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A SUDDEN and unexpected event was the
occasion of Earle's presence at Maverick
House.

He had remained prostrate on a couch
of illness for weeks after the night of the attack
on Westbrooke Hall—the recluse watching
over him in the solitary hut with deep solicitude
and tenderness.

At last the wound in his shoulder had healed.
He had left his sick bed. The fresh breeze
of the ocean infused new life into his frame;
and seated for hours on the bench in front of
the rude cabin on the great headland, he had
looked through his glass out on the channel and
along the coast.

Where was the corvette? he asked himself

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What had become of his beloved craft? The
sailor loves his ship, and the fate of the corvette
was ever on Earle's mind. Had she arrived
safely with her prize, the viscount, or had she
been chased and captured by some English
frigate? Was she riding in pride, or sunk
fathoms deep beneath the waves of St. George's
Channel?

He had been seated in his customary seat on
that morning, gazing through his glass and
asking himself these questions, when all at once
the recluse saw him rise to his feet, and heard
him utter an exclamation, almost a cry, of joy.

The corvette was visible in the offing! There
was no mistaking the object of his pride and
affection! The eye of the sailor knows his
craft, as the eye of the lover knows his mistress.
There was the corvette slowly beating up
toward the coast of Pembrokeshire; and as his
mother hastened to his side, Earle pointed the
vessel out and exclaimed,—

“There she is, mother!”

“Your ship, my son?” said the poor recluse,
not sharing his joy.

“Yes, yes, mother! My own corvette!—
coming to rescue her commander.”

“Then you will leave me?”

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He turned toward her, and looked at her with
great tenderness.

“See how strong the sailor spirit is in me:
I had not thought of that,” he said.

“While I think first of it. You go, and I
shall be alone again.”

Her voice was full of melancholy, and the
sailor's joy was dimmed.

“Come with me, my mother. Leave this
wild and lonely spot. Your native Normandy
is brighter than this land; come! Nothing
there shall ever part us.”

“You say Normandy: how do you know
that Normandy is my birthplace?” said the
recluse, suddenly.

“From your missal, mother, — the little book
you pray from. I found it on the table near
my sick couch, and opened it. On the first
leaf is written, `Marianne Earle, Martigny, Normandy.' ”

The recluse was silent.

“Until now I had thought you a native of the
South, mother, where we always lived; but you
never told me any thing. There will be time,
to discuss all this, however. Now time is wanting.
See! look through my glass. There is a
man; it is Dargonne, on the deck of the

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corvette. He has his glass, and is looking for me.
He waves his handkerchief, and I reply.”

Earle waved his own hadkerchief.

“You see, mother! Get ready to come with
me.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“I must remain here. Do not ask me why,
my son.”

“And we shall part!”

“It breaks my heart, but I must remain, Edmond.
Ask me not why.”

“Enough, my mother; I will say no more.
Women like yourself never yield. I must go;
but I will return. My duty calls me now, but
we shall still love each other. See! the signal
flags are run up. I read them as I read print.”

“What do they say?”

Earle looked through his glass, and repeated
slowly as the fluttering signal flags syllabled the
message, —

“Be at — the old place — to-night.”

“The recluse sank upon the bench.

“Then it is ended — all my happiness at seeing
you near me, my child,” she murmured.

And looking at him, she said to herself in a
low voice, —

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“He does not hear me; he is looking at his
vessel, waving his handkerchief. That means
that he will be punctual. Oh! why do we love
in this world? Why do we become wrapped
up in human beings until we are unhappy without
them? Then they go — we are alone — our
very love works our woe. Alas! my child is
going to leave me, and I will be alone.”

Earle turned toward her, joyously.

“See! she understands my signal, mother.
She has tacked about, content — is making for
the coast of Ireland — but she will be here
without fail, again, to-night!”

p517-159

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