Chapter 14

THE DEPARTURE.

It was the dawn of day when Flora started from a broken, feverish sleep, aroused to consciousness by the heavy roaring of the sea, as the huge billows thundered against the stony beach. To spring from her bed and draw back the curtains of the window which commanded a full view of the bay, was but the work of a moment. How quickly she let it fall in despair over the cheerless prospect it presented to her sight! Far as the eye could reach the sea was covered with foam. Not a sail was visible, and a dark leaden sky was pouring down torrents of rain.

"What a morning!" she muttered to herself, as she stole quietly back to bed. "It will be impossible to put to sea to-day."

The sleep which had shunned her pillow during the greater part of the night, gently stole over her, and "wrapped her senses in forgetfulness;" and old Kitson, two hours later, twice threw a pebble against the window, before she awoke.

"_Leaftenant_ Lyndsay--_Leaftenant_ Lyndsay!" shouted the Captain, in a voice like a speaking-trumpet--"wind and tide wait for no man. Up, up, and be doing."

"Ay, ay," responded Lyndsay, rubbing his eyes, and going to the window.

"See what a storm the night has been brewing for you," continued old Kitson. "It blows great guns, and there's rain enough to float Noah's ark. Waters is here, and wants to see you. He says that his small craft won't live in a sea like this. You'll have to put off your voyage till the steamer takes her next trip."

"That's bad," said Lyndsay, hurrying on his clothes, and joining the old sailor on the lawn. "Is there any chance, Kitson, of this holding up?"

"None. This is paying us off for three weeks fine weather, and may last for several days--at all events, till night. The steamer will be rattling down in an hour, with the wind and tide in her favour. Were you once on board, _Leaftenant_, you might snap your fingers at this capful of wind."

"We must make up our minds to lose our places," said Lyndsay, in a tone of deep vexation.

"You have taken your places then?"

"Yes; and made a deposit of half the passage money."

"Humph! Now, _Leaftenant_ Lyndsay, that's a thing I never do. I always take my chance. I would rather lose my place in a boat, or a coach, than lose my money. But young fellows like you never learn wisdom. Experience is all thrown away upon you. But as we can't remedy the evil now, we had better step in and get a morsel of breakfast. This raw air makes one hungry. The wind may lull by that time." Then gazing at the sky with one of his keen orbs, while he shaded with his hand the other, he continued--"It rains too hard for it to blow long at this rate; and the season of the year is all in your favour. Go in--go in, and get something to eat, and we will settle over your wife's good coffee what is best to be done."

Lyndsay thought with the Captain, that the storm would abate, and he returned to the anxious Flora, to report the aspect of things without.

"It is a bad omen," said Flora, pouring out the coffee. "If we may judge of the future by the present--it looks dark enough."

"Don't provoke me into anger, Flora, by talking in such a childish manner, and placing reliance upon an exploded superstition. Women are so fond of prognosticating evil, that I believe they are disappointed if it does not happen as they say."

"Well, reason may find fault with us if she will," said Flora; "but we are all more or less influenced by these mysterious presentiments; and suffer trifling circumstances to give a colouring for good or evil to the passing hour. My dear, cross philosopher, hand me the toast."

Flora's defence of her favourite theory was interrupted by the arrival of two very dear friends, who had come from a distance, through the storm, to bid her good-bye.

Mr. Hawke, the elder of the twain, was an author of considerable celebrity in his native county, and a most kind and excellent man. He brought with him his second son, a fine lad of twelve years of age, to place under Lyndsay's charge. James Hawke had taken a fancy to settle in Canada, and a friend of the family, who was located in the Backwoods of that far region, had written to his father, that he would take the lad, and initiate him in the mysteries of the axe, if he could find a person to bring him over. Lyndsay had promised to do this, and the boy, who had that morning parted with his mother and little brothers and sisters, for the first time in his life, in spite of the elastic spirits of youth, looked sad and dejected.

Mr. Hawke's companion was a young Quaker, who had known Flora from a girl, and had always expressed the greatest interest in her welfare.

Adam Mansel was a handsome, talented man, whose joyous disposition, and mirthful humour, could scarcely be trammelled down by the severe conventional rules of the Society to which he belonged. Adam's exquisite taste for music, and his great admiration for horses and dogs, savoured rather of the camp of the enemy. But his love for these forbidden carnalities was always kept within bounds, and only known to a few very particular friends.

"Friend Flora," he said, taking her hand, and giving it a most hearty and cordial shake, "this is a sad day to those who have known thee long, and loved thee well; and a foul day for the commencement of such an important journey. Bad beginnings, they say, make bright endings; so there is hope for thee yet in the stormy cloud."

"Flora, where are your omens now?" said Lyndsay, triumphantly. "Either you or friend Adam must be wrong."

"Or the proverb I quoted, say rather," returned Adam. "Proverbs often bear a double meaning, and can be interpreted as well one way as the other. The ancients were cunning fellows in this respect, and were determined to make themselves true prophets at any rate."

"What a miserable day," said the poet, turning from the window, where he had been contemplating thoughtfully the gloomy aspect of things without. His eye fell sadly upon his son. "It is enough to chill the heart."

"When I was a boy at school," said Adam, "I used to think that God sent all the rain upon holidays, on purpose to disappoint us of our sport. I found that most things in life happened contrary to our wishes; and I used to pray devoutly, that all the Saturdays might prove wet, firmly believing that it would be sure to turn out the reverse."

"According to your theory, Mansel," said Mr. Hawke, "Mrs. Lyndsay must have prayed for a very fine day."

"Dost thee call this a holiday?" returned the Quaker, with a twinkle of quiet humour in his bright brown eyes.

Mr. Hawke suppressed a sigh, and his glance again fell on his boy; and, hurrying to the window, he mechanically drew his hand across his eyes.

Here the old Captain came bustling in, full of importance, chuckling, rubbing his hands, and shaking his dripping fearnaught, with an air of great satisfaction.

"You will not be disappointed, my dear," addressing himself to Mrs. Lyndsay. "The wind has fallen off a bit; and, though the sea is too rough for the small craft, Palmer, the captain of the pilot-boat, has been with me; and, for the consideration of two pounds (forty shillings),--a large sum of money, by-the-bye,--I will try and beat him down to thirty,--he says he will launch the great boat, and man her with twelve stout young fellows, who will take you, bag and baggage, on board the steamer, though the gale were blowing twice as stiff. You have no more to fear in that fine boat, than you have sitting at your ease in that arm-chair. So make up your mind, my dear; for you have no time to lose."

Flora looked anxiously from her husband to her child, and then at the black, pouring sky, and the raging waters.

"There is no danger, Flora," said Lyndsay. "These fine boats can live in almost any sea. But the rain will make it very uncomfortable for you and the child."

"The discomfort will only last a few minutes, Mrs. Lyndsay," said old Kitson. "Those chaps will put you on board before you can say Jack Robinson."

"It is better to bear a ducking than lose our passage in the _Chieftain_," said Flora. "There cannot be much to apprehend from the violence of the storm, or twelve men would never risk their lives for the value of forty shillings. Our trunks are all in the boat-house, our servants discharged, and our friends gone; we have no longer a home, and I am impatient to commence our voyage."

"You are right, Flora. Dress yourself and the child, and I will engage the boat immediately." And away bounded Lyndsay to make their final arrangements, and see the luggage safely stowed away in the pilot-boat.

Captain Kitson seated himself at the table, and began discussing a beefsteak with all the earnestness of a hungry man. From time to time, as his appetite began to slacken, he addressed a word of comfort or encouragement to Mrs. Lyndsay, who was busy wrapping up the baby for her perilous voyage.

"That's right, my dear. Take care of the young one; 'tis the most troublesome piece of lumber you have with you. A child and a cat are two things which never ought to come on board a ship. But take courage, my dear. Be like our brave Nelson; never look behind you after entering upon difficulties; it only makes bad worse, and does no manner of good. You will encounter rougher gales than this before you have crossed the Atlantic."

"I hope that we shall not have to wait long for the steamer," said Flora. "I dread this drenching rain for the poor babe, far more than the stormy sea."

"Wait," responded the old man, "the steamer will be rattling down in no time; it is within an hour of her usual time. But Mrs. Lyndsay, my dear,"--hastily pushing from him his empty plate, and speaking with his mouth full--"I have one word to say to you in private, before you go."

Flora followed the gallant captain into the kitchen, marvelling in her own mind what this private communication could be. The old man shut the door carefully behind him; then said, in a mysterious whisper--"The old clothes; do you remember what I said to you last night?"

Taken by surprise, Flora looked down, coloured, and hesitated; she was afraid of wounding his feelings. Simple woman! the man was without delicacy, and had no feelings to wound.

"There is a bundle of things, Captain Kitson," she faltered out at last, "in the press in my bedroom, for Mr. Charles--coats, trowsers, and other things. I was ashamed to mention to you such trifles."

"Never mind--never mind, my dear; I am past blushing at my time of life; and reelly--(he always called it reelly)--I am much obliged to you."

After a pause, in which both looked supremely foolish, the old man continued--"There was a china cup and two plates--pity to spoil the set--that your careless maid broke the other day in the washhouse. Did Mrs. K. mention them to you, my dear?"

"Yes, sir, and they are _paid_ for," said Flora, turning with disgust from the sordid old man. "Have you anything else to communicate?"

"All right," said the Captain. "Here is your husband looking for you. The boat is ready."

"Flora, we only wait for you," said Lyndsay. Flora placed the precious babe in her father's arms, and they descended the steep flight of steps that led from the cliff to the beach.

In spite of the inclemency of the weather a crowd of old and young had assembled on the beach to witness their embarcation, and bid them farewell.

The hearty "God bless you! God grant you a prosperous voyage, and a better home than the one you leave, on the other side of the Atlantic!" burst from the lips of many an honest tar; and brought the tears into Flora's eyes, as the sailors crowded round the emigrants, to shake hands with them before they stepped into the noble boat that lay rocking in the surf.

Precious to Flora and Lyndsay were the pressure of those hard rough hands. They expressed the honest sympathy felt, by a true-hearted set of poor men, in their present situation and future welfare.

"You are not going without one parting word with me!" cried Mary Parnell, springing down the steep bank of stones, against which thundered the tremendous surf. The wind had blown her straw bonnet back upon her shoulders, and scattered her fair hair in beautiful confusion round her lovely face.

The weeping, agitated girl was alternately clasped in the arms of Lyndsay and his wife.

"Why did you expose yourself, dear Mary, to weather like this?"

"Don't talk of weather," sobbed Mary; "I only know that we must part. Do you begrudge me the last look? Good-bye! God bless you both!"

Before Flora could speak another word, she was caught up in the arms of a stout seaman, who safely deposited both the mother and her child in the boat. Lyndsay, Mr. Hawke, his son, Adam Mansel, and lastly Hannah, followed. Three cheers arose from the sailors on the beach. The gallant boat dashed through the surf, and was soon bounding over the giant billows.

Mr. Hawke and friend Adam had never been on the sea before, but they determined not to bid adieu to the emigrants until they saw them safe on board the steamer.

"I will never take a last look of the dear home in which I have passed so many happy hours," said Flora, resolutely turning her back to the shore. "I cannot yet realize the thought that I am never to see it again."