STORM. [From "The Dear Girl." By PERCY FITZGERALD.] FOR two days the gale continued at the little town, neither increasing nor subsiding. In the morning, as in the evening, the air was of the cold bluishslate colour, and in the streets, in the shops where the owners sat, uncomfortable, with their doors fast closed, and doing no business, was heard the roar and tumbling of the breakers as at the back of a wall. No one went abroad, except a few enthusiasts, who would not give up their day's walk, and who, having trudged to the top of the great cliffs, after being blown about, struggling with their hats, staggering to keep their feet, came down with news that the sight from thence was "awfully grand," the sea far out in angry mist, and breaking and roaring in on the shore like a furious demon. No ships were seen. Even the old Eagle, the daily boat, a stout, clumsy, dowdy packet that would bear any rude treatment, did not ply. The colony seemed a city of the dead, the little streets were empty. Sharp faces, with a pinched and desolate expression, peered out from the little windows hopelessly. The way in which this change affected Mr. Dacres was almost pitiable. He lay in a chair, on a sofa, in the most miserable state of despondency, asking, over and over again, had he been born for this sort of thing-a man of his genius, wit, and parts? What was to become of him ?-the bright hours of life passing away, prizes slipping from him, and he would die in this miserable "expatriation." Mr. Vivian came over again and again. Lucy was delighted with her new friend; to her the state of the weather was a purely indifferent thing. Happy those independent of such paltry influences! He was well read, fond of music, poetry, and what not; and Lucy, at her humble instrument, was happy to play and even sing for him, according to the instruction received at Miss Pringle's from M. Pontet, the master at that establishment. "I ought to be gone to-day," said the colonel, "and yet I shall confess I am not sorry for this forced delay---” "But why must you go?" said Lucy; "you might stay for the week, at least." It came to be the third day. The night had been very stormy indeed, and tenants of the "little crockery" houses of the town (so an indignant colonist called them) were kept awake by angry roaring and moaning, and the sound of tiles bursting from the roof and clattering noisily down the street. When the dawn came, the streets were as clean and dry as though sweepers had been at work all night; the slate-colour had gone, and it was very dark and gloomy. There was a mysterious stillness along that flat, sandy, dismal track, which, for many miles, edges the French coast. The long avenue made by the two wooden piers was strained and cracking; and the fishermen, standing about idly, prophesied it would not bear much more. None of the boats were out. There was the Hélène, belonging to this port, and which was due in a day or two. Every one knew Captain Muret; none better than Madame Muret, in an old nightcap, who harangued the fishermen, now and again, that he would never put out in such weather. Muret had risen from the ranks, was the only fisherman of the place who was actually commander and part owner of a brig some three hundred tons burden. No wonder they had interest in Muret, or thought that the Hélène was the only vessel in the trade. Captain Filby was out on this day. Strange to say, his spirits were not affected by this weather. He did not call it a "hole of a place." He seemed rather to get respect for it. "A fine, bracing hearty day, like one of our honest English gales. I didn't think they had it in 'em. To see these creatures skulking and shivering about; they're only half men." Captain Filby even trudged vigorously to the top of the cliffs, and looked down over the tremendous scene, to where an awful black heavy curtain, charged with horror and destruction, was hanging over the English coast. "How they're catching it over there!" he said. As he was looking, and holding on to his hat, he saw a black object far out at sea; it was coming on fast, and growing larger. “A ship, I declare," he said, and got out his glass. He watched it for a long time, and saw that it was a brig, labouring to keep well out. She had suffered a great deal, and her "poles" were bare enough. "I shall be here again very soon," he said. "I must come by this way shortly." And he sighed "You won't do it, my lads," said the captain, and looked down. coolly, "even if you are British; which I doubt. "Why?" said Dacres, looking at him curiously, You have a finicking look about you." as if he were a witness. "There is a dismal beat," said the officer, coldly, "on which I must walk-for many years, I dare say.' The captain came down leisurely, walked round by the port, and recognised a thin gendarme who was shivering in a doorway, feeling every blast of the wind like a stab, and told him there was a ship' crucifix more than seven feet high, all gilt and off the coast. Presently a motley crowd went painted, set up by the fishermen, and round whose down to the pier, and under shelter of a wall foot was a whole cluster of praying women. Was peeped out at the solitary vessel. It was now in there not here Jean's sister-he was in the Hélène far closer. Never is the struggle that rages be--and Paul's wife, and many more distracted tween man and nature brought to such a satisfac- creatures, and the captain's own wife, the most tory issue as in a storm. It is a fair battle, and in collected and confident of them all, looking out, most instances, if not surprised, man wins. The with her hands shading her eyes, to that eternal boat was drawing nearer and nearer, and a clever sheet of dull terrible slate, which was now and young fisherman, with sharp eyes, made out, as it again lit up with flashes of white? There was a had been suspected from the first, that it was the fringe of eager, painful faces, bent forward and Hélène, the cherished boat with Captain Muret on looking out into the storm, with clasped hands board. That news soon spread, and servants and strained eyes, thus getting into the front. rushing up-stairs into dismal little rooms, with a The present state of things was this: The brig dramatic tossing of arms and appeals to the "bon was in a poor way indeed, for there it lay, not two Dieu !" and tragic faces over the "poor children" hundred yards away, grounded on the flat Dieppe who were being "assassinated" on the water. shore, the bathers' paradise-a miserable black Tourlou, the oldest fisherman, said, confidently, tenement, now visible, now swallowed up and that in about half an hour or forty minutes it devoured by an overwhelming rush of waves, would be all over! which, when they retired, showed a black ragged mast and a few figures like flies hanging on it. At every disappearance there was a shriek and a wail from the shore; at every reappearance another cry and wail. “Oh, they will save them-they must save them!" Colonel Vivian heard some one say confidently, as they came up. Our Lucy was sitting in their little drawingroom with her mamma. "Papa Harco" was in bed, "not well; but I suppose it will end, one of these days!" He had "something on his chest," he thought. Vivian was there, as usual, now reading, now talking, while Lucy and her mamma worked. It was about four o'clock, and Papa Harco was "thinking of getting upon his legs," when, with tears pouring down her cheeks, the little landlady opposite burst in, and said that there was the most hideous misery going on down at the port; that the "poor children" were there in close on shore, perishing before our eyes; and that Jaques and the whole town were up there looking on, and could do nothing. "What!" said Vivian, excited, "is she gone ashore?" But the little landlady could give no details. "I shall go out and see," he said, rising. "One might give a little advice. The French are so dull in everything about the sea. I shall be back in half an hour." He went out. Lucy sat at the window. Half an hour went by, and he did not return. What was the meaning of this? There was no one to ask; for the whole town had gone up to the port. As Vivian was going down to the port, he fell in with three sailors, whose dress, build, and bearing told him they were English seamen. They were coming out of the Nancy Baker, of Hull, who had brought coals for a factory that was some way from the town. They had just returned, and were going up where all the world were going. Vivian spoke to one, who proved to be the mate, a quiet, stolid young fellow, of about five-and-thirty, and whom he heard the men call John Davy. Davy said it was going to be a poor business, he was afeard. They went along the wooden pier, past the large But these attempts were of the feeblest sort. They had tried to launch a boat, though no one had volunteered to go in it, and it was smashed into firewood at one crash against the pier. "It is hopeless-it is madness," said the French sailors, gloomily pointing to the fragments. Others had brought a rope to the cliffs, and were going through a laborious show of flinging it out. There were preparations of the same description being made with the same elaborate show, and to an enormous amount of gesticulation and chatter. John Davy gave one rapid glance up and down, took all inthe broken boat, the ropes-" with half an eye," and said aloud : "Well, of all the Jack-a-donkeys I ever see! Why, they might as well throw them out a spool of cotton!" There was an official air over the whole, also, for here were gendarmes and the mayor fussing about and directing, though there was nothing to be directed, and taking notes for the "verbal process" of the whole, which he would address to the prefect. "Why," said Davy, "the men'll be lost afore their eyes while they are busy with their packthread. There's another of 'em off. I give 'em twenty minutes, and where will they be?" "In God's name!" cried Vivian, growing excited, "can nothing be done? You are English sailors-I'll do what I can, if I only knew the way." "Bill!" said Davy to his mate. "Our big boat might do it. I wouldn't be afraid to put her to it. We might coax her along 'tween the piers. She's broad and bluff enough; but there's only three on they had much confidence in the gifts of the islanders. us." fix more than seven feet high, all gilt and inte, set up by the fishermen, and round whose t was a whole cluster of praying women. Was there not here Jean's sister-he was in the Hélène -2d Paul's wife, and many more distracted ratures, and the captain's own wife, the most colected and confident of them all, looking out, The with her hands shading her eyes, to that eternal ever sheet of dll terrible slate, which was now and in it up with flashes of white! There was a of ezer, painful faces, bent forward and looking out into the storm, with clasped hands and strained eyes, thus getting into the front. The present state of things was this: The brig was in a poor way indeed, for there it lay, not two lyndred yards away, grounded on the flat Dieppe shore, the bathers' paradise-a miserable black tonement, now visible, now swallowed up and devoured by an overwhelming rush of waves, which, when they retired, showed a black ragged drawing- mast and a few figures like flies hanging on it. At every disappearance there was a shriek and a wail from the shore; at every reappearance another cry and wail. "Oh, they will save them-they must save them !” Colonel Vivian heard some one say confidently, as they came up. he thought. Vivian was theres · What!" said Vivian, excited, is she gone with the same elaborate show, and to an enormous shore!" But the little landlady could give no details, "I shall go out and see," he said, rising. "One might give a little advice. The French are so dull in everything about the sea. I shall be back in half an hour." He went out. Lucy sat at the window. Half an hour went by, and he did not return. What was the meaning of this! There was no one to ask; for the whole town had gone up to the port. As Vivian was going down to the port, he fell in with three sailors, whose dress, build, and bearing told him they were English seamen. They were coming out of the Nancy Baker, of Hull, who had brought coals for a factory that was some way from the town. They had just returned, and were going up where all the world were going. Vivian spoke to one, who proved to be the mate, a quiet, stolid young fellow, of about five-and-thirty, and whom he heard the men call John Davy. Davy said it was going to be a poor business, he was afeard. They went along the wooden pier, past the large amount of gesticulation and chatter. John Davy gave one rapid glance up and down, took all inthe broken boat, the ropes-"with half an eye," and said aloud: "Well, of all the Jack-a-donkeys I ever see! Why, they might as well throw them out a spool of cotton!" There was an official air over the whole, also, for here were gendarmes and the mayor fussing about and directing, though there was nothing to be directed, and taking notes for the "verbal process" of the whole, which he would address to the prefect. "Why," said Davy, "the men'll be lost afore their eyes while they are busy with their packthread. There's another of 'em off. I give 'em twenty minutes, and where will they be?" "In God's name!" cried Vivian, growing excited, "can nothing be done? You are English sailors-I'll do what I can, if I only knew the way." "Bill" said Davy to his mate. "Our big boat might do it. I wouldn't be afraid to put her to it. We might coax her along 'tween the piers. She's |