ELIZA COOK'S POEMS. Uniform Edition. VOL. I. with PORTRAIT and ILLUSTRATIONS, price 7s. 6d. VOLS. II., III., and IV., 5s. each. MAY BE ORDERED OF ALL BOOKSELLERS. STORM AND REST. SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1854. A LEADEN clond hung like a heavy canopy over the broad sky-so heavy and so dense, that even the great wind which was bowing the strongest trees, and lashing the sea into boiling hills of foam, could not stir it; but still threatening, scowling, of this same unchangeable leaden huc it spread immoveable, as far as the eye could reach. It was an October day; bleak and chill, with not even the last saddest lingerings of summer. The fallen yellow leaves remaining, for the wild wind seemed to have swept them up in its arms, leaving the bare country even unnaturally bare, and desolate, and cold. Through the narrow streets of a seaport town, on the east coast, round sharp corners, and in at opened doors, the wind was sweeping, driving in its headlong course all things before it, dashing away the heavy rain which poured in dull torrents from those dark clouds, or catching it upwards for an instant only to fling it back again with greater force upon the swimming pavements. Even in the town on such a day, few would venture out: in the country round it would seem almost like madness to attempt it, for wind and rain were ploughing the earth together, and over the whole extent of cultivated hill ground, spreading for miles along the coast, the mad hurricane was raging. Yet there was one, and she but a young girl, who, defying rain and storm, heedless of the wild blast, insensible to the bitter cold, had set out alone upon this dreary morning from her cottage on the hill. And what is that takes Annie Morton out on such a day as this? What is it that has thus blanched Annie Morton's cheek, and dulled her light, elastic step, and stolen the lustre of her bright blue eye, changing its merry laughter into this wild look of fear? "Mother, the thought haunts me like a dream! Oh, mother, let me go down to the harbour, for I can't rest for thinking of him!" and half an hour ago, poor Annie had started suddenly up from her seat in the cottage window, and, half sobbing out these words, had flung herself upon her bed-rid mother's neck, and burst into hysteric tears. "You foolish child, you've been sitting looking out at that window till all sorts of fancies have come into your head," Mrs. Morton answered her, stroking the girl's brown curls softly, and speaking in the half-caressing, half-soothing tone one uses to a child. Hush, dear, 66 [PRICE 1d. hush! Why, Annie, Harry will never come today." "He will, mother! He said he'd come-he said the Valentine would be sure to sail last night. Oh, mother, I must go! If he should come, and anything happen to him, with me not there "Annie, Annie, you're a foolish woman! You're a greater coward than I ever was. Why, what kind of a sailor's wife do you think you'll make if you go on this way before you're ever married at all? I'd be ashamed that Harry should see your pale, frightened face now!" she said, laughing to cover her own anxiety. A faint wintry smile passed across Annie's lips, too, but it vanished in a moment. "Oh, mother, isn't it natural to be frightened?" she said, "when we haven't met these two months and more; and to think of him coming home in such a storm as this? I don't know what's the matter with me," she exclaimed hurriedly; "I feel so strange, as if something -Oh, mother, hark there's nine o'clock striking-I must go. It'll be an hour till I get to the tower, and surely there'll be some news of the boat before then. Mother, dear," and she bent down over the sick woman again. "Mother, dear, you won't cross me?" "I won't, dear; take your own way-though it's a wild day for man or woman to be out-but we're all wilful enough when we're in love, Annie. So God bless you, dear, and send you back with good news, and a lightened heart." "Please God," poor Annie murmured; then kissing the pale face tenderly, she went. It was a wild day, indeed, for a woman to be out, but Annie never paused or hesitated. Wrapped closely in her woollen cloak, with its hood drawn round her face, she left the cottage on the hill side, and set boldly to breast the stormy wind, which, beating in her face, disputed with her every step she took. On she went, scarcely feeling the dashing rain around her, heeding so little on her own account the fury of the storm. On she went, straining her eyes in vain to catch the outline of a sail upon the great, wide, misty, foaming sea beneath her. So long each minute appeared so slow the progress that she made: cach step that she advanced her heart seemed to beat higher-to grow more sick beneath its fear and hope. But at length a sobbing cry of agony burst from her; for suddenly, breaking from the mist, she saw a vessel 2 making for the pier—making for it with terrible difficulty, for each wave on whose crest it rose, instead of bearing it forwards, seemed only to crush it further back: yet still it bore on, hidden one moment, but rising again and again, still fighting desperately, unflinchingly, for the battle was for life or death. Breathless, Annie rushed along the slippery, streaming roads her cloak no longer wrapped around her, but flying open to the wind; her hands convulsively stretched out; her check as pale as death; her tearless eyes fixed where she knew, though now as she came nearer to the town she could no longer see it, that the sea lay; for a passionate fear that she could not conquer had taken hold upon her a sudden spasm of terror-a wild, fearful conviction that the vessel struggling to gain the port was her lover's ship. Wild as her figure was when she rushed upon the quay, no one heeded her, for there were figures as wild, and hearts as despairing gathered there before her; and even the cry which burst from her as she sprang into the crowd, scarcely caused an eye to turn upon her, for the air around was being rent with women's cries. The vessel had gained the pier, and had struck upon it, and One man was struggling in gone down with her crew. the water still-struggling and crying out for help-the voice rose even above the raging of the sea, and there was no help there. They stood and gazed upon him till he sank, like people frozen with horror. A convulsive grasp was laid upon an officer's arm who stood amongst the crowd, looking anxiously through his glass out to sea, and a stifled voice asked, "Was that the Valentine ?" The tone was so full of agony that, attracted by it, he turned round, and looking in the speaker's face answered kindly. "The Valentine! No, my girl; there are no tidings of the Valentine yet." Her hand still held her arm: he felt the thrill that ran through her whole frame as he spoke. not come yet!-Oh, my "Not the Valentine? God!" she cried. Her voice rang through the air, sounding so strangely in its hysterical joy, amidst the bitter cries of sorrow that were rising all around, that even the mourners turned, with half-reproachful looks, to gaze on her. 'My poor girl, you had better go and take shelter somewhere," the same officer said again, good naturedly. 'The Valentine mayn't be in for hours yet-not until the storm's over, perhaps." "But she is due, sir?" Annie exclaimed. "Due ?-why, yes-but in weather such as this we can't expect a vessel to be in at her ordinary time. Come, come, my girl, don't be putting a sad face upon it again; go away home, and keep up a good heart," and he turned from her, and re-adjusted his glass. With her head bowed down upon her bosom, Annie turned too, and deaf to the voices of distress around her, like one walking in a dream; she threaded her way through the anxious crowd. No one noticed her, no one sca, all spoke to her; all eyes were stretched across the hearts were full, watching for those who might never come to them again. And still, wilder and wilder, the storm raged, higher and higher the frantic sea foamed up; still heavier and darker hung the leaden cloudsstill thicker grew the misty veil that lay upon the water. Where no human voices reached her, away from the harbour, on the bleak cold shore, Annie sat down to wait. The wind blew roughly over her, the heavy rain beat on her face, but she wrapped her cloak around her, and did not heed them: she heeded nothing but the boiling waves that were dashing at her feet, their spray sometimes leaping over her; covering her face then, as their thunder burst upon her, she would break into bitter sobs, wringing her hands, and calling out aloud in her What sound is that which breaks the sea's great roarlow, heavy, booming, deep, slow rolling over sea and land? Up, Annie, and look out! Starting as if by magic from her trance, she springs up from the ground-her cheek on fire-her arms flung upwards in the air, crying aloud, as though her feeble voice's answer could be heard-her eyes far straining seawards-but in vain-in vain !-upon the shrouded water Again that sound, deep still no vessel can be seen. wailing with the wild wind's roar-low-moaning on the white sea-crests; again and again still, at measured intervals, throughout a long, long hour. And she stands through it all immoveable, in an agony that words cannot speak-a life-suspense in which the brain beats almost to bursting. But it is broken at last. Suddenly, rolling back like a white curtain, the mist clears from the sea, and shows her the thing she seeks-a mastless ship, tossing upon the waters helplessly, like a toy in a great giant's grasp. She gives one cry that rends the air; then back along the shore she rushes with frantic speed, as though her efforts were to save the ship-back to the harbour where the other boat had sunk. The quay was alive again with people with pale-faced men and women, some rushing save their wildly up and down, calling each one to husbands, brothers, fathers; some standing, silent, and still; their blanched lips pressed together their hands clasped tightly, watching as though fascinated, each movement of the doomed ship; some weeping loudly; some looking idly on, some few calm and self-possessed, taking council together what was to be done. They can't get men enough to man the life-boat," "Well, it's no wonder-I some one near Annie said. wouldn't go out in a quieter sea than this." "No boat could reach her," another answered; "it would be throwing life away to try it." "Ay, I think so. She must shift for herself - ten to one she'll strike upon the pier like the Minerva, this morning," the first man said again. "But the Valentine's a tighter-built boat than ever the Minerva was," the other returned; "she'll stand a stouter shock than what sent the Minerva down." "Not she, man-why, she's more than half a wreck already," was the half-careless, half-contemptuous answer. 'If she takes the pier, she'll be at the bottom in five minutes' time afterwards-trust my word for that." Standing by their side, Annie heard the words. No one to man the life-boat! no one to make one effort to save the crewno one, amongst all who stood there! She gazed wildly round her; the same officer who had spoken kindly to her in the morning, was standing She was beside him in with a group of gentlemen near. a moment, her hand grasping his arm again. |