Edith Percival : a novel

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Chapter Page

I. The Two Friends . 7

II. The Wreck . 16

Chapter I. The Two Friends

"And its hame, hame, hame,

I fain wad be —

Hame, hame, hame,

In my ain countrie.”

— Allan Cunningham.

Morning on the ocean ! Grandly rose the sun in the red east, sailing slowly and majestically toward the meridian — a burning jewel of fire set in the deep-blue sky. Light, fleecy clouds dotted the azure firmament here and there, looking as pure and as stainless as snowflakes or the white wings of angels. The balmy south breeze scarcely rippled the surface of the deep, or filled the canvas of the good ship Mermaid, as she glided gracefully onward, bound for the bright shores of America.

The day was intensely hot. The crew lay in groups, idly, about the deck. The captain — a statelylooking man of forty or thereabouts — paced up and down the quarter-deck — now letting his eyes wander over his men, or giving them some order ; now

THE TWO FKIEHDS.

looking aloft with a sailor’s pride in his handsome craft ; and now raising his glass to sweep the hori¬ zon, on which no living thing was to be seen save themselves.

Leaning over the taffrail, stood two young men. The eldest appeared to be about twenty-five years of age — tall and finely proportioned, with an eye like an eagle, and hair that

— “ To shame might bring The plumage of the raven’s wing."

He stood leaning over the side, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the spray flashing in the sunlight, as the ship cut her way through the rippling waves. His hat was off, and the cool breeze lifted lightly the jetty locks off his high, white brow.

His companion was a youth some three or four years his junior, with a frank, handsome face, and laughing hazel eyes. His look of careless ease was very different from the proud reserve of his compan¬ ion, but some secret bond of sympathy bound those two together.

“ Well, Fred,” said the younger of the two, contin¬ uing their conversation, “ since, as you say, you neither have a lady-love in America nor expect a legacy there, I confess it puzzles me to know what inducement could have been strong enough to make you quit Paris.”

“ Very easily told, my dear fellow : I have started for America at the express command of my worthy father.”

“ Whew ! what a dutiful son you are, Fred. And, pray, what has brought Sir William to that rebel¬ lious land

THE TWO FKIENDS.

“To assist in subduing the rebellious Yankees, of course !” replied the young man, with a slight sneer on his well-cut lip.

“ And he wishes his son and heir to aid him in that laudable design, instead of spending his time making love in Paris ?”

“ Yes ; he has obtained for me the post of lieuten¬ ant in the British army, he says.”

“ Which you will, of course, accept ?” said the younger of the two, with a peculiar smile, as he lit a cigar, and blew a whiff of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

“ Which I most decidedly will not /" replied Fred,

COOilv.

“And why, may I ask ?”

“ Why ? What a question for you to ask, Gus ! Am I not an American by birth — an American in heart and soul — a thousand times prouder of the glorious land in which I was born than of my father’s broad acres in merrie England ? Why ? I tell you, Gus Elliott, I will join the ranks of my countrymen, and fight and conquer or die with them in defence of their cause !”

He stood erect, while his eagle eye flashed, and his dark cheek glowed with the enthusiasm with which he spoke.

Gus stood regarding him with something like admiration struggling through his usual look of care¬ less indifference.

“ Well,” he said, after a pause, “ I call that pretty strong language for the son of such a staunch royal¬ ist as Sir William Stanley. What do you suppose your honored father will say when he sees his son turn rebel ?”

“Doubtless,” said Fred, quietly, “he will be in a

THE TWO FKIENDS.

towering passion, and rather amazed that any one

should presume to disobey his commands. I have

long known it must, sooner or later, come to this.

When this war first commenced, how often has my

blood boiled with impotent rage, listening to the

insults and sneers of him and his torv friends on the

*

* rebel Yankees/ as they contemptuously called them ! How I did long, then, to leave England and fly to my native land, to aid her sons in their brave strug¬ gles for independence ! I would have done so, but I shrank from the storm of passion which I knew must follow it. When my father left England to join his Britannic Majesty’s army in America, I left for Paris, lest he should desire me to follow him, and thus hasten a disclosure of our opposite senti¬ ments. Three weeks ago, I received his command to join him instantly. It seems some rumor of my true sentiments had reached him ; and, indignant that any one should presume to question the loyalty of a son of his, he desires me to vindicate my alle¬ giance to his gracious Majesty, and wipe off such a stain on his name by immediately accepting the post he has obtained for me in the army. Any fur¬ ther concealment is, of course, out of the question : and I thank Heaven it is so ; for it seems to me a craven act in any one to remain an idle spectator while his native land, in her struggles for freedom, calls all her sons to her aid.”

He leaned his head on his hand, and gazed thought¬ fully on the bright waves below.

“ For myself,” said Gus, who had been deeply impressed by Fred’s earnestness, “I always sympa¬ thized with the Colonies ; but it was merely the natural feeling which all must experience when they see a band of brave men struggling for freedom.

THE TWO FRIENDS.

Like yourself, America is the land of my birth, but, up to the present, I have been absent from it so long, that 1 had almost ceased to regard if as such. Now, however, my feelings are changed. Together, Fred, we will fight the battles of our native land ; every arm that will lift itself in her defence is needed now.”

“Your sentiments do you honor, my dear Gus ; but, as you asked me before, what will your friends say ?”

“ Oh, I have no friends worth mentioning,” replied Gus, resuming his former indifferent tone. “I am an orphan, you know, with a bank-stock sufficient for all my wants, with no relations that I know of except an uncle in America, whom I have not seen these ten years. “ And I tell you what,” he added, with sud¬ den animation, “ he has two confoundedly pretty daughters — especially the youngest. I used to be desperately in love with Nell, as a boy.”

“Indeed!” sakl Fred, smiling, “ and who is this uncle of yours? — a tory, no doubt.”

“You had better believe it !” said Gus. “Major Percival hates the rebels as he hates Old Harry. Of course, I’ll be disowned when he hears what I’ve done. Every one has his own peculiar hobby ; and pride of birth is Major Percival’s. If you were only to hear him, Fred ! He dates his descent back to the days of Noah, and a good deal further ; for some of his ancestors, I believe, 'were drowned in the flood. His lady, too, Mrs. Percival, is the grand¬ daughter of a lord ; so you see the major has some foundation for his family pride. He’s as rich as Croesus, too.”

“And Miss Nell. I suppose, is heiress to all his wealth ?”

THE TWO FRIENDS.

“ Not she, faith ! Major Percival has a son ana daughter besides ; Nell’s the youngest. You ought to know Nugent Percival ; he’s a glorious fellow, and no mistake — about your age, too, I should think.”

“ I may see them all yet — who knows ?” said Fred. “ I wish this voyage were over. I long to see my father and tell him all, and join the patriot army of Washington.”

“You told me you were born in America,” said Gus, after a pause. “ I thought Lady Stanley was an Englishwoman, and had never crossed the Atlantic Ocean in her life.”

“ The Lady Stanley you knew was not my mother,” said Fred, coldly.

“ She was not! That’s something 1 never heard before,” exclaimed Gus, in unbounded surprise

“ It’s none the less true on that account,” replied Fred, while a slight flush crimsoned his dark cheek. “ My mother was an American born ; she lived, died, and was buried in that land.”

“ Well, now, that’s odd,” said Gus, puffing medi¬ tatively at his cigar. “ Come, Fred, make a clean breast of it ; I made an open confession to you : and one good turn, you know, deserves another.”

The young man smiled slightly, and then his face grew serious — almost sad.

“Very few know my history,” he said, witli a half sigh, “but with you, my dear Gus, I know I may speak freely. Many years ago, when my father was a young man, business or pleasure — I know not which — called him to America. Whilst there, he made the acquaintance of a young girl far beneath him in wealtli and rank, but his equal in education, and his superior in moral worth. Bewildered by her beauty, *ie forgot their different degrees of rank, and the

THE TWO FRIENDS.

young girl became his wife. His marriage was kept a secret from his proud friends in England, and Sir William knew that there was little fear of their ever discovering it, for prudence had not been forgotten by love, and he had wooed and won her under an assumed name. My mother never dreamed her hus¬ band was aught but one of her own station, and it was my father’s aim not to undeceive her.”

“ It was a confoundedly mean trick !” interrupted Gus, indignantly.

“When I was about nine years old,” continued Fred, unmindful of the interruption, “ my father started for England, as he said, on business. As he was frequently in the habit of doing so, my mother was not surprised, but her husband had by this time outgrown his love for her, and when, five months after, he returned, it was as the husband of another.”

Gus was again about to make a passing remark on Sir William’s conduct, but suddenly checking him¬ self, he sank back in silence.

“ He told her all,” went on Fred, with stern brief¬ ness ; “his rank, his title ; told her he was the hus¬ band of another, and that she must no longer con¬ sider herself his wife. He said he had come for me, to take me with him to England ; that I was his son, and should be educated as became a Stanley. My poor mother shrieked and clung to me, but I was forcibly torn from her arms. They said she fell to the ground like one dead, and from that hour never spoke again. One week after she was laid in her grave !”

Fred paused, while the veins in his forehead grew dark, and his voice choked with suppressed emotion.

“ But she was avenged,” he continued lifting his head, while his eyes flashed ; “she had a brother, u

THE TWO FRIENDS.

absent at the time, but who, on his return, heard the story from the sexton who had buried my mother. His oath of vengeance was fearful, and fearfully kept. Five years passed away. Sir William and Lady Stanley had but one child, a daughter, whom they idolized. Leila was the gentlest and most beau* tiful creature I ever saw. Words cannot tell you, Gus, how I loved that child. One day, as the nurse was walking with her through the grounds of Stanley Park, a man, dressed in the rough garb of a sailor, sprang from behind the trees, and, in spite of the shrieks and struggles of the attendants, bore her off.

The nurse, wild with terror, fled back to the house, and meeting Sir William on the piazza, fell, fainting, at his feet. When she recovered, she related what had happened, and the consternation and horror her recital produced may by imagined. There was no doubt in Sir William’s mind as to who had done the deed. The abductor had left a message : ‘ Tell Sir Will Stanley,' said he, ‘ my sister is avenged !' Search was made in every direction, enormous rewards were offered, the police was put on the track, but all in vain. Not the slightest clue to Leila could be obtained. It was the belief of every one, the sailor had destroyed the child to escape detection.”

“It is more than probable,” said Gus. “Poor Lady Stanley ! I can now understand the cause of the strange melancholy that used to puzzle me so much.”

“She never smiled from that day,” said Fred. “ Had the child died she would have grieved, but such grief is as nothing. It was the terrible uncer¬ tainty as to its fate that weighed on her heart. It was well she did not survive it long.”

THE TWO FRIENDS.

u And Sir William ? how did he bear the loss ?’* in¬ quired Gus.

“ He became a changed man from that day. He grew stern, morose, and harsh to all. I have no doubt he felt it to be a just retribution for his con¬ duct to his first wife, and this reflection rendered his remorse more bitter. Poor Leila ! dear little angel ! Gus, I cannot tell you how I loved that child.”

He paced excitedly up and down, and Gus saw there were tears in the deep, dark eyes of his friend.

“Yes, that’s just the way I feel about Nell,” said Gus, who really was in a desperate strait for some¬ thing to say, and the deep sigh that accompanied his words seemed inexpressibly ludicrous.

In spite of himself, Fred laughed outright at his friend's melancholy look, much to the disgust of Gus.

“ On my honor, my dear fellow, you are smitten. I shouldn’t wonder if you would be rash enough to take a wife next,” said Fred.

“ Rash ! / think it’s the most sensible thing a

fellow could do. Don’t you ever intend to marry, Fred ?”

“ Not I,” said the other, carelessly, “ as I said before, liberty or death for me. Why, Gus, the tyranny of King George is nothing to that of a wife. Don’t you know what the French poet Mauvause says :

* I would advise a man to pause Before he takes a wife.

Indeed, I own, I see no cause He should not pause for life.’ ”

“ He must have been a crusty old bachelor who wrote that,” remarked Gus ; “as for me, I intend to make fierce love to Nell the moment I land. “ ’Pon

THE WRECK.

my nonor, 1 d give a diamond ring to see that flinty heart of yours lying at the feet of some graceful little Yankee — metaphorically speaking, of course. Tliev say, Fred, the American ladies are all pretty !”

‘* 1 doubt it.”

“You’re a stoic, a cynic, an unbeliever — an old Diogenes in his tub. You deserve to die an old bachelor. It’s my firm and never-to-be-shaken belief that you have been jilted by some heartless coquette, and for spite, now rail at the whole sex.”

“ I cry you mercy !” said Fred, as he laughingly ran his fingers through his luxuriant dark locks. “ I am now, as I ever was, and always shall be, ‘ heartwhole, and fancy free.’ But I see,” he added, draw¬ ing out his watch, “ it is the hour

‘When lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake.’

So let us go below ; the sable goddess of the cabin will presently announce dinner is ready.”

And together the two young men strolled into the cabin.

Chapter II. The Wreck

*

“ Alone, alone, all, all alone.

Alone on the wide, wide sea.”

“ I say, Jack, old fellow, it ’ll be doomsday before we reach Boston, at this rate,” remarked Gus, some three hours after the conversation related above — as he, together with his friend, stood once more on the deck.

THE WRECK.

The pleasant breeze of the morning had passed away, and was succeeded by a dead calm. Not a breath of air rippled the surface of the deep ; the sails lay flapping idly against the masts ; the crew lay, gasping for breath, over the side of the ship. The sun, with its fiery, brassy glow, glared in the cloudless sky, loosening the very seams of the ship with the scorching heat, until everything looked parched and burning. The vessel lay motionless on the glittering sea, her masts and ropes reflected on the polished surface, as in a mirror. One could almost imagine her to be a painted ship on a painted ocean — so still, so lifeless, so sluggard was the calm.

The old tar addressed gave his trousers a hitch, turned an enormous quid of tobacco into the other cheek, and replied only by a dissatisfied growl.

“ I’m fairly choking for breath,” went on Gus, leaning over the bulwarks in the vain endeaver to catch a mouthful of air ; “ I wish to heaven a breeze would spring up.”

“ Humph !” grunted the old tar, as he discharged an enormous stream of tobacco-juice over the side, “ you’ll have your wish before you sleep, youngster, or Tm. mistaken.”

“ Well, confess you’re a better judge of the weather than I am, if you can see any sign of a breeze,” said Gus. “ By the look of things at present I should conclude we might lie sweltering here for a month of Sundays.”

“ I’ve been on the ocean man and boy, for thirty odd years, sir, and ought to know something of weather signs. If it doesn’t blow great guns before the sun sets to-night, then you may call old Jack a good-for-nothing lubber — that’s all.”

“ I vow I hope it may ! This dog-trot rate of going

THE WRECK.

is enough to provoke a Quaker to kick his grand¬ mother. A stiff breeze will give us new life, and set things all right again," said Gus.

“Maybe so,” said the old salt, rather doubtingly ; “but, if I’m not mistaken, you’ll wish yourself safe on land before you see the sun rise again.”

“Faith ! I wish I were there now.” said Gus, with a yawn. “ I never was born for a sailor ; and never were the children of Israel more tired of their quar¬ ters in the desert than I am of this rascally old ark. Look out for your storm, Jack ; and if you see it coming, just let me know.”

And Gus seated himself on the quarter-rail, and leisurely lit a cigar.

An hour or two passed away in silence. The sun was setting, but the heat was still intense. Fred lay gazing idly into the ship’s wake. Gus puffed away, and thought of Nell ; but the heat had rendered both too languid to talk. Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm ; and looking up, Gus beheld old Jack.

“Look now, sir,” said the old man, pointing to the sky. Absorbed in his own reflections, the young man had totally forgotten the prediction of the old sailor. As he glanced up at the sky, he involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise at the sight which met his eye.

As far as he could see, in every direction, a huge black pall of intense darkness covered the face of the heavens. A lurid, crimson line of fire in the west showed where the sun had sank below the horizon, and was reflected like a thin stream of blood on the sea. Faint puffs of wind, from what quarter of the heavens no man could tell, at intervals sighed through the rigging, only to be followed by an omi-

THE WRECK.

nous calm, more profound than before. The ship lay rolling heavily on the black, glassy billows, rising and falling like a dull, heavy log. A gloom like that of midnight was gathering over sea and sky — the dismal, ominous silence involuntarily made the bold¬ est catch his breath quick and short, and filled each heart with a nameless awe, as they stood in silent expectation of what was to follow this dead calm of Nature, as she paused to take breath before the hur¬ ricane of her wrath burst in its full force.

At this moment, the clear, commanding voice of Captain Harden was heard giving orders to his men to reef the sails.

“We’ll have a rousing gale to-night,” said he, a few moments afterward, “or I’m mistaken. I knew this dead calm didn’t come for nothing. Ha ! here it is ! Down, men, down, and hold fast for your lives ! The squall is upon us !”

Even as he spoke, the black pall that hung over the sky seemed visibly lifted up, and a ghastly, whitish light lit up the heaving sea. A vivid flash of lightning blazed in the sky followed by 3 crash of thunder that seemed to rend the very heavens in twain, accompanied by a flood of rain and a terrific gale of wind — and the hurricane burst upon them with tremendous force. For a moment the good ship tottered and quivered in every timber, as if trem¬ bling before the gigantic foe ; then plunging sud¬ denly downward like a maddened steed, she flew before the hurricane with the speed of the wind. On, on, on, with the spray dashing over the decks, and drenching to the skin the affrighted crew, she sped like a flash. The lightning blazed as though the whole heavens were one vast sheet of flame ; the thunder crashed peal upon peal, as though the earth were rending asunder ; the rain fell in vast floods of water; the wind shrieked and howled like a demon with impotent fury, and the bark plunged madly on, quivering, creaking, groaning, and straining in every timber. The huge billows rose black and terrific, yawning as though to engulf them, the white foam gleaming dismal and ghastly in the spectral darkness, now and then shown in their appalling hugeness by the blinding glare of the lightning. The whole scene was inexpressibly grand and terrific — the most cow¬ ardly soul lost all sense of fear in the awful sublimity, the unspeakable grandeur of the elemental uproar.

Fortunately, the hurricane was not one of long duration. Ere an hour had passed, the violence of the squall had greatly abated, but not before it had nearly dismantled the ship.

Fred Stanley stood clinging to a rope, gazing at the troubled sea and sky with a feeling of unspeak¬ able awe, that swallowed up every other feeling. His hat had blown off ; his long dark locks streamed wildly in the gale — his eyes were fixed, as if fasci¬ nated, on the gigantic billows, rising like huge moun¬ tains as if to overwhelm them.

His meditations were suddenly cut short by a hand being laid on his shoulder. With a start he looked up, and beheld, by the light of the binnacle-lamp, the pale features of Gus Elliott.

“A wild night, my friend,” said the youth; and although he spoke loudly, his voice sounded almost like a whisper amid the roar of wind and sea.

“A fearful storm, truly,” was the reply, as Fred’s eyes again strove to pierce through the thick dark¬ ness.

“Would to Heaven it were morning ! this intense darkness is appalling. Could we see our danger I

THE WRECK.

would not care ; but in this fearful gloom the imag¬ ination pictures a thousand horrors, far worse than the most dreadful reality.”

“ It can scarcely be midnight yet,” said Gus ; “I see the clouds are breaking away in that direction. It will be light enough presently.”

“ Well, messmate, have my words come true ?” said a voice at Gus’s elbow, and turning, both beheld old Jack.

“That they have,” replied Gus; “and though I must give you credit for being a true prophet, upon my honor I wish to hear no more such predictions while I am on board the Mermaid

“ That won’t be long, sir, or I’m mistaken,” replied Jack, gloomily.

“What? croaking again? I thought all danger was past,” said the youth.

Jack shook his head despondingly.

“ Come, my honest son of Neptune, out with it. What’s in the wind now ?”

At this moment, one of the crew shouted, in a voice of horror :

“ The ship has sprung a leak ! There’s five feet of water in the hold !”

“ All hands to the pumps !” called the calm, trumpet¬ like tones of the captain.

The eves of Gus and the old sailor met.

*

“ I knew how it would be,” said the old tar, shak¬ ing his head, mournfully, “I had a presentiment, last night, that not a soul on board the Mermaid would live to see the sun rise again.”

As he spoke, he hurried forward ; but not until Gus had fairly started back at sight of the ghastly look on his face, as it was revealed by the dim light of the binnacle-lamp. The youth turned uneasily

THE WRECK.

away, and encountered the dark, earnest eyes of his friend.

“ Pooh ! nonsense ! what an old prophet of evil that is,” said Gus, striving to shake off the feeling for which he could not account : “ a raven could not croak more dismally than he.”

“ And yet I fear he is right,” said Fred. “We are far from being out of danger. How this old disman¬ tled hulk is plunging and staggering. Hark ! what is that ?”

It was the voice of one of the men who had been sent below, and who now came to announce that the water was rapidly rising.

The crew redoubled their efforts. Fred and Gus sprang to their aid, and worked for their lives. But all was in vain ; in spite of all their exertions, the hold was filling fast.

Suddenly a voice full of horror was heard :

“ The ship is sinking /”

In an instant every arm dropped as if palsied, every face blanched to the hue of death, and the silence of the grave reigned. Then the spell was broken, and with a wild cry they sprang toward the boats.

“Are you mad, men ?” shouted Captain Harden, as the crew rushed pell-mell to the side of the vessel.

But his words were in vain ; the frightened wretches heard not, heeded not. Maddened by their selfish fears, they sprang into the boats, pushing one another fiercely aside in their cowardly haste.

“ Those crowded boats will never live in this surf !” exclaimed Fred, in a voice that intense excitement had almost sunk to a whisper.

Even as he spoke, the nearest boat was lifted on

THE WRECK.

the crest of a monster wave. For a moment it poised on its fearful height, quivering like a reed ; the next a wild shriek arose from the doomed crew, and every soul was struggling in the hissing seas. In less than a minute, to their inexpressible horror, the other boat shared the same fate ! One wild, wild agon¬ ized shriek of mortal horror arose high above the storm, and then all grew still. Engulfed beneath the hissing billows, they had sunk to rise no more.

Of all the numerous crew of the good ship Mer¬ maid , there were three persons remaining on board, the captain, Fred and Gus. Above frowned the angry sky, black and ominous ; beneath, raged the angrier ocean — the tops of the white billows gleam¬ ing like snow against the murky background. Around was spread the dense, dark pall of night — an almost impenetrable wall of thick blackness. Boats and crew were alike gone. Alone they stood on the wide sea, in a sinking ship, with death staring them in every direction in the face.

The ominous words of the old sailor rushed to the mind of Gus : “Not a soul on board the Mermaid would live to see the sun rise again !”

How true his words seemed likely to prove !

“We will soon follow them !” said Gus, turning to the captain.

“ God liveth !” was the solemn answer, “ He holdeth the ocean in the hollow of His hand. Trust in Him !M

SAVED.

Chapter III. Saved

“ Rise ! for the day is breaking Though the dull night be long!1

Rise ! God is not forsaking Thy heart — be strong — be strong.”

For a few moments the survivors of the wreck stood silent. With death staring them in the face, men are not inclined to be loquacious. Each one inwardly commended his soul to his Maker, and strove to nerve himself to fearlessly meet his doom.