t a little distance, to
see the ship wafted on her course. It was then calm, radiant sunset.
She lay between us, and the red light; and every taper line and spar was
visible against the glow. A sight at once so beautiful, so mournful, and
so hopeful, as the glorious ship, lying, still, on the flushed water,
with all the life on board her crowded at the bulwarks, and there
clustering, for a moment, bare-headed and silent, I never saw.

Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind, and the ship
began to move, there broke from all the boats three resounding cheers,
which those on board took up, and echoed back, and which were echoed
and re-echoed. My heart burst out when I heard the sound, and beheld the
waving of the hats and handkerchiefs--and then I saw her!

Then I saw her, at her uncle's side, and trembling on his shoulder. He
pointed to us with an eager hand; and she saw us, and waved her last
good-bye to me. Aye, Emily, beautiful and drooping, cling to him with
the utmost trust of thy bruised heart; for he has clung to thee, with
all the might of his great love!

Surrounded by the rosy light, and standing high upon the deck, apart
together, she clinging to him, and he holding her, they solemnly passed
away. The night had fallen on the Kentish hills when we were rowed
ashore--and fallen darkly upon me.

CHAPTER 58. ABSENCE

It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the
ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many
unavailing sorrows and regrets.

I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how great the shock
was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, and went away;
and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As a man upon a
field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is
struck, so I, when I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no
conception of the wound with which it had to strive.

The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and grain
by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad, deepened
and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow,
wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees,
it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost--love,
friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered--my first trust,
my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that
remained--a ruined blank and waste,