Part 6

The situation of Llanwyllan was not above a mile from the sea-shore, and frequently Ellen and Joanna, attended by the nurses and child, walked thither, Lady St. Aubyn thinking that the fine breeze invigorated and strengthened both herself and little Constantine; nor had the indulgences which her unexpected elevation had procured for her rendered her unequal to a long country ramble, or less pleased to explore the haunts of her infancy. Frequently St. Aubyn and Mr. Griffiths, who was a sensible intelligent young man, with the education and manners of a gentleman, were their escorts: but there was nothing to fear on this unfrequented shore, for though ships often passed at a distance, there was not even a fishing town within three miles of their accustomed walk.

About the middle of July, the weather for three or four days became so excessively hot, as seemed to preclude any exercise, except very late in the evening: this uncommon degree of warmth was followed by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning; and though the weather cleared a little in the middle of the day, the evening again closed with a renewal of the tempestuous weather, attended by a violent wind.

While the weather had been tolerable, the Rosses had walked to the Farm to spend the remainder of the day, and were there when the tempest began again with added horrors, and indeed not one of the party was totally without alarm, lest the violence of the wind should injure the ancient mansion.

One of the men who had been sent to Carnarvon in the morning on some commission, and whose road lay near the sea, returned about nine o'clock. The thunder and lightning had by that time abated, but the violent wind continued, attended by torrents of rain and excessive darkness. This man said he had seen a large ship near the coast, and evidently in great danger, from the beach on which she was driving being rocky and inaccessible, the tide coming in, and the wind blowing from the sea, which he said was rougher than he had ever seen it, and the ship laboured so much he feared she must be lost.

This account soon travelled from the servants'-hall to the parlour: the cheeks of the females were blanched by terror, and Mrs. Ross, clasping her hands together, exclaimed,

"God preserve my poor Charles!"

"He is far enough from hence, my dear," said the good Ross, "and in all probability quite out of the way of this tremendous weather."

"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Ross, "but I never hear the wind blow without thinking of him, and a sailor's life is so uncertain, one never knows where they are, or what they are exposed to."

While she spoke, they distinctly heard the sound of a gun fired at sea.

"Hark!" said St. Aubyn, "that is a signal gun! and again! another!--those are guns of distress: can we do nothing for these poor creatures?"

"Oh! try, pray try," said Ellen: "but without exposing yourselves to danger, it is, I fear, impossible."

"There will be no danger for us in going down to the shore," said St. Aubyn. "You and I, my young friend," (speaking to Griffiths) "with the men servants, and all the assistance we can collect in the village, will hasten thither: we can at least light some fires on the beach, or make signals of some kind or other, which may be of service; you, my dear Sir," (speaking to Powis) "and Mr. Ross, will stay and sooth the fears of the ladies."

"Oh, but," said Ellen, "do not expose yourselves too much: the weather is dreadful."

"We will take care of ourselves, my love, depend upon it: there are plenty of box-coats in the hall; we will wrap ourselves up, and if we save one life our trouble will be amply repaid."

"God bless you for your goodness," said Mrs. Ross, "and prosper your undertaking! Oh! these poor sailors have perhaps mothers and sisters praying for them, as we do for poor Charles." She wept, and Joanna and Ellen could not restrain their tears.

The gentlemen, attended by all St. Aubyn's male servants, and several stout workmen belonging to the Farm, now sallied forth with lanterns, and such torches as could be hastily prepared: their numbers were considerably augmented by many of the villagers, who, independent of the rewards St. Aubyn offered, were prompted by humanity and curiosity to assist.

They soon reached the shore, on which a high tide was violently beating; and by the flashes of lightning, which, though fainter and less frequent, still at intervals broke the total darkness of the night, they soon discerned a ship of considerable size, now very near the shore; her sails rent in pieces, and scarcely a mast standing, driving towards them, and firing minute guns as signals of distress. They all saw that to prevent her being stranded on that rocky and impracticable coast was totally impossible, and therefore some of the men were dispatched to the village for ropes and other articles which might be used in saving the lives of the crew. In the meantime, those remaining on the shore collected all the rubbish they could find, and lighted two or three large fires, shouting when the wind lulled a little, to encourage the sailors, which a minute after was answered by a shout from the men on board.

In less than an hour after their arrival, the ship was driven on a ledge of rocks, almost at the foot of the cliff on which St. Aubyn and his party stood; and they saw some of the crew crowding into two small boats, and others coming on shore on pieces of timber, or whatever they could find. At intervals they rose or disappeared, as the waves were more or less powerful; but in the end, a considerable number, more dead than alive, were thrown on the land.

Several of the men, cheered by large promises from St. Aubyn, waded as far as possible into the sea, and assisted some of the crew with ropes and by other means, so that at last more than fifty men were saved.

To paint the gratitude of these poor creatures, their mingled exclamations of joy for their escape, and horror at the recollection of their danger, would be a vain attempt. Some of them appeared to be foreigners, and two or three wore the dress of Turks. Amid the darkness and confusion that prevailed, however, it was scarcely possible to distinguish one person from another. Several of the English sailors (for the ship had evidently been English, and the foreigners were apparently prisoners of war), were busily engaged in succouring a man who had come to shore with scarcely any signs of life, and about whom they appeared very assiduous.

St. Aubyn's people had brought spirits and other cordials to the sea-shore, and after administering such present refreshment as their wants seemed to require, he now put all that were able to walk under the care of Griffiths, desiring him not to take them to the Farm, fearing lest the sight should be too affecting to its female inhabitants, but dispose of them in the best manner he could, amongst the cottages or barns belonging to the farmhouses; for in the abodes of all, his bounty and kindness had procured a welcome reception for any whom he chose to send; he requested Griffiths also just to shew himself at the Farm, to say they were safe, and then return again. Some of his party he dispatched for carts, with blankets, &c. to convey to the village such of the men who were unable to walk.

The storm by this time had nearly subsided, and a late moon began to struggle through the black clouds which still hung upon the horizon: pieces of the unfortunate vessel, with seamens' chests and other articles, were from time to time thrown ashore; several bodies also came to land, and St. Aubyn found, though at least fifty had been saved, several lives were unfortunately lost.

St. Aubyn now saw that the young man, about whom the sailors had been so assiduous, and whom they called Captain, was beginning to revive, and approached to speak some words of consolation and kindness. One of the sailors was giving him a glass of wine, while another held a lantern almost close to him; for the faint light of the moon hardly served to distinguish objects. But what was the surprize, what the tumultuous emotions of St. Aubyn, when, as the light fell full upon the shipwrecked, half-expiring object before him, he retraced the features of Charles Ross!--of him, for whom, but two hours before, his mother had expressed so many tender fears, and poured so many fervent prayers, though not even imagining he shared the actual danger which excited them.

St. Aubyn started, but with tender caution, lest the surprize should overpower the unfortunate man, whispered to his servants not to name him or the place where they were; and approaching still nearer, he took Charles's cold hand, and drawing his own hat over his face, bade him be comforted, for all would yet be well.

The poor young man, too languid to do more than glance his eyes over the person who addressed him, spoke a few words in a faint voice, expressive of his thanks, and then feebly murmured a request to know on what coast he and his friends had been thrown.

"On no unfriendly, no inhospitable shore, assure yourself," replied St. Aubyn. "Whatever property the sea spares will be cautiously protected for you and your followers. Many chests have been thrown on shore; and as the weather is becoming calm, when the morning dawns, the boats of your ship shall go off to the wreck, and every thing of value, if possible, be saved."

"I am then on English ground?"

"On the coast of Wales."

"Of Wales! Oh, heavens!----What part of Wales?"

"Be not impatient: you shall know all in good time."

"That voice," said Charles--"surely I have heard that voice before."

"I have been a great traveller," replied St. Aubyn: "we may have met elsewhere."

Charles asked a few more questions, to which St. Aubyn cautiously replied; and a cart being by this time arrived from the village, Charles and two or three others were placed in it, under the escort of Griffiths, to whom the Earl recounted the late interesting discovery, requesting him to take care that Charles was not too suddenly surprised with a knowledge of where he was.

Griffiths saw him safely lodged in the best place that could be found for him; and leaving St. Aubyn's valet to watch by him, and take care that no one spoke to him till his return, hastened with Lord St. Aubyn to Powis's, where they found the whole family had been up all night, anxious beyond expression; and when Ellen saw St. Aubyn dripping wet, his hat and great coat heavy with the rain and spray of the sea, she tenderly reproached him for so exposing himself, while Joanna's looks read the same lecture to Griffiths: but both were so rejoiced at the good their exertions had effected, that the chiding was little heeded; and soon, by the assistance of dry clothing, they made a more comfortable appearance; and after dispatching as many necessaries as could be collected to the poor mariners, and above all to Charles (though yet his being so near was kept a profound secret to his parents and friends), the whole party retired to rest, which indeed the fatigues of the night rendered extremely necessary to all.

CHAP. VIII.

The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye: that close aspect of his Does shew the mood of a much-troubled heart!

KING JOHN.

St. Aubyn would not disturb the repose of Ellen that night, or rather that morning, for the sun had risen before they retired, by mentioning the discovery of Charles amongst the shipwrecked mariners; but his own anxiety how best to break the matter to Ross and his wife would not allow him to sleep late, in spite of the fatigue he had undergone.

As soon as he was drest, he went to the cottage where Charles had been placed, and found him greatly recovered: he had been greatly exhausted during the storm, which had lasted longer at sea than at land: he had laboured with unceasing activity to save the ship, of which he was the commander, though he had not the rank of captain, and had not left her till all hope of her escaping was lost: he was also considerably bruised, for he would not embark in the boats, but had floated to land on a piece of timber. Rest, however, had in some measure recruited his strength, and though still languid, he hoped to be able to rise in the course of the day, and see what could be done to save his property, and that of his shipmates.

All this St. Aubyn learned from his valet, who sat by the young man, and prevented any one from approaching who might too suddenly have informed him his parents were so near.

St. Aubyn, however, now judged it proper this information should reach him: he went therefore to the little room where Charles lay--it was darkened as much as possible; and St. Aubyn sat down by his bed-side without being recognized. He inquired with great kindness for the health of the invalid, to which Charles replied he was better: "But surely," added he, "I have heard that voice before: even amid the horrors of last night, when it was so generously exerted in comforting me, and directing others for the comfort of my poor shipmates, it struck me as one deeply engraved on my memory, though I cannot recollect the name of its owner."

"It is a voice," said St. Aubyn, "you certainly have heard before: I recognize your's also, and know your name--it is Ross."

"It is, indeed," said Charles: "pray tell me your's, for it is cheering to think I am not quite amongst strangers."

"You will be convinced you are not, when I tell you my name is St. Aubyn."

"St. Aubyn? _Lord_ St. Aubyn?"

"The same."

"Oh, how much do I owe to you!" exclaimed Charles: "I blush to remember my former ingratitude and folly."

"Speak no more of it--it is quite forgotten."

"Ah, my Lord, how good you are. But did you not say last night we were on the coast of Wales? Tell me, I beseech you, on what part of that coast. I begin to hope, knowing Lady St. Aubyn's former residence."

He paused breathless, with contending emotions.

"Lady St. Aubyn and myself," replied St. Aubyn calmly, "are on a visit to some _friends_ in this neighbourhood. The storm of last night, and the hearing a ship was in distress, induced me to take out my servants and some others to see if we could be of any service to the unfortunate mariners. One of the friends we were with blessed me, and prayed that my undertaking might prosper. Her prayers were heard: they were the fervent supplication of a _mother_ for her _son_, though then she knew not nor could believe he was implicated in the danger."

"Ah! Heavens!" exclaimed Charles, "it was _my_ mother! Speak, my Lord, speak! Are we not at, or near Llanwyllan?"

"Be composed, and I will tell you."

"I am composed, and able to hear all."

"You are at Llanwyllan. Your father, mother, and Joanna, were obliged by the storm of last night to remain at Powis's: there I left them sleeping in peace, not knowing or imagining their son and brother was so near."

The tears ran down the cheeks of Charles, and his heart swelled high with thankfulness both to his earthly and heavenly preserver.

After a few minutes, for St. Aubyn was glad to see his emotions find a relief so desirable, and would not interrupt him, he grasped the hand which the Earl had given him, and would have said something expressive of his gratitude, but St. Aubyn prevented him by saying:

"Not a word on that score, Mr. Ross: mine was the impulse of mere humanity, and I rejoice truly that it led me to save a life so dear to friends greatly respected by me and Lady St. Aubyn. Make your mind easy. I hope in the course of the day you will be in a state to be placed beneath your father's roof; in the meantime I will prepare his mind, and those of your mother and sister, for a meeting so tender; and there is also another friend at Llanwyllan who will be glad to see you: your former playmate and youthful companion, Ellen, will rejoice in your safety. Be at rest; all will go well, and I trust even your property will go secured, for boats are already gone off to the wreck, and I have sent such persons as I can depend on, to see all that is saved protected from depredation."

"You are too good, my Lord; too good!" said Charles, quite overpowered.

"I must now leave you," said St. Aubyn: "our mutual friends will expect me, and I have an arduous task in prospect, for I dread the effect on the minds of your parents of the disclosure I must now make to them."

He now took his leave, directing every possible care to be taken of the invalid.

St. Aubyn waited till after breakfast to unfold to Ross and his wife the late events; when that meal was concluded, they talked of returning to the Parsonage, but he requested them not to go, for he had something of great consequence to tell them: he then in the gentlest and most judicious manner revealed to them the discovery of the night before, and they supported the communication better than he had expected.

The pious Ross lifted his eyes and heart to Heaven in thankfulness for his son's wonderful escape, while Mrs. Ross and Joanna sobbed upon each others bosom, and mingled tears with their expressions of joy and gratitude. Ellen dropt a tear of tender sympathy, and rejoiced, without fear of offending the no longer jealous St. Aubyn, in the safety of her early friend.

In the afternoon, Charles found himself able to rise, and St. Aubyn sent his carriage to convey him to the Parsonage, where Ellen and himself were ready to receive him, and to support the spirits of his venerable parents and tender sister.

They all bore the meeting with tolerable composure, and, the first emotions past, were eager to hear how Charles, whom they had supposed to be cruising near Gibraltar, happened to be exposed to the fury of a storm on the coast of North Wales.

He told them, that almost immediately after the date of the last letters he wrote to them, orders had been received for the return of the vessel he commanded to England, and after refitting at Falmouth to join a small squadron which was cruising off the coast of France: that on his return homeward he had fallen in with a French frigate, superior to his own in force, but which, after an obstinate battle, during which his own vessel had been much injured he had succeeded in taking; that he had put some of his own officers and men aboard the prize, and had taken some of the French and some Algerines, whom they had previously captured, on board his own ship; that the violence of the storm and the disabled state of his vessel, prevented him from making the port he wished to have done, and finally had driven him on that coast, the darkness of the night not allowing him to ascertain where-abouts he was: what was become of his prize he knew not, but as she was a better sailer than his own ship, it was probable she had reached some port on the coast of Cornwall in safety.

"And now, my dear mother," said Charles, "if we can but secure my chest, we shall find in it a snug little hoard of dollars, and a few pretty valuable jewels, which I intend to dispose of as a marriage portion for Joanna, if any body will have her," (and he glanced archly at Griffiths, whose tender solicitude about his sister had not escaped him) "and if not, I shall be entitled to a tolerable share of prize-money, for which I have fought hard, and will serve to make you and my father easy. To be sure I must stand a court-martial for the loss of his Majesty's ship, but that is only a matter of form, and I am sure that my men will bear witness I did all in my power to save her--and a pretty creature she was: I never wish to sail in a better, but she was not lost through my fault, so I must be contented."

They smiled at his sailor-like nonchalance, and were very glad to hear his sea-chest and all its contents were safely landed.

Amongst St. Aubyn's humane cares for his own countrymen, the unfortunate prisoners thus cast on a strange shore were not forgotten. He saw that their more immediate wants were supplied, and wrote to the proper persons in London to know what was to be their future lot, contenting himself in the meantime with having a slight guard kept over them; though of their attempting to escape in their present state, some wounded, all weak and helpless, there was not much probability.

One of the French captives turned out to be a Catholic priest, a venerable and respectable man, who had been for many years resident at Gibraltar, from whence, learning he might now with safety return to France, he had embarked in the vessel Charles Ross had captured, hoping to end his days where he had begun them, on the banks of the Garonne.

This circumstance had not been known till two days after the shipwreck, and the good Ross considering this unfortunate man as the servant of the same master, though speaking another language, and differing in many points of belief, had invited him to share his own table; and Mrs. Ross had, like the pious Shunamite, prepared for him "a little chamber with a bed," where he might be at rest.

On the evening of that day, the weather being extremely fine, Lady St. Aubyn and Joanna expressed a wish to walk to the sea-shore to look at the wreck, and see the place where Charles and his friends had landed.

All the more painful vestiges of the shipwreck had been removed, and the bodies of the unfortunate sailors which had floated on shore had been interred in the church-yard, where Griffiths had read the funeral service.

St. Aubyn and Charles had some little business relative to the survivors to transact, but they desired Griffiths to attend the ladies, and they would shortly follow. Mrs. Bayfield also wished to see the place where the shipwreck happened, and Ellen desired her little Constantine might go also, as she thought the sea air did him good. They set out therefore early in the evening, for the storm had cooled the air, and they wished to spend some time on the shore.

They soon reached the beach, and found the sea so calm, so beautiful, it seemed unlike the same element which had wrought such destruction the night before.

Griffiths pointed out to them the wreck, which, as it was now low water, appeared very near the shore, and shewed them the precise spot where Charles and the rest had landed.

They both shuddered and turned pale at the painful retrospection, and Joanna again expressed her thankfulness to St. Aubyn and Griffiths, whose exertions had saved them.

While they were walking up and down the beach, they met two or three of the English sailors, who were upon the look-out for any other articles the sea might have left upon the sands, and speaking to them received their thanks and blessings for the care and kindness they had experienced.

On a large piece of timber near the edge of the water sat one of the Algerines: he looked excessively weak and sickly, and as they approached him, he surveyed them with a look of gloomy despair.

"How ill that man looks," said Ellen to one of the sailors: "he seems likely to die."

"Yes, my Lady, and die he will, for he with difficulty crawled hither, he is so ill; and the woman where he lodges says he bewails himself all night, and takes no rest."

"Poor creature!" said Ellen: "he laments, doubtless, his native land, and the friends he has left behind."

"I believe, my Lady," replied the sailor, "he laments his crimes, for one of the French prisoners that speaks a little English tells me this fellow owns he has been a great sinner, and that he was bred a Christian, but renounced his religion and denied his God for the lucre of gain, amongst the Turks, and Mahometans, and such like."

"Horrible!" said Ellen: "are there such wretches?"

As she spoke, the poor miserable being approached her with feeble steps, and in French asked her if she would have the goodness to purchase a trinket he had to sell--all he had left of better days.