The grief of all at Lodore was so great, that Julia’s overwhelming share of it did not cause any suspicion as to the nature of her sentiments. The feeling of every one, down to the lowest servant in the house, was the same, as if Edmund had really been the son or grandson of Mrs. Montgomery. Every one’s heart was full, no one had time to be sagacious.

Frances alone, though without any formal confidence, had for some time understood the secret of her sister’s heart. As soon, therefore, as Mr. Jackson had gone, and Mrs. Montgomery retired, she dismissed all attendants, and through a long and dreadful night continued to whisper to an ear, which yet seemed not to hear: “The account is not official, Julia, and Mr. Jackson does not believe it. Julia! Julia! Mr. Jackson does not believe it.” This, however, was a sort of pious fraud; for Frances, who had seen Henry’s letter, and the supplement to the paper, had herself no such hope, as her words were meant to inspire. Julia did not speak in reply; but, from time to time, by a scarcely perceptible pressure of her sister’s hand, she showed there was a consciousness of the kindly efforts to offer comfort. After the lapse of some hours spent thus, she betrayed, by a slight movement, that she was watching for the day-light. As soon as it dawned, she quietly and silently left her bed. Frances, without asking any questions, folded a wrapper carefully round her sister. Julia seated herself, and became again motionless. Frances knelt beside her, put her arms about her, and watched her countenance. For a long time all was still; nothing was heard but Julia’s heavy sighs, following each other at regular intervals, and the gentle, and but occasional soothings of Frances’ voice.

At length the servants began to move about. At each slightest noise, Julia started, listened, and the throbbing of her heart became audible, increased till it shook her frame, and then, as the sounds that had caused it, died away, subsided gradually, till a footstep, or an opening door, being again heard; it would again leap up, and run on with a tumultuous rapidity that scarcely left her power to breathe. This fearful state lasted some hours, when, at length, the postman’s well known knock on a door already open, was heard. Julia had disappeared before Frances had time to comprehend the nature of the sudden movement with which she had started from her seat. Frances followed, and found her in the hall, endeavouring, with fingers as powerless as those of a new born babe, to open a letter. Frances assisted to break the seal. It was from Edmund himself, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery. He was alive! He was well! When Julia, by Frances’s good management and a few hours passed quietly in her own apartment, was enabled to assume something like self command, the joyful tidings were spread throughout the house. The letter, and a paper which came by the same post, were then read with eager delight by all.

Edmund, in his letter, expressed a hope of seeing them soon, if it were but for an hour; and much kind solicitude respecting their feelings, should the false report of his death reach them before this precautionary epistle. The sum of the contents of the paper, which accompanied this letter, was as follows:—

The last statement, it may be remembered, left Fitz-Ullin crossing the space between the two ships. While getting on board the Euphrasia he beheld the figure of an officer, who was busily engaged on the quarter deck, and whose proportions and air instantly riveted his whole attention. The officer turned round; the countenance was Edmund’s. He was giving hasty orders for taking advantage of the tide, which was now beginning to flow. Occasionally he passed his hand across his forehead, or held it a moment before his eyes, while his officers were collected round him, earnestly recommending a few moments repose.

“I am quite well now,” he replied, “if we do not get her off this tide she will go to pieces before the next. When there is time to think of it, I shall lose a little blood,” he added, in answer to a strong remonstrance from the surgeon.

Fitz-Ullin, at the moment, rushed through the circle into the arms of his friend.

“The exertions of Captain Montgomery,” continued the paper, “to get his ship afloat, were ably seconded by Lord Fitz-Ullin and the officers and crews of both vessels, and finally crowned with success.”

After which, the next object became to secure the numerous captures made in the course of that brilliant day. This was effected with much labour, by literally towing them out from under their own silenced batteries.

And when, at length, the two detached ships were seen returning from their victorious expedition, and approaching the fleet with their little squadron of prizes in tow, the hearty and general cheering with which they were received was such as baffles all description; still less would it be possible to convey any adequate idea of the enthusiasm with which that cheering was doubled and redoubled, when Captain Montgomery, who, from the accounts brought to the fleet by the cutter, was believed to have fallen, was discerned standing on his quarter deck, waving his hat, and bowing, in return for the congratulations of all.

On joining the fleet, our hero learnt, for the first time, the report which had prevailed of his death, and that it had been carried to England. In consequence, he dispatched the letter to Mrs. Montgomery, which we have seen Julia and Frances, as soon as they perceived Edmund’s writing on the cover, so unceremoniously tearing open.

The paper, as might be expected, expatiated at great length on the gratified feelings with which they found themselves enabled to contradict the report of Captain Montgomery’s death. The subject, in short, engrossed every column of every public print of the day. There was scarcely room for an advertisement! Wherever you cast your eye, Captain Montgomery, in large letters, appeared before you. Every figure of newspaper rhetoric was set forth: the pathetic, the heroic, the sublime, but above all, the triumphant.