Chapter XL: Coming Into Port

The vessel which was to bring the Arnold family to New Haven had been watched and waited for only as a craft freighted with love ever is watched. When she first rose on the horizon, like a white sea-gull with its wings outspread, Paul de Montreuil stood on the wharf with a telescope in his hand, searching the luminous fog through and through, as if his own heart had been lost there and could only be recovered with great vigilance.

All at once, while he was looking to the left, the little vessel came fluttering out of the silvery distance, and hovered between the blue line of water and the soft white clouds in the sky, as if it belonged as much to heaven as earth. Paul’s heart leaped in his bosom as he saw the sails dip and bathe themselves, as it were, in the rosy light; for, though it was not sunset, opal tints rippled the water as if reefs of pink coral and ridges of amber lay just beneath the surface, and gave their riches to every wave. His heart told him what ship it was long and long before his telescope discovered the truth; still that heart was in a flutter of doubt up to the last moment. Hope had mounted so high in his soul that he dreaded disappointment like a coward.

She came near, catching the sunset on her sails, till he could see figures upon the deck,—men and women, all looking towards the shore. Then his glass took them in with certainty: it gave back face after face to his search, but not _hers_. The glass shook in his hand: he was about to dash it down, when a female figure came clearly out from the group, and stood leaning over the bulwarks. It was Hannah.

Paul grew wild with delight, now; he snatched up the glass and reassured himself. Then he paced up and down the dock, still looking seaward, as if he feared the little vessel might fly away and disappoint him yet. Again he would sit down upon a pile of lumber that lay there ready for shipment, and strive to wait with patience. The sunset was splendid that night, and the vessel came forward in a blaze of gorgeous colors. The white sails seemed tipped with flame. She ploughed her way through liquid topaz and melted rubies.

Paul loved all that was beautiful and grand in nature. This scene made his nerves thrill. It was like visible music to him.

“So it should be,” was his wild lover-like thought. “My pearl, my gentle one, every thing beautiful should wait upon her. The winds that bring her to me should come whispering music and laden with perfume. She is so good, so true, so modest. Ah, shall I ever be worthy of her? Can she imagine how I love her?” And she, looking out from the deck of that little craft, saw a dark spot upon the distant wharf. How her eyes lightened! Her lips parted in sweet expectation. Under the concealment of her mantle she clasped two little hands, and a deep sigh thrilled up from her surcharged bosom, changing upon her lips into smiles.

“It is Paul! it is Paul!” she said in her heart. “He could not wait. He is on the watch. Oh, how he loves me! How I love him! I wonder if it is a sin to worship any one so much?”

Amy Leonard crept close up to Hannah. She was shivering as with cold, though the evening was drawing on bland and warm. Her pale, sharpened features presented a mournful contrast to the happiness which made Hannah so lovely. “We are in sight of the town,” she said, in a voice that seemed to shiver with the heart-chill which had seized upon her.

Hannah was so absorbed by her own happiness that she did not hear the low speech or feel the presence of this miserable young creature. “I wonder,” she whispered to herself, “if this sweet feeling can be a sin? Oh no, no, it is something that the angels understand and share with us! They must love one another, or heaven would be nothing to them.”

Amy saw the glow on her friend’s face, and sunk down to a seat close by her, mute and cold. No words of explanation had ever passed between these two school-mates; for in those days girls did not chatter, like magpies, of feelings that are always too sacred for light speech, and household secrets were seldom given carelessly to the children of a family. Hannah knew that something was terribly wrong between her family and that of the cabin on the Yantic; but having no person to consult with, and being naturally discreet in asking questions, she had no real idea of the trouble that threatened them, nor dreamed that it would interfere with the blissful destiny that lay before her. So, with hope brightening her serene face, she gazed landward, knowing that he was there waiting.

While Hannah looked afar off in her innocent joy, Amy sat drooping by her side unnoticed and desolate. Every gust of wind that urged her towards the shore, wrung unuttered moans from her soul. Each wave that lifted the vessel forward was answered by a pulse of agony from her bosom. What had she to expect in that beautiful spot to which the winds were drifting her? How would he meet her? Was it possible for her to act in antagonism to his wishes? Oh, if she might but die then and there! Had her sin of disobedience been so terrible that this great misery must spring out of it? The same bland air that made Hannah smile so joyously chilled poor Amy through and through. Her limbs shook and her very teeth chattered. The great shawl which she had worn during the whole passage seemed insufficient to give her warmth, muffle it around her as she would. She had been watching Hannah’s face, and following those eager eyes, with a wild, frightened look. She saw the figure of a man waiting on the wharf. Was it he, her most bitter enemy, yet the dearest being upon earth? Was it he? The doubt wrung a broken moan from her lips. Hannah heard the sound, and turning suddenly saw the gentle sufferer crouching at her feet. The gray anguish in that young face frightened all the happiness out of hers.

“Dear Amy, I am glad you have come on deck at last. How ill you must have been, poor child! The sickness has left you so pale, so deathly, I should hardly know you.”

“Yes,” answered Amy, wearily, “I am changed,—oh, how changed! By and by, Hannah, you, perhaps, will not want to know me.”

“There, now,” answered Hannah, “isn’t this a strange thing to say. What on earth can ever make me love you less? I am ashamed of you, Amy Leonard.”

Amy lifted her yearning gaze to the face bending over her so full of sweet gravity. There was something in her look that drove all the joy from Hannah’s thoughts. She sat down, and passed her arm caressingly over the poor girl’s shoulder.

“What makes you so pale, dear? I cannot bear to see you unhappy now, of all times in the world. Tell me all about it.”

Amy shrunk away from her arm, shuddering.

“How strangely you act, Amy. What have I done?”

“You, you. Nothing.”

“Then why creep away from me, as if I were something hateful to you?”

“I did not—oh, I did not. Hannah! Hannah! if you only—only——”

She broke off, and covering her face with both hands, sat motionless, evidently striving to gather strength. Then she arose with a pitiful smile and said,

“Don’t mind me, Hannah. It’s a shame to dash your happiness with my low spirits. I will go down.”

“Not yet,” said Hannah, detaining her with gentle force. “Tell me, dear, why you are so sad. Is it—is it because of this wedding? Don’t look so wild, dear. You have been so down-hearted ever since we heard of it, that I cannot help thinking so.”

“Let me go down! Let me go down!”

The words broke from lips pale as snow. The poor creature did, indeed, look wild and white.

Hannah dropped her hand from the shawl by which she had been detaining her.

“Oh, Amy, I did not mean to hurt you!”

Amy came back with a quiver on her lips, and in shrinking penitence held them up to be kissed.

“Amy, at any rate, I love you like a sister.”

Tears sprang into Amy’s eyes. “I know it—I know it,” she said. “You have all been good to me.”

“And we always shall be.”

Amy went down to the little cabin, and there, wringing her hands in bitter sorrow, wailed out:

“Oh, if I could but suffer alone! If I could but submit without sin! God help me, God help me, what misery I may bring upon _her_ too!”

Meantime the vessel went careering on its way, the wind kissing its sails and the waves breaking in showers of foam from its prow. The sunset was deepening into golden purple, and close by lay the city bathed in its dusky light. Down the little craft swooped toward the wharf, folded her wings, and lay still upon the water, ready to be dragged into mooring, as a bird gives itself up to the snarer.

Before she touched the wharf Paul leaped on board, clearing a broad space of water with one bound.

“Come,” he said, gathering Hannah’s little hand under his arm, “let us walk to the hotel. Your mother and the rest can ride.”

Hannah could not refuse; her whole heart went with the request. She did not even attempt to withdraw her hand from the clasp which still held it, but, with a light leap sprang with him on shore.

“Are you glad, are you happy, as I am, darling? Do you love me yet, dear, dear girl?”

“Do I love you? The strange question. Do I love myself?”

“God bless you, darling! Come, let us go. See what a splendid evening it is. For one half hour I will have you all to myself.”

They walked up the wharf and were gone. One half hour of happiness, at least was theirs.

The Maria Jane from Norwich was pulled close up to the long wharf, and its passengers made their way to the hotel, which was scarcely more than a nominal home to the young Arnold. A sad and dejected party it was which presented itself before the good landlady. They looked more—as she afterward expressed herself—like people going to a funeral than a wedding, with such faces! all the lights she could put in her best room failed to render it cheerful. Then the young man was away, as usual, and she felt herself quite put about to entertain them.