the steamer lurched upon the swell, and they were out in deep water.
The passengers separated into groups and rested, like the sediment of troubled water in a pool, watching the oncoming of the storm, as to which there could now be no mistake. Already the first eddies of the rising wind were coming from the east, and the sea was rising rapidly, making landsmen feel sedate in anticipation of that worst evil of the deep, the qualms of sickness.
There was one, however, on whom the heavings had no effect. Her mind was disturbed; bodily discomfort was forgot, or only added to her anxiety. She got up from her seat and reeled across the deck to Mrs Naylor, who sat buried in pathetic silence, awaiting whatever might be in store.
"Mrs Naylor, what ever has come of my Peter?" she said. "I cannot see him anywhere. He always comes to look after his old mother. Where is he now?"
"I do not know, Mrs Wilkie. This motion is dreadful. Oh, how could I be so foolish as venture out to sea on this horrid little boat!"
"But you must know, Mrs Naylor; I saw that girl of yours taking him away, and I have not seen sight of him since. What has she done with him? Oh, those girls! they will be the death of me."
"He certainly took Margaret for a walk, but I have not seen them since. No doubt they are in the cabin lying down. I wish I were there. I wish I were anywhere rather than here. This see-saw motion is dreadful."
"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 feckless 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 shore."
"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 brimming 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 asserted its cruel rights, and she sank a sea-sick Niobe upon the deck.
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 passive 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 passing 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 shore.
"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.
As time wore on, the sky grew dark, and presently the storm was upon them. They retreated to the hut, and then Margaret remembered about the steamboat. Wilkie looked at his watch, and said they had outstayed their time; but the deluge of rain made it impossible now to set out on the return. Blount's man was despatched to warn the skipper, and they resigned themselves to await the subsidence of the storm. The last users of the hut had left a fire behind them, of which a coal or two still smouldered in the ashes; and Margaret, uneasy at the account she should have to render by-and-by, made busy in rekindling the blaze, rather than resign herself to forebodings of a maternal lecture.
"You?" was Blount's exclamation, repeated a second time, when the newcomers entered the hut; and the tone of disappointment verged closely on disgust. Joseph Naylor was his friend, but at that moment he would have preferred almost any other intruder. He was his friend, but he was also Margaret's uncle, and therefore the most unwelcome man who could have appeared. Standing by the open door and listening to the thunder and the falling rain, after despatching his boatman to the steamer, he had been building himself a castle in the air. The steamboat would be gone when his messenger reached the landing. The man, while obeying, had assured him of that, as it was only at the height of the tide that she was able to approach the island. The steamboat being gone, Margaret must take passage back with him in his sail-boat. Landed at Lippenstock together, it would not be hard to give Wilkie the slip; and then, behind a lively trotter, they could start for parts unknown. It would be days before the family could overtake them. Ere then they would be man and wife, and the family would gladly make the best of what it could no longer prevent. He had never known Margaret so soft and sweetly amenable to influence as she had been these last two hours. Fortune seemed to have softened her mood on purpose to assist him. He felt sure he could persuade her; and here, at the very turning-point of his fate, appeared uncle Joseph, "a god out of a machine," to spoil all. It was unspeakably grievous.
Wilkie cried "You!" at the same moment as Walter; but the tone was different. There was hope and relief in both his face and voice, in marked contrast with the other. Consolation, hope, indemnity for slights, all shone before his view in the appearance of Rose Hillyard. She was escorted, to be sure, but only by "old Naylor"--a man half as old again as himself, and not nearly so polished or agreeable. "The Hillyard" had often struck him as in many respects superior to Margaret Naylor. At the worst, to form one in a quintet could not but be pleasanter than he had found the part of supernumerary in a trio. He positively beamed upon the newcomers, and would willingly have heaped wood on the fire, and even assisted Rose to make herself comfortable; but she assured him that Margaret Naylor and herself could do everything, and he must rejoin the men in the porch without, or, like Peeping Tom of Coventry, he might find himself struck blind on the spot.