48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
His restless eye
Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill
He dared not meet were there.
— Willis.
After some days' delay, the brig put to sea, Morton on
board. The cliffs behind Gibraltar came in sight at last, and
a fresh levanter blew her out like an arrow upon the Atlantic.
They were becalmed off the Azores. The sea was like glass;
the turtles came up to sleep at the top; the tar melted out of
the seams; and as the vessel moved on the long, lazy swells,
the masts kept up their weary creaking from morning till
night, and from night till morning. Morton walked the deck
in a fever of impatience.
At length an east wind sprang up, and with studding sails
spread like wings, the brig ran before it, reeling like a drunken
sea-gull.
On the forty-first day, the Neversink heights rose on the
horizon. Vessels innumerable passed — steamers, merchantmen,
war ships. The highlands of Staten Island, with its
villages and villas, lay close on their left, and the Bay of New
York opened before them, sparkling in the morning sun, and
alive with moving sails. On the right lay a forest of masts;
in front, the Castle lifted its ugly familiar front; and farther
on, the spire of Trinity towered over the wilderness of brick.
Morton called a boat alongside, embarked his luggage, and
went on shore. And, in spite of that depression which follows
long and deep excitement, in spite of the anxieties that
engrossed him, he felt a thrill of delight as his foot pressed
American soil.
This pleasure, however, was short. The thought of Edith
Leslie had been so long the solace of his confinement, that it
seemed to have grown into a part of himself; at all events,
now that his doubts were on the verge of decision, for good
or evil, it drove every other thought from his mind. Reaching
his hotel, he found that he could not set out for Boston
till the afternoon; and to get rid of the interval, he turned
over the Boston newspapers in the reading room, searching
for the mention of any familiar names. Here he was more
successful than he cared to be; for he presently discovered
the name of Horace Vinal, figuring in the list of directors of
a joint stock company.
“The hound!” muttered Morton; “so he is alive yet!”
And leaving the hotel, he walked up the crowded sidewalk
of Broadway, in a mood any thing but tranquil.
