CHAPTER XIV.

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Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float
Upon the wanton breezes; strew the deck
With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,
That no rude savour maritime invade
The nose of nice nobility.
Cowper.

On the following evening, wind and tide answering, the packet in which our travellers were to embark was prepared for sailing.

The music of the indefatigable harper, in the passage, was completely drowned by the uproar of an universal commotion; the persons and voices of masters and mistresses, children, ladies' maids, footmen, and boatmen, were mixed in one undistinguished throng, as they crowded about the inn door. Mrs. Sullivan stood at the foot of the stairs screaming, loud enough for her shrill contr'alto to be heard above all the murmuring crowd:—"Meely! Cilly! do bestir yourselves; we're too late by a mile! here's the wery last boat imparting." The tardy-gaited damsels made their appearance just as one of the boatmen informed their mother, the captain had sent to say, he would not wait another minute; and they reached the side of the ship exactly at the moment he prepared to put his threat in execution. Poor Mrs. Sullivan had seldom seen, and had never been on the sea before, therefore it is not surprising that she was much terrified at finding herself in a small boat, on this, to her, unusual element; however, after many exclamations of terror, she congratulated herself, and all the party, on being safe on board: she might now have said with Foote,

"When first I went on board, Good Lord! what a racket,
Such babbling and squalling fore and aft through the packet;
The passengers bawling, the sailors yo-ho-ing,
The ship along dashing, the wind aloft blowing;
Some sick, and some swearing, some singing, some shrieking,
Sails hoisting, blocks rattling, the yards and booms creaking!"

It was that season of the year in which such of the Irish bipeds as are birds of passage, pay a summer's visit to their native shores: the packet was crowded to excess; and not only every birth was taken, but the cabin floors were spread with mattresses for the supernumeraries. Mrs. Sullivan had secured the state cabin, where people pay an additional price, for the honour and glory of encountering imminent danger of suffocation, in a commodious apartment, six feet broad by eight feet long, containing four beds, two above and two below; and in this receptacle of pride, many a repentant victim of human vanity has sent forth pious aspirations after "a new birth." Mrs. Sullivan, on going below, found that, besides the beds in the state cabin, only two others could be procured for Caroline and the maids; she however settled the matter, much to her satisfaction, by saying, "Willis must sit up all night." But Adelaide seeing the poor woman's face changing colour, with a compassion that never rose for an inferior in Mrs. Sullivan's breast, said, "If you will allow me, I will make up a bed for myself in the floor of your cabin, with the night sacks and dressing boxes; and then Willis can have my birth; she looks very sick, poor thing, perhaps you will give her leave to go to bed now." "I have no dejection to your doing what you likes with your own birth, Miss Vildenheim; but if Villis goes to bed, what can I do to undress?"—"Oh! I will be your waiting woman with pleasure." So saying, Adelaide seized the golden opportunity before the permission could be recalled, and persuaded the fainting Willis to occupy her bed.

When they returned to the deck all was comparatively quiet; the ladies were seated, and the gentlemen walking about in parties, examining the various groups of females which presented themselves to their view. Next to Adelaide was seated a very elegant woman, whom she heard addressed by the name of St. Orme, and whose husband was walking arm in arm with a remarkably handsome man, who united in his deportment the mien of a soldier, with the air of a man who had lived much in the world. His back was to Adelaide when he first attracted her notice, but when he came close to her, she started up, and met the hand he extended to her, with reciprocal cordiality, and their mutual astonishment, making them for an instant regardless of the presence of so numerous an audience, they addressed each other in the language they had long been accustomed to converse in, and, after a few hasty sentences of German, Adelaide, blushing to her fingers' ends, on perceiving she had attracted the attention of every person present, introduced the handsome stranger to Mrs. Sullivan as Colonel Desmond, and he was not a little surprised to find in her the widow of his most particular friend. This ceremony being over, Colonel Desmond again addressed Adelaide: "Good Heavens! Miss Wildenheim, who could have thought of seeing you here! how time does run on! I hope you don't forget what I remember with so much pleasure, that our acquaintance commenced before you were six years old; and that you used to seat yourself on my knee, with as little ceremony as that beautiful child is preparing to do on yours." Adelaide's dialogue with her new found friend was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Sullivan becoming so qualmish, that a speedy retreat to her own cabin was judged advisable, and Colonel Desmond, after assisting the ladies to go down stairs, returned to the deck, his fair acquaintance remaining below to give her promised aid to her chaperone.

Though Colonel Desmond was then in his forty-fifth year, his florid complexion, brilliant eye, and martial air, made him appear nearly ten years younger; nor were the few unwelcome gray hairs, that attempted to tell tales of other times, in contradiction to their darker companions, in sufficient number to counteract the appearance of youth, that the finest set of teeth in the world gave to his face. His forehead, eyes, and brows, seemed the seat of sense and manly daring, but all the kindly affections of human nature dwelt about his mouth. Adelaide had early applied to him the motto of the Chevalier Bayard—L'homme sans peur et sans reproche: and in the days of youthful enthusiasm, he had, in her scale of admiration, ranked next to her father—nor was he unworthy of her regard.

This gallant soldier was the second son of a country gentleman, whose family had lived from generation to generation in habits of friendship with that of the late Mr. Sullivan, who was also a younger son. These young men were companions, school-fellows, and friends, and on the death of their fathers, found themselves but scantily provided for. Edward Desmond, being intended for the church, had gone through some part of his collegiate course in the university of Dublin; but on the death of his father, agreeing with his young friend, that "it was much better to be a soldier than a damned quiz of a parson" resolved to exchange the cassock for the sword. Being a protestant, Edward did not labour under the same disabilities as his friend, but he would not separate their fortunes, and determined to share the same fate, and follow the same standard; accordingly they left their homes, in order, as they expressed it, in the words of a favourite song, to "go round the world for sport."

They entered the Austrian armies, and the first five years of their career served under the command of Baron Wildenheim, during which time he proved himself their patron and friend; gratitude on their side, and regard on his, preserved the intimacy thus formed, by correspondence and personal communication, long after they had ceased to be brother soldiers. Colonel Desmond remained in Germany, several years subsequent to Mr. Sullivan's return to England, so that he was much better known to Adelaide than the latter gentleman; and till she recollected he was unmarried, she had often wondered her father had not left her to his guardianship, in preference to a person who was to her a comparative stranger. Though Desmond and Sullivan had commenced their career of life together, they did not long continue on an equality as to character. The superior education Edward had received, in order to qualify him for the profession he was originally designed to embrace, showed its beneficial effects in far different pursuits; for whilst Maurice Sullivan plunged into every species of dissipation, his companion, incited by the expostulations and example of Baron Wildenheim, occupied himself in the acquirement of the knowledge most necessary to his profession, occasionally varying his studies by the pleasures arising from the cultivation of literature and the fine arts. But, however advantageous Colonel Desmond's intercourse with Baron Wildenheim had been to the formation of his character, it had latterly been dangerous to the peace of his mind. He had so long regarded the daughter of his friend with almost parental affection, that he was not exactly aware of the moment, when his feelings towards her became those of a lover; but when awakened to a sense of the real nature of his sentiments, his hours of solitude were tinctured with regret, as he bitterly lamented that hitherto disregarded want of fortune, which forbade his seeking the hand of the lovely girl. Neither Adelaide, nor the Baron, was ever conscious of this attachment; she only felt for him as a sort of second father, in whose approbation she delighted, and by whose admonition she profited; honour and generosity withheld his using any endeavours to win further on her regard; and feeling that self-control would not much longer be possible, he left Vienna, apparently induced only by the desire to revisit his native country. Time and absence had deadened, but not changed his feelings: with such sentiments, it may therefore be supposed, what happiness this unexpected meeting gave to both. The Miss Webberlys had come down below with their mother and Adelaide, so that the latter was obliged to stay in the suffocating cabin, where she remained in durance vile above an hour; from time to time she heard Caroline's little merry voice on deck, and longed to be there also; at last, when the little girl retired to bed, she gave Adelaide Mrs. St. Orme's compliments, to know if she would like to come on deck, adding, that she and Colonel Desmond were waiting in the outer cabin to take her up. With the utmost delight she profited by this good natured attention. When they ascended, she found all the passengers disposed of for the night, except Mr. and Mrs. St. Orme and Colonel Desmond.

Miss Wildenheim's present chaperone was a very elegant pleasing Irish woman, who added to the ease of well bred manners that sort of kindliness, which appears in those of her countrywomen in general. She was of good family, and was so well assured of her own place in society, that she never took the least trouble to impress any body else with an idea of her consequence; but her unaffected simplicity of dress, manner, and deportment, were the best credentials she could present to those accustomed to move in the same rank of life with herself. Adelaide and she understood each other at once: before their acquaintance had lasted half an hour, a casual observer would have supposed they had long been known to each other.

It was a most delightful night, the ship was smoothly cutting her rapid way before a fair, wind, and as it passed, the rippling waters sparkled with the beams of the moon. Colonel Desmond, leaning carelessly over the side of the vessel, half sung, half hummed, this verse, translated from an ancient Irish song:—

Adelaide thought the sound of his well remembered voice "pleasant and mournful to the soul, like the memory of joys that are past;" and it was insensibly leading her into a train of ideas, which she was not sorry to have interrupted by general conversation. How much did she enjoy the delightful freshness of the night, and the enlivening sallies of her animated companions; they were, however, at length terminated by Mr. St. Orme complaining of the increasing chilliness of the air, and proposing that she and her fair companion should take refuge from it in the body of her barouche, which was on deck. There they passed the remainder of the night most comfortably; and, when the sun rose, Miss Wildenheim was very sorry to hear they were entering the bay of Dublin, as she recollected her landing would put an end to the temporary release the packet had afforded her from the annoyances of the Webberly family.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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