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diff --git a/75497-0.txt b/75497-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ed5d28 --- /dev/null +++ b/75497-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21697 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75497 *** + + + + + + THE LADY OF THE ISLE; + OR, + THE ISLAND PRINCESS. + + + BY + + MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. + + AUTHOR OF “MIRIAM, THE AVENGER; OR, THE MISSING BRIDE,” “A BEAUTIFUL + FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,” “CHANGED BRIDES,” “TRIED FOR + HER LIFE,” “BRIDE’S FATE,” “WIDOW’S SON,” “A NOBLE LORD,” “CRUEL AS THE + GRAVE,” “FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “LOST HEIRESS,” “FAMILY + DOOM,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” + “FALLEN PRIDE,” “VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE SPECTRE + LOVER,” “MAIDEN WIDOW,” “TWO SISTERS,” “BRIDAL EVE,” “FAIR PLAY,” “THE + FATAL MARRIAGE,” “PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” “BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,” + “MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “DESERTED WIFE,” “INDIA,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “WIFE’S + VICTORY,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,” + “VIVIA,” “LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW,” ETC. + + “_’Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange, + Stranger than fiction. If it could be told, + How much would fiction gain by the exchange! + How differently the world would men behold!_”—BYRON. + + “_With caution judge of probability, + Things deemed unlikely, e’en impossible, + Experience oft hath proven to be true._”—SHAKSPEARE. + + PHILADELPHIA: + T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; + 306 CHESTNUT STREET. + + + + + A WORD TO THE READER. + + +In offering you this, the most singular romance that I have ever +written, I feel constrained to say, that the most remarkable characters +and incidents here exhibited, are drawn from well-known persons and +events of real life. These circumstances are here presented with only +such judicious change of times, places, and proper names, as is dictated +by the prudence and delicacy which also withholds me from pointing out +more definitely the sources whence they were derived. + + E. D. E. N. S. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER. PAGE + I. An Interrupted Wedding, 29 + II. The Arrested Bride, 72 + III. The World, 89 + IV. Estelle, 102 + V. The Assizes, 123 + VI. The Arraignment, 134 + VII. The Flight of Estelle, 156 + VIII. The Forsaken, 166 + IX. Shipwreck, 179 + X. Recognition of the Dead Body, 196 + XI. His Majesty the King of the Isle, 203 + XII. The Skipper’s Daughter, 228 + XIII. The Island Princess, 238 + XIV. Barbara Brande, 248 + XV. The Girl-Captain, 264 + XVI. Pursuit, 279 + XVII. Captain Barbara’s First Voyage, 285 + XVIII. The Recluse, 298 + XIX. The Grave-Yard Ghost, 314 + XX. Lord Montressor’s Arrival, 327 + XXI. The Last Struggle, 334 + XXII. Julius Luxmore, 348 + XXIII. Etoile L’Orient, 354 + XXIV. Barbara’s Voyage, 375 + XXV. Glorious Uncertainty of the Law, 383 + XXVI. Christmas in the Village, 397 + XXVII. Christmas in the Desolate House, 402 + XXVIII. The Evening Feast, 410 + XXIX. Captain Barbara may be a Baroness, 420 + XXX. Captain Barbara’s Second Voyage, 428 + XXXI. The Dreary Headland, 439 + XXXII. The Flight from the Headland, 451 + XXXIII. The Passage of Years, 456 + XXXIV. The Heiress of the Isle, 460 + XXXV. Euthanasy, 465 + XXXVI. Etoile comes into her Estate, 469 + XXXVII. Etoile Left Alone, 474 + XXXVIII. The Solitary Maiden, 479 + XXXIX. Estelle’s Home, 486 + XL. Meeting with an Old Friend, 507 + XLI. A Waiting Bride, 515 + XLII. What the Sea gave to Etoile, 529 + XLIII. Love, 538 + XLIV. The Attempted Flight of Etoile, 546 + XLV. The Rivals, 557 + XLVI. Plots and Counter Plots, 569 + XLVII. The Re-union, 593 + + + + + THE + + LADY OF THE ISLE. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING. + + All! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, + And cheeks all pale, that but an hour before + Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness! + And there were sudden partings, such as press + The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs, + Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess + If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, + Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!—_Byron._ + + +It was the first of May, the marriage day of the Viscount Montressor, of +Montressor Castle, Dorsetshire, and Estelle, only daughter and heiress +of Sir Parke Morelle, Hyde Hall, Devonshire. + +A glorious morning! the cloudless, blue sky smiled down upon the green +hills and dewy dales and deep woods of Devon; and the park around the +Hall was all alive and musical with the joyous songs of birds, and the +merry laughter of young men and maidens gathering to celebrate their +May-day festival, and to do honor to the marriage of their landlord’s +daughter. + +The elm-shaded, winding avenue that led from the highway to the house, +was arched at each terminus by a mammoth wreath of flowers, and many +were the carriages that passed under them, on their way to assist at the +wedding; and these contained only the bridesmaids, and the nearest +friends and relatives of the family, whose relationship or position gave +them the right to attend the bride to church;—for a still more numerous +party had been invited to meet her at the altar. The villagers and +tenants, grouped about under the shade of the great old trees, or +wandering over the greensward on either side of the grand avenue, +watched these equipages as they rolled on, commenting—as usual— + +“That is Sir William Welworth’s carriage—he is the bride’s uncle by her +mother.” + +“Who don’t know that?—Hush! my eyes! lend me a rumberrell, Joe, or I +shall be dazed blind, along o’ looking at this turn out! Whose is it? +since you know everything.” + +“That?—that’s Lord Dazzleright’s—the great cove’s as made a fortin’ and +_riz by the law_—(not at a rope’s end, though, as _you’ll_ rise one of +these days, Bill, my lad, if you don’t keep out o’ the squire’s +preserves)—but by reading and pleading, and keeping on the right, do you +see, of the powers that be; until he got himself made a Baron of;—which +people _do_ say he’ll get upon the woolsack yet,” replied the +gamekeeper, Joe, as the splendid equipage of the new member of the house +of peers dashed past them. + +“Yes; but what does he _he_ do here?” inquired the laborer, Bill. + +“He’s the god-father of the bride, you know, besides being a bachelor +without children, I mean sons-and-heirs.” + +“Here comes somethin’ like a huss—my granny! how solemncolly! who’s +comin’ to a funeral?” + +“Oh let me see!—_that?_ why that’s the carriage of the old Duchess of +Graveminster, the grand-aunt of Lady Morelle. She was expected at the +hall yesterday; something must o’ stopped her,” said Joe, as a large, +sombre, dark-colored traveling carriage lumbered heavily past. + +“What o’clock is it, Mr. Joe? you’re a weatherwise, and you can tell,” +inquired a young girl leaving a group of maidens and joining the two +men. + +“What o’clock, my dear?” replied the gamekeeper, looking up at the sun +with an air of confidence. “Well, I should say it was just about a +quarter to ten.” + +“Oh—dear me! and the weddingers won’t pass till nearly twelve! and here +we are to wait two mortal hours! and I want to be away at the Maypole so +much.” + +“Hush! my darling; look! here comes his lordship’s carriage, itself, +just as sure as you’re the prettiest lass in the country,” whispered the +gamekeeper, as a very plain but handsome traveling carriage of dark +green, drawn by a pair of spirited grey horses, rolled on up the avenue +toward the Hall. + +“_Whose_ Lordship’s? What are you thinking about, Mr. Joseph?” asked the +little maiden, fretfully. + +“Why, _his_ Lordship’s! _The_ Lorship’s—the _only_ Lordship to be +thought about now, my dear! Lord _Montressor’s_ Lordship!” + +“Now _that’s_ impossible, Mr. Joseph! If you _be_ gamekeeper, you +sha’n’t make game of _me_, at that rate. Lord Montressor! Marry-come-up! +What should _he_, of all men, be doing here at _this_, of all hours?” + +“Come up to marry, I suppose. Anyhow it is _he_.” + +“Nonsense! It can’t _be_, I tell you! It would be out of all manners! +Don’t I know? He’s to bring all his groomsmen, and _his_ friends and +relations to the _church_, and wait _there_ for Miss Morelle and her +friends and relations! _That’s_ manners.” + +“I know it be!” + +“That shows it can’t be Lord Montressor who drove past just now.” + +“But I know _it be him_, also! Don’t I know his Lordship’s grey and +crimson liveries? and his co’t arms—the lion _couchant_, and the lady +_sittin on’t_? It’s _him_, now just as sure as you are just the sweetest +creetur in the world; but what I be thinking of is—_what’s to pay?_ It +looks like somethin’ was _on_regular!” + +“Onreglar? I believe you! Who ever heard of such a thing?—if it _be_ +Lord Montressor.” + +It was Lord Montressor. + +Early that morning a note from his affianced bride had been put in his +hands, summoning him to a private conference with her at the Hall before +they should proceed to the church. Surprised and filled with vague +uneasiness, his lordship lost no time in obeying the behest. + +And it was really his carriage and liveries that passed. + +Within the most secluded of her suite of richly-furnished apartments at +the old Hall, half buried in the depths of a cushioned chair, reclined +the bride expectant, in bridal array. + +On her right, a gorgeous cheval mirror reflected in profile her +beautiful form. + +On her left, through the rose-colored silk hangings of the half-open bay +window, wafted by the breeze, came glimpses of the pure blue sky and +tender green foliage of spring, scents of fragrant flowers, and sounds +of singing birds and innocent laughter, from the park. + +She was alone, her attendants having, by her own desire, withdrawn. + +Estelle Morelle—or “La belle Estelle,” “Beautiful Stella,” “the Midnight +Star”—as, for her resplendent dark beauty, she was poetically named—was +at this time twenty-five years of age, and more lovely than a poet’s or +an artist’s ideal. Her form was of medium height, and very slender, +though well-rounded, with a graceful head, over which fell rich masses +of jet-black, silken ringlets, shading a face of pure, pale olive +complexion, with large, mournful, dark eyes, habitually vailed by the +long, drooping lashes, and delicate, though full curved lips, ever +patiently closed as in silent resignation. The prevailing expression of +her dark, brilliant countenance was a profound melancholy. + +The announcement of Miss Morelle’s approaching marriage with the +Viscount Montressor had created a profound sensation in the fashionable +and aristocratic circles. A peerless beauty, the only child and heiress +of the oldest, wealthiest and haughtiest baronet in the West of England, +her heart had been as much the object of aspiration to the youthful and +ardent, as her hand and fortune had been the end of desire to the +mercenary and ambitious. + +At the early age of seven years, Estelle had been placed at one of the +first-class female institutions of learning at Paris, then as now, +considered among the very best of their kind in the world, and there had +been left to remain until her sixteenth year, when the sudden and +calamitous breaking up of the institution, and her own severe illness, +had occasioned her removal. That illness had been attended with marked +changes in the constitution and temperament of the young girl. + +Estelle, previously the most careless, light-hearted and capricious of +children, left her chamber of convalescence a subdued, thoughtful, +melancholy woman! The laughing lips of girlhood closed in patient +sadness; the sparkling eyes sheathed their beams under long, shadowy +lashes, now seldom lifted; the silvery, elastic voice, sank into deep +and thrilling tones; the free, glad motions were measured and +controlled. + +She never entered another school, but completed her education under the +best masters, at home. To dissipate what was considered a transient +melancholy, her parents traveled with her over Europe, pausing at each +capital and chief town, to show her all that was interesting and +instructive. But, though their daughter repaid their attentions with the +sweetest gratitude, and obeyed them with the gentlest docility, she +showed no interest in the passing scenes. And though everywhere her +extreme beauty and sweetness of disposition, not less than her fortune +and position, drew around her many friends and admirers, Estelle +remained alone in her isolated thoughts and feelings. Every most +distinguished physician in Europe had been consulted upon her case, and +the result of their wisdom was a decision that this melancholy was not +the effect of ill health, still less of secret sorrow, but that it was a +constitutional phase that would probably pass away with maturing years. + +They returned to England, presented their daughter at court, and +introduced her into all the gayeties of fashionable life. But with no +happy effect upon the spirits of Estelle, who remained profoundly +unmoved amid the _eclat_ that greeted her _debut_. Her picturesque +beauty was the theme of all tongues—her mournful glance was +fascinating—her deep tones thrilling—her touch magnetic; all felt her +power, yet she who could move all others, remained unimpressed. She who +sought no conquests, for that very reason perhaps, made many. A peer and +two commoners, in succession, laid their fortunes at her feet, and were +in turn kindly and firmly rejected. + +So passed her first season in London, at the close of which her parents +took her down to their seat in Devonshire. Here, in her thoughtful, +quiet, unostentatious manner, she engaged in works of benevolence among +the villagers and the tenantry. And her father, hoping much from this +employment, gave her full liberty of action, and smiled to see that she +seemed less pensive than before. + +At the beginning of the parliamentary term, the family went up to +London. + +And it was here in her second season in town that Estelle formed the +acquaintance of Lord Montressor, a young nobleman but lately acceded to +his titles and estates, but already known as a man of the most +high-toned moral and intellectual excellence, as a righteous as well as +a rising statesman, and as one, who in the event of a change of +ministry, would be likely to be called to fill a high official position +in His Majesty’s new cabinet. Aside from the glare of rank and wealth +and power, Charles Montressor was a glorious specimen of the Creator’s +workmanship. Above the average standard of height among his countrymen, +broad shouldered and deep-chested, with a noble head, and a face full of +wisdom and goodness, his appearance truly indicated the warm +benevolence, clear intelligence, and pure spirit of the man. His +presence soon inspired Estelle with a faith which she had not been able +to feel in any other that approached her. He drew nearer to her than any +other had been permitted to come; he crossed the magic circle of her +isolation and conversed with her as no other had been allowed to do. The +world looked and said that the beautiful Stella had at last met her +master and was conquered. + +At this stage of affairs, the parliamentary term being over, Sir Park +Morelle and his family left London for Hyde Hall. + +Lord Montressor asked and received permission to follow them, and in +less than a month availed himself of the privilege to do so. Thus it was +in the home of her ancestors, after having obtained the cordial sanction +of her parents, and believing himself sure of the affections of their +daughter, Lord Montressor offered his heart and hand to the lovely +Estelle, and was, to his profound astonishment, instantly and firmly +rejected! In thus rejecting his suit she wept long and bitterly, praying +his forgiveness, that the happiness she had experienced and exhibited in +his society should have betrayed him into making this declaration, and +beseeching him never to renew his suit; but to leave and forget her. +There was something in the tone of her refusal which confirmed and +deepened his previous conviction that—even in rejecting—she loved him! +But with his high-toned sentiments he would not in the least degree +presume upon that knowledge. Taking her hand with deferential +tenderness, he said— + +“Stella!—a man never but once, in his whole existence, loves a woman as +I love you! I will not inquire the cause of the rejection, which you +have certainly a right to make without assigning any reason for the act. +And after having received this repulse, I may not in honor distress you +by a renewal of my suit. But this, in parting, I must say to you—that, +though I go hence, I shall not go out of the reach of your friends; I +shall never address another woman; so if ever in the course of future +weeks, or months, or years, however long, you may think proper to review +the decision of this evening, Stella, I implore you, do not hesitate to +let me know! Write but one word, ‘Come,’ and I return to lay an +unchanged heart at your feet!” + +Estelle was weeping too bitterly to reply. + +“Stella, will you promise to do this?” + +“Lord Montressor, best and dearest friend! Do not seek to bind yourself +to one who can give you nothing in return! Try to think of the +melancholy girl that you have pitied and loved, only as a shadow that +fell for a moment across the sunshine of your path, and then passed away +forever!—and so forget her!” + +“Stella, I have pledged my honor never to renew this suit, unless you +reverse in my favor the sentence you have pronounced upon it; but, +inspired by the deep and deathless love I bear you, and ‘hoping against +hope,’ I feel impelled to implore before leaving you that, in the event +of a favorable change of sentiment or purpose toward me, you will not +hesitate to give me leave to return. Stella, will you promise me so much +as that?” + +“Noblest friend that I have in the world, how gladly would I promise, +but I must not, Montressor. Were I to do so, you would feel bound to +wait the changes of my mood, and so, for a most undeserving love, might +miss, in some nobler woman’s affections, the happiness in store for +you.” + +“Stella, will you raise your sweet, mournful eyes to mine one moment, +that you may read my soul while I speak?” + +Estelle lifted her dark orbs to meet the clear, pure, blue eyes bent +with so much love and candor upon hers, and read the deep, unchanging +truth and constancy of his soul as he said: + +“Stella, in the presence of the heart-searching God, who sees and hears +me, I assure you that I shall never love another woman as I love you, +and therefore, of course, can never wed another; so that, whether you +give me this slightest of hopes or not, I am equally and forever bound! +_Now_ will you promise, Stella? Remember, it is only to let me know in +case of a change in your sentiments.” + +For an instant the light of an unutterable love and joy broke on her +beautiful, dark face, and her smiling lips parted to speak; when, as if +a sudden memory and warning had griped her very heart, she uttered a +low, sharp cry, turned paler than before, and then said: + +“No, no, my lord. Stella cannot even give you that. She is poorer than +the poorest in gifts to you. She can only pray that you may forget her +and be happy.” + +He looked profoundly disappointed and troubled. But soon mastering his +despondency, he said hopefully: + +“Well, dearest Stella, although you reject me without apparent reason, +and refuse to give me the slightest promise or the most distant hope, +yet, _I repeat_, should you, in the long future, change your purpose, +and write to me one word—‘Come’—I will hasten to lay at your feet an +unchanged heart. Good-bye. God be with you!” and raising her hand, he +bowed over it, pressed it to his lips, turned and left the room. + +Some moments after, Lady Morelle, who came to seek and congratulate her +daughter upon what she imagined to be the only possible result of the +interview, found Estelle lying in a swoon upon the floor. It was +followed by a long and terrible illness, terminating in a tediously +protracted convalescence. The town season was at hand before Estelle was +able to re-enter society. + +They went up to London, and once more the “star of beauty” arose upon +its world. And though the cloud upon her life settled darker and +heavier, day by day—though she grew still more reserved, gloomy, and +isolated—she was more followed, flattered, and courted than before. + +Thus three years had passed away, when one morning, while the family, +then occupying their town house in Berkely square, were seated at a late +breakfast, and Sir Parke was engaged in reading aloud from the London +Times an account of the saving of the French ship—Le Duc D’Anjou—wrecked +off the coast of Algiers—Estelle uttered a low cry and sank fainting +from her seat. + +This attack was not, as the other had been, followed by illness; on the +contrary, from that day, the cloud seemed lifted from her head, and even +those who had most admired her face in its shadow, were enchanted to see +how brilliant was her beauty in its sunshine! Her health and spirits +daily improved, yet in the midst of all this flowing tide of new life +Estelle astonished her friends by suddenly, in the height of the London +season, retiring to her father’s country seat, where she remained in +strict seclusion from the world for eighteen months. + +At the end of this period, Lord Montressor, who had never left England, +or lost trace of his beloved Stella, and who was now staying at his +castle in Dorsetshire, was one day seated at breakfast when the morning +mail was brought him. Among a score of letters the first that attracted +his attention was a dainty white envelope superscribed in a delicate +handwriting. He took that up first and opened it—it contained but one +word—“COME.” + +The light of an ineffable joy broke over his face! Oh! he had waited, +patiently, hopefully, years, for that word, and at last he had received +it! Thanks to Heaven in the first instance! and then pushing all the +other letters unopened aside he sprung up, rang for his valet, and +ordered his valise packed and horses put to the carriage. + +In twenty more minutes he had reached the railway station just as the +cars were about to start, and in three hours he was at Hyde Hall and +standing in the presence of Estelle!—she looking so beautiful and happy! + +With the old chivalric enthusiasm of devotion, he dropped, at once, upon +his knee, and raised her hand to his lips, saying— + +“For four years I have hoped and waited for one word from you, and at +last, beloved, you have written—‘Come,’ and I am at your feet, as I +said, with an unchanged heart!” + +“But I,” she said, deeply blushing, while she held both hands to raise +him—“I, my Lord, have not an unchanged heart! for longer than four years +I have loved you more than woman’s tongue may tell—and never more, than +at the hour in which we bade farewell, as I thought, forever!” + +“I know it, beloved! I knew it _then_! knew it _always_! I never doubted +it! Could I be deceived in the dear heart of the woman I loved! No! and +that was the secret of my patience!” he replied, taking his seat on the +sofa by her side. + +“And yet you never inquired, and do not even now inquire, why, without +explanation and without hope, I sent you from my presence, and why now, +without apparent reason, I summon you back!” she said, as a shade of the +old sadness fell upon her beautiful face. + +“Your motives, dearest, were, and are your own. Not until your spirit +move you to do so, shall you give them to me! I have full confidence in +you, beautiful Stella!” + +“_Confidence! oh my God?_” she exclaimed in a low, deep, thrilling tone. + +“Why, what is the matter, dearest?” + +She looked up suddenly, a smile of worshiping love, breaking like +sunlight over her dark face, and said— + +“Nothing, nothing my lord! but that all your thoughts and feelings are +so elevated beyond your poor Estelle’s! And yet she would almost choose +it so! for could she be an angel, she would wish you to be something far +higher—a god!” + +“Sweet enthusiast! moderate your aspirations, or the world and its +people will disappoint you! Be not an idolater; worship only God, my +Stella.” + +Such was their meeting! + +Yet, occasionally, throughout the interview, a sudden shadow like the +recurrence of a painful thought, would fall upon her bright face and +then pass as it came. + +They were engaged, and within a few days the marriage was announced to +take place on the first of May. + +But it was observed by the nearest friends of the bride, that from the +day of her betrothal, her spirits had been marked by the strangest +fluctuations. Sometimes with her beautiful dark face illumined with a +deep, still, almost religious joy, she moved about as it were, on +“winged feet,” or sat brooding in a happy trance. At other times, she +fell into deep gloom and anxiety, as inexplicable as it was alarming to +her friends, who greatly feared her relapse into the deep melancholy +that had so long overshadowed her, and that they had grown to dread as a +serious constitutional malady. But they hoped every thing from her +approaching marriage with the man she loved. Lord Montressor observed +with the deepest interest the uncertain moods of his betrothed; but with +the high-toned sentiments that distinguished him, refrained from +inquiring, and awaited her voluntary revelations. + +At last the first of May, the marriage day, upon which I have presented +the parties to the reader, arrived, and all the _haut ton_, as I said, +were gathered at the Hall or at the church to do honor to the +solemnities. + +And the expectant bride, in her bridal robe and vail waited within her +boudoir, the arrival of the bridegroom, whom she had summoned to a +private interview before they should proceed to the church. She had not +long to wait. He who quickly responded to her slightest intimation, +immediately obeyed her call. + +Yet when she heard his firm elastic step approaching, + +“Now God have mercy on me!” she prayed, and covered her face with her +hands. + +He entered, unannounced, and saying, + +“My beautiful Stella! I am here, you perceive, by your commands!” + +She dropped her hands, and revealing a face pale with misery, spoke in a +thrilling, deep, impassioned tone— + +“You are here by my _supplication_, my lord! I have no right to +command.” + +“We will waive that! what is your will, my dearest Stella?” + +“My _prayer_, my lord—is first, for your forgiveness.” + +“_Forgiveness?_—my Stella!” + +“Aye! my dear lord! you see before you a penitent and a supplicant, who +may soon be something far more wretched!” + +“My Stella! what mean you?” + +“Come to the window, Lord Montressor!” she said, rising and preceding +him. “Look out,” she continued, putting aside the rose-colored hangings, +and revealing a view of the park below, alive with its restless +multitude. “What are all these people waiting for, my lord?” + +“What are they waiting for, my Stella?—for that, for which I also wait, +with how much more impatience!” he answered, while a deep flush of love +and joy, for an instant, supplanted the anxiety on his face. + +“They wait to see a bride pass, where a bride may never go!” she said in +a solemn voice. + +“Stella! great Heaven! what say you!” he exclaimed, gazing on her with +profound astonishment. + +“That the bride they expect is unworthy to stand before God’s holy altar +beside Lord Montressor!” + +“Unworthy, Stella! You!” + +“_Most unworthy_, my lord!” she said, dropping her arms, and dropping +her head in an attitude of the deepest misery. “I should have made this +confession long ago, Lord Montressor; but I have deceived you—I have +deceived you!” + +“In what respect, Stella? My God! It cannot be! No, it cannot be! that +while betrothed to me, you do not love me!” + +“_Not love you! Oh! my dear lord!_” she murmured, in a voice of +thrilling tenderness that carried conviction of her truth to his deepest +heart. + +“What mean you, then, dearest one? if indeed you return my deep love.” + +“Oh! I do, I do, Montressor; whatever happens, wherever you go, take +that assurance with you! I love you, my lord! shall ever love you, even +though after what I shall have told you, you repulse and hate me, and go +to our friends and say,—‘That woman whom I was about to wed, is but a +whited sepulchre, whom I have proved, and whom I now reject’—and so +leave me to the scorn of men, still I say—ever shall say—I love you, +Lord Montressor! I love you, and the consciousness of being unworthy of +your love, is the bitterest element in my punishment,” she said, in a +voice of such profound misery, that Lord Montressor could scarcely +continue to believe her agitation unfounded or exaggerated. + +He dropped upon a seat, and sitting still and white as a carved image of +stone, gazed upon her, waiting her further communications. + +She had thrown herself into her chair and covered her face with her +hands. + +“Speak, Stella!” at last he said, in kind, encouraging tones. + +She dropped her hands from a face from which a deep blush had burned +away the lilies, essayed to obey, but the words seemed to suffocate her, +and she remained silent. + +“Speak, dearest Stella,” once more he said. + +She cowered and shuddered, murmuring— + +“Oh! kill me! kill me! Indeed I think it would be right!” + +“My beloved Stella,” he said, in a voice of deep tenderness, rising and +approaching her—“can you not trust in me?” + +“Ah! not with loving words though! Kill me not with loving words!” she +cried almost wildly. + +“Stella, be calm, beloved! Your bitter self-accusation cannot make you +seem unworthy to me. Take time and explain.” + +“Lord Montressor! it was my deep love—alas! the selfish and injurious +sentiment, unworthy the holy name of love,—that has sealed my lips so +long! A hundred times I have been on the point of making to you a +revelation, that I have never even made to my parents, and as often the +terrible fear that I should never afterward see your face again, has +withheld me.” + +“My dearest Stella! I know not what you may be about to reveal to me; +and since it is not that you do not love me, _I_ do not dread to hear +it. I cannot be mistaken in your pure, womanly heart, Stella; and here I +pledge you my word, that whatever that revelation may be, _it shall make +no change in our present relations_.” + +“What! Oh, Heaven! What do you say!” exclaimed Stella, holding her +breath in listening. + +“I say, beloved, that in an hour from this, I shall with your +permission, lead you to the altar; and that whatever you may in the +meanwhile reveal—since it is not that you have ceased to love me—shall +not change my purpose.” + +“What, what, have I not misunderstood you, my lord? You did not mean to +tell me——?” + +“I meant to tell you what I now repeat,—that nothing you have to reveal +shall change our present relations. Come, dear Stella! if any secret +sorrow oppresses your heart, lay it trustingly on mine. Confide in one, +who in another hour will be your husband.” + +“Dear Father in Heaven! dost Thou hear him?—dost Thou hear this man whom +I have so long deceived, and whom I would have so bitterly wronged. +Montressor!” she said in a voice of thrilling tenderness,—“does not the +grief, and terror, and humiliation, written on my brow, _warn_ you that +some deep sin is to be confessed?—something that may, or must change our +present relations, and make it incumbent on you to go below and announce +to our friends—‘this woman is totally lost, and our marriage is at an +end.’ You are warned. Will you still promise blindly?” + +“Not blindly, dearest Stella! That something in your past life has gone +very wrong,—that you have hitherto shrunk from confiding in me, I do +begin to see; but that your sense of honor now obliges you, despite your +terrors, and in the face of all consequences, to make the revelation, I +also see! Stella, I have known and loved you, only you, for seven years! +I am not a man to be mistaken in any woman; much less in you, whom I +have known and loved thus long! I love you! esteem you! trust in you! Do +you likewise confide in me! Lay your secret sorrow on your promised +husband’s faithful heart, beloved, for he is able to shelter and sustain +you,” he said, and went and closed the blinds of the bay-window, to shut +out the glaring sun and the merry laughter, and then returned and sat +down, and held out his arms to receive her, saying— + +“Come, love! come drop your weary head upon my bosom, and whisper what +you have to say.” + +“No, no, Lord Montressor; at your feet, rather, should your poor Stella +tell her story,” she murmured, sinking down before him, and dropping her +face upon her hands; but he caught and raised her to his heart, and held +her there. + +“Come now, dearest Stella, speak!” + +“Alas, alas, my lord, you think me a young girl whom you clasp to your +bosom. I am not! What, you do not put me thence?” + +He gathered her closer, and bent his head down protectingly over her. + +“Lord Montressor, do you hear me? Do you hear me say that I am no young +girl whom you gather to your bosom?” + +“A widow, then, my Stella,” he said, changing color, but modulating his +voice so that no slightest inflection should wound her stricken heart. + +“Yes, a widow! Oh, noble _Sans peur_! And you do not reproach me?” + +“I do not. Come, now, tell me the whole story, love.” + +“Lord Montressor, you know so much of my life that I need but use a few +words to inform you all you require to be told of its fatal, secret +history. You are already aware that, at the age of seven years, I was +sent to Paris, and placed at Madame L’Orient’s _Pensionnat des +Demoiselles_, an establishment of the highest reputation, where I +remained until I was fifteen years of age. It was when I had but just +completed my fourteenth year that Victoire L’Orient, the only son of my +teacher, was presented to me by his mother—” Here the voice of Estelle +broke down, and she paused as if unable to proceed. Her companion waited +a little while, and then said, encouragingly: + +“Speak freely, dear Stella.” + +“I am sure, Lord Montressor, that I do not mean to endeavor to shift the +blame from my own shoulders to those of others, but at this distance of +time I see clearly that Victoire L’Orient was introduced to me by his +mother with sinister views—to ensnare, in fact, the heart, and win the +hand of the wealthy English heiress. Victoire was ten years my senior, +handsome, accomplished, insinuating, and, since the truth must be +revealed, unprincipled; though of his moral turpitude I had no suspicion +until it was too late! too late!” Again the voice of Stella sank, and +she covered her face with her hands. + +“Compose yourself, dear love, and go on, that this may be finished, and +your heart relieved.” + +“Without seeming to do so, Madame L’Orient fostered our acquaintance +into friendship, if friendship could be said to exist between the +deceiver and the deceived—into intimacy at least. Looking back now, I +cannot understand the spell of fascination that was woven around me. +Enough, alas, that I thought I loved Victoire, and was drawn step by +step, first into an admission of my sentiments toward him; then into an +engagement, subject to my parent’s consent; and, finally, without +appealing to them, into a clandestine marriage.” + +Stella ceased and buried her face in her hands. Lord Montressor laid his +hand on her head, and both were silent for a little while; after which, +she resumed, in a voice of thrilling passion,— + +“Oh, yet think, in judging me, how young I was, how inexperienced I was, +how fatally influenced, in what intriguing hands, and then how quickly +and bitterly I repented.” + +“I do not _judge_ you, dear one; I only _wait_ to hear the end.” + +“I am sure that while she was careful not to appear in the matter, +Madame L’Orient, who was an accomplished intriguante, forwarded our +marriage. Alas, before many months, I understood and felt, both how +bitterly I had sinned and had been sinned against. I remained at school +as before my marriage, as it was the decision of my husband and +mother-in-law, who did not wish the reputation of her establishment to +suffer, to keep the union a secret until after I should have finally +left school and returned to England and my father’s house. My husband, +who had lodgings near the Pensionnat, visited me at his own convenience +rather than at mine. Oh, very soon indeed I discovered the worthlessness +of the man who had ensnared my childish heart and hand! Would you +believe of any man scarcely, such things as I am about to tell you of +him?—not that I wish to reflect dishonor on the dead, but that I wish +you, Lord Montressor, to know how soon and how terribly I expiated my +sin. Victoire was addicted to inebriation, to gambling and +licentiousness, and every species of dissipation and excess. These vices +kept him always in want of money; and he not only seized and turned into +cash my girlish trinkets, and appropriated all my pocket-money, but +_abused_ me when I had no more to give him, bidding me write to my +father for funds.” + +“OH-H!” groaned Lord Montressor, with the energy of a man who strives +hard to repress himself. + +“I did as he bade me. I drew freely on my father, who always lectured me +severely for my supposed extravagance, _without_ always honoring my +supposed drafts; and when he did not,” continued Estelle, rising, +standing before him, extending both her hands, and surveying her own +beautiful figure, “this little form you cherish so tenderly, this slight +frame, that was even smaller then, bore, in black and blue, the marks of +his violence.” + +“Oh-h!” once more groaned Lord Montressor, losing self-command, starting +up, and pacing the floor. Then returning, he reseated Estelle, stood +leaning over her chair, and asked under his breath: + +“Was the creature left to die a natural death?” + +Stella shook her head, saying: + +“Patience, beloved! God had patience with him, why should not we? As for +myself, my sufferings were a just retribution. The froward maiden and +undutiful daughter was fitly punished. Young as I was I felt it so, and +thus, with some grace of patience, I accepted it all—all, Montressor!” + +Again, unable to proceed, she paused, and dropped her face upon her +hands, he waiting silently. Presently she gathered firmness and +proceeded: + +“In a year from my sinful marriage, I became the mother of an infant +girl. My swimming senses scarcely perceived the child, before all +consciousness left me, and life was a blank for many weeks. When I +returned to consciousness, I found myself at a hotel, in charge of my +father and mother; but my husband and child—where were they?—how long +had I been at the hotel?—and how much of my circumstances did my parents +know? These questions soon forced themselves upon my mind, ruined my +rest by day and night, and seriously retarded my recovery. I feared my +father even more then than now; and I dared not risk a single inquiry +upon the subjects of my anxiety. At last, I discovered that I had been +ill, though not always unconscious, for eight weeks; that my parents had +been with me only a few days, and that they were totally unsuspicious of +my new relations as wife and mother. I dared not inform them. I waited +restlessly, impatiently, for the appearance of my mother-in-law, who +never came. At last, with caution, I inquired after Madame L’Orient. I +was told that her establishment was broken up, and was recommended to be +still, and refrain from exciting conversation. As I convalesced, I +gradually learned the truth—very gradually, for had the knowledge come +suddenly, I should not now be here, telling you the story: the terrible +shock must have killed me,” she said, and shuddered from head to foot. + +“Compose yourself, and proceed, dear Stella! You speak to one who +sympathizes with every phase of your suffering.” + +“Of my _punishment_!—that is the proper word.” + +“Do not reproach yourself so severely, Stella; but proceed, my love.” + +“Ah, how shall I go on! how shall I inform you of the horrors that came +to my knowledge? I should have told you, that for a week before I was +first taken ill, I missed Victoire, but believing he had gone upon one +of his frequent pleasure excursions, and glad to be left for a few days +in peace, I felt no uneasiness on account of his absence. After my +recovery I learned that at that very time he was under arrest upon the +charge of treason. And during the period of my long illness he had been +tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. His punishment was afterward +commuted to transportation to the penal colonies. He was then on his way +to Algiers. + +“His mother, who was seriously implicated in the same crime, had been +examined, and for want of evidence against her, discharged. +Notwithstanding her acquittal, the popular feeling was so hostile to +Madame L’Orient, that she was not only compelled to break up her +establishment, but to leave the neighborhood. After a great deal of +difficulty, I contrived to secure a private interview with Madame, +before she left the city and inquire the fate of my infant. ‘Dead and +buried in the Cemetière des Innocens,’ was the answer I received. She +had lived but an hour, and died about the same time that I had fallen +into a state of insensibility. What more had I to do in Paris, or even +in the world. My life seemed blighted, my heart broken, my doom sealed +at fifteen years of age. My injured and unsuspicious parents, concerned +for their daughter’s failing health and spirits, took me to the German +baths, thence to Sicily, thence over Europe, and finally brought me home +to England, in the faint hope that quietness and native air might do for +me that which travel and change of scene had failed to do. In vain! +there was no hope, or help for me in this world. My sorrow was deepened +by the necessity of concealing its dreadful cause. I dared not confide +that secret passage of my life to either of my parents. You know the +uncompromising arrogance of Sir Parke, and the sensitive delicacy of +Lady Morelle. Their only and cherished daughter the wife of a ——! The +revelation would have killed my mother, would have driven my father mad! +I bore my sorrow—my punishment in silence; but do you wonder at my deep, +incurable melancholy? As a last resort, they took me up to London, +presented me at Court, and introduced me into the whirl of fashionable +life. My debut in society made what is called ‘a sensation,’—my career +was, in common parlance, ‘successful.’ I had many ‘eligible’ suitors; +perhaps the sadness that shrunk from observation and attention, was from +its very strangeness attractive. At length you came, and saw and loved +me, all unworthy as I was, and I soon perceived in you the master of my +heart and life! But, oh! the unspeakable agony of feeling this, and +feeling too, that I never, never, never could be yours! So, at the last +day, feels the sinner who sees, at length, that for some fair poisonous +apple of Sodom, unlawfully seized on earth, he has lost the kingdom of +Heaven! _Do you still wonder at my deep, incurable melancholy?_ We +parted I bore that sharp anguish, as I had borne all the rest, even as +the just retribution of my sin!” + +“My dear, dear Stella! you reproach yourself without measure.” + +“When I recovered from the long, nervous fever into which that great +trial had thrown me—to please my parents I re-entered society, and was +followed, flattered, courted as before; but nothing would dissipate the +gloom of my soul. At last, while in Berkely square, at my father’s +breakfast table, I heard him read from the Daily Times, among other +items of news, the account of the wreck of the French ship ‘_Le Duc +D’Anjou_,’ on her passage from Algiers. Now the slightest circumstance +relating to that Province had for me a terrible interest, and I listened +as I should never have done had not the ship sailed from that coast. The +last name on the list of the lost was that of Victoire L’Orient!” + +“Great Heaven!” + +“God forgive me! I thought not of the horrors of the shipwreck, the +sufferings of the crew, or even of the loss of the poor men drowned with +Victoire. I only felt my evil genius gone, the gloom and terror lifted +from my life, and I swooned with the shock of a great deliverance!” + +“I do not wonder, good Heaven!” + +“When the reaction came, I knew how wrong had been this feeling; and to +atone for it, and to pay respect to _death_, if not to the _dead_, I +withdrew from society and retired to this place, where I remained in +seclusion eighteen months, just as I should have done in mourning the +decease of a near and honored relative. I brought down that copy of the +Times, containing the account of the shipwreck, and have preserved +it—here it is,” she said, lifting an old paper from a table near her. +“Look at it—there is a note in parenthesis following the name of +Victoire L’Orient—I mention it only as a providential confirmation of +the identity of the man.” + +Lord Montressor opened the paper, looked down the column until he came +to the list of the lost, and to the last name—Victoire L’Orient, with +the following annotation. + +“This man, it may be remembered, was some years since convicted of a +complicity in the treason of De Vil, attended with circumstances of a +memorable character, and was sentenced to be transported for life to the +convict colony of Algiers. He had lately received his pardon, and was on +his way to France.” + +“Why have you preserved this, Stella?” inquired Lord Montressor, when he +had finished reading. + +“I do not know—some strange instinct!—perhaps to prevent my fancying the +account to be a mere dream. Well! at the end of my eighteen months of +self-inflicted seclusion, I summoned you, dearest friend, to my side. +You came, loyal heart! you came at once! I meant to have immediately +revealed to you the secret story of my sin and punishment, and so, +before you should have had time to commit yourself, left my fate in your +hands. But that first interview was so sweet that I could not disturb +its harmony! I said, ‘I will tell him to-morrow.’ Morning came, and we +were so happy, I shrank from clouding our bright joy; I said, ‘I will +tell him in the evening.’ Your very perfections frightened me from the +task. Again and again I postponed the revelation, in the vain hope that +another day I should have more courage to make it. Alas! day by day, the +disclosure grew to seem more strange and difficult. At length as the day +of our marriage drew near, each hour rendered the necessity of my +confession more imminent, and the act of making it more terrible! Last +Sunday I thought I would then tell you; but—I _could_ not do it! +Yesterday I felt sure that I should inform you; but, the first attempted +words suffocated me! The scene around swam before me!” + +“Alas! did you so dread me, my gentle Stella?” + +“This morning _all_ dreads vanished before one great fear!—the fear of +presently standing before the Lord’s holy altar, to palm upon you as a +maiden’s hand, the hand of the widow of Victoire L’Orient. This is my +revelation, Lord Montressor,” she said, rising with a certain mournful +dignity. “I sinned first and greatly, against my parents in contracting +a secret and unauthorized marriage; and long and terribly have I +expiated it! But I have sinned even more against your pure, noble +nature, in keeping this from your knowledge since our engagement, and +even up to this last hour! It has cost me much to make it now; but now, +that all is said, I feel relieved and strengthened! You are my judge, +Lord Montressor.” + +“Dearest Stella,” he said, taking her hand, reseating her, and standing, +leaning over her chair, “let me be now, as always, perfectly frank with +you. First, let me repeat that your painful story has made no difference +in my feelings and purposes toward you, nor, as a matter of course, in +our present and future relations. I do not gainsay, dear Stella, that +your premature marriage was a great wrong; but I remember that you were +an inexperienced child in the hands of intriguing and insinuating +people, with whom you were not prepared to cope! I do not either deny +that your concealment of your previous marriage, first from your +parents, and afterward from your affianced husband, was a greater wrong; +but I can easily understand how, in the first case, the haughty severity +of Sir Parke, and the sensitive pride of Lady Morelle, should alike have +frightened you from making the revelation; and still better can I +sympathize with your shrinking reluctance to confide such a secret to +me; and feel how much more difficult every day of delay must have +rendered such a confession; and through all, how your refined and +sensitive mind, brooding day and night over your misfortune, should have +come to exaggerate both the magnitude of the fault and the difficulty of +concealing it; and, finally, my victorious Stella, I can appreciate the +triumph of principle in your present disclosure. Come to my heart, sweet +Stella!” he said, opening his arms and gathering her to his bosom. + +“Not until this hour, dear Stella, have I fully won your heart,” he +whispered, dropping his face caressingly upon the silky black ringlets +of her bowed head—“not until this hour have I fully won your heart!” + +“But now I am all your own. Oh, my lord! my lord!—all your own—heart, +soul, and spirit!” she said, in a voice of thrilling tenderness. “I had +that blighting secret, that I dared not lay on the strong breast of the +father that gave me life, nor on the tender bosom of the mother that +bore me, but which at last I confide to your own great heart, and you +receive the trust, and gather me within the fold of your powerful arms, +and have no word of bitter reproach for my sin, but only a tender +compassion for my sufferings; no humbling pity for my weakness, but only +a noble sympathy with my struggles, and praise for my late—too late +victory!” + +“Reproach for _you_, my wounded dove? my gentle, patient sufferer? Nay, +rest on my bosom; rest sweetly here awhile,” he murmured, smoothing her +hair with his hand. + +“Oh, the blessed relief, the sweet, sweet repose, the measureless +content, I find on this sustaining breast!” she breathed, in a deep sigh +of deliverance and rest. + +“Would for your own sake, beloved, that you had sooner laid the burden +of your secret sorrow upon your promised husband’s faithful heart—that +you might have sooner found the relief he can give you, gentle and +beautiful Stella.” + +“Beautiful! did you say, my lord? Would, indeed, that I were infinitely +beautiful, that I possessed genius and accomplishments equal to that +beauty, and wealth and power to match both, for your sake, Montressor; +for I should say then as now,—‘all that I am and all that I have belong +less to me than to my dear and honored lord! I am his own, his own! I am +cradled in his heart! I live, breathe, think, love only in and from his +great life.’” + +“You are, indeed, sweet Stella, the heart of my heart!” + +“Would your Stella were more worthy of you.” + +“More worthy of me? Do not talk so, love! Women are queens, always too +good, for men; and you of women, most queenly, and should not bate your +state, to speak to your subject in this style,” said Lord Montressor. + +“Woman should not reveal her heart so plainly even to him who possesses +it! Is that your meaning, my lord, and is it so?—for I, you see, do not +know! I only know intimately one woman—myself, and now I am not so much +myself as you? Shall I practice reserve with _you_?” + +“No, no, dearest; too long you have practiced reserve.” + +“Well, that is over. I have laid my soul open to your view! I have shown +you a sorrow that I dared not trust to father or mother; even as we let +the holy eye of God see things which we conceal from our dearest +friends.” + +“But now your parents must be informed of all, dear Stella.” + +“Oh! no, no, no! It would kill the one and craze the other,” exclaimed +Estelle, white with terror. “No, no; none but your own kindly heart +could bear the revelation!” + +“Fear nothing, dear Stella. They need not be told just yet; with their +feelings, the disclosure of such a story concerning their daughter, Miss +Morelle, might indeed be attended with serious consequences. I shall +wait until the law has invested me with the exclusive right to watch +over your honor, peace and welfare, and to protect you, if need be, even +against the severity of your father, and the reproaches of your mother, +before I make the disclosure, and then, the story told them of Lady +Montressor by the lips of her husband, who here pledges himself to bear +her blameless and harmless through all—will come very much softened to +their ears.” + +“Ah, Heaven! Lord Montressor, will you do this?” + +“It must be done, beloved! Your parents must know all; your life must be +cleared and calmed. I take that task upon myself. Resign yourself to my +charge; trust in me; lay your weary, young head on my breast, and let +your spirit sleep if you will; for no harm can come to you in the +shelter of my love!” + +“Oh! you are so good and great! Would I were better and wiser for your +sake! You should have an angel for a wife!” + +Lord Montressor smiled. + +“I do not aspire to an angel, or to any better or happier woman. I love +you just so, with the mournful earth beauty in your eyes.” + +The opening of the door startled them, and Lady Morelle entered. + +She was a magnificent-looking woman—of a tall and finely-proportioned +figure, and a haughty carriage, delicate aquiline features, with an +expression of blended pride and fastidiousness, fair complexion, blue +eyes, and light hair arranged in plain bandeaux. She wore a light blue +brocade satin dress, and a mantilla of rich white lace. She entered, +smiling proudly. + +Lord Montressor rose to greet her. + +“Good-morning, my lord, I hope the interview this most capricious of +dear Stellas demanded, is at an end, for, whether it be or not, I must +interrupt you. It is half-past eleven, and if there is a marriage to be +solemnized to-day, it is full time we were at the church.” + +“Our interview is concluded, madam! I am ready, and only waiting your +ladyship’s convenience,” said Lord Montressor advancing an easy chair +for the lady’s reception. + +“Thank you, I do not wish to rest. Your attendants, my lord, are——” + +“They are probably now waiting for me at the church, madam, where I will +meet you a few minutes hence. _Au revoir_, dear Stella!” said his +lordship, and lifting the hand of his promised bride to his lips, and +then bowing to Lady Morelle, he left the room. + +The lady rang for her daughter’s maid. + +“I declare, Estelle, I never knew so strange a girl! Now what, possibly, +could you have wanted to say to Montressor this morning?” + +“I only wanted to put his heart to a last trial, dear mamma.” + +“Your head is turned, I think!—but here comes Finette. Now stand up and +have your robe smoothed, and your wreath and vail put on.” + +At this moment the French dressing-maid, Finette, entered, and Estelle +stood up before the cheval mirror, while the girl drew down the folds of +her robe, and took up the virginal wreath of orange blossoms to set upon +her head. + +“Not that—not that, Finette! Open that box, it contains a coronet I have +chosen for this occasion.” + +The girl raised the lid of the box that her mistress had indicated, and +drew thence a rich wreath of passion flowers. + +“That is the wreath I shall wear, Finette.” + +“Why, my dearest Estelle, how eccentric! Who ever heard of a bride +wearing other than orange blossoms in her hair? Do, love, be +reasonable!” + +“Do, sweet mamma, indulge me on my marriage day and permit me even to be +_un_reasonable in the trifling affair of choosing a wreath.” + +“Well, well, as you please, you dear, eccentric creature! Lady +Montressor will soon be in a position to give the law to fashion in all +matters of taste, and it is easy to foresee that she will be an +innovator!” said Lady Morelle, proudly and fondly, as she gazed upon her +beautiful daughter. + +And thus the wreath of passion flowers was placed upon her brow, the +vail thrown over her head, and the toilet of the bride was complete. + +“Come now, my love, let us go down,” said the lady, giving her arm to +her daughter to conduct her from the room. + +In five more minutes Estelle Morelle was handed into a close carriage, +the three other seats of which were occupied by her father, mother, and +first bridesmaid. This carriage was preceded by that of the Duchess of +Graveminster, and that of Lord Dazzleright, and was followed by a +barouche containing the four other bridesmaids, and by various coaches +of the friends, relatives and acquaintances, of the bride’s family, who +had been invited to attend her to the church. As the procession defiled +down the grand avenue, the village men and maidens gathered on either +side to see it pass, and children threw flowers in the road. The bell +rung a joyous peal, that continued until the cortege reached the church, +which was a small gothic building just beyond the Park gates. The yard +was filled with carriages of almost every description, and among them +was recognized the crimson and grey liveries of Lord Montressor. As the +cortege entered the church-yard, Lord Montressor alighted, and stood +waiting until the carriage of Sir Parke Morelle, drew up before the +church door, when he went and received his bride as she descended, and +bowing with reverential tenderness, drew her arm within his own, and +preceded by the Duchess of Graveminster on the arm of Sir Parke Morelle, +and then by Lady Morelle on that of Lord Dazzleright, and followed by +the bridesmaids and groomsmen in pairs, entered the church. The pews and +the side aisles were crowded to suffocation; and the beadle had enough +to do to keep the centre aisle sufficiently clear to admit the passage +of the bridal procession. + +Amid all this assembly, one group, gathered into a remote and deeply +shaded pew in the corner to the extreme left of the entrance, in their +manifest desire to avoid observation, might, at any other time, have +attracted notice. But now all eyes were fixed upon the entree of the +procession. This group consisted of a middle-aged, dark-complexioned, +mercurial little woman of foreign aspect, clothed in black; a young man, +with a tall and well-proportioned figure, regular features, +deeply-bronzed complexion and jet black hair and eyes, of somewhat +sinister expression; an elderly, dignified, magisterial-looking +gentleman, and lastly—of a policeman who seemed to be retained in the +service of the party. + +As the bridal train entered the church, the little swarthy woman quickly +averted her head and let down her thick black vail, and the young man +stooped out of sight, as if to pick up something from the floor. The +magisterial-looking individual put on his spectacles, and regarded the +train with an ambiguous half-smile; while the police-officer looked on +with unconcealed curiosity. When they had passed the pew, the little +restless foreign woman plucked at the sleeve of the young man and +pointing to the procession now approaching the altar, exclaimed quickly, +under her breath,— + +“Look you, Victoire! Can you bear this, then?” + +“No matter, Madame! I wait!” said the Frenchman with a wicked smile. + +“Will you not stop this, then?” + +“No, no Madame! I wait!” + +“For why, you wait?” + +“For that she _des_pise, she _ab_hor, she scorn me—the convict! Very +well!—I make her to be also convict herself!” hissed the man between his +closed teeth. + +Meanwhile the bridal train proceeded up the aisle and formed before the +altar in something like the following order—the old Duchess of +Graveminster and Sir Parke Morelle, leading the way, filed off to the +extreme right; Lady Morelle and Lord Dazzleright, following, passed off +to the left; next came the bride and bridegroom who took their places in +the centre; then their attendants, coming up in pairs, divided and +formed on either side—the bridesmaids filling up the segment of the +semicircle between the bride and her mother, and the groomsmen occupying +the corresponding space between the bridegroom and his father-in-law. + +The sun shining in rich, deep-toned glory through the gorgeously stained +glass Gothic windows on either side the high altar, never fell upon a +more imposing bridal circle. There was the bridegroom, with his tall, +well set, kingly form, and most noble head and face, full of conscious +power, and wisdom, and protective love; and the bride with her dark, +bright, wondrous beauty and her matchless grace; and the stately +bridemen and the fair bridemaidens.— + + “Each a queen by virtue of her breast and brow;” + +and there were the dignified Sir Parke, the regal Lord Morelle, the +haughty old Duchess of Graveminster and the splendid Lord Dazzleright. +And there within the altar rails before the aisle stood the venerable +Bishop of Exeter, between two assistant clergymen. And all—congregation, +companions, and officiating ministers, were regarding with looks of +admiration, affection, or pride, the presence of the beautiful bride. + +The Bishop opened the book. And every whisper was hushed, and every eye +reverently dropped as the venerable prelate, in a solemn voice, +pronounced the first words of the imposing ritual. + +“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together, here in the sight of God, and +in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman, +in holy matrimony; which is commended of St. Paul to be honorable among +all men; and therefore is not to be entered into unadvisedly, or +lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear +of God. Into this holy state these two people present come now to be +joined. + +“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined +together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever, hold his peace.” + +The Bishop now made the usual solemn pause, during which not a breath +seemed drawn in the silent church. + +Though had any one been sufficiently near that ill-omened group in the +shadowy corner pew, they might have caught the deep, hurried whisper of +the woman— + +“Attend you, Victoire!—listen, then, my son!” And the hissing reply of +the man— + +“Yes, Madame!—but mon Dieu! I wait!” + +Meanwhile the rites proceeded—the grave voice of the prelate was +pronouncing the question— + +“George Charles, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to +live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? +Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in +health; and forsaking all others keep thee only unto her as long as ye +both shall live?” + +The Bishop paused. + +And the bridegroom, fixing his eyes in unutterable love upon the +downcast, beautiful face of his bride, in a deep, proud, tender voice +responded—“I will.” + +Then the same question being put to her, she lifted her large eyes for +an instant to his, and a glow of ineffable devotion suffused her +beautiful, dark face as she too breathed the same vow. + +At the next question—“Who giveth this woman to be married to this +man?”—Sir Parke Morelle stepped forward, took the hand of his daughter +and placed it in that of the Bishop who transferred it to the hand of +the bridegroom Lord Montressor received the cherished gift reverently, +tenderly, with a deep inclination of his noble head, and a thrilling +pressure of his clasping hand. + +Then followed the putting on of the ring, and then the prayers, the +valedictory, and finally the nuptial benediction. + +The imposing solemnities were over. + +And friends gathered around with blessings; and then came in turn, the +grave, earnest, tender, gay or gallant forms of congratulations—as the +officiating ministers, the father, mother, bridemaids and bridemen +pressed around with many kind wishes. + +This occasioned some considerable delay, in the midst of which the +ominous party in the dark corner pew might have been observed to steal +out and retire from the church. + +“Enough! enough!” at length smilingly said Sir Parke, sympathizing with +the blushing embarrassment of the recipient of all these compliments, +and taking her hand and placing it upon the arm of Lord Montressor, who +drew it closely to his side, bowed around to his friends, and turned to +lead his bride from the church—a performance more easily to be wished +than accomplished; for the people were now pressing out of the pews, and +the aisles were choked up with the crowd. Thus their progress from the +altar to the door was an alternate step and pause—a sort of stop-march. +And thus a delay of more than half an hour intervened between the moment +of their receiving the nuptial benediction and that of their issuing +from the church door. As the church, the yard was crowded with people of +all classes, eager to see the bride pass. + +The whole party, including the officiating Bishop and clergymen, were +expected to return to Hyde Hall to partake of the wedding breakfast; +after which, Lord and Lady Montressor were to set out for his lordship’s +castle in Dorsetshire, where they intended to pass the honeymoon. + +The church-yard was so crowded that it was with great difficulty and +after much hindrance that Lord Montressor’s carriage could be driven up. +And with his shrinking bride upon his arm, and her friends around, he +waited before the church door, until it drew up, and one of the footmen +alighted, let down the steps and opened the door. + +His lordship then bowed to his friends, and was about to hand his lady +into the carriage, when a policeman, pressing through the crowd, placed +himself between the carriage door and the bridal pair, intercepting +their further passage, while he respectfully inquired— + +“Which of these ladies, here present, bears the name of Estelle +L’Orient?” + +“_No_ lady here bears that name; stand out of the way, sir,” said Lord +Montressor, haughtily, while Estelle, with a half-suppressed cry, +lowered her vail and leaned heavily upon his arm. + +“Let us pass, sir!” repeated his lordship, sternly. + +“Pardon me, my lord, if in the discharge of my duty I cannot obey your +lordship,” answered the officer, who, in manners and address seemed much +superior to his class. + +“What mean you, then, sir?” gravely inquired Lord Montressor, while +Estelle hid her face in the folds of her vail against his arm. + +“My lord, I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Estelle L’Orient, +and if I mistake not, this is the lady,” said the officer, indicating +the bride by a respectful inclination of his head toward her. + +“Yes! Mon Dieu, that is the woman!” exclaimed a shrill voice, coming +from the little old dark and shriveled Frenchwoman, who stood at a short +distance in the crowd. + +“Eh! Mon Dieu, yes!—that is _my_ woman!—that is _my_ bride!—that is the +wife of the felon!” exclaimed the vindictive looking Frenchman by her +side, gesticulating the while like a madman. + +A crowd of astonished faces now pressed closely upon the group, around +the carriage door, before which stood the policeman. And through this +crowd, as one having authority, now came Park Morelle, inquiring in +haughty displeasure— + +“What is the meaning of this delay? Good people, give way! My lord, in +the name of Heaven put Lady Montressor into the carriage, and drive on! +Let us get out of this! Why Montressor! Estelle! what the fiend is the +meaning of all this?” exclaimed the baronet, perceiving now for the +first time by the pale, corrugated brow of the bridegroom, the +shuddering form and hidden face of the bride, the resolute bearing of +the policeman, and the horrified looks of the people, that something—he +guessed not what—was fearfully wrong. + +“What is the meaning of all this? Montressor, why do you not speak?” he +asked, in an agitated voice—when, turning haughtily upon the +police-officer, he demanded. + +“What is _your_ business here?” + +“Excuse me, Sir Parke Morelle, I am here on duty.” + +“_What_ duty, fellow?” + +“I am charged with a warrant for the apprehension of one Estelle +L’Orient.” + +“WHOM?” frowningly demanded the baronet. + +“One Estelle L’Orient—this lady.” + +“Out of the way, fellow! You are drunk, and richly deserve to be sent to +prison. There is no such person here. Out of the way, I say, or I shall +give you in charge!” exclaimed the baronet, losing all patience. + +“Pardon me, Sir Parke, but I must execute my warrant,” persisted the +man; then stepping forward, and laying his hand upon the shoulder of the +bride, he said: + +“Estelle L’Orient, I arrest you in the king’s name; you are my +prisoner.” + +“_Sirrah!_” thundered Sir Parke, striding forward and striking off from +his daughter’s shoulder the desecrating hand of the policeman: “Are you +frantic?—have you the least idea of what sacrilege means?—do you know +what you are about?” + +“Perfectly well, Sir Park Morelle. I am about to take this lady into +custody,” said the officer, approaching his prisoner. + +“Begone, fellow, or by Heaven! mad or drunk, you shall dearly rue your +mistake.” + +“_Sir Parke Morelle mistakes_; but he will not resist his majesty’s +warrant,” said the man, drawing the instrument from his pocket; and, +while the crowd pressed closer around in amazement and wonder, Sir Parke +stood the picture of incredulous astonishment and rage; and Lord +Montressor, with corrugated brow and compressed lips, continued to +support the form of Estelle, who now stood with clasped hands, white +face, and stony eyes, gazing upon the figure of the Frenchman as upon +that of a phantom raised from the dead—the policeman unfolded and read +the warrant. + + + COUNTY OF DEVON.—To the Constable of Hyde and all other peace-officers + in the said county of Devon: + + Forasmuch as Gabrielle L’Orient, widow, now in this said county, hath + this day made information and complaint upon oath before me, George + Bannerman, one of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and for the + said county, that Estelle L’Orient, of the said county, on this + Thursday of the first instant, at the parish church of the parish of + Hyde, feloniously intermarried with George Charles, Lord Viscount + Montressor, in and during the life of her husband, Victoire L’Orient, + now living in these realms—these are, therefore, to command you, in + his majesty’s name forthwith to apprehend and bring before me, or some + other of his majesty’s justices of the peace in and of the said + county, the body of the said Estelle L’Orient, to answer unto the said + complaint, and to be further dealt with according to law. Herein fail + you not at your peril. Given under my hand and seal, this first day of + May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ——. + + Signed, GEORGE BANNERMAN. + + +The officer finished the reading, folded the document, returned it to +his breast-coat pocket, and stood for a while waiting. No one, who had +not seen, could imagine the consternation that held the assembled crowd +in a trance of breathless silence. Sir Parke Morelle was the first to +break the fearful spell. + +“MADAM!” he said, striding up and confronting his wretched daughter, +whose conscious looks were the most alarming features in the case, “why +do you not speak? If this is a conspiracy, expose it. Where is the +wretch that has made this complaint?” + +“Here, my lord! Behold me! I am that wretch. I depose—I witness, that +Madam Estelle L’Orient is the wife of my son, Monsieur Victoire +L’Orient,” exclaimed the wicked-looking little French woman, whom Sir +Parke now saw and recognized as the quondam governess of his daughter. +Beginning to perceive the truth, the baronet turned upon his child and +inquired, in a tone of suppressed fury— + +“MADAM, answer! What foundation is there for this trumped-up story?” + +“_It is true_,” said the wretched Estelle, letting her arms fall by her +side, and her chin drop upon her breast, with a look of utter despair. + +“Do your duty, officer. Remove your prisoner. Take the _feloness_ +quickly out of my sight!” cried the baronet, nearly maddened by the +shock that had so suddenly hurled his towering pride to the dust. + +“Sir Parke! Sir Parke! in mercy, you will not abandon your child in her +extremity,” pleaded Lord Montressor. + +“By all the demons, sir, she is no child of mine! I renounce the wife of +Monsieur Victoire L’Orient,” cried the baronet striding away. + +“Sir Parke, for the love of God, _look on her_!” prayed Lord Montressor, +laying his hand on the arm of the enraged father, and seeking to detain +him. + +“Release me, sir,” thundered the baronet, breaking from his clasp; “My +carriage there, sirrahs! Where is Lady Morelle? Let her ladyship be +summoned.” + +“Lady Morelle has fainted, and has been conveyed into the church, my +lord,” said the Duchess of Graveminster, who had remained standing in an +attitude of stern and solemn haughtiness. + +Sir Parke left orders for his carriage to come up, and then strode off +in the direction of the church. + +Lord Montressor sought to reassure the deserted and despairing woman at +his side. + +“Estelle, dear, suffering one, take comfort; all that a Christian man +may do for you, in your extremity, shall be done by me; rely on me; I +will never fail you.” + +“Monsieur, the constable, look at that woman! She has no right to be on +the arm of my lord. Do your duty! arrest her!” exclaimed the Frenchman, +with vindictive haste. + +“I fear I must not long delay, my lord,” interrupted the policeman, +respectfully. + +“One moment, officer, if you please. Madam, for the love of the Saviour, +sustain this poor, stricken one, until I send a clergyman to attend her. +Estelle, dearest, I must, for your own sake, leave you now. I go to send +you proper aid. I will see you again at the magistrate’s—until then, +farewell,” said Lord Montressor, gently withdrawing his sustaining arm, +and laying her upon the half-repellant, haughty bosom of the Duchess of +Graveminster. + +“God forever bless you, my lord. Whatever becomes of poor Estelle, may +God forever love and bless you!” murmured the poor girl, waving him +adieu. + +Lord Montressor hastened into the church and into the vestry, where the +Bishop and assistant clergymen were taking off their robes. + +“My lord, _what_ has happened?” exclaimed the venerable prelate, almost +appalled by the pale and haggard countenance and hurried and anxious +manner of his lordship; while the two assistant clergymen approached and +_looked_ the wonder they forbore to speak. + +Lord Montressor hastily and briefly related all that had passed; +together with the history of the wretched marriage into which Estelle, +while a child at school, had been inveigled by the designing governess +and her unprincipled son, with the account of the crime, trial, +conviction, and transportation of Victoire, the long separation, and the +final published report of his loss in the wreck of ‘_Le Duc D’Anjou_,’ +three years since. + +“The warrant for her arrest was issued by Sir George Bannerman, a bitter +enemy of her father. He must have taken the deposition and issued the +warrant immediately after the marriage ceremony was concluded. He must +have been on the premises for that purpose; for I saw his carriage +leaving the church,” said his lordship. + +“I saw Sir George himself _in_ the church,” said the Reverend Mr. +Oldfield, the elder of the two clergymen. + +“_In_ the church! then he witnessed the marriage, heard the solemn +adjuration at its commencement, might have spoken, stopped the +proceedings, and saved this most unhappy of ladies from her present +misfortunes! Any but a malignant enemy would have interfered to save +her! The case will probably go to trial and come up at the next assizes; +but there I am sure an action cannot be successfully sustained against +her. And if the course of this magistrate has been as I suspect, that +fact will be a powerful weapon in the hands of her counsel; and will +also go far to hurl Sir George Bannerman himself, from his seat on the +bench. Meanwhile, however, the father of Estelle has abandoned her to +her fate. I, unhappily, through my late relations to her, am disabled +from directly protecting her, my known intervention would be far more +likely to injure than to benefit her cause; but you, reverened sirs,” +continued his lordship, turning toward the two assistant clergymen, +“you, Mr. Oldfield and Mr. Trevor, are friends of her family. Your age, +holy calling, and position, all constitute the most proper and desirable +persons to stand in the relation of protectors to this most unfortunate +lady. Go with her to the magistrate’s—will you not, sirs?” + +The two ministers spoke together for an instant, and then Mr. Oldfield +answered for both— + +“Most willingly will we attend the lady, my lord; but had we not best +object to a hearing before Sir George Bannerman, and demand that she be +taken before some other and impartial justice of the peace?” + +“Upon the whole, _no_ sir; it will make little difference, in the end, +and I think it best that this man should be allowed to show his hand,” +said Lord Montressor; then tearing a leaf from a blank book on the +table, writing a check for a thousand pounds on the bank of Exeter, and +handing it to Mr. Oldfield, he continued, “Offer bail to any amount for +her appearance at court; and then, Mr. Oldfield, I am sure that you will +take this poor, shorn lamb to your fold, put her under the care of your +excellent lady, and bid her trust God with the result.” + +“We will certainly do all that can possibly be done for this poor child +in her extremity; but—put up your check, my dear lord, for though you +are her truest friend, it is not expedient that this good office should +emanate from you,” said the venerable man. + +“I believe you are right, sir; but what then can be done, since her +father abandons her?” + +Again the two clergymen conversed apart, and then Mr. Trevor spoke— + +“We are not bankers, my lord, it is true; but we can afford to risk some +hundred pounds apiece.” + +“Risk, sir! There will be no risk—do you know Estelle, and imagine that +she will not duly present herself for trial?” + +“Certainly not—certainly not, my dear lord! The word was unhappily +chosen. I meant merely that we might be held _responsible_ for so much +money.” + +“Go now, dear sirs, to that poor girl, lest the Duchess of Graveminster +think her ermine irremediably tarnished by holding any longer that +blighted head upon her bosom. I will meet you at the magistrate’s.” + +“Use my carriage, if no other is provided, Oldfield; I will find a seat +in Lord Montressor’s, and be in attendance also,” said the kind-hearted +bishop, whose sympathies had been strongly moved. The reverened +gentleman thanked the bishop, and left the church in search of their +unhappy charge. On reaching the yard they found that every carriage, +with the exception of that of Lord Montressor and that of the Bishop of +Exeter, had left the scene. Yes—parents, friends, acquaintances, +bridemaids and bridemen, all had fled the place as though the plague +were there. The Duchess of Graveminster had departed with the rest. + +Estelle was left unsustained, leaning for support against the upright +headstone of an humble grave, and guarded by the policeman. + +The pitying clergyman approached her, laid his hand upon her bowed head, +and gently said— + +“Be not so utterly cast down, my child; raise your heart to Him who—when +‘all forsook him and fled,’ remained unshaken in his trust of his +Father.” + +But the grief-stunned girl seemed not to hear, or see, or be in any way +conscious of the presence of the speaker; she remained wrapped in her +white robe and vail, leaning over the tombstone, perfectly motionless, +and might have seemed some risen ghost or descended spirit standing at +the grave. + +“Come, come, my child, look up, give me your hand, let me put you into +the carriage; there are some necessary forms to be gone through, and +then you are free; and you are to go home with me to Bloomingdale +parsonage, for a visit, until your father feels better and comes for +you, as he will.” + +But still she neither moved, nor spoke, and might have seemed less a +woman, or a spirit, than some draped marble statue. + +“Come, my lamb, come,” pursued Mr. Oldfield, taking her cold and passive +hand, drawing it within his arm, and leading her away. + +Very docilely she suffered herself to be placed in the carriage, when +Mr. Oldfield entered and took the seat beside her, and Mr. Trevor +followed, and placed himself on the front cushion. The policeman mounted +the box beside the coachman, and the carriage was driven off. Almost +immediately after, the Bishop on Exeter and Lord Montressor entered the +carriage of the latter, and followed on the same road. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + THE ARRESTED BRIDE. + + “Her look composed, and steady eye, + Bespoke a matchless constancy; + And there she stood, so calm and pale, + That, but her breathing did not fail, + And motion slight of eye and head, + And of her bosom, warranted + That neither sense, nor pulse she lacks, + You might have thought a form of wax + Carved to the very life, was there; + So still she was, so pale, so fair.”—_Scott._ + + +A rapid drive of an hour’s length, brought the party to Horsford, the +seat of Sir George Bannerman, knight, the magistrate who had issued the +warrant. + +A winding avenue led from the highway to the hall. + +On arriving before the main entrance, the foremost carriage drove up, +and the footman sprang down from behind, opened the door and let down +the steps, while the policeman got off the box and stood guard. + +Mr. Oldfield alighted first, and handed out Estelle, who, pale as death, +with her face still wrapped in her bridal vail, mechanically permitted +herself to be conducted by her aged friend up the broad marble stairs +leading into the hall. + +They were preceded by the policeman, who knocked at the door, which was +opened by a footman in attendance; while just within, the fat, +gouty-looking porter, sat indolently in his arm-chair, with gold +spectacles on his nose, reading the “Times.” + +The policeman telegraphed to this dignitary, who, without leaving his +seat, or raising his eyes from his paper, answered— + +“In the library. Here, John, show this party up.” + +The footman who had admitted them, now came forward, indicated his +forehead with his forefinger, by way of obeisance to the lady and the +clergymen, beckoned the officer, and led the way up the broad oaken +stairs to a long gallery above, at the extreme end of which was the door +of the library, where the preliminary examination was to be conducted. +Opening this door, the man announced— + +“P’lice an’ pris’ners y’ honor,” admitted them, closed the door, and +retired. + +The party found themselves in a rich, antique, and handsomely-furnished +library, the walls of which were alternately lighted with stained glass +gothic windows, and lined with richly wrought and well-filled +book-cases. + +At the upper extremity of this room, behind a long table, covered with a +green cloth, sat Sir George Bannerman; on his right hand was his +secretary, and near the end of the table, on the same side, were +gathered Madame L’Orient, Monsieur Victoire, and a little French Abbe. +Near the magistrate stood Lord Dazzleright. + +As the venerable clergyman advanced, supporting his fragile charge, Sir +George arose, gravely acknowledged their presence by a slight bow, and +sat down again. + +The officer preceding the party, laid his warrant before the magistrate, +and said— + +“Here is the prisoner, your worship,” bowed, and retired a step or two. + +Sir George took up the document, and while he was looking over it in +silence, the library door was once more opened, and— + +“His lordship, the Bishop of Exeter, and Lord Montressor, to attend the +examination,” were announced. + +They entered gravely, bowed in silence to Sir George Bannerman, who +acknowledged their salutation by a momentary lifting of his eyes and a +nod, and then took their stand upon the side near Lord Dazzleright. + +“Was this _well_ done, Sir George Bannerman?” vehemently inquired Mr. +Oldfield. + +“To what do you allude, sir?” asked the knight, without lifting his +glance from the document in his hand. + +“I allude to the arrest of the lady.” + +“Reverend sir, one of your excellent judgment should know that the +_law_, no more than the _gospel_, is a ‘respecter of persons.’” + +“Assuredly not, Sir George! but you were in the church at the time this +illegal marriage took place; you heard the solemn adjuration of the Lord +Bishop officiating, that—if any man there present knew cause why the +contracting parties should not be joined in matrimony, he should then +and there declare it. Sir, you sat there, with this unhappy lady’s +husband by your side, and heard this solemn adjuration, and you did not +speak! But speedily after the accomplishment of the act, you issued the +warrant for the lady’s arrest. Sir George Bannerman, I ask you once +more, _was_ this act, on the part of a Christian, a gentleman, and a +magistrate, _well done_?” + +“Sir, a distinguished professor of the orthodox principles of human free +agency like yourself, should understand that the _law_, no more than the +_gospel_, interferes arbitrarily to prevent crime; that it can only +judge and punish; but sir, we lose time; will you have the kindness to +stand aside and let me see the prisoner?” + +With a deep-drawn sigh, bearing to Heaven an earnest prayer for the +despairing one at his side, the good clergyman withdrew a step, and +Estelle was left standing unsupported before the green table. + +“Madam, will you be kind enough to unvail?” said the magistrate. + +Estelle turned aside her vail, revealing a face so deathly in its hue +that they who beheld it suddenly blanched in sympathy. + +“Your name, Madam, is Estelle L’Orient?” + +She bowed assent. + +The magistrate then took up the warrant for her arrest, read it aloud to +her, replaced it on the table, and addressing her, said, + +“Estelle L’Orient, you are herein charged, under oath, by Madame +Gabrielle L’Orient, here present, with having this day, at the parish +church of Hyde, in and during the life of your husband, Victoire +L’Orient, now living in these realms, feloniously intermarried with +George Charles, Viscount Montressor, said marriage constituting an act +of bigamy, against the peace and dignity of the king’s majesty, and +punishable by transportation, according to the statute in such case made +and provided. What have you to say to this charge?” + +“Nothing here, sir;—much perhaps hereafter,” answered the deep plaintive +voice of the accused. + +“Sir George Bannerman,” said Lord Dazzleright, coming to the side of the +lady, “I stand here as the counsel of Lady Montressor, if she will +accept my services, and I take exception to the question put to her, as +improper.” + +“Madam, do you retain Lord Dazzleright?” demanded the magistrate. + +“I do, sir.” + +“You are then the counsel of Estelle L’Orient?” + +“I am the counsel of Lady Montressor.” + +“_Ah! my lord! do not breathe that stainless name here!_ I have no claim +to it! Thank God for this, at least—that whatever happens, I can bring +no reproach upon that honored name! for it is not mine! I am poor +Estelle L’Orient, and yonder name is really my owner,” said the +thrilling passionate voice of the lady, as she shuddered and averted her +head. + +“Hush! hush my child! You must really keep silence, and permit me to +conduct this case. I shall deny their charges _ab initio_ and _in toto_, +as we lawyers say. You are no more the legal wife of yonder vagrant than +you are of——well let that pass! You are the Viscountess Montressor.” + +“_Oh! no, no, no!_ great heaven, no! that sacred name—Lord Montressor’s +spotless name—must be kept holy from the sorrow and shame that is +gathering darkly over that of poor Estelle L’Orient.” + +While this low and hurried conversation was going on between the counsel +and his client, the magistrate sat back in his chair, waiting. Seeing +them at length silent, he leaned forward and inquired of the counsel if +they were ready to hear the charge. + +“We are ready,” replied Lord Dazzleright. + +“Then I will proceed to call the witnesses—Madame Gabrielle L’Orient +will please to take the stand.” + +The small, deep set, quick, black eyes of the little old Frenchwoman, +scintillated with cunning malignity, as she came forward. The oath was +duly administered and she commenced her deposition. First, she +identified the accused as Estelle, the wife of Victoire L’Orient, and +then in polished French but broken English she testified to having +witnessed the marriage of her son, Victoire L’Orient, and her pupil, +Estelle Morelle, in the church of St. Etienne, at Paris, on the 13th day +of November, 18—: and, further, to the fact of the said Victoire and +Estelle having lived together as man and wife, for the period of one +year, under her roof, at No. 31 Rue St. Genevieve, Paris. + +While this witness was giving in her evidence, Lord Dazzleright +whispered his client, + +“If there is any point in her testimony, to which you take exception, +let me know it!” + +“The marriage was a private one, and unless I was grossly deceived, she +knew nothing of it at the time,” murmured Estelle, struggling against +the death-like despair that threatened the annihilation of her +faculties. + +“One moment, if you please,” said Lord Dazzleright, as the witness was +about to retire from her position, “this alleged marriage is understood +to have been a strictly private one—how then did it happen, Madame, that +you witnessed it?” + +“I suspect the children of their intention. I follow, I pursue, I enter +the chapel of St. Etienne. I witness the marriage.” + +No cross-questioning could drive the woman from this point; but on the +contrary, only tended to consolidate and confirm her in her +loose-jointed evidence. + +The next witness called was the little old French priest, who, having +been duly sworn, first identified the accused, and then testified to +having both witnessed and assisted at the marriage of Estelle Morelle +and Victoire L’Orient, which was solemnized on the 13th of November, +18—, by the Abbe Pierre Leroux, in the church of St. Etienne, Paris. + +The cross-questioning of this witness elicited nothing to throw +discredit upon his testimony. + +The certificate was then exhibited. And the fact of the first marriage +seemed established. The next proceeding was to prove the identity of +Victoire L’Orient, as the living husband, and consequently as the legal +obstacle to the second nuptial. This was easily done by the testimony of +the mother and the priest. The next and final fact to establish, on the +part of the prosecution, was that of the second and so called felonious +marriage, that day celebrated at the parish church of Hyde. This was +formally proved by the testimony of the same witnesses. + +Then Lord Dazzleright, with a smile of encouragement, stooped and spoke +aside to his client. + +“Reassure yourself, Lady Montressor! This was from first to last a +series of conspiracies; I shall easily overthrow them with their own +weapons; hoist these engineers with their own petard——” + +Then turning to the magistrate, his smile of benevolence changed to one +of flashing scorn, as he said,— + +“We might commence, your worship, by contesting the legality of these +proceedings, from the moment of the issuing of the warrant, in itself +informal, as not containing the name of the accused, which is not +Estelle L’Orient, but Estelle Viscountess Montressor. But we choose to +rest our defense, not upon a mere verbal form, but on the deepest and +firmest foundations of justice and truth. We shall therefore commence by +denying _ab initio_ and _in toto_ the validity of the alleged marriage, +said to have taken place in the chapel of St. Etienne, in the city of +Paris, showing the same to have been a felonious act, the result of a +conspiracy, in which my client was not principal or party, but victim—a +crime punishable by the statute laws of France with fine and +imprisonment. I shall show that, dating from the edict of the _14th of +Henry II._, the statute laws of France forbid the marriage of a minor +without the knowledge and consent of her parents or guardians, and +vacate such marriage, so contracted, as illegal, invalid, and of none +effect.”[1] + +Footnote 1: + + In the old chronicle of the Kings of France from Pharamond to Henri + Quatre, written by the Sieur de Mezerai, occurs this paragraph, which + is curious as the origin of the statute affecting the marriage of + minors in France. The date is 1557 of our Lord, and 10 of the reign of + Henry II. + + “One cannot too often, or in too large characters, make mention of a + couple of Edicts which were made this year: The one, to retrench the + abuses of Clandestine Marriage, vacated all Marriages made by the + Children of any Family without the consent of their Father and Mother, + unless the Sons when they contracted were above Thirty years of Age + and the Daughters above Five and Twenty. And to put the stronger curb + on the amorous fancies of young, giddy People, they added the penalty + of Disinheritance. The particular Interest of the Constable (De + Montmorenci) procured this Edict. His eldest son had engaged himself + with the Damoiselle De Pienne, a very beautiful Woman and of a good + House, by verbal Contract: the Father desired to disengage him from + her, to match him with the King’s natural daughter, the Widow of + Horace Farnese.” + +It is not our intention to follow the “learned counsel” minutely through +all his argument, in which he displayed much zeal, legal lore, ingenuity +and tact, and by which he temporarily effected, in the feelings and +sentiments of all his hearers, with the exception of the prosecuting +party, a powerful revulsion in favor of the accused. He exposed without +mercy all the intriguing arts by which this designing French governess +and her unprincipled son had conspired to inveigle their pupil, then a +mere child, into a clandestine marriage, by which they hoped eventually +to enjoy her immense wealth. He dwelt upon the moral turpitude of that +treacherous teacher in having thus betrayed the sacred trust reposed in +her by the parents of the child confided to her care. He said that the +criminal arts of this intriguing mother and son should avail them +nothing, either in shape of profit or vengeance. And he concluded by +concentrating an immense mass of law, testimony and precedence upon the +point that this _quasi_ marriage into which they had conspired to entrap +their pupil, was, without the knowledge and consent of the parents or +guardians of the child-bride, null, ‘void’, invalid, and therefore could +not form a legal obstacle to the validity of the real and authorized +marriage that day solemnized at the parish church at Hyde. He then +required the discharge of his client from custody, and sat down. + +Sir George Bannerman acknowledged the conclusion of his argument by a +nod, and turned his face toward the witnesses for the prosecution as if +to express himself ready to hear any thing they might have to advance +against this. The prosecuting party had no counsel, but in the absence +of a better lawyer, Madame L’Orient proved in her own person, despite +her sex and her broken English, an “indifferent good,” or at least very +shrewd advocate. And it was the shrill voice of the little yellow, +shriveled, and beady eyed old French woman, that replied to the polished +Lord Dazzleright. + +She prayed Monsieur the Magistrate to remind himself that the +_statement_ that Mademoiselle Estelle Morelle had been married to +Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, without the knowledge and consent of her +parents, was only an _assumption_ which required proof, while on the +contrary, the _fact_ that this marriage between Monsieur Victoire and +Mademoiselle Estelle had been celebrated with the knowledge and consent, +and in the presence of Mademoiselle’s _guardian_, was already proved, +was established, was unquestioned; for that she herself, Madame +Gabrielle L’Orient, in her capacity of governess and teacher, had borne +the relation of guardian to Mademoiselle Morelle. And as guardian of +Mademoiselle, her presence at the marriage of Mademoiselle was all that +was needed to make that marriage a legal transaction. + +Having given this testimony, the vindictive little woman—her black eyes +scintillating in triumph—sat down. + +Lord Dazzleright arose and scornfully disclaimed the protestations of +Madame L’Orient, utterly denying that her office of teacher could have +invested her, for a moment, with the rights of legal guardianship over +her pupil. + +Madame replied that she was not only teacher, but sole custodian, +governess and guardian of Mademoiselle for many years. + +Here commenced a discussion upon this subject, ended at last by the +magistrate, whom it was easy to suspect of a leaning on the side of the +prosecution, and who now said— + +“This particular point is a matter for the adjudication of their +lordships the judges at the assizes. Has the defense any thing further +to urge?” + +“Yes—for though you choose to consider the illegality of the first +marriage a questionable matter—nay, though you should decide to hold it +a legal and binding transaction, yet—we have much to advance, why my +client should not be held to answer to the grave charges upon which she +stands before your worship. The English law, as also the law of all +Christian nations, very righteously constitutes the _intention_ the +vital part of the crime; now that my client had not the faintest shadow +of _intention_ or purpose to violate the statute by her second, and as +we hold it to be, her _only_ real marriage—is easy of proof. Two years +ago there was a published account of the death of this man, upon the +occasion of the wreck of the _Duc D’Anjou_. This account was translated +from the _Courrier de France_ into the daily Times, a copy of which I +have just received from Lord Montressor, and have the honor of laying +before your worship,” said Lord Dazzleright, drawing the paper from his +pocket and placing it upon the table before the magistrate, who took it +up and read, while the advocate proceeded— + +“My client saw this announcement, and believing herself to be the legal +widow of this man, retired from society and remained in seclusion some +eighteen months; at the end of which time only, she accepted the +addresses of Lord Montressor, to whom she was this morning espoused as +you have learned.” + +“But Monsieur the Magistrate! but Monsieur! I pen—I indite—I write +much—many letters to Madame Victoire L’Orient! I advise—I inform her of +the life of my son, her husband!” here vehemently interrupted the +mercurial little Frenchwoman. + +“Madame, you are disorderly and will consult your best interests by +being quiet,” said the magistrate. Then addressing the counsel for the +defense, he said—“This point also is one for the adjudgment of their +lordships.” + +There was a short pause, at the end of which the magistrate inquired— + +“Has the defense any thing further to advance?” + +“The defense has nothing further to advance _here_ and _now_,” replied +Lord Dazzleright, with a peculiar emphasis. + +“Then, Madam,” said the magistrate, addressing Estelle, “I consider this +a case for court, and I shall therefore bind you over for trial to +answer the charge of bigamy, at the next assizes to be holden at the +city of Exeter.” + +The pale and drooping girl who had remained all this time with her face +bowed and hidden upon her hands in the folds of her bridal vail, now +raised her eyes in wild affright, looking so much like an amazed and +terrified child in the grasp of some horrible power, that the good +clergyman, Mr. Oldfield, hastened to her side and stooped to say— + +“It is but a form, my child. No action can be successfully sustained +against you. Trust in God, and take courage.” + +“Have you bail?” inquired Sir George Bannerman, who had just been giving +some private directions to his secretary. + +Estelle shook her head—poor girl, she did not fairly understand the +purport of the question. + +“Lady Montressor _has_ bail, your worship. The Reverend Mr. Oldfield and +the Reverend Mr. Trevor stand ready to enter into a recognizance with +her, or rather with her husband, Lord Montressor, for her appearance at +court,” said Lord Dazzleright. + +The magistrate turned to direct his secretary to fill out the proper +forms. And while that functionary was busily scribbling, Estelle turned +to Lord Dazzleright pleading, + +“For the love of the Saviour, my lord! do not, oh! do not continue to +drag the spotless name of Montressor through the mire of my misery! I +would rather,—oh! far rather, that conviction should come with all its +train of horrors for me, than that I should be saved, at the expense of +one speck upon that stainless name.” + +Without replying to her prayer, the advocate, turning toward Lord +Montressor, said— + +“Will your lordship be so good as to come and speak to this lady? you +may be able to bring her to reason.” + +Lord Montressor, who had heard or divined the purport of Estelle’s +plaintive petition, and who desired nothing more than the opportunity of +reassuring her, now came to her side and said, + +“Estelle, my beloved, look up! I hold you as my dear and honored wife, +in whose cause it is both my duty and inclination to risk, if needed, +life and fortune, and sacred honor. Estelle, beloved! you know that +Baron Dazzleright is at this time esteemed the most eminent lawyer in +the kingdom. His legal opinion is considered of the very first +importance. He holds the secret marriage into which you, as an infant, +were entrapped, ten years since, to be perfectly void; and, on the other +hand, the marriage solemnized between us this day, to be perfectly +valid. His opinion upon the validity of our marriage, supported by the +authorities he adduces, and the developments of the last two hours, has +decided my course. I stand upon the legality of the ceremony this day +performed in the church of Hyde; I claim the rights of a husband to +protect and shelter you; and here pledge my life if needful, my fortune, +my unblemished name and sacred honor to bear you blameless through, the +severe ordeal. Therefore, _Lady Montressor_, do not again seek to cast +off the support that is most righteously your own, nor the honorable +name that does not deserve repudiation at your hands. Remember, that it +is your _husband_ who requires this of you!” + +Lord Montressor spoke with an air of beautifully blended deference, +tenderness, and dignity, almost impossible to resist. + +Lord Dazzleright’s fine face beamed with sympathetic admiration—and +clasping the hand of the noble speaker, he said— + +“God bless you, Lord Montressor, for you are very right! and if there is +a man—peer, or prince—in the empire who could take, unquestioned, the +position that you now take and discharge with delicacy and discretion, +its difficult duties, that man is your lordship. God bless you?” + +But all this while Estelle, with her clasped hands hanging down, her +head drooped upon her breast, and her eyes lowered to the ground, +remained in mournful silence. Nor did she once change her position, or +look up, or speak, until the magistrate called the two sureties to sign +the recognizance that was now ready. The two clergymen advanced to the +table. Lord Dazzleright also followed, and she was left standing alone, +or guarded, as it were, by Lord Montressor. + +“Has my Stella no word or glance for me?” he inquired. + +“Oh! my Lord—my lord—do you not _know_ then that poor Estelle’s soul is +at your feet, in acknowledgment of your matchless constancy! But, Lord +Montressor, it must not be as you have said. I may not lean upon your +noble strength, nor bear your honored name, and will not, my lord—_will +not_,” said Estelle, with mournful dignity. + +“Does my dearest Stella, my gentle _bride_,—with all her graces,—lack +the lovely grace of submission?” + +“Poor Estelle, your _servant_, my lord, possesses with all her faults +and weaknesses, the capacity and strength to suffer alone, alone! rather +than drag one whom she honors down to share her degradation.” + +“Your signature is wanted to this document, madam,” said Sir George +Bannerman, addressing the prisoner. + +“Remain here, dear Estelle. I shall sign that instrument in your +behalf,” said Lord Montressor, leaving her side and advancing to the +table. + +“Lord Montressor will enter into a recognizance with Messieurs Oldfield +and Trevor, on the part of his wife,” said Baron Dazzleright. + +“It will not do. The prisoner must sign for herself,” said the +magistrate. + +“Be it so, then. Estelle—Lady Montressor—if you have any regard for me, +sign only the name that I have this day bestowed upon you,” whispered +Lord Montressor, as he led her forward to the table. + +“Lady Montressor, I add my voice to his lordship’s, and do beseech you, +for the sake of all who love you, to comply,” said the Baron. + +Estelle turned upon Lord Montressor a smile, full of holy +self-renunciation, took the pen, and with a firm hand signed the paper. + +Lord Montressor, Lord Dazzleright, and the two clergymen bent eagerly +forward to read the signature. It was—ESTELLE L’ORIENT. + +“Oh, child, child! Why have you written thus?” questioned Lord +Montressor, with a look of distress. + +“This girl will ruin her own cause,” said Lord Dazzleright, in a tone of +vexation. + +“Yes, my lords, she _will_ ruin her own cause rather than insure it at +the expense of the noble and the good. I am poor, lost Estelle, wife of +Victoire L’Orient, and have not the slightest claim even upon the +Viscount Montressor’s countenance—to say nothing of his noble name.” + +“We will see about that, my fair fanatic,” said the Baron. + +As it was now very late in the afternoon, and the setting sun was +shining aslant the sombre library wall, and as Sir George Bannerman +announced the sitting at end, and betrayed symptoms of impatience to be +gone, the parties,—both prosecutors and defendants, prepared to retire. + +“You will go with me to Bloomingdale, my child, and remain as long as +your friends can spare you. Mrs. Oldfield will be very—ahem!—will do +every thing she possibly can to prove her affection and respect for you, +and to make your sojourn in our humble home as comfortable and agreeable +as circumstances will admit, my dear,” said old Mr. Oldfield to his +protege. + +“We thank you very sincerely for your offered hospitality, reverend sir; +but since taking legal advice my plans are again changed—we shall adhere +to the first arrangement, which was, that Lady Montressor and myself +should go down to Dorset and spend a month at our castle of Montressor,” +said the Viscount, with calm emphasis. + +“Your lordship doubtless best knows the just and proper grounds of your +action,” said the venerable man, bowing gravely, but looking, withal, so +uneasy, that Lord Montressor beckoned the baron to his side, and said: + +“Lord Dazzleright, will you be good enough to inform these gentlemen +whom you consider to be the legal protector of this lady?” + +“Unquestionably, reverend sirs, I hold the only legal protector and +proper custodian of this lady to be her husband, the Lord Viscount +Montressor.” + +“But,” said the old clergymen, hesitatingly, “there is _another_ who +claims that relation to this lady, and whose claims the magistrate, +however unjustly, certainly favors.” + +“And whose claims to any thing else but transportation will certainly be +set aside by the courts,” said the baron. + +“But in the mean time, for the lady’s own sake, had she not better +remain with me, or some other friend, until the decision of the courts +has confirmed her position?” pleaded Mr. Oldfield. + +“Decidedly not, sir; it would argue a doubt of her position—a position +upon the assuredness and stability of which I am willing to stake my +reputation. As the legal adviser of Lady Montressor, I certainly counsel +her ladyship to place herself under the powerful protection of her +husband, and accompany him to Montressor Castle, to pass the time until +the meeting of the Judges.” + +“Come, my love, you hear what the baron says. It is getting late. Take +leave of your friends, and permit me to hand you into the carriage which +waits, and drive to your father’s house, where we will pass the night, +and since to-morrow morning we will set out for Dorset,” said Lord +Montressor, who was very anxious to remove his bride from the scene. + +“My father! Ah, Lord Montressor, do you deem that in all respects, Sir +Parke Morelle resembles _you_! My father will never look upon my face +again, were that look needed to save my soul alive. Nay, best and most +honored my lord, I _dare_ not cross my father’s threshold, and I _will_ +not cross my lord’s. If ever a Lady Montressor sets foot within +Montressor Castle, she will not first have borne the branded name of +Estelle L’Orient. Farewell, my lord. I repeat now, what I said before, +whatever may finally become of poor Estelle, may God forever bless and +love you, Lord Montressor,” she said, bowing her forehead for a moment +upon his hand that she had clasped between her own; and then releasing +it, and turning away, she addressed the old minister, saying gently: + +“I am at your disposal, Mr. Oldfield, if indeed, you still offer the +shelter of your roof to one so lost as I am.” + +“Gladly, my child, will I receive you; and let me tell you, Lady +Montressor——” + +“Ah, _you_ also, Mr. Oldfield; you will not spare my lord’s name,” +interrupted Estelle. + +“I very much suspect that it is your legal name, Lady Montressor. I have +the greatest confidence in the opinions of Lord Dazzleright upon all +_legal_ questions, though I am not sure I would be guided by his +judgment in religious questions. Thus I think his opinion upon the +validity of your marriage is likely to be quite right, while his advice +to you, (founded upon that opinion), that you should accompany Lord +Montressor to his castle in Dorset, there to abide the action of the +court, I consider to be erroneous. Your own instincts, by the grace of +God, have been a better guide. It is fitting that you should remain with +Mrs. Oldfield, unless your parents claim you from us,” whispered the +venerable man, drawing the arm of his protege within his own, and +preparing to leave the room. + +But Lord Montressor, who had remained a few minutes in mournful silence +now spoke: + +“Estelle, Lady Montressor, my wife, I have not said ‘farewell,’ and I +disclaim your right thus to withdraw yourself from my lawful +protection.” + +“Lord Montressor, your poor servant, Estelle, who would lay down her +life to serve your lordship, will not even at _your_ command, take one +step to compromise or injure you! Once more, farewell, my lord. And our +God forever love and bless you;” and with gentle firmness, Estelle +lowered her vail and turned away. + +Still Lord Montressor would have detained and expostulated with her, had +not the Bishop of Exeter here come up and reasoned with his lordship. + +“Lady Montressor does well. I have no doubt that Lord Dazzleright is +_legally correct_, but he is _morally wrong_. I have no doubt that the +marriage this day solemnized at Hyde is perfectly valid and +indissoluble; but inasmuch as its validity is contested and remains to +be confirmed by the action of the court, I declare it my opinion as a +Christian minister that Lady Montressor is _religiously correct_ in +withdrawing herself from the society of your lordship until such time as +the court has adjudged her position; and that any other course would +expose her ladyship to much censure.” + +“I see, now, that you are entirely right, my Lord Bishop. Our wishes +often blind us to what is expedient as well as to what is right. +Although, indeed, I wished chiefly to consult her ladyship’s comfort and +interests. I thank you, sir, that you have placed this subject in its +proper light before me,” said Lord Montressor, frankly. Then going up to +the bride, he said: + +“Estelle, love, you go now with my full consent and approbation. Mr. +Oldfield, it is I, her husband, who commits _Lady Montressor_ to your +care,” he concluded, laying a marked emphasis upon the title with which +he wished to invest her. + +“Your lordship does well. And Lady Montressor shall receive the best +possible care and attention while she sojourns under our humble roof,” +replied the aged clergyman. And, bowing to the group, he led his charge +from the library, through the long passage, down the broad stairs, +across the wide hall to the entrance door, and thence down the steps to +the carriage in which he placed her. + +Meanwhile, Madame L’ Orient, Victoire, and the little fat Abbe, +chattering like a trio of mammoth magpies, had got into their chaise and +driven off. + +Lord Montressor, Lord Dazzleright and the Bishop of Exeter, now came +down the steps, entered the carriage of the viscount, and took the road +to Hyde. + +Mr. Trevor came out, and joined Mr. Oldfield and Lady Montressor, and +their carriage was ordered to drive to Bloomfield. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + THE WORLD. + + “’Tis an atrocious world!”—_Bulwer._ + + +The news of the arrest of a bride at the altar, upon one of the gravest +charges, and that bride, the beautiful and gifted Estelle Morelle, the +star of fashion, the patroness of art and literature, the only daughter +and heiress of the oldest and wealthiest baronet in the West of England, +and the wife of one of the most distinguished among the young rising +members of the house of Peers—fell like a thunderbolt upon the world, +and spread like a conflagration through society. The story was +everywhere received with incredulous amazement. The very enormity of the +offense charged upon one so high and pure, stupefied belief. Even the +reporters and “item” hunters of the press, feared, for a time, to deal +directly with the question; and compromised the matter by obscure hints, +and initials, instead of proper names. The most daring “sensationists” +among the country editors were held in check, not only by the judicious +limitation of the _license_ of the press which exists in England, but +also by deep respect for, and perhaps awe of the principal parties +concerned. For the characters and influence of Sir Park Morelle and of +the Viscount Montressor were not only paramount in their respective +counties of Devon and Dorset, but superior throughout the West of +England. + +The affair was canvassed with never flagging interest by people of every +rank in society. + +Upon the evening of the arrest, the large kitchen of the “Morelle Arms,” +the Inn at Hyde, where small farmers, artizans and laborers most did +“congregate,” was the scene of a considerable excitement upon the +subject. + +Along on benches placed each side a strong oaken table, sat perhaps a +dozen rough-looking countrymen, clad in frieze coats or in smock frocks, +and having clay pipes between their lips, and pewter pots of foaming +“arf-’n-arf” before them. In an arm-chair at the head of the table, sat +John Oates the baker, like a self-installed moderator of the feast, +while at the foot, on an oaken stool, was perched Peter Barktree, +under-gamekeeper from Horsford. + +The fat little landlady was ever bustling in and out, between the +kitchen and the adjoining bar, pausing now and then to catch a word of +fresh news upon the all-engrossing subject which they were discussing +with so much zest. + +“Wot’s been done with un?” inquired Bob Sounds, the well-digger, of his +next neighbor, Peter Barktree, who having come in from Horsford, might +be expected to know something satisfactory. + +“Ay mon, wot’s been done with un?” echoed all the others. + +“_Oie_ dunnoa. How should _Oie_ know, only wot Bill Moines sayt? Bill +Moines as works on the Yew-tree farrum at Horsford telled _Oie_ how zhe +was zent off to the county jail. But _Oie_ dunnoa, how zhould _Oie_ +knoa?” replied this specimen of either stupefaction or caution—it was +hard to tell which. + +“Humph! how zhould Bill Moines knoa, an he did wurruk on the Horsford +farrum?” queried a doubter. + +“_Oie_ dunnoa. He wur up to the great house and saw the carridges drive +off mebbe; but I dunnoa; how zhould _Oie_ knoa?” + +“Bill Moines loied, and Peter Barktree nows nowt on it. John Howe, the +constable, toolde me as his worship had sent un off with his ruverence +Muster Oldfield to stay tull the triall,” said the baker from the head +of the table; and having taken the pipe quite out of his mouth to +deliver this judgment, he now to save time immediately replaced it and +smoked the faster. + +“Wot time will the trial be!—Quardar Zezzions!” + +“Noo, mon, (puff,) it’s a piece of wurruk for his ludship, (puff, puff,) +and wull coome before the Zizes, (puff, puff, puff,) and they will be +open next week,” replied the competent baker and dictator, smoking +vigorously between his oracular words. + +“And wot will they do with zhe!” + +“Saying it goo agin un, zend un to the tre’d’ll.”[2] + +Footnote 2: + + Treadmill. + +“Noo they wull not, nuther. It’s boogmy wot they zent Tom Sawyers acroos +the water for. And they wull zend un to Bootany Bay coolonies,” said an +artizan who had not before spoken. + +“Oy, but they wull ne’er do the loike of that to zhe, Tom.” + +“And whoy zhouldn’t they do it to zhe as well as to another, Bill +Stiggins, if zhe _be_ hoigh quality? Boogmy’s boogmy the wurruld over; +and wot’s boogmy fur poor folk is boogmy for quality folk, and noa +summat else with a foiner name; and wot’s Boot’ny Bay for poor folk, +zhould be Boot’ny Bay for quality folk, and noa soome foiner place loike +Lunnun town,” persisted this determined radical. + +“Oy, oy, Tom! zo we zay. Wot’s law for the poor zhould be law for the +quality. A health to Tom Stallins! Here, Mother Higgins, more ale! Wot’s +Boot’ny Bay for poor Tom Sawyers, zhoold be Boot’ny Bay for—” + +“Hold your blaspheming tongues of ye! Botany Bay, indeed! They’d never +send the likes of her ladyship to prison for one minute, no matter what +she was left to her own devises to do, let alone Botany Bay. Is her +blessed ladyship, Tom Sawyers, ye brutes? Shame on ye! And she the +sweetest angel as ever went without wings. Shame on ye! And she +educating all yer children, and clothing all yer old mothers, and +lifting half the burden of life from your good-for-naught shoulders ever +since she came home these ten years back—shame on ye! I say again, ye +great, stupid, unfeeling brute beasts! to take her sweet name on yer +lips!” exclaimed the little landlady, unable longer to repress her +indignation at hearing her “angel’s” calamity thus freely discussed, and +therefore quite ready to sacrifice her interests to her feelings, and +offend every guest in her kitchen. + +“Coom, coom, Mother Higgins, dooant thee get hoigh with us. Give us +zoome more ale,” replied the baker, holding his pewter pot up for +replenishment. + +“Well, then, keep a civil tongue in yer heads, and know who ye’d be +talking about, ye stupid loons, ye! That French frog-eater as the Evil +One has sot on to pretend to her dear ladyship, has no more right to +lift his eye to _her_ than old Bony has to the crown of England.” +Speaking of “Bony” probably suggested battle, for the honest woman went +on to say, “And more betoken, they do tell me how the Frenchman stole +her from a boarding-school while she was a child; and if so be he should +get her _now_, it would cause a war with France.” + +“Chut, dame; wot do thee knoa aboot politics and war? and whoy should ’s +majesty go to war aboot two yoong uns as doant know their own moinds? +Speak wot thee knows on, dame,” said Tom Stallins. + +“Oy, but the dame be roight! Master Stubbins, his ludship’s oon mon, +says how his ludship, Lud Muntresser, do stick to it as the Frenchman +had noo roight to coome here giving trooble; and his ludship wull stand +by the lady, een noo that her oon fayther and moother hev cast un off, +and more zhame for um,” said Mr. Stiggins. + +“Ay will he, I’ll warrant ye! And a right noble gentleman he is,” +exclaimed the landlady. + +“Zo he is! zo he is! and here’s to Lud Muntrussor!” agreed the baker, +tossing off the foaming bumper just placed in his hand by the dame. And +similar discussions to this were taking place in every ale-house, +tap-room, and tavern-kitchen in the three counties, as far as the news +had flown. + + * * * * * + +The morning after the preliminary examination, the elegant boudoir of +Lady Bannerman was half-filled with morning callers, who had “just +happened in” to hear a true, authentic report from first quarters of +this most wonderful of scandals. Ladies whose charms had long been +thrown in the shade by the peerless beauty and genius of Estelle +Morelle, now canvassed without mercy her sudden fall. + +“Sweet Providence, what a coming down! What a thunderbolt to the whole +family! Arrested at the altar upon a charge of——! Was such a thing ever +heard of!” exclaimed the Honorable Mrs. Howard Kennaugh. + +“Hush-sh! my dearest love; pray do not specify the offense in the +presence of my daughters—the dear girls are so unsophisticated—their +minds are so pu-err, I am perhaps just a little prudish in speaking +before them,” cooed Lady Bannerman. + +“What a crushing blow to Sir Parke’s pride,” said Lady Mary Monson. + +“What a shock to Montressor,” drawled Mrs. Bute Trevor. + +“But what a life of deception that creature must have led, to have +deceived her parents and her betrothed so effectually,” said Mrs. Howard +Kennaugh. + +“And what could she have _expected_ other than, sooner or later, just +such a denouement as the present?” inquired Lady Monson. + +“Oh, you see, my dear, the fellow was in a foreign prison; she never +expected him to get free; and when he returned so very inopportunely, +why she affected to have believed him dead,” explained Lady Bannerman. + +“Oh, the unprincipled wretch! What a happy thing for you and your sweet +daughters, my dear Lady Bannerman, that you were never on visiting terms +with the family at the Hall, and will not have the awkwardness of +breaking with them as some of us shall,” said Mrs. Bute Trevor. + +“A very happy circumstance, indeed, I assure you; I esteem it, madam,” +returned her deceitful ladyship, who, even at that darkest moment, would +have given the largest diamond in her parure to be placed on the dinner +list of Lady Morelle, and deemed the honor cheaply purchased. + +“They say that Miss Morelle, Madame L’Orient, or Lady Montressor, +whichever she may properly be named, for really one does scarcely know +how to choose among her various _aliases_, has been cast off by her +parents. What do you think of it, Mrs. Kennaugh?” asked Mrs. Bute +Trevor. + +“Oh, dear, I think it no wonder! she had deceived them so deeply, and +shocked them so dreadfully! If they could only cast off the cleaving +dishonor with the daughter, it were better.” + +“Ah, but that will _cling_; I wonder if they will be visited by any +one?” suggested Lady Monson. + +“Really, it is impossible to say. As far as our family are concerned, if +we had ever been on visiting terms with them, it would be out of the +question for us to continue an acquaintance with a set so seriously +compromised,” said Lady Bannerman. + +“Gracious Heaven, only to reflect upon it! One can scarcely realize such +horrors,” said Mrs. Howard Kennaugh. + +“When does the trial come on?” inquired Mrs. Bute Trevor. + +“As soon as the Easter Assizes are open at Exeter. The case will come up +before the new judge, Sir James Allan Parke.” + +“Sir James Allan Parke, my dear? And he is the new judge! Why, is he not +a relative of Sir Parke Morelle? Maternal uncle, or cousin, or something +of the sort? It will be a strange beginning to have to try his own +relative, will it not?” + +“That trial will be a solemn farce, of course; nobody expects conviction +for _her_.” + +“But, just Heaven, will the acquittal of the court remove the dishonor +that will attach to herself and all her family?” + +“Of course it cannot restore her to the social position that she has +forfeited.” + +“To think of Estelle Morelle in the prisoner’s dock!” exclaimed Mrs. +Howard Kennaugh, who seemed to have an attraction toward the most +painful and humiliating points of the case. + +“Yes! and then if she _should_ happen to be convicted,” suggested Lady +Bannerman. + +“What would be done with her?” + +“She would be sent to the convict colonies. It is a transportable +offense.” + +“Ugh! I suppose in that case her parents would never show their faces in +England again.” + +“They will go abroad in _any_ case, of course. For my part, I think that +inasmuch as the girl has been arraigned, she had just as well be +condemned. It can make but little difference, and to ship her to +Australia will end the difficulty, and be a sort of way of providing for +her. Her parents are going East, and Lord Montressor has applied for an +Ambassadorship to America.” + +“Mamma, dear, do you know I think _that must_ be a mistake? For I heard +from Mrs. Burgess, the niece of the Bishop of Exeter, that his lordship +intended to assert and stand upon the legality of his marriage, and to +sustain his lady,” said Miss Bannerman, upon whom all eyes were now +turned in astonishment at this annunciation. + +“Louise, my dear, we must not believe half that we hear.” + +“But, dearest mamma, his lordship really _did_ place her under the +protection of Mr. Oldfield to await the event of the trial.” + +“Ridiculous, my love. His lordship had nothing to do with it; Mr. +Oldfield took the poor lost creature into his house as an act of +Christian charity. You know, my sweet, that a _clergyman_ can do any +thing of that sort, which no one else could dare to do; because his holy +cloth will ‘cover a multitude of sins’—_of others_.” + +“But, dearest mamma, Mrs. Burgess told me that it was _all_ his +lordship’s doings, and that in placing her under the protection of Mr. +Oldfield, he gave him and his family to understand that she must be +addressed only by the name and title that he had bestowed upon her, and +that he chose to consider her own.” + +“Perfectly preposterous, my darling girl! a peer of Lord Montressor’s +exalted rank compromise himself with a questionable woman? Perfectly +preposterous!” + +“But, mamma dear, he is said to be devotedly attached to her!” + +“Tut, tut, tut, my best Louisa, pray do not be absurd! Lord Montressor +attached to _her_ in view of all that is past, and present, and to come? +Preposterous! Perfectly preposterous!” + +And—“Preposterous! Perfectly preposterous!” was echoed by all the ladies +present. + +And this scene was but a type of a score of other such scenes then +transpiring in the boudoirs and drawing-rooms of Devon, Dorset, and +Somerset, where this subject was discussed as far as the news had +spread. But, notwithstanding the ladies had characterized the idea as +“preposterous,” the fact was now forced upon their convictions, that +Lord Montressor did mean to spread the aegis of his powerful name and +protection over Estelle during her terrible ordeal. + +It became known, as every thing even of the most secret nature does, in +some mysterious manner, that Lord Montressor had called upon Sir Parke +Morelle in behalf of his daughter. + + * * * * * + +Lord Montressor in fact suffered one night to pass, during which he +hoped Sir Parke Morelle might recover from the first madness of rage +into which he had been thrown by this terrible shock to his pride and +affection, and then his Lordship had called at Hyde Hall and requested a +private audience with the Baronet. He was shown into the superb library +where he found Sir Parke reclining in a luxurious arm-chair with a +reading stand beside him, and engaged in reading, or in pretending to do +so. + +Lord Montressor advanced with serene gravity, offering his hand. + +Sir Parke arose to welcome him, and stood, slightly bent, trembling and +leaning for support with one hand upon the chair. The Baronet had aged +twenty years in less than twenty hours. + +“Good-morning, Sir Parke.” + +“Good-morning, my lord. Pray be seated.” + +Lord Montressor waived his hand, nodded, took the indicated chair, and +when Sir Parke Morelle had resumed his seat, said,— + +“I called this morning, Sir Parke, believing that you would be pleased +to hear favorable news relating to Lady Montressor.” + +The Baronet’s face suddenly blanched, his lips worked, his brow +gathered, but his over-mastering pride soon controlled every betrayal of +emotion, and he inquired, coolly— + +“News relating to——_whom_, my lord?” + +“To your daughter, sir.” + +“Your Lordship labors under some serious mistake. _I have no daughter_,” +said the Baronet, sternly. + +“No daughter? That is very sorrowful, if true; you lately gloried in the +loveliest daughter in all Devon.” + +“We will not speak of her, if you please, my lord,” said the baronet +haughtily. + +“Be it so, I will drop the subject of _your daughter_; but will you, +sir, on your part, be so courteous as to permit me to speak for a few +moments of, _my wife_?” + +“I was not aware, Lord Montressor, that you _had_ a wife.” + +“Then I have the honor of informing you of that fact. Yes, sir, I have +the loveliest wife, as _you_ had the loveliest daughter, in all Devon; I +have not lost her; and it is of _her_ that I come here to talk.” + +“My lord! with all deference to your lordship, I must inform you that +_I_ do not _know_ Lady Montressor; nor is it convenient just at present +to form her ladyship’s acquaintance. We are about to leave England for +some time, my lord.” + +“Sir Parke!” said Lord Montressor, very gravely, “let us leave this +unworthy word-fencing, and talk of this matter as Christian _men_ should +discuss it—shall we not?” + +The baronet’s countenance was working again; he sought to control its +emotions; he sought to repress the feelings that were swelling in his +bosom; he was “very vilely proud,” but his pride was scarcely proof +against the earnest goodness of Lord Montressor’s nature. + +His lordship saw this advantage and pursued it. + +“If you will exercise the moral heroism of looking this dark matter +steadily in the face, you will understand it better—summon patience and +strength, while I tell you as much, and no more than it is requisite you +should know, of the present position of affairs relating to—my wife.” + +Then Lord Montressor commenced, and while the baronet listened with his +chin upon his breast, and his hand thrust into his bosom, told with all +possible delicacy what had passed, and concluded by saying— + +“Thus the law and the testimony, as understood by the most eminent +barrister in the kingdom, hold Estelle to have been, while yet an +infant, the victim of a conspiracy, and entirely set aside the _quasi_ +marriage of the child, in favor of the real marriage of the woman. +Therefore, sir, I shall use the power with which the law undoubtedly +invests me to protect and defend Estelle in her present straits, and +when these shall be safely past, leaving the conduct of her future life +to be decided by her own conscience and moral free agency.” + +Leaning his head upon his thin worn hand, Sir Parke turned his glance +wistfully upon the face of Lord Montressor. His lordship’s calm, +self-possessed independence of thought and action amazed this +world-worshiper. But Sir Parke’s thoughts, affections, and activities +revolved in a very contracted orbit—from pride to self-interest, and +from self-interest around again to pride—and as neither of these +passions could in any degree be gratified by any sort of relations with +Estelle, he judging the motives of others by his own, could not at all +understand the grounds of Lord Montressor’s action. But then the +humanity, liberality and independence of Lord Montressor had often +suggested the suspicion to the baronet that his lordship was a little +wrongheaded upon some subjects, and that was the only way, he thought, +to explain his present otherwise inexplicable conduct. When Lord +Montressor paused, he spoke, though somewhat off the point. + +“Since we _are_ discussing this subject, which you have rather +ungenerously forced upon me, my lord, I must use the opportunity +afforded me of assuring your lordship that at the time of your betrothal +to Miss Morelle, neither Lady Morelle nor myself had the slightest +grounds for suspicion that there had existed on the side of the young +lady, a previous entanglement.” + +“I am assured of that, Sir Parke; though I myself had been duly advised +of all this by Estelle, who would have placed a like confidence in her +father had she dared.” + +As much as Sir Parke was surprised by this avowal, he was much too +guarded to permit his astonishment to appear; while Lord Montressor +proceeded to say:— + +“But, this is not the point, sir; what I wished to inquire is +whether—now that you are made acquainted with the position of +affairs—you will assist me in sustaining Estelle.” There was a pause. +For a few minutes pride and affection had a mighty struggle in the bosom +of the Baronet, though no one could have guessed it from his calm +exterior, and then he replied, slowly:— + +“Assuredly not, my lord. You, from the infatuation of passion, and Mr. +Oldfield, from Christian charity, may unite to protect and defend her; +and the literal construction of the statute may save her from the +ultimate consequences of her folly, but Estelle has fallen, and no +fallen woman must dare to call me father, or look to me for aid and +countenance.” + +An indignant rejoinder rose to Lord Montressor’s lips; he was tempted to +inquire of him by whose culpable neglect it was that the child of seven +years had been left to grow up under the sole charge of an unprincipled +and intriguing French governess, who ended by entrapping and nearly +destroying her pupil; to ascribe all the wretchedness that had ensued to +his own failure in parental duty, and to hurl the charge of dishonor +back into the teeth of the cold, hard, haughty man who had made it; but +“He who ruleth his own spirit is mightier than he who taketh a city,” +and Lord Montressor forbore by angry words to widen the breach between +father and daughter. + +“God give you a more humane heart, Sir Parke,” he said. “When do you +leave England?” + +“Within ten days,” answered the baronet. + +“He wishes to escape before the opening of the Assizes. Well, well, be +it so! only with augmented earnestness let me pray God to purify my +heart from every earthly passion, and every selfish motive, that I may +be the fitter champion of His poor child, whose earthly father and +mother have forsaken her,” thought Lord Montressor. Then he +inquired—since they were so soon to leave England—whether he might not +be permitted to pay his respects to Lady Morelle. + +But the baronet prayed that he would excuse her ladyship, who had not +yet recovered the severe shock her nerves had sustained in this affair. + +Lord Montressor then left his compliments and best wishes for Lady +Morelle, and arose and took leave. + +Worldly pride was the governing passion of Sir Parke and Lady Morelle. +Just so long as their only daughter had been an object of pride to them, +they had idolized her; now, however, when reproach had fallen upon her +youthful head, and she had become, though undeservedly, an object of +animadversion, they were the first to reject and disown her; as had new +honors, however unmerited, crowned her they would have been the first to +applaud. + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + ESTELLE. + + “Alas! the breast that inly bleeds + Hath naught to fear from outward blow; + Who falls from all she knows of bliss + Cares little into what abyss.”—BYRON. + + +Meanwhile how passed the time with her who, stricken at her meridian +culmination of honor and happiness, had fallen so suddenly and so low? + +We left her seated in the carriage with Messrs. Oldfield and Trevor, on +the road to Bloomingdale parsonage. Closely enveloped in the bridal +vail, which she had as yet no opportunity of changing, she sat back in a +corner of the carriage. + +She was too absorbed in her despair to notice the beautiful country +through which their road passed, winding among wooded hills, down +through flowery dales, or between high hedges, thickly matted and +overgrown with the fragrant wild rose, the maythorn, and the sweet +honeysuckle, and shutting in some richly-cultivated field or garden;—or +to listen to the music of the thousand choristers of nature, now singing +in concert their vesper hymn. + +The sun went down amid a gorgeous blazonry of crimson, purple and gold; +darkness crept over the heavens and the earth, and the stars came out, +first one by one, and then in scores, and then in hundreds, until +myriads of angel eyes seemed to look down from the firmament, and +presently the full moon arose and flooded all this beautiful scene with +silvery splendor; and still Estelle, buried in the depths of her +despair, remained unconscious of time, or of the change of lights. + +Neither of her companions addressed her, thinking it was better that, +after so much excitement, she should be left to her own reflections, if +haply she might gain repose. Neither did they, in their respect for her +grief, speak the one to the other; the ride passed in almost total +silence. + +It was late, and the moon rode high in the heavens, when the carriage +turned into the narrow, shaded and decliving road leading down to +Bloomingdale. + +The place, as its name indicated, was a small, deep, verdant dell, +settled down among crowded hills, in the midst of which nestled near +together the little antique gothic church and the cottage parsonage; the +cottage garden being divided from the church-yard only by a hedge, and +the whole surrounded by a stone wall; and all—church, cottage, wall and +hedge, so completely overgrown with moss, ivy, and creeping vines, and +so densely crowded with shrubs and trees, as to be indistinguishable +except by the spire rising from the clump of elms, and indicating the +character of the obscured outlines. + +“We are at home, dearest child,” said Mr. Oldfield, as the carriage +stopped. + +The footman sprang off from behind, opened the door and let down the +steps. + +Mr. Trevor alighted, followed by Mr. Oldfield, who handed out his +protege. They were before a low garden gate, surrounded by an arch all +overgrown with honeysuckles, whose pendent tendrils kissed their heads +in passing through. They entered by this a semi-circular walk, under a +lattice work, covered with grape vines, and leading around to the front +portico of the cottage, which was covered closely, as was the whole +house, with a matted growth of running roses, clematis, jessamine, +flowering ivy, and every description of beautiful and fragrant climbing +vine. + +Within this green and blooming bower alight, in a shaded alabaster lamp, +shone purely as a moon over the darkly-polished oaken door. + +The Rector drew the arm of his charge protectingly within his own, and +led her into this portico, and rapped. + +His summons was answered by a neatly-dressed, red-cheeked, bright-eyed +servant maid, who opened the door and smiled and courtesied on seeing +her master; but immediately started and stared with open-mouthed wonder +at the white-vailed form shrinking near him. + +“Come, come, Sarah my good girl, let us in! What are you thinking of? +Your mistress is——” + +“Yes, sir, in the parlor!” exclaimed Sarah, recovering her self-command, +and springing aside. + +“Show us in there.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Sarah, opening a door on the left side of the hall, and +revealing one of the coziest of English home scenes. + +It was a medium-sized parlor of faultless neatness and cleanliness, +comfortably carpeted and curtained; warmed by a glowing fire of seacoal, +in a polished steel grate, that the chilly spring evening rendered +acceptable; each side of this fire-place were deep recesses, from +ceiling to floor, filled on the left by a tall book-case of favorite +volumes, and on the right by a high cabinet of shells, minerals, ores, +coins, medallions, storied old china, and other objects of vertu. Soft, +deep sofas, easy chair, and foot-cushions, of various styles, to suit +every need, and tables and stands for every reasonable parlor purpose, +were conveniently arranged around. + +But perhaps the most attractive article of furniture was the neat +tea-table that stood in the midst of the room, before the glowing grate, +covered with a milk-white, ample damask table-cloth that reached the +floor, and laden with its glistening service of silver-plate and white +china. + +In an arm-chair a little to the left of the table, sat a stately old +lady of perhaps sixty-five years of age, looking not unlike the +dignified housekeeper of Hyde Hall. She was arrayed in a stiff black +gown, with a surplice bosom, open to reveal a glimpse of the snow-white +muslin handkerchief crossed over the bosom within; a white muslin cap, +with a very high and stiffly-starched crown, surmounted her silvery gray +hair and severe physiognomy, and added height if not dignity to her +appearance. On the other side, between her chair, and the corner of the +fire-place, was a stand on which stood a lamp and a volume of what might +have been religious tracts, just closed and laid aside, with her +spectacles between the leaves to keep the place. + +Had Estelle been in a condition to notice any thing, she might have been +repelled by the severe aspect of this lady, who the reader has already +guessed to be Mrs. Oldfield, the Rector’s wife. + +Mrs. Oldfield belonged to the old school of English women of the middle +classes. A rigid pietist, a severe disciplinarian, a model wife, mother +and housekeeper; she had reared, in high respectability, a large family, +had seen her sons established in professions, had married off her +daughters to eligible and responsible men—in a word, had completed her +life’s work without a flaw or blemish, and now at the age of sixty-five +had sat down in perfect self-satisfaction and very little charity for +those who had been less fortunate. + +As she saw the party enter, she arose, somewhat stiffly, between +formality, age and rheumatism, and stood ready to receive her guests; +but soon stared almost as wildly as had Sarah Copley on perceiving the +vailed bridal figure that hung upon her husband’s arm; her first idea +was, that their old bachelor friend, Mr. Trevor, had resolved upon +taking to himself a wife, and brought the lady there to be married; she +frowned formidably in advance at this suppositions irregularity. + +Mr. Oldfield sighed deeply as he noticed the rigor of her first regards +of one to whom he had dared to promise on her part a mother’s tender +care; he silently prayed that when she should know all, the weight of +her righteous indignation might fall only on the guilty, not on the +innocent unfortunate. But her austere aspect, while as yet she knew +nothing to the disadvantage of the guest, (but that she seemed to be +placed in an embarrassing position,) filled him with forebodings as to +her future treatment of his charge; while he thanked heaven for the +mental abstraction from outward objects that so shielded the already +wounded heart of poor Estelle from the arrows of unkindness in her eyes. + +All these thoughts on either side passed in much less time than it has +taken to tell. + +“This is Lady Montressor, Mrs. Oldfield,” said the Rector, presenting +his protege. + +“Lady—Mon—tressor?” slowly repeated the hostess, gazing searchingly into +the pale, worn, most despairing, yet perfectly beautiful face, that with +its downcast eyes, was now unvailed and bowed before her. + +She knew that Mr. Oldfield had gone to Hyde that morning to assist at +the marriage of Lord Montressor and Miss Morelle, whom by the way she +had not seen for years, and could not now recognize in the +sorrow-stunned woman before her; but why should Lady Montressor, who was +married this morning, be here alone in bridal array, to-night? + +“Oh! I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” she said at length, recovering her +presence of mind, though by no means her astonishment, and offering her +own comfortable chair to her visitor—“Pray be seated, Lady Montressor.” + +Estelle mechanically sank into the proferred seat. + +Mr. Trevor greeted his hostess, who welcomed him kindly, and invited him +to sit down. + +The Rector threw himself into his own favorite leathern chair, rubbed +his hands with an assumption of cheerful ease, and said— + +“Now tea! tea! my dear! as quickly as it can be served. This lady +greatly needs refreshment, for I think she has not broken her fast since +morning.” + +“But, perhaps, Lady Montressor would prefer first to retire to her room +and change her dress,” suggested the old lady, turning toward her guest +and gazing with no abatement of astonishment upon her strange attire, +wondering whether she had brought any baggage, and in fact wondering all +around the compass of which she formed the centre. + +But Estelle did not reply to her suggestion, most likely did not +understand, or even hear it. + +And Mr. Oldfield hastened to answer. + +“No, my dear, I think not; her ladyship’s trunks have not yet arrived, +and I think she will not feel disposed to change until she retires for +the night, which should be soon, as she is really ill from fatigue. +Therefore, tea! tea! my good wife, as soon as possible.” + +Then rising, and crossing over to Estelle, he said, + +“You would like to retire soon, my child, would you not?” + +“Oh! yes—yes,” she murmured in a voice nearly extinct with grief and +weariness. + +“But—_where is his lordship_?” very naturally inquired the correct old +gentlewoman. + +“Lord Montressor—is—ahem!—not here at the present time,” replied the +Rector, pointedly; but seeing that this very direct answer failed to +enlighten and satisfy his lady, he added, “Come, come, my dear! there is +no misunderstanding between Lord and Lady Montressor; they are on +excellent terms. Well, of course, there is _something_ to be explained, +which you shall hear in time! meanwhile, my dear, tea, tea!” + +It was some comfort to be told that there _was_ something real and not +to be left to imagine herself under the influence of a wierd dream; and +so the excellent woman, set somewhat more at ease upon the subject of +this strange bridal apparition, rang and ordered tea, which was +immediately served. + +“Suffer me to relieve you, my child,” said the Rector, gently, but +rather awkwardly, officiating as lady’s maid and unfastening and +removing the vail and wreath from her brow. “There, let me draw your +easy chair to the table. Do you hear me, dear child?” he inquired, +uneasy at beholding her look of apathetic despair. + +“Oh! yes, yes, I hear, understand, and thank you, for this and for all. +I know—I remember, that but for you, I should have passed this +night—that was to have been my wedding-night,—in prison,” she murmured +in a deep heart-thrilling tone. + +“‘_In prison!_’” Mrs. Oldfield had heard these fearful words, and +involuntarily echoed them! + +“Do not mind her, my dear Madam—she—I mean, don’t mind her,” whispered +Mr. Trevor, to his hostess, whose astonishment had returned with a +vengeance. + +Estelle, had she been less absorbed in her profound sorrow, might have +noticed the shocked and scandalized expression of the old lady’s +countenance; but as it was, the severe regards of Mrs. Oldfield fell +harmlessly upon her whom despair had rendered invulnerable. + +“Come, my child, you must really force yourself to take something. +Endeavor now to swallow some tea and toast, for the sake of one in whose +name I speak to you,” said the Rector, gently placing his charge at the +table. + +Silently and mechanically Estelle did all that was required of her, +though the act of swallowing was almost impossible. And now the +deferential care of the two clergymen for their fair charge again +modified Mrs. Oldfield’s ill suspicions of her guest. + +Directly after tea, at the suggestion of Mr. Oldfield, the bell was +rung, and the little bright-eyed maid, Sarah Copley, was summoned to +show Lady Montressor to her chamber. + +Mrs. Oldfield gave some directions in a low voice, aside to her Abigail, +who courtesied, lighted a night-lamp, and stood ready to attend her +ladyship. + +Silently and mechanically Estelle arose and bowing good-night to the +circle, followed her attendant from the parlor. + +When they had disappeared, Mr. Oldfield told the story of Lady +Montressor’s arrest at the altar, and the subsequent developments +relating to her school history. But no logic or eloquence of the +narrator, no palliating or explaining of the circumstances, could serve +to lessen in Mrs. Oldfield’s estimation the moral turpitude of her whom +this rigorous judge persisted in regarding as a sinner of the deepest +dye. And the anxious and distressed rector had the utmost difficulty in +obtaining a promise that the unhappy lady, while she remained their +guest, should be attended and served with the consideration due her +rank. But this promise once given, however reluctantly, he knew would be +faithfully performed. + +Lady Montressor reached her chamber, which was the front room +immediately over the parlor, and which she found neatly and plainly +arranged, with a polished wax floor, maple furniture, and white dimity +curtains, bed hangings and chair covers, and warmed by a bright little +fire in the grate. The cheerful maid laid out a delicate cap and gown +from her mistress’s wardrobe, and stood waiting Lady Montressor’s +orders. Estelle gently declined her further attendance, and dismissed +her. + +And then—— + +For the first time since her appalling calamity, Estelle found herself +alone. + +She sank into an arm-chair, dropped her throbbing and burning forehead +upon her hands, and tried to recollect herself and think coherently. For +now that she was alone, the fearful events of the last twelve hours +seemed the wierd and horrible conjurations of fever or nightmare. It was +as difficult as it was terrible to realize her position. + +The first stunning shock of the storm had passed. The thunderbolt had +fallen, and the charred and blackened ruins of her happiness lay all +around her. The whirlwind had crossed her path of life, sweeping away +her dearest treasures. The waters of affliction had rolled over her +soul, bearing off her most precious earthly hopes. Yes, the first shock +of the storm had passed; but desolation was within and around her, and +the clouds still lowered, dark, heavy, and threatening, over her devoted +head. + +She rapidly reviewed the chain of circumstances—when scarcely fourteen +years of age, she had been ensnared by an intriguing governess, and an +unprincipled fortune-hunter, into a secret marriage, soon bitterly +repented by herself, and disrupted by the man’s felony, and now +pronounced to have been from the beginning illegal. After ten years of +separation, and two of supposed widowhood, she had that morning +contracted a second marriage with a party of the highest rank and +character, which was said to be legal and binding to all intents and +purposes. Arrested on leaving the church, upon a grave and degrading +charge, she had been discarded by her parents, who would probably leave +England forever, to conceal their humiliation under foreign skies; but +was protected, though most delicately, from a distance, through reverend +hands, by Lord Montressor, a man of stainless honor, who would be the +last on earth to sacrifice moral principle to human affection, and who +had in view of the law and the testimony, declared his determination to +stand by the legality of their late marriage, had given her the +protection of his name and title; and exacted of all others that they +should address her only by that; finally, she was bound over to appear +at the approaching assizes to answer the charge of a terrible and +shameful crime! + +Such was the past and present. + +What lay before her in the future? + +Her trial. + +It is true that her counsel and her few devoted friends, flattered +themselves and her with the promise of certain deliverance. But even her +limited experience taught her that very little dependence could be +placed upon the prejudgment of partisans, who always made it a point to +sustain the hopes of the accused by positive promises of acquittal, +which were not always confirmed by the verdict of the jury. The law was +proverbially uncertain. It was very possible she might be convicted. + +And then— + +A vision of the convict cell, the transport ship, the penal colonies, +swam darkly before her mind’s eyes, turning her soul sick with horror. +It was but for a moment, and then, strange to say, she regarded this +possible result as the condemned might regard the rack, the wheel, or +the stake—a frightful torture certainly, but one happily soon ending in +death. And merely saying— + +“I should soon sink under it, and that would be well,”—she dismissed +the vision, and turned to look upon the other—scarcely the +happier—contingency. + +She might be acquitted, as was confidently promised by her friends, upon +the ground of the illegality of the childish marriage into which she had +first been entrapped. + +Such were the uncertain prospects of the future. + +What now became her duty? + +For, with whomsoever the adjudication of her legal position rested, that +of her moral one remained, under these as under other circumstances, +with herself alone. + +What then was her duty? + +It might be indicated by circumstances. + +In the event of a conviction, her fate would be taken out of her own +hands, leaving her nothing to do, but simply to submit and be patient +until death should terminate her sufferings. + +But on the other hand, with the issue of acquittal would come a mighty +moral problem, involving a terrible soul-struggle; for then Lord +Montressor would immediately claim her as his wife; nay more, he would +undoubtedly have his traveling carriage in waiting to convey her +directly from the scene of her sufferings to his seat in Dorset, or to +some other peaceful retreat he would provide, where the arms of +affection should uphold and nurse her back to life, health, and +serenity. The laws of the realm would sustain him in this course; the +world, ever ready to bow to success, would be his partisan; and deeper +and more potent than law, or world, the advocate in her own heart was +retained in his service and would plead his cause. + +Should she admit his claim, yield herself up to his higher wisdom for +direction, and with a child’s unquestioning trust repose in the blessed +haven of his large love? + +For a moment, a vision of this sweet rest beamed in upon her dark and +troubled soul like the holy light of heaven. + +Should she give herself up to the happiness prepared for her? + +There was a pause—a long pause, and silence in her soul. Her conscience +gave no affirmative. + +She only saw herself at a fork in the road of life from which two paths +diverged. + +The one splendid with sunshine, beautiful with verdure, brilliant with +flowers, and fragrant with their breath, musical with bird songs, and +more than all, blessed with the presence of her noble beloved, who stood +with outstretched arms, wooing her to enter. But, was Duty there? + +The other, dark with cloud and storm, barren, silent, solitary, +desolate, no helping hand there held out to her, no encouraging voice +inviting her, she would tread it, if tread it she must, alone, with +tearful eyes and bleeding feet, and staggering steps; yet not unblessed, +if Duty were there. + +How should she decide? The question pressed itself upon her conscience +for solution. She would not try to shake it off, to say—“Time enough +when the trial is over”—for she felt constrained to be prepared for the +result of that trial. + +It was a terrible ordeal! one not to be safely passed without much +prayer. + +Estelle sank upon her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for light to +see her duty, and for strength to follow it. Who ever sought the Source +of light and strength and came away blind and feeble? + +The night spent in prayer brought a morning full of peace and courage. +She had decided what her course should be in the event of an acquittal. + +It was eight o’clock before her bell summoned Sarah Copley, who entered +as usual, smilingly, and said: + +“If you please, my lady, your trunks have come from Hyde, and will you +please to have them brought up here?” + +“Yes, certainly, my girl, but how came they here?” + +“Please, my lady, I don’t know; but when my master sent back the +Bishop’s carriage, he sent a note to Sir Parke Morelle, I know, because +I handed it to John, the footman, to deliver; and, please your ladyship, +the trunks came about half an hour ago, and your ladyship’s own maid +came with them.” + +“What? Susan Copsewood?” + +“Yes, your ladyship, shall I send her up? or would your ladyship accept +my services?” + +“Thank you, my good girl, no; send up Susan Copsewood.” + +“Yes, madam,” said the Abigail, disappearing. + +In a few minutes after, Susan Copsewood entered, and immediately upon +the sight of her adored and unhappy mistress, sank down at her feet, +embraced her knees, and burst into tears. + +Lady Montressor laid her hand upon the girl’s head in silent +benediction. There was no utility in words as yet, and none were spoken. +When, however, Susan had wept herself into calmness, and had arisen from +her feet, and stood waiting, Lady Montressor inquired— + +“How are my father and mother, Susan?” + +“Hem! dear lady, I always tell you the truth if I speak at all. But now +please excuse me from speaking,” said the girl, sadly. + +“Ah! God, is it so?—have I nearly killed or maddened my parents?” +exclaimed Lady Montressor, growing deathly pale and faint, and sinking +into the nearest seat. + +“Oh, then, I see I must speak! No, dear madam, Sir Parke and my lady are +not dead, nor are they any madder than they always were—saving your +presence; but, since I must tell the truth lest worse be thought, they +are both very angry.” + +“It was to be expected! But what put it in your head, kind girl, to come +to me?” + +“Why, no one put it there—it came there naturally, my lady! What else +could I do but come to you the first opportunity? Last night about +eleven o’clock, John Brownloe, the Bishop of Exeter’s footman, brought a +note from Mr. Oldfield to master. I saw it handed to master’s own man to +be carried up. Well! soon the bell was rung for me, and I was ordered to +pack up all your ladyship’s wardrobe, and have it ready to dispatch at +four o’clock this morning. So I went to work and did it. Just before I +strapped down the last trunk, master came in. And ‘Susan,’ says he, +‘have you strapped down all the trunks?’ ‘All but this, sir,’ says I. +‘Lift up the lid,’ says he. I did so, and he put a letter in——” + +“A letter! Susan, my girl, where is it?” exclaimed Lady Montressor, +eagerly. + +“In the buff-colored trunk, my lady, which they are going to bring up +presently.” + +“Go on.” + +“Well, as I was saying, dear lady, after I had packed every thing up, +and looked around to see if any thing had been forgotten, lo and behold +there was _myself_ that might have been left behind, if I hadn’t +recollected, so I got ready with the rest of your ladyship’s effects, to +be sent off. Thus at four o’clock in the morning I delivered myself +along with the trunks. ‘And who are you?’ says the drayman. ‘I wasn’t +hired to take no passengers, but only baggage,’ says he. ‘Very well,’ +says I. ‘I’m part of her ladyship’s baggage—lend a hand and hoist me +up.’ So after a little more altercation, the stupid fellow let me up, +and here I am, your ladyship!” + +“Thank you, Susan; you——” + +She was here interrupted by a rap at the door. + +It was a couple of plow-boys, who had brought up her trunks. As soon as +they were placed, and the boys had retired, Lady Montressor hastened to +take the keys from Susan, and unlock one—the one indicated as containing +the letter. There it lay upon the top of all the contents—she snatched +it eagerly. Oh! might it bear one word of peace and pardon to her +sorrow-stricken heart! She tore it open. It was an envelope, containing +a check for a thousand pounds, drawn in her favor, upon the bank of +Exeter. No more, not a line—not a word. With a deep sigh, Estelle laid +it aside, and sank into her chair. + +The maid, with a tact and delicacy above her condition in life, selected +from among the many rich dresses of the trousseau, a morning robe of +pale gray silk—the plainest there, and laid it out for her lady’s use; +and then, without words, prepared her toilet; so that Lady Montressor +was ready to go below to meet the family at their nine o’clock +breakfast. + +As she descended, the hall door was open, and she looked out. How +beautiful, on this bright May morning, was the parsonage and its +surroundings,—a wilderness of flowers, shrubs, and trees, with the old +church spire rising from the midst. Upon any other former day, this +sweet rural landscape would have filled the heart of Estelle with +delight; now, however, she only saw that it was lovely, and passed on to +the door on the right, leading into the parlor. + +The family were already gathered there. As she opened the door, Mr. +Oldfield arose and came to meet her, and with a kind— + +“Good-morning, my child; I hope you have rested well,” led her to the +table. + +Mrs. Oldfield treated her with stately courtesy. + +And Mr. Trevor, with a smile and bow, placed a chair for her use. + +Breakfast, that seemed only to await her arrival, was immediately +served. During that meal Mrs. Oldfield never, except in strict +necessity, addressed her fair guest; and when she spoke it was with the +most ceremonious politeness. There was nothing to complain of, yet Lady +Montressor felt depressed and chilled; but she accepted this, as all +else, in the submissive spirit of expiation. + +Immediately after breakfast Mr. Trevor, whose charge lay in the +neighborhood of Montressor Castle, in the adjoining county of Dorset, +took leave, saying, as he held the hand of Lady Montressor: + +“Though I depart from your presence, I remain in your service, my child. +When I can render you any assistance, command me; I am ever at your +orders.” + +“I earnestly thank you, sir,” replied Estelle. + +Mr. Trevor was gone. + +Mr. Oldfield went out to make parish calls. + +And Lady Montressor was left alone with her hostess, who, though polite, +was not congenial. + +Soon, therefore, Estelle retired to her chamber. + +Her faithful maid had set the room in order, and was now engaged in +unpacking and hanging up her dresses in the two clothes closets that +flanked the fire-place. They formed a part of that rich, tasteful, and +costly trousseau that had been provided for her bridal day’s +vanities,—trifles certainly they were at most; yet as mementos of the +past, the past, but only yesterday, yet seeming, by the yawning gulf +that divided it from to-day, so far apart, so long ago!—it was painful +to see them again! So Susan Copsewood instinctively felt, and she +hurried them out of sight. + +“Have they sent my pocket Bible among the rest, Susan?” + +“Yes, my lady, here it is,” and the faithful girl handed it to her +mistress. + +Lady Montressor received the blessed volume with reverence, and sinking +into her arm-chair, opened its pages to seek for light and strength and +comfort. + +“Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more +that they can do; but I will forewarn you whom you shall fear: Fear him +which after he hath killed, hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say +unto you, fear him.” + +These were the words that first met her eye, and she felt them as a +message to her own soul. She read no further just then, but softly +dropping the book upon her lap, she fell into deep meditation upon the +word. Yes! amid all the storm and terror of her position, the question +presented to her soul was the old, old question of simply doing right or +doing wrong. And her Judge, above all judges was—God! Might he +strengthen her to do her awful duty! + +While Lady Montressor meditated, read, and prayed in her chamber, the +news that she had sought sanctuary with the Rector of Bloomingdale +spread swiftly through the neighborhood. And many were the friends and +acquaintance of the Rector’s family, who _happened_ to drop in during +the course of that day. Some few among them were personally known to +Estelle, and these ventured to inquire for her; but Mrs. Oldfield, after +sending a message to her guest, and receiving an answer, replied stiffly +that Lady Montressor preferred to keep her chamber, and declined +visitors. And so day after day passed, during which Estelle secluded +herself, or only appeared when summoned to join the family at meal +times. + +Lord Montressor, busy in her cause, forbore to visit or even to +correspond with his hapless bride. + +Lord Dazzleright devoted the whole of his valuable time and great legal +ability to her case, and spoke confidently of a fortunate issue. + +Once during the week he called upon his client, and was the first and +only visitor that Lady Montressor, during her self-sequestration, +received. He came to gather from her minute and detailed particulars of +her school life, and _quasi_ marriage, and having possessed himself of +all, and taken notes, he said: + +“There can be no doubt as to the result of this trial. It will be not +only an acquittal, but a full and complete vindication. Therefore, +permit me to say, Lady Montressor, that you do wrong to withdraw +yourself from your husband’s protection. Your course argues, on your +part, a doubt of your true position, which may injure your case, when it +comes before the Assizes.” + +“My lord, there is a higher tribunal, at which, some day, I shall have +to appear, and I must act in view of that,” replied the lady, in a deep, +liquid, melodious voice, that seemed to flow and ripple over the +fragments of a broken heart. + +Lord Dazzleright looked suddenly into her face, and through its dark and +lovely features recognized the spirit that could “suffer and be +strong”—the spirit patient and firm as sad. He sighed, and pressed her +hand as he took his leave. + +The next day Estelle learned, through Susan Copsewood, who had obtained +the news from authentic sources, that her parents had gone to +Southampton, whence they would sail in a few days for Italy. + +“Another blow! I accept it! Oh, God, I accept it! Only make me patient +to suffer, and strong to act!” was the prayer that went up from her +crushed heart, upon hearing of this desertion. + +She opened her Bible to seek for comfort. Did an angel guide her hand, +or did the Lord of heaven and earth—the Father of all, before whom not a +sparrow falleth unmarked—thus speak directly to his stricken child? For +oh, words of life and light! these were they that met her mournful eyes: +“Fear _thou_ not; for _I_ am with thee: be not dismayed; for _I_ am thy +God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; I will uphold thee +with the right hand of my righteousness.” + +She dropped the book and closed her eyes, for a flood of blessing had +descended upon her, enveloping and impenetrating her whole being, and +filling her with Divine love, wisdom, and strength. + +She needed all—love to teach her patience and forgiveness under unjust +contumely, wisdom to guide her in her dark and dangerous path, strength +to enable her to bear the approaching terrible ordeal. + +In a few days intelligence was received that the Judges were within a +few days’ journey of Exeter, and that the Assizes would be opened on the +following Monday. + +Good Mr. Oldfield heard this news with much more agitation than was felt +by his charge, who, pale and still, awaited her fate. + +The Rector wrote a note and sent it by a special messenger to Lord +Dazzleright, desiring his lordship to come at his earliest possible +convenience and advise with him. + +Lord Dazzleright lost no time in complying with the request, and arrived +the next day at the parsonage. + +Mr. Oldfield immediately conducted his lordship into his library, which +was the room on the right side of the entrance hall, opposite to his old +wife’s parlor. + +When they had reached this apartment, the Rector handed a chair to his +guest, and dropped himself into another, saying: + +“The Assizes are at hand.” + +“I know it—thank Heaven, the suspense will be over,” replied Lord +Dazzleright, cheerfully. + +“But—I took the liberty of sending for your lordship to ask—what am _I_, +as Lady Montressor’s surety, expected to do? Am I to wait here with her +until a tipstaff summons us to appear, or must I take her to Exeter, and +render her up? You see, though I am seventy years of age, I was never in +a criminal court in any capacity in my life, and knew no more of its +forms than a child.” + +“I see: of course you are expected, without further notice to bring your +charge into court. But, anticipating this natural embarrassment on your +part, I have brought and left my carriage at the inn, and will call with +it to-morrow to take yourself and Lady Montressor to Exeter—if you will +accept.” + +“Oh, with promptitude, and many thanks, my lord.” + +“In this case, then, all that you will have to do will be to take seats +in the carriage and leave the rest to myself, as her ladyship’s +counsel.” + +“I am very grateful to have my mind thus far relieved, my lord.” + +“I shall be at your door to-morrow morning, at ten—if that hour will +suit you.” + +“Perfectly, my lord.” + +“And now, as I have a world of business on my hands, I must bid you +good-day,” said Lord Dazzleright. + +“Good-day, and many thanks, my lord.” + +The next morning, at the appointed hour, Lord Dazzleright’s carriage +stood before the vine-shaded garden gate of the parsonage. + +It was a dark, gloomy, foreboding day, and sensibly affected the spirits +of all concerned. + +Estelle prayed long and earnestly in her chamber, remaining on her +knees, until a gentle rap at the door, and the voice of her faithful +attendant, warned her that her friends were waiting. Then she arose, and +over her simple grey silk dress wrapped a fine grey woolen shawl, put on +a close cottage bonnet of grey crape, threw over it a black lace vail, +took her gloves and her Bible, and followed her maid down stairs. + +Mr. Oldfield waited in the hall, and Lord Dazzleright in the carriage, +to receive her. + +Lord Dazzleright’s kindness of heart suggested all things needful. + +“Where is her ladyship’s woman?” he inquired, after greeting Lady +Montressor, and observing that she was unattended. “Is she not going +with her mistress?” + +“Why, nothing has been said of it, my lord; we did not know that it +would be convenient to your lordship to——” + +“Is that she? hasten, my good girl, throw on your bonnet, and get in +here beside me—did you not know your lady would require your services?” +said Lord Dazzleright, interrupting the Rector to hurry the maid. + +“Yes, my lord, I knew it well enough, only——” the rest of her sentence +was lost in distance, as she hurried around the circular walk toward the +house. She reappeared in five minutes, and took her place in the +carriage. + +And Lady Montressor and the Rector occupying the back seat, and Lord +Dazzleright and the maid the front one, they drove rapidly off toward +the Exeter turnpike. + +A long, dreary ride, under a dark and weeping sky, and over a landscape +humid with its fallen tears, brought them, at the close of day, into the +city of Exeter, the capital of Devonshire, and the ancient seat of the +West Saxon kings. They drew up, and turned into the court-yard of a +quiet hotel in the neighborhood of the Assizes. There was no registry of +names required there, as in our own “free” country, and therefore no +gaping and staring crowd could identify the pale, beautiful woman, who +came attended by a clergyman and an attorney, as the high-born lady, +whose approaching trial for a grave offense, occupied all thoughts, and +attracted crowds to the city; and no officious reporters could publish +the fact that—“Lady Montressor occupied apartments at the ‘Crown and +Sceptre.’” The next day was the Sabbath, during which Estelle, escorted +by Mr. Oldfield, twice attended Divine service in public, without +attracting attention. She passed the evening in her chamber, in prayer +and self-communion, to be ready to meet the morrow and the opening of +the Assizes. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + THE ASSIZES. + + “And still and pale and silently + The hapless lady waits her doom; + How changed since last her speaking eye + Glanced gladness round the glittering room, + When high-born men were proud to wait, + Where beauty watched to imitate + Her gentle voice, her lovely mien, + And gather from her air and gait + The graces of its queen.”—_Byron._ + + +The next day, Monday, May 15th, the Assizes were opened with the usual +attendant ceremony and bustle. And a remarkably interessing docket had +attracted crowds to the spot. + +The case of Lady Montressor was almost the last on the list, and divided +public curiosity with that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy chief. + +At nine o’clock, closely vailed, and attended by the Rev. Mr. Oldfield +and her counsel, Lady Montressor left her lodgings, entered the +carriage, and was driven to the Courthouse. Upon the proclamation of the +public crier, that the courts were now open, etc., etc., etc—she was +handed from the carriage, and still closely vailed, and leaning upon the +arm of her venerable friend, entered Exeter Hall, and proceeded to the +court-room. + +Estelle had never been inside a court before. At first she had traversed +the passage and staircase, blindly, behind her vail, but when she found +herself in a crowded room, impeded, and finally nearly smothered by the +pressure of the masses, she drew her vail aside for air, and saw herself +within a vast hall, with an arched roof, marble pillars, and Gothic +windows, not unlike a lecture-room or church. + +Upon an elevated platform, technically called the “Bench,” placed at the +upper end of the room, and enclosed by a spacious iron-railing, sat the +Judge, Sir James Allan Parke, one of the most eminent of the judges on +the Western Circuit of England; he was a fine, hale-looking old +gentleman, arrayed in his official robes—a scarlet gown, ermine cape, +and full-bottomed wig. On the wall near his seat was blazoned forth in +large illuminated letters the king’s commission. A little below him sat +the clerk of the court. And around—sitting, standing, walking about, or +conversing,—were the officers of the crown, in their official liveries, +the counsellors-at-law in their long black robes and white wigs, and +various nondescript individuals, who seemed to hold a sort of middle +place between official and non-official life. + +On the right hand, below the bench, was the prisoner’s dock, an +enclosure not unlike a pen, in which were gathered some twenty persons +of both sexes, and all ages, from twelve to seventy. Lady Montressor’s +eyes were spell-bound to that miserable place. Such a set of +wretched-looking human creatures!—men, aye, and women and children, +too!—with faces stupefied with suffering, palsied by despair, or +demoralized by guilt! + +“Heaven and earth!—is my place among these?” she exclaimed, sick with +loathing and terror. But in a moment she rallied and rebuked herself. +“Down proud heart,” she said, “who hath made me to differ, and how much +at last _do_ I differ from these my poor brothers and sisters? _I_ fell +before the first temptation, though all my life was fenced about from +want, or care, or sin—while they—their lives may have been one series of +privations, trials, and irresistible temptations! Who shall judge but +God Omniscient? God comfort them, and forgive me!” she prayed meekly +folding her hands and bowing her head. + +Her venerable protector, as inexperienced in these scenes as herself, +also contemplated that den of savage or brutal faces, and grew pale with +dread for his delicate charge. He did not venture to turn his eyes +toward Estelle, but instinctively drew her arm closer within his own, +and looked around in distress for Lord Dazzleright. His lordship had +left them, and might now be seen conversing with the Judge. Presently he +bowed, left his position, and with a grave, sad, almost angry +countenance, slowly made his way through the crowd, and approached his +client. + +“Well, well, Lord Dazzleright, well?” eagerly inquired Mr. Oldfield, +alarmed at the ill-omened expression of the counsel’s face. + +“Oh! it is nothing! it is nothing!” said his lordship, drawing his +handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his heated and perspiring brow. + +“It is not precisely _nothing_, Lord Dazzleright, judging from your +countenance and manner,” said Estelle, calmly and firmly. + +“Well, my child, it is nothing to alarm _you_, although it is something +to displease me.” + +“Tell me the truth, Lord Dazzleright.” + +“I will do so, Lady Montressor! I went up there to examine the docket. I +find our case is the last but two on the list, and may not probably come +up for a week or ten days; I did not see the necessity of your +ladyship’s presence here in the interim. I had an opportunity of +speaking to the Judge, and showed him this, and prayed that my client +might be discharged from the obligation of attending court, and suffered +to remain with her bail, here in the city, until the day upon which her +trial should come up, when she should again punctually present herself. +The Judge chose to refuse my reasonable request, and require my client’s +daily attendance here. And I am angry; that is all.” + +“Except that you are also _anxious_, my lord! Is it not so? Hide nothing +from me.” + +“No, no, certainly not _anxious_,” said the counsel, while his looks +belied his words,—“in no degree _anxious_, for though this may appear +unfavorable on the part of the court, yet Sir James Allan Parke, if a +stern, is a just Judge, and I rest our cause upon its integral justice, +not upon external favor.” + +“Umme! Oh—hh!” groaned the good Rector—“so she is to remain here, poor +lamb! day after day a spectator of all the revolting horrors of a +criminal court—and,” sinking his voice to a whisper, “where is she to +stand?—for the love of Heaven, not there! in the dock among those +loathsome wretches?” + +Lord Dazzleright looked positively shocked and enraged. “_There!_ You +astound me, Reverend sir! Those poor outcasts are in the sheriff’s +custody; daily he marshals them from their cells to the dock, and +nightly from the dock to their cells. ‘He is king of that goodly +company.’ Lady Montressor, sir, is _your_ holy charge; you only are +responsible for her appearance, and may make her position as exclusive +and as comfortable as you desire.” + +“Oh, thank heaven! Since it is so then—pray let us find a secluded and—I +was going to say pleasant seat—as if such a thing could be found in this +place.” + +“Doubtless, a moderately agreeable one can be found though,” said Lord +Dazzleright, cheerfully putting aside his anger, and offering his arm to +his client, to conduct her through the crowd. + +But just as Estelle was about to accept the proffered assistance, she +perceived a hurried step approach from behind, and a deep voice speak, +at the sound of which, the whole tide of life turned back upon its +course, opening her heart, and whelming her senses, in a mist of mingled +rapture and anguish. + +“Permit me, my lord,” the voice said, and gently putting aside the +counsel, Lord Montressor took the arm of his bride and drew it within +his own. + +Estelle’s whole being was thrilled with emotion, half ecstacy, half +agony, as I said. She turned away her swiftly flushing and paling face, +bowed her head and prayed. + +“Ah, my lord! my lord! is this act of yours well conceived?—is it +prudent?—is it politic?” inquired the good Rector, in distress. + +“It is _right_; beyond that I have not considered whether it was +politic, or prudent, reverend sir,” replied his lordship. Then turning +his face most tenderly down toward the lady on his arm, he said in a low +voice— + +“Estelle, my beloved, will you not look at me?” + +She put back her vail, lifted her head, turned up to him a look of +profound, unutterable, undying love then dropped her eyes. + +“Speak to me, dearest Stella.” + +“Ah, my lord! my lord! what can poor Stella say, but echo what the +minister said just now—‘Was this _well_ done, Lord Montressor?’” + +“Excellently well done, my Stella! You are my wife! Where should I be, +but beside my wife in her trial? Have I not said that I would stand upon +the legality of our marriage. How shall I stand by our marriage, and +desert my wife? I never contemplated such an inconsistency for a moment! +It is true—for that no one should venture to say, or hint, that selfish +or unscrupulous passion had governed my actions—I consented to forego my +rights and inclinations in favor of your delicate reserve, and yield up +to the care of Mr. Oldfield; and I forbore to intrude, either by visit +or letter, upon the sanctuary of your private life. Now, however, the +case is widely different. You are before the public, before a judge, +charged with a crime, exposed to a severe ordeal. Shall I leave you to +tread this wine-press alone? No, no, so help me Heaven at my bitterest +need—no! Before the same public, before the same judge, through all the +ordeal, will I stand by your side, and with what manhood, strength and +virtue there may be within me, assert my position and your innocence. +Nor man, nor demon—world, flesh, nor devil, shall prevent me doing thus! +And may Christ so aid me in my greatest extremity as I am true to thee! +Amen,” he said, and reverently bowed his head. + +It was vain to oppose a will like that of Lord Montressor. Besides, he +was approved by Lord Dazzleright, and felt to be a tower of strength by +Mr. Oldfield. + +“We were about to find a comfortable seat for her ladyship,” said the +counsel. + +“I have already found one. Will you go with us, my lord?—and you, +reverend sir?” inquired Lord Montressor, bowing to his two friends, and +leading the way through the crowd that respectfully divided to let him +pass. He had provided a seat in a distant and retired part of the +court-room, out of sight of the prisoners’ dock, and nearly out of +hearing of all that was revolting in the proceedings. + +Here she sat, unobserved and unmolested for a time, Lord Montressor, Mr. +Oldfield and Lord Dazzleright standing as a living shield between her +and the eyes of the crowd. There was little danger now, however, that +she should be troubled by the impertinent curiosity of others. For all +attention was now turned upon the proceedings of the court at the upper +end of the room. The jury was already empanneled, and the first case on +the docket called up. It was that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy king, +indicted for the murder of Sir George Bannerman’s gamekeeper. He was now +arraigned and standing at the bar. All eyes were fixed upon him—a little +dark, wiry figure of a man, with sharp features and deep set glittering +black eyes, thatched with a wisp of wild black hair, and looking alert, +spry and restless, as if in another instant he would break loose, pound +over intervening obstacles, clear the door or window, and be away in the +free air again! + +Even Lady Montressor, notwithstanding the absorbing nature of her own +sorrow, fixed her languid eyes upon this savage child of nature, now +bound and captive, and in deadly peril of his life, and watched in hope +and fear the progress of his short trial. The forms were quickly +dispatched; the testimony on both sides heard; the exposition of the +opposite lawyers made; the charge of the judge delivered; the case given +to the jury, and their verdict returned. + +“Stand up and confront the jury;” was the order given to the prisoner. + +“How say you, gentlemen of the jury, is the prisoner at the bar guilty +or not guilty?” + +For an instant there was a pause and silence in the court, during which +you might have heard a heart beat, broken soon by the deep voice of the +foreman pronouncing the awful word of doom,— + +“GUILTY!” + +He was only a Gipsy, and it had not taken the twelve long to find their +verdict. + +The prisoner was then asked if he had any thing to advance as a just +reason why sentence of death should not be pronounced against him. + +Dlifp Oorak laughed wildly, shook his black, elf locks, and intimated +that since the doom was to be only death, he had no objection to +make!—had it been a long imprisonment, now, that were another matter! +And the Gipsy chief impatiently stretched his limbs and looked longingly +abroad through the tall gothic windows into the free, sunny air. + +His attention was gravely recalled by the judge, who donned the black +cap, arose, and proceeded to pronounce sentence. + +The Gipsy heard his doom with an indifference and a wandering of the +eyes bordering on “contempt of court.” + +A little delay and bustle ensued, during which the sheriff’s officers +proceeded to remove the prisoner from court. In going out, they passed +very near our group of friends. + +Lady Montressor noticed his half-savage, half-child-like demeanor, +caught a glance from his wild, deer eyes, and silently offered up the +care of his untutored soul to Christ. + +This prisoner had scarcely left the court before the second case upon +the docket was called. It was that of a young girl charged with the +crime of infanticide. The details of this case were so painful, so +revolting, that one by one the women in the crowd vailed themselves and +silently stole away. While Estelle, the most delicate, sensitive and +refined of women, was compelled to sit there, between her friend and her +minister, and hear the whole! The trial occupied three hours, and ended +as the preceding one had ended—in the conviction of the prisoner and +sentence of death. + +“So young! merciful Saviour! so young, and so horribly lost!” cried Lady +Montressor, in a stifled voice, covering her eyes to shut out the vision +of that girl’s white, amazed, insane countenance! As the ruined one +passed out under charge of the deputy sheriff, she turned back upon our +group of friends, one wild, terrified, appealing gaze, that reminded +Estelle of the portrait of the Cenci and remained fixed in her mind +forever. She prayed for the lost fellow-creature, and while she prayed +the court adjourned. + +Mr. Oldfield with a deep sigh arose and was about to offer his arm to +his charge, when Lord Montressor, who had remained standing, anticipated +him, and drew the hand of Estelle through his own arm. They made slow +progress through the crowd, and reached the portico, and went to the +street. On reaching the carriage, Lord Montrassor handed Estelle in, saw +her comfortably seated, and then said:— + +“Before this tribunal and in public, dearest Stella, I must assert at +once our position—your innocence and my rights; but,—that no one shall +venture to call in question the motives of my conduct or yours,—I shall +refrain from intruding on your private life, until the decision of your +case shall have endorsed our union. Farewell, I will meet you here +to-morrow, dearest.” And pressing her hand, he bowed and gave way to Mr. +Oldfield, who immediately entered the carriage; and they drove rapidly +to their hotel. + +This was the history of the first day at court; and the second and +third, and many succeeding days, were like unto it—dreary, depressing, +dreadful records of vice, crime, and suffering, of every kind and every +degree. There were ten capital cases on the docket. And in that single +session of the Assizes at Exeter, Sir James Allan Parke pronounced +sentence of death upon seven persons, including the king of the Gipsies, +all of whom were hanged within a week after their conviction. + +And day after day, in this fetid atmosphere of guilt and death and +horror, Lady Montressor sat and sickened—sickened and despaired to see +these poor outcasts of Christianity—these sinning and suffering wrecks +of humanity—men, women, and even children, one after another, fall into +the horrible pit prepared by their own crimes. For the acquittals were +very few. English courts are stern and strict, almost invariably +endorsing by their action the warrants of their justice, and the true +bills of their grand jury. The numerous, seemingly merciless convictions +of the court, wrung her heart not only with the most painful pity for +other sufferers, but with despair for herself and for those deeply +interested in her fate. And as she heard one after another culprit +convicted of theft, poaching, shop-lifting, burglary, or what +not,—sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay, and saw the half-brutal, +half-demoniac faces of these wretches glare on her as they passed +out,—again the vision of the convict ship, and colony, with all their +loathsome horrors, darkened around her soul, for she remembered that the +crime of which she—even _she_—stood accused, was also a transportable +offense; and convictions seemed to be the unvarying rule of this court! +And thus, in this foul and deadly atmosphere of sin and sorrow, she sat +and sickened and despaired, until the thirteenth day, when her case was +called. + +It was the first of June, when the sun smiled down in cloudless beauty +from the deep blue sky, upon a land green with luxuriant vegetation, +blooming and fragrant with flowers, and vocal with the songs of birds. +It was a bright, beautiful, and glorious day; but to Estelle and her +friends a day of darkness, gloom and terror! + +The news that the trial would come on that morning had been noised +abroad, all over the city, and throughout the country, and had attracted +all Exeter to the court-house. + +As on preceding days, before leaving her lodgings, for the court, Lady +Montressor prayed long and earnestly. And then deeply vailed, and +leaning on the arm of the venerable pastor, she came out, to enter the +carriage. The populace, who had at last discovered her lodgings and +identified her carriage, were now gathered in a dense crowd before the +hotel, waiting to see this interesting prisoner. Short as was the +distance from the portico to the coach, and deeply vailed as was the +lady, she shuddered in passing through this crowd, whose gaze she could +not see, but keenly, deeply, _felt_ fixed upon her form. Mr. Oldfield +quickly and nervously handed her into the coach, followed her, took his +seat, put up the blinds and let down the curtains; and having thus +carefully closed up the carriage, gave orders to the coachman to drive +on. They drove perforce slowly through the crowded streets that became +more thronged, at every square, as they approached the court-house. When +at last the coach drew up before the Hall, Mr. Oldfield alighted, and in +the same quick, nervous manner, handed her out, and attempted to hurry +her through the crowd that thronged around, and into the court-house, +and choked up its portico, entrance hall, and staircase. + +Estelle looked wildly around upon this vast and curious multitude. Among +the carriages that blocked up the street before the building, she +recognized the liveries of many of her former friends, and in the crowd +that thronged into the court-house, she identified many of the guests +who had been bidden to that wedding breakfast to which she had never +returned. Since that fatal day to this—perhaps more fatal one—she had +not seen or heard from one of them! Why came they now?—to gloat over her +calamities? Who could tell? None but the Searcher of hearts; but their +presence here made _her_ heart sink; true, it was a trifle added to the +great sum of her misery; but it was only an added feather that is said +to have broken the camel’s back. These thoughts had scarcely passed +through her mind, when she saw Lord Montressor emerge from the crowd on +the portico and come down the steps to join her. + +“A few hours more of fortitude, dear Stella, and you will be free!” he +said, as he drew her hand within his arm. He then bowed to Mr. Oldfield, +and called a police-officer, whom he directed to precede and clear a way +for them through the crowd. And then with his fine head erect and +uncovered, and with a mien as self-possessed and dignified as that with +which he had a month ago led his bride into the church, he now led her +through the crowded portico and passage-way, and up the staircase into +the court. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + THE ARRAIGNMENT. + + “She stood before the crowded court, + Forlorn—but oh! how fair! + Though many a beauty graced the hall, + To me, the loveliest there. + + Ah! how I wished some angel then + His pitying wing would spread, + To shelter from the scorn of men + That fair, defenseless head.”—_Mrs. Thorne Holmes._ + + +On entering the thronged room, a group to the left of the door, forced +itself upon Lord Montressor’s notice. It consisted of Victoire L’Orient, +the little old French woman and the Abbe. The woman recognized Estelle, +and pressed forward exclaiming vindictively: + +“Ah, good! So that you madame—verily! Your most obedient, madame,” etc. +etc. Until, at length, without looking at her, Lord Montressor just put +out his arm and brushed the troublesome reptile from his lady’s path, +and led her on to the same secluded seat she had daily occupied since +her attendance at court. They had not been seated more than five +minutes, before they were joined by Lord Dazzleright, who came hurriedly +to announce that there would be no more delay than was necessary to +arrange preliminaries, and that his client would be almost immediately +placed at the bar. And then he hastened away again to attend to some +business connected with the approaching trial. + +Estelle closed her eyes and sank back in her chair. It had come, then, +it had surely come. At the same bar at which within a fortnight past she +had seen so many stand to answer to the charge of guilt, and from which +she had seen so many sent to exile, to imprisonment, or to death, she +also must stand to answer to the charge of crime, for which, should she +be convicted, she also, even _she_ the delicate, sensitive, refined +child of wealth, luxury and high rank would be sentenced—here again the +haunting vision of the convict transport-packet, and the penal colony, +with their brutalized or demonized crew, and all their loathsome and +revolting horrors, swam darkly in upon her brain. + +“My God! my God! have mercy and let me die,” escaped in stifled tones +from her ashy lips. + +“Estelle! my Estelle! be calm, be strong, be hopeful! See they are about +to call you. Call thou on Him who once stood, as you are now about to +stand, before man’s uncertain tribunal, to be judged by man’s often +erring wisdom. Call thou on Him!” said Lord Montressor, earnestly as he +arose, took her hand, drew her arm within his own, and attended by Mr. +Oldfield, and followed by the eyes of all the people that thronged to +suffocation the court-room, led her up to the bar, set a chair, seated +her there, and placed himself beside her. The aged minister stood on the +other side; he stooped and whispered: + +“When you rise, my child, do not wait for the order of the court, but +unvail at once; the innocent need not conceal her brow of truth.” + +The indictment was then read, and the accused was ordered to rise and +hold up her hand. + +Estelle arose, and Lord Montressor reverentially drew aside her vail, +revealing her pale, despairing, but most beautiful face. The crowd was +behind her. Thus fortunately she had only to confront the bench. The +Judge bent forward and looked with interest into the grief-stricken, but +lovely countenance thus unvailed before him. Under his scrutiny, her +eyes sank to the floor, and her color rose, crimsoning her cheek even to +her temples, and then receding left her paler than before. All this +passed in an instant And then— + +“Prisoner, you have heard the indictment against you read. Are you +guilty or not guilty of the crime laid to your charge?” asked the judge. + +“Not guilty in intention, my lord,” answered the low, thrilling voice of +the accused. + +“You may resume your seat.” + +Lord Montressor, with a deferential tenderness that never failed or +faltered, handed her back to her chair, and took his stand on her right +hand as before. + +And so perfect was the silence among the eager, attentive crowd, that +not only the questions of the Judge, but every syllable of her low-toned +reply was distinctly heard in every part of the court-room. + +The multitude had now pressed as near as was permitted to the bench, and +many on either side were in a line of vision with the accused. And among +them were many of her old associates, now gazing at her in pitiless +curiosity. Fain would she have intervened the friendly black lace vail +again between her face and the eyes of the assembly, though in respect +to her friends’ opinions she abstained from the self indulgence; but oh! +those eyes! those cruel eyes! she felt them like a forest of leveled +bayonets, pointed toward her—impaling her. + +The counsel for the Crown arose, and amid the profound silence of the +court, opened the prosecution. I cannot in my limited space give a just +idea of the logic, eloquence and power of this preliminary speech. + +It became his painful duty, he said, to prosecute one of the most +extraordinary cases that the annals of English crime had ever recorded +before an English tribunal. The prisoner at the bar was known—either +personally, or by fame, to most persons there present. She had been a +lady by birth, wealth and education, holding position among the highest +in the realm; a lady distinguished for rank and fortune, celebrated for +her exceeding beauty and accomplished genius; _such she had been_. Now, +alas! she was no less distinguished for her discovered depravity, daring +and duplicity! They knew that she had been successful in fashionable, +aristocratic, and even in royal circles; he would now show that she had, +until recently, been equally successful in her course of concealed +guilt. He would give a synopsis of her career, stating facts that he +should prove by competent witnesses present in this court. He should +commence with her school life, showing the gentlemen of the jury the +precocious depravity with which at the early age of fourteen she had +deceived her fond, indulgent parents, deluded her excellent teacher, and +ensnared a young gentleman into a secret marriage, soon as lightly +broken as it had been made; the wantonness with which she had abandoned +her youthful bridegroom, driving him to despair and desperation, that +soon ended in the wreck of his fortune and character; the duplicity with +which through ten long years she had concealed the fact of her first +marriage from her parents and friends; and the wickedness with which she +had, just one month since, entrapped the heart and hand of a noble lord +here present, and who was the second victim of this modern Messalina! + +At this degrading peroration, the blood rushed to Lord Montressor’s +brow—he started forward with a flashing eye and a raised hand—but, then +recollecting himself and his surroundings, he made a powerful effort, +controlled himself, and with the air of a man who bides his time, +retreated to his stand. + +Estelle, a novice to the forms and usages of courts of law, heard all +the enormous charges, the atrocious wickedness officially imputed to her +by the prosecutor, and sat, with pallid features and fixed stare, like a +woman appalled to marble. + +Lord Dazzleright stooped and spoke to her. + +“You should know, Lady Montressor, that this is merely an _official_ +tirade, a professional affair—it means nothing, makes no impression. The +Judge don’t believe him, the jury don’t believe him, he don’t believe +himself. He is only repeating the prosecutor’s usual raw-head and bloody +bones formula of— + + ‘Fe, faw, fum—I smell the blood of an Englishman.’ + +No more than just that.” + +But Estelle did not understand nor hear, nor ever once withdraw her +stony gaze, that seemed caught up and spell-bound to the face of her +terrible accuser. At length, however, the dreadful voice ceased to +declaim, and gave the counsel for the defense an opportunity of +answering. But as Lord Dazzleright declined replying for the present, +reserving his defense, the prosecutor proceeded to call the witnesses +for the crown. + +It would be tedious to recapitulate the testimony, which the reader has +already heard given at the investigation before the magistrate. The same +witnesses, namely: Madame Gabrielle L’Orient and the Abbe Pierre Le +Roux, were successively called, and testified to the same fact, to wit, +that of the marriage that had been performed between Victoire L’Orient +and Estelle Morelle at the church of St. Etienne, Paris, on the +thirteenth day of November, eighteen hundred and ——. They also +identified the prisoner at the bar and Victoire L’Orient as the +contracting parties in that ceremony. These witnesses were in turn +subjected to a severe cross-examination by Lord Dazzleright, but without +effect. The duplicity and cunning of the little old Frenchwoman was at +least a match for the legal acumen of the best lawyer in the three +kingdoms. A host of witnesses were present, ready to testify to the +well-known fact of the so called “felonious” marriage rites that had +been celebrated on the first day of May last, at the parish church of +Hyde, in the county of Devon, between Estelle, wife of Victoire +L’Orient, and George Charles, Lord Viscount Montressor. But a few of +these were needed to establish this point. And here the prosecuting +attorney rested his case. Lord Dazzleright arose for the defense. + +All eyes were turned upon him—he was a man of distinguished presence, as +well as of brilliant genius. Amid the deepest silence and the +profoundest attention, he commenced his speech. + +“My Lord, and Gentlemen of the Jury:—The charge made against my client +by the learned counsel for the crown,—imposing as it seems, and +sustained as it is by competent witnesses,—is really so unsubstantial, +as to be easily overthrown, by reference to a single fact,—as it is no +doubt _already_ invalided in the estimation of your lordship, of the +jury, and of all within the sound of my voice, by the simple +_recollection_ of that fact;—to wit: that the statute laws of France as +well as those of England, regard a minor of fourteen years of age as an +_infant_ in the law, and incapable of contracting marriage without the +knowledge and consent of his or her parents or guardians. Therefore, the +quasi marriage ceremony celebrated between the man Victoire L’Orient and +the infant Estelle Morelle, in the Catholic chapel of St. Etienne, +Paris, on the thirteenth day of November, eighteen hundred and —— _was_, +and _is_, completely invalid and of none effect, and could therefore +form no obstacle to the nuptials solemnized between Estelle Morelle and +the Lord Viscount Montressor at the parish church of Hyde on the first +of May ultimo. This fact is so well understood by all here present, that +I need not dwell upon the point any longer than to remind your lordship +and the jury that this _is, of itself_, all sufficient for the _legal_ +acquittal of my client. + +“But, my lord and gentlemen, I wish to be understood as standing here, +_not only_ in the character of an advocate of a client,—whom I consider +as having been presented and indicted upon untenable grounds, and whom I +feel assured stands already fully acquitted before you, _but also_ as +the champion of a deeply-injured and most unhappy, though most estimable +lady, whose high moral and intellectual excellencies can only be equaled +in degree by her cruel wrongs and great sufferings,—a lady whose hand +and fortune, while yet she was an infant, became the objects of a foul +conspiracy, and whose fair name is now the target of the sharpest arrows +of calumny. My lord and gentlemen, the proved invalidity of that first +quasi marriage suffices to clear my client before the _court_. It is, +therefore, to acquit her before the _tribunal of public opinion_, that I +stand here and proceed to make a statement of facts, every one which I +pledge myself to establish by witnesses of unquestionable probity.” + +Here the learned advocate commenced and gave in detail the sorrowful +history of Estelle’s school life as it is already known to the reader. +His earnestness, his eloquence and graphic delineation of the wrongs and +sufferings of the beautiful woman who sat there waiting her doom, in +death-like stillness,—in turn flushed every cheek with indignation, or +filled every eye with tears. In the course of his speech he said—in +answer to the false and totally unfounded assumptions of the prosecuting +attorney, and to silence forever those who from any cause might be +disposed to cavil,—he should state and prove, that, illegal as was that +quasi marriage, it had been entered upon in perfectly good faith by his +client. She supposed it valid and binding; infant as she was, she +believed herself a wife. And most wretched as that false marriage +proved, and deeply repented as it was, _she_ had remained, in every +respect scrupulously faithful to its supposed obligations. Yes, faithful +not only for the ten months that she lived and suffered under the cruel +despotism of her _soi disant_ husband, but after that,—when the penal +laws of France had sent him a convict to Algiers, for the ten years of +separation, and the two years of supposed widowhood. She had borne her +burden _alone_, until in due course of time her betrothal to a certain +noble peer, here present, made it right and proper that she should +confide to him the fact of the previous union, then supposed to be +broken by death. + +I have thus given but a skeleton of Lord Dazzleright’s address—would I +could infuse into it the fullness, force, and vitality of the original. + +He finished amid a breathless silence, and proceeded to call his +witnesses. They were not many, but had been selected with the greatest +care. The advocate had been very busy during the interval of the past +month, and had spared neither time, labor, nor expense, in collecting +and consolidating testimony. He had drawn from his client’s native +county, witnesses of the very highest standing, to give testimony upon +the exemplary piety of her life and manners, and he had dispatched a +confidential agent to the Chief of Police at Paris, to procure his +assistance in hunting up the employees who had been in the service of +Madame L’Orient, at the time of the disgraceful breaking up of her +“Pensionat,” and in selecting such as were most competent to give +evidence in this case. These were now in court, and were successively +called to the stand. Their united testimony harmonized perfectly, and +corroborated the statements of the advocate. They were in turn severely +cross-examined by the king’s counsel; but the more their testimony was +tried, the stronger it was proved. The advocate here rested the defense. + +The Judge then arose to review the case, sum up the evidence, and charge +the jury. + +His lordship’s exposition of the law and the testimony, in his +instructions, might be considered a virtual acquittal of the prisoner. +It was like the usual charges of Sir James Allan Parke—short, clear, and +pointed. + +“Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the charge upon which the +prisoner at the bar stands arraigned, and which has been clearly set +forth by the counsel for the crown, and well sustained by the witnesses +he has produced. You have also heard how that charge has been met and +answered by the counsel for the prisoner. The fact of two marriages +having taken place under the circumstances set forth, is fully +established by testimony. The learned advocate for the accused rests his +defense upon the alleged invalidity of the first marriage. Now, upon the +validity or invalidity of that marriage, this court has no authority to +pronounce judgment, the adjudication of such matters belongs, +exclusively, to the Spiritual Court of Arches. If the first marriage was +invalid, it would form no obstacle to the second marriage, which in such +case would not be illegal. And if, on the other hand, the first marriage +was perfectly valid, the second marriage would be illegal; but not +necessarily _felonious_. Intention is the soul of crime. From the +evidence before you, if you find that the prisoner at the bar, upon the +occasion of solemnizing marriage with Lord Montressor, knew, or had good +and sufficient cause to believe that she had already a husband living—it +will be your duty to convict her. If, on the other hand, you find that +she knew, or had good and sufficient reason to believe herself legally +free to contract the said marriage, it becomes your duty to acquit her. +To this single point is drawn the question. You are to judge upon it, +and render your verdict accordingly.” + +The Judge ceased and resumed his seat. + +The jury retired under the conduct of the sheriff’s officer, to another +room to deliberate. + +Then the spell of breathless silence that had bound the spectators was +dissolved. They breathed and spoke—a buzz of voices filled the room. + +As for Estelle, she changed not from the frozen, stony look into which +she had been at first appalled by the official abuse of the crown’s +counsel. + +Lord Montressor stooped and whispered to her,— + +“My own Estelle, courage! courage for a few moments longer! and then all +will be over; all will be well! You are already more than acquitted, you +are justified, you are vindicated.” + +“Oh, I know, I know all!” replied a sepulchral voice, that Lord +Montressor scarcely recognized as belonging to his silver-tongued +Estelle. + +In a moment, silence fell again like death upon the court-room. It was +produced by the opening of a door, and the appearance of the bailiff, +ushering in the jury. They advanced to their place. The foreman stood +before the Judge. Not a breath was drawn, scarcely a pulse beat in that +crowded court-room for the space of a minute, during which the Judge +inquired: + +“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?” + +“We have, my lord,” answered the foreman. + +“What say you, then, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?” + +“NOT GUILTY, my lord.” + +“Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” said the Judge. + +A low deep murmur of satisfaction ran through the crowd. The old +minister seized the hand of his protege, and burst into tears of joy. +Lord Montressor grasped that of Lord Dazzleright in warm acknowledgment +of his services, and congratulation of his success, and then instantly +turned to his bride. + +His attention was too late—she had fainted on the arm of the old +clergyman—she who had firmly borne up under the horrors of the past +month, had now succumbed and sunk, and lay like a statue fallen from its +pedestal. + +“Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” repeated the clerk of the +court, somewhat impatiently. + +She looked indeed as though she were discharged not only from the court, +but from the earth—so still, so white, so lifeless! + +“Raise her in your arms, Montressor: take her into the sheriff’s room. I +will show you the way,” said Lord Dazzleright, bending anxiously over +her fainting form. + +At this moment, also, Susan Copsewood, her maid, who had been somewhere +among the spectators, succeeded in pushing her way through the crowd, +and reaching the side of her mistress. + +Lord Montressor raised Estelle with care, and, preceded by Lord +Dazzleright, bore her from the court-room into the sheriff’s office, +where he laid her on the sofa, dropped upon one knee by her side, and +began to rub and chafe her hands, and invoke her by every fond epithet +and hopeful word to awake—arise! Such restoratives as could be first +procured were brought and applied, and with such good effect that, after +a little while, a shudder passed through her frame, her breast heaved, +her face quivered—she sighed, and opened her eyes. Her glance met the +anxious, earnest gaze of Lord Montressor bent upon her. She sighed +again, and dropped her eyelids. + +“Stella! my Stella! my bride! my wife! rouse yourself, dearest! You are +acquitted, you are justified,” said Lord Montressor, anxiously seeking +to restore her. “You are vindicated—you are free!” + +“Free! free! oh God!” she cried, so despairingly, so incoherently, with a +countenance so blanched and convulsed with anguish, that her friends +drew near and gazed upon her in as much astonishment as alarm. + +“Compose yourself, sweet Stella,” murmured Lord Montressor, sitting down +beside her, and gently smoothing away the beautiful, dishevelled black +ringlets from her cold and clammy forehead. “Sweet love, be calm.” + +“I will, I am,” she said, trying to control the motions of her quivering +and ashen lips. Then gently putting aside his caressing hand, and rising +upon her elbow, she inquired: + +“But tell me, you, why was I acquitted, while all the other prisoners, +who had been arraigned before me, were convicted? Did my father’s, my +friends’, and my——Lord Montressor’s rank and wealth, and power, thrown +into the scales of justice, tilt the balance in my favor? Had I only +this advantage over other wretches?” she asked, fixing her dark eyes, +querulous with suffering, upon the distressed face of the old clergyman. + +“No, no, my child! This was not so. This would not have been so, of +course. English law is no respecter of persons, and English courts are +as incorruptible by wealth as they are undismayed by power. You owe your +acquittal solely to your guiltlessness.” + +“What!” she cried, fixing her wild, dilated eyes upon the old man’s +face, “was it not _true_, then?” + +“Was not _what_ true, my child?” + +“That which the king’s counsel said of me?” + +“Assuredly not! The king’s counsel himself did not believe the words +that he spoke—his speech was a mere official form. Compose yourself, my +child.” + +“Oh, I will do so. I am composed; but hist!” she said, sinking her voice +to a whisper: “did they make me out to be my lord’s wife?” + +“Assuredly, my child, and you are in strict law the wife of Lord +Montressor; though the Judge of the Assizes, as well as he knew that +fact, had no authority to pronounce upon it.” + +“Oh God! my God!” she cried, wringing her hands. + +“Be calm, my child; do not let that omission distress you, for though +the Judge had no authority to give judgment upon an affair that belonged +exclusively to the ecclesiastic courts, yet neither was his judgment +needed. We all know now, as we knew before, that you are really and +truly the wife of Lord Montressor. Have we not, ever since your +marriage, addressed you only by his name?” + +“Lord! my Lord!” she cried, still twisting and wringing her white +fingers. + +“Why, Estelle, my child, what ails you? Have you borne up through all +the trial to sink at last in the hour of your triumph?” + +“Triumph, was it? Oh! Lord in heaven! Lord of pity!” + +“Estelle! Estelle!” + +“You said that I was truly the wife of Lord Montressor?” + +“Undoubtedly, my child!” + +“Then it was the wife of Lord Montressor who was this day tried +for——Saints in heaven! I cannot name the charge!” She groaned, with the +sweat of agony bursting from her icy brow. + +“Estelle,” said Lord Montressor, now seating himself by her side and +taking her hand—“you are ill—nervous. This is nothing new, nothing that +we have not known for a month past, why then should it distress you?” + +“Ah, my lord! but it is! for I did not mind what they out of pity called +me! I called my lost self Estelle L’Orient! I thought it was Estelle +L’Orient who was to be tried upon that degrading charge! And had it been +Estelle L’Orient, it had not signified! But that the wife of the +Viscount Montressor should suffer this degradation—oh! angels in heaven! +it is terrible!—it is terrible!” + +“Estelle, you rave! pray try, for our sakes, to control yourself, love!” + +“But they spoke falsely—falsely! It _was_ Estelle L’Orient who was tried +for——what I cannot speak! It was _Estelle L’Orient_, and no other! +_Your_ honorable name, my lord, was never dragged down through such +mire!—it remains clear of blame!—none bearing it ever came to shame!” + +“Assuredly not! and none have borne it more blamelessly than my beloved +Stella; but, dear one, you talk so wildly that you had best not speak at +all—come! drink this, and then lie down and be quiet for a few minutes,” +he said, placing to her lips a glass of ice-water that had just been +brought in by her maid. She quaffed it, but instead of lying down, she +straightened her figure up, put up her hands and pushed the +overshadowing black ringlets from her brow, and said: + +“Yes—I will—I must control myself. There! I am calmer now. Am I not, my +friends?” + +“Yes—the water has done you good. You are better, but you must rest a +little while.” + +“No—let us leave this place—I shall recover sooner without its walls.” + +“As you please, then, love! Let your maid rearrange your dress. Our +traveling carriage waits, and the afternoon wanes; yet before the moon +rises over the hills of Dorset, I would welcome you to your new +home—Montressor Castle,” said his lordship, affectionately busying +himself in tying her little bonnet, and tucking in her stray ringlets. + +“Ah! _would you_?—would you take Estelle to your ancestral home, where +never a dishonored woman trod before?” + +“Estelle! you almost anger me, love! do not talk so insanely!” said his +lordship. But she had dropped her hands idly upon her lap, and with her +gaze fastened abstractedly upon them, had fallen into a deep reverie +that lasted several minutes, and might have lasted indefinitely longer, +had not Lord Montressor gently recalled her attention to the necessity +of departure. She started like one aroused from sleep—passed her hand +once or twice across her brow, and then answered in a voice, strange and +unnatural from its level monotone: + +“Lord Montressor, will you please to excuse me for to-night? I am not +equal to the journey you propose.” + +“My dearest, the distance is but nine miles over the loveliest of roads, +and in the easiest of carriages,” replied his lordship, encouragingly. + +“No doubt, no doubt; yet I cannot take the road to-day.” + +“Very well! As you please, dearest! I will then convey you to the ‘Royal +Adelaide,’ the best and quietest little hotel in Exeter, where we can +remain until you are thoroughly rested and restored. Will that plan suit +my Stella?” + +“You exhibit an angel’s goodness to me, my lord, and I must tax it still +further! Listen! and pray do not misconceive me! I am not ungrateful; +but—the scenes of the last month have so severely tried me—that even +now, when I am acquitted, I cannot pass from the contemplation of the +horrors that filled my mind and threatened my future, at once to the +enjoyment of the security of your protection, and the blessedness of +your love! I need a short interval of solitude, isolation, +self-communion and prayer, before I dare enter the Eden you open to me! +Suffer me, therefore, my dearest lord, to return, as heretofore, under +the charge of our reverend friend to my apartment at the ‘Crown and +Sceptre.’” + +“And then?” + +“We shall meet again.” + +“To-morrow?” + +“You may come and inquire for me, to-morrow noon.” + +“Estelle! do you really feel this interval to be necessary to your +convenience?” + +“It is vitally necessary to my _peace_ and _sanity_, I think, my lord.” + +“Be it so, then! I cannot object, nor will I reproach you, my Stella, +cruel as I feel this delay to be. Shall I attend you to your hotel?” + +“If you will not think me ungrateful, I prefer that you should take +leave of me, as heretofore, at my carriage door.” + +“Well! I will obey my lady’s behests, however unacceptable they may be, +and that without cavilling,” said his lordship. “But I may come to you +to-morrow, you said?” + +“Come to-morrow, my lord.” + +Estelle expressed herself now ready to depart. Mr. Oldfield arose and +gave her his arm. Lord Montressor walked by her side, and attended her +into the street and to the carriage. + +“Farewell, until we meet, dear Stella,” he said, as he placed her in the +carriage. + +“Aye! until we meet! Farewell, my lord,” she answered solemnly—how +solemnly he afterward remembered—lifting her eyes to his countenance +with a momentary, deep, earnest, thrilling gaze, as though she would +make and receive an impression that should last through life! + +Lord Montressor lifted her hand to his lips, bowed, and retired to give +place to Mr. Oldfield, who entered the carriage, took the seat beside +Estelle, and gave orders to the coachman to drive on. + +The streets were still thronged with people, waiting for that carriage +to pass, in hope of getting a sight of one whose name, for praise or +blame, was now on every tongue. + +“An honorable acquittal is assuredly the next worst thing to a +conviction!” thought Mr. Oldfield, as he nervously let down the inner +curtains to screen his companion from the vulgar gaze. + +They finally reached their inn, the neighborhood of which was peopled by +an expectant crowd, waiting to see their arrival. + +Mr. Oldfield wrapped her vail closely around the head of his charge, +handed her out of the carriage, and led her quickly into the house, and +up to their private parlor. As soon as they had reached this apartment, +Estelle turned to her venerable friend, and said in a low voice: + +“Mr. Oldfield, send the servants away; I wish to have a private +conversation with you immediately.” + +The good clergyman complied. When they were alone, she threw back her +vail, and said in an earnest, solemn voice: + +“Mr. Oldfield! you are a Christian minister! help me to do my duty!” + +“Your _duty_, Lady Montressor?” repeated the clergyman, in a perplexed, +misgiving, and questioning tone. + +“Aye, my duty! my difficult—my dreadful duty!” + +“I confess I do not understand you, Lady Montressor!” + +“I will explain! I must withdraw myself at once and forever from Lord +Montressor’s neighborhood and knowledge!” + +“My child, you are certainly mad!” + +“Would I were!—but no! listen! That first marriage of mine may not have +been a _legal_ obstacle; but it is, nevertheless, an insurmountable +_moral_ obstacle to my union with any other man! And oh! amid all the +gloom, and terror, and desolation of my life, I do rejoice and thank God +for one signal blessing! that I was arrested immediately, on leaving the +church, so that I lived not one moment as a wife with Lord Montressor! +and not one moment must I so live with him! I must fly while there is +yet time!” + +“My child, my dear Estelle, you distress me beyond measure by this rash +resolution.” + +“It is not a sudden determination! Ah no! A month ago, as soon as I +recovered from the shock of my arrest and collected my scattered +faculties together, I thought of it, pondered over it, prayed over it, +and _decided_ upon it—long before the court had rendered judgment upon +it. Had I been convicted, that conviction would have virtually released +Lord Montressor. But I am acquitted, and I must by my own act release +him. I ask you as a Christian minister to assist me in this duty.” + +“But, I am very much perplexed! You are certainly in _law_ the wife of +Lord Montressor. + +“But not in right.” + +“How do you propose to release him?” + +“By leaving the country; he will then in time forget me.” + +“He never can!” + +“He must and will.” + +“And then——?” + +“An act of Parliament will release him from the bond of a merely nominal +marriage.” + +The aged pastor did not reply, but sank into painful thought, broken by +occasional groans. + +At length, Estelle resumed— + +“You have heard my plan—will you assist me in it?” + +“No, Lady Montressor, I dare not.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because I doubt it would be wrong to do so. It would be treachery on my +part toward Lord Montressor, whose legal wife you are!” + +“Oh! would to God I were indeed his rightful wife! Oh! would to God I +were! But that I am not so—that I cannot be so, while Victoire L’Orient +lives, you, a Christian minister, should know full well!” cried Estelle, +passionately. + +“Lady Montressor, I consider your conscience morbid upon this subject. +Monsieur Victoire L’Orient has not the shadow of a claim to your hand. +You never were his wife!” said the minister solemnly. + +Estelle grew paler than ever she had been before, and fixing her eyes +steadily upon the face of her venerable friend, she slowly inquired— + +“And if, as you say, I never was the wife of Victoire L’Orient—_what +then was I to him_?” + +“The good old pastor winced and fidgetted, but at last replied— + +“His innocent victim!” + +“‘His innocent victim!’ And think you, then, that this ‘victim’ of +Monsieur Victoire L’Orient is a fit and proper consort for the Right +Honorable, the Viscount Montressor?” + +“Madam, his lordship thinks so.” + +Slowly and sadly Estelle shook her head— + +“No, Mr. Oldfield! he is a moral hero—and he loves the poor woman before +you. He would risk name, rank, and social influence—every thing, save +true honor, to rescue her from the slough of despond into which she has +fallen. He would be the Curtius to throw himself into the yawning abyss +opened in my life.” + +“Lady Montressor, you are wrong upon this subject! You accuse yourself +too bitterly. Reflect! your sole error in this affair was a thoughtless +disregard of your filial relations. Even that fault, I am constrained to +say, was very much palliated by the circumstances in which you were +placed—from earliest infancy under the sole charge and absolute rule of +an artful and unscrupulous woman. You were the victim, I repeat, of a +pair of accomplished villains—mother and son. As far as your part in +that _quasi_ marriage went, you acted in good faith, you believed the +proceeding to be a lawful one. If that marriage was illegal and has been +vacated, you are not to be blamed; the fault was not yours. History and +biography record many cases in which, under like circumstances, the +marriage even of kings and queens have been dissolved, or rather +pronounced invalid from the beginning, and the parties have been left +free to contract second matrimonial engagements. Lord Montressor, I am +sure, takes this view of the subject.” + +Again and more mournfully Estelle shook her head. + +“Ah, Mr. Oldfield! My lord thinks only of me—but I—I think of _him_, and +of what he will have to bear for my sake!” Then breaking into passionate +sorrow, she exclaimed—“Once, and long before he ever had the misfortune +to look upon this fatal face of mine—wherever he appeared, his presence +spread a certain festive gladness, like the coming of a hero or the +shining of the sun! ‘That is LORD MONTRESSOR,’ would cry one exulting +voice! ‘Where?’ would question a dozen eager tones and glances! ‘There! +there! that tall man, with the kingly brow and saintly smile! That is +he! you cannot mistake him!’ would reply those who knew his person. For +every one knew his _name_. And _then_ all eyes turned upon him in +admiration and worship!—But _now!_ but _now!_ how different, oh my God! +Listen what he may have to bear and I may have to hear! We go into +public—into church, festive hall or mart,—it does not matter which!—some +busybody, who knows his face whispers ‘That is Lord Montressor.’ ‘What! +he who married that woman who was tried before the Assizes?’ asks one. +‘What! he who took away another man’s bride?’ inquires another. (For so +many will view it! So soon are good deeds forgotten, so little it +requires to distort facts, and take away an honorable man’s good name.) +But no! no! no! no! they shall not have this thing to say of my lord!—of +my dear, dear and honored lord! whose name shall shine unclouded among +the stars!—for whose good and happiness I would willingly become——what +would I _not_ become? The dust of the earth that all men trample—if that +could raise _him_ higher, or make him happier! I will go away, far away, +he shall not know whither! He shall never hear of me again! I shall be +dead to him! An act of Parliament will set him free from the bond of our +nominal union. Then the most that the bitterest caviller can say, will +be—‘That is Lord Montressor who married Miss Morelle, that was tried at +Exeter! Happily he divorced her, before the marriage was consummated.’ +In time the caviller will forget to say even so much; as in time Lord +Montressor will also forget his lost Estelle, and be happy!” + +“Happy? he! Lord Montressor! My child, from my own observations of the +past month, I feel assured that Lord Montressor will never find +happiness in forgetfulness of you!” + +“He must and shall! I will, in my retirement, besiege Heaven with +prayers for his peace! Did ever a woman wear out her days and nights +with prayers that the husband whom she loves, may cease to love and may +forget her? So will I pray, and so shall my lord find peace! But we lose +precious time! Say! will you aid me to leave this place secretly?” + +“Assuredly not, Lady Montressor.” + +“And is this your ultimatum?” + +“Absolutely, Lady Montressor.” + +“Mr. Oldfield! are you then a Christian minister, or are you only the +incumbent of Bloomingdale?” asked the lady, in sorrowful bitterness of +spirit. + +“I humbly trust that I am a Christian minister; but not therefore a +fanatic, Lady Montressor.” + +“And do you think it a Christian act to refuse to aid me in my +conscientious withdrawal from Lord Montressor?” + +“I take the part of law and order, my lady, and such I think the duty of +every Christian.” + +“And I—take the part of God and—war, if need be—choose martyrdom if need +be! Good-night, _most Christian minister_!” said Lady Montressor, rising +to leave the room. + +“Good-night, my child. You are sarcastic; but I do not deserve it. You +will sleep on this; and to-morrow you will think better of it and me. +God bless and comfort you, my child. Good-night,” said the old man, very +mildly. + +Estelle smiled mournfully, ironically, as she passed to the door; but +while her hand rested upon the lock, her heart relented—repented—she +turned back, went to the side of her venerable friend, took his aged +hand, and said— + +“Forgive my unkind words. Trouble makes me irritable and unjust—yes! and +ungrateful! For you have been very good to me; when my father and my +mother forsook me, _you_ took me up; when I stood arraigned upon a +criminal and degrading charge, _you_ stood at my side, sustaining me. Do +you think that I can ever forget, or be thankless to you? Oh, never! no! +God bless and preserve you! God love you and reward you! Good-night! +_Good-night!_” she cried, and pressed his hand fervently to her heart +and lips—then dropped it, turned, and hurried from the room. + +The good clergyman never looked upon her living face again. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + THE FLIGHT OF ESTELLE. + + “Enough that we are parted—that there rolls, + A flood of headlong fate between our souls. + Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee, + As hell from heaven to all eternity!”—_Moore._ + + “Yet! oh yet! thyself deceive not! + Love may sink by slow decay! + But by sudden wrench, believe not, + Hearts can thus be torn away.”—_Byron._ + + +When Lady Montressor reached her own apartment, she found her faithful +attendant, Susan Copsewood, kneeling among the trunks, in the middle of +the floor, busily engaged in packing them. + +On hearing the door opened Susan arose from her knees to receive and +attend upon her mistress; but started and stood aghast on beholding the +wild and haggard countenance of the lady. True, she had often seen that +beauteous countenance darkened with the midnight of despair, or +convulsed with a storm of passionate sorrow; and so she had no right to +be amazed at any of its tempestuous changes; but she had never seen any +thing like this—this half-insane, death-like look! + +“Heaven and earth, my lady! what is it? What new misfortune? What can I +do for you? Sit down, dear Madam—here!” she exclaimed, recovering her +presence of mind sufficiently to enable her to draw forward an easy +chair and place her mistress in it. Lady Montressor sank down into the +seat and dropped her face upon her open hands, while her vail of long, +black ringlets fell forward concealing them. + +“Lady—dear lady! What is the matter? What can I do for you?” pleaded +Susan, kneeling by her mistress’s side and looking up imploringly to her +hidden face—“dear, dear lady, what can I do for you?—what is it?” + +“Oh! nothing, nothing, Susan!” + +“Forgive me, dear Madam, but you always say that! And this is not just +_nothing_!” + +“Susan——?” + +“My dearest mistress!” + +“I think you _love_ me?” + +“Do you think the sun _warms_ you, dear lady?” + +“And I know you are _faithful_ to me.” + +“If I were half as faithful to the Lord, I should be sure of Heaven, my +lady.” + +“Hush! speak lower. Go and see if the passage is clear, and then lock +the door.” + +Susan obeyed, and then returned and kneeled down by her mistress’s side. + +Lady Montressor dropped her hands from her agonized face, and looked +down deeply into the honest, affectionate eyes that were lifted so +imploringly to hers. + +“Susan, I _know_ you will be worthy of the great trust I am about to +repose in you.” + +“Try me, Madam! try me! if it is a secret, they might put me on an +old-time rack and wrench and screw my limbs until their own limbs ached +with the labor, and they’d never screw any thing out of my lips that was +put into my heart by your ladyship!” + +“I do believe you speak sincerely; but your fidelity will not be put to +so severe a test, Susan,” said Lady Montressor. Then, after a thoughtful +pause, during which she sat with her head resting wearily on her hand, +and her eyes fixed upon the floor, she suddenly looked up and said— + +“Susan, I must go to London to-night.” + +“Madam! My lady!” exclaimed the girl in consternation. + +“I must depart in secret, and alone,” continued Lady Montressor, while +Susan gazed with no abatement of surprise and anxiety. + +“_You_ will, therefore, have to make all necessary arrangements for me.” + +“But, Madam—but, my dearest mistress——” + +“Be silent, dear girl, or rather listen to me, and answer my questions. +When does the Bristol train go?” + +“At twelve to-night, and at six in the morning, Madam.” + +“I must go by the night train. How far is the depot from this house, +Susan?” + +“At least a mile, my lady.” + +“What o’clock is it now?” + +“It has just struck eight, Madam.” + +“No later? good! We can complete all necessary arrangements in three +hours, and I can leave here by eleven and reach the depot in time. Go +now, dear girl, and engage a hackney-coach to be in readiness.—No! that +would never do—that would betray me. I must walk the distance.” + +“Dear, dear lady, you could never walk it—never!” + +“Yes, I am able. I shall walk,” said Lady Montressor, so calmly and +resolutely, that her maid dared not pursue the argument; but looking at +her mistress through eyes obscured with tears, she said— + +“Dear, dear lady, you keep on saying ‘I,’ and ‘I,’ ‘I can leave,’ and ‘I +shall walk,’ as if—as if—as if—oh!——” cried Susan, suddenly breaking +down and sobbing aloud. + +Her mistress gazed upon her in calm surprise, while she sobbed and +caught her breath, and sobbed again, struggling through the fit into +composure. Then when the girl, with a few ebbing, little sobs, wiped her +eyes, Lady Montressor said— + +“Now then, Susan, why do you grieve?” + +The question nearly set Susan off again, but she valiantly slaughtered a +sob with a hiccough, and answered, rather accusatively, by saying— + +“You keep on repeating ‘I’ and ‘I’ as if—as if—you were going to leave +me behind.” + +“What! do you wish to go with me, Susan?” + +“Oh! my lady.” + +“But I am about to leave England—to leave all my past, easy and pleasant +life behind, and to go into retirement in some foreign country.” + +“Well, my lady! what have I done to deserve to be cast off and left +behind?” + +“Nothing ill, have you done, my dear girl! but do you really wish to +leave your native country, your home and friends, and attach yourself to +the doubtful fortunes of a hapless fugitive like your mistress?” + +“Dear lady, I have neither father nor mother—nor any one to love and +serve but _you_——” + +“I will leave a letter with you for Mr. Oldfield, who will procure you a +better home than I could ever give you.” + +“It isn’t _that_,” said Susan, with a certain quiet self-respect. “I +would get homes enough, dear lady; but——” + +“But what?” + +“I wish to go with _you_. I love you, my lady. I would follow you to the +world’s end!” + +“If you follow me, it may even be to that extent, dear girl!” said Lady +Montressor, extending her hand to Susan, who caught and covered it with +kisses. + +“I may go, your ladyship?” + +“It is only for your own sake I hesitate, to say—yes, Susan.” + +The girl chose to hear only the two last words of Lady Montressor’s +reply, and arose with alacrity to wait her next orders. + +“You may put up a change of clothing in a small packet—that will be +sufficient for me. The trunks must be left here for the present—to take +them with us would be to blazon our journey. By the way, how came they +all open, and in the middle of the floor?” said Lady Montressor, +noticing for the first time the confusion of the room. + +“Pardon, my lady. But when we were leaving the court-room, his +lordship—Lord Montressor I mean, said to me—‘Susan, my good child, +hasten home and pack your lady’s trunks before she shall have time to +get there, so that she shall not be incommoded and fatigued by the +confusion.’ And I was doing it, your ladyship, not expecting you in so +soon.” + +“Oh, the dear! the kind! the ever-thoughtful! Oh, _my lord! my lord!_” +murmured Estelle in low, inaudible, heart-broken tones, as this little +instance of Lord Montressor’s ever-considerate love touched her heart. + +“Dear lady, you are not well! You have taken no rest and no refreshment +since morning. Let me undress you; lie down and rest, while I go and +order something for you.” + +“I cannot! Oh, I cannot, Susan!” + +“But Lady Montressor——” + +“Do not teaze me, dear girl! I can neither eat nor sleep.” + +“But how then will your ladyship have strength to reach the cars?” + +“Truly! that is well put! I thank you, Susan, for reminding me. Well, +well, if I must take something, go order a cup of coffee, it will be +sufficient.” + +“And, dear lady, won’t you lie down and sleep, while I go and have it +prepared?” + +“Well, well, my girl, to please you I will lie down, whether I can sleep +or not,” replied Lady Montressor, who then arose and permitted her maid +to loosen her dress and arrange her comfortably upon the couch where she +laid down, but not to _sleep!_ not even to _rest!_ There was no rest for +that tempest-tost soul. + +Susan closed the blinds, let down the curtains, and having thus darkened +the chamber, stole out to do her errand. + +And Lady Montressor, after many hours of excitement, found herself in +the calm of solitude. Alone! but alone with her heart! alone with her +Tempter! She had thought the moral struggle over, the victory won, the +Tempter fled! But ah! no sooner did she find herself thus alone, than +the Evil spirit, in his fairest guise, reappeared to her, beset her, +arrayed before her tearless, burning eyes and bleeding heart, the +loveliness of the life she was leaving, the desolation of the doom to +which she was departing! Ah! how difficult, how cruel, how insupportable +the duty, to turn away from native country, from home, from friends, and +more than all from _him_—from _him_, and go out sorrowing, alone and +exposed, into the wide, bleak, dreary, desolate world! It was like going +into the “outer darkness” spoken of in the Scriptures! To go far away, +out of his knowledge, and out of his reach! never again to meet his dear +familiar eyes and smile! never again to hear one tone of his beloved +voice! never to expect his coming or listen for his step! never to get a +letter from him and never to write one! never to hear of him again in +the whole course of her life!—never! never! How insufferable, while yet +living, thus to die away from his knowledge, to die to him! It was like +being buried alive! like going with her warm young blood, and loving +heart, and thinking brain, down, down into the grave, to be smothered +under the stifling clods of the earth! + +“I cannot do it! I cannot! Oh, God! it is too much! too much!” she +cried, wringing her pale fingers in the extremity of anguish. The +Tempter, ever watchful to take advantage of our weakest moment, +whispered—That she need not do it! that she was not required thus to +immolate her rich, warm young life! to leave _him_ bereaved! She was +free to love him forever! for was he not her legal husband? She could +fold her spirit’s bruised and weary wings and nestle down sweetly into +his home and heart, held open to enfold her! The temptation was +invincible, irresistible! it drew her soul onward with a mighty +magnetism. + +“I faint—I yield—Oh, God! my God! come to aid! save, or I perish!” she +cried, and suddenly lost all consciousness! + +A strange vision passed before her spirit. She was in the heart of a +vast and dense forest whose tall, dark trees encircled and nodded over +the banks of a lake of crystal clearness and unfathomable depth. She +stood, frightened, and despairing, she knew not wherefore, until looking +down into the dark, transparent waters, she beheld her husband, Lord +Montressor, sinking, drowning! With a cry of desolation, she was about +to cast herself into the lake, when she felt herself gently held back, +and looking over her shoulder, she beheld a man of celestial presence, +arrayed in flowing white garments, standing behind her, holding her by +his left hand, while his right hand was lifted toward Heaven in a +gesture of supreme majesty! Full of awe her gaze followed his index, and +she beheld high in the Heavens, the ascending form of her husband. And +so she understood that it was but the _reflected image_ of the ascending +form, that she had mistaken for her husband sinking in the water! “And +thus,” said the celestial Mentor—“the apparent perishing of the +beautiful hopes of earth is but the inverted reflection of their +translation to Heaven!” + +With this vision before her, with this voice in her ears, she gently +opened her eyes—restored to full consciousness. How quiet after the +tempest of emotion, was now her soul, how patient her spirit—how short +and unreal, mortal and visible life seemed; how real and eternal the +invisible and spiritual! Her whole being was calmed, and strengthened +and elevated. Her first waking thoughts were prayers for courage, for +fortitude! for oh! withal she needed a martyr’s firmness and heroism, to +persevere and tread unflinchingly the dread path of duty she had chosen. + +Presently her maid stole in on tip-toe, and cautiously approached the +couch. + +“I am not sleeping, Susan, child. You may ring and order lights,” the +lady said. + +Susan obeyed. And when lights were brought and Susan could see her +mistress’s face,— + +“You are better, my lady,” she said, cheerfully. + +“I am better, Susan,” replied Lady Montressor, rising and suffering her +attendant to bathe her face and hands, and comb her hair and arrange her +dress. When these toilet services were rendered, the maid rang again and +was answered by the waiter, who made his appearance with a tray of +refreshments for Lady Montressor. + +Susan placed a sofa-table beside the couch upon which her ladyship +reclined, arranged the viands upon it, and pressed her mistress to +partake of them. + +Lady Montressor forced herself to swallow a piece of bread and a few +mouthfuls of coffee. Then pushing the salver from her, she said— + +“There! take these things away, my girl, and go and get your supper, +while I write two letters that must be left behind.” + +Susan did as she was ordered. + +And Lady Montressor when left alone, went and sat down at her +writing-table, and wrote—first, a short note of adieu, which she folded +and directed to Mr. Oldfield. + +Then she commenced a farewell letter to Lord Montressor. She poured out +her whole heart and soul freely upon that paper!—page after page, sheet +after sheet, was filled as her pen flew along the lines; her undying +love, her terrible temptation, her agonizing struggle, her final, +despairing renunciation—all, all, was poured forth with the living +eloquence of a loving, despairing, impassioned heart! At last she +paused, exhausted, and laid down her pen. + +Had she finished? Had she poured forth all her burning brain +thought?—all her bleeding heart felt? + +Ah, no!—not a millionth part! And yet she had said too much! too much! + +“Alas! how inconsistent I am! how weak,” she said; “I practice +self-denial at one point, and fall into self indulgence at another! Why, +to write _thus_, _to him_, is almost as wrong as to remain and live with +him! For, oh! if I should send him this letter, showing him how much I +love and suffer and despair, he will never resign me, never free himself +and forget me and be happy! No, no, he would search for me over the +world, and not finding me, would sit down in his ‘chamber of desolation’ +to mourn me forever! That must not be! He must not know the anguish of +this bosom. I must drink this cup of renunciation to the dregs, denying +my heart even the sorrowful consolation of writing to him;—save, +perhaps, a few lines of friendly leave-taking.” + +She tore up her first and impassioned letter, and then she took a sheet +of paper and wrote a short note of adieu, which she folded and directed. + +A few minutes after this her maid returned to the room, and announced +that her few preparations were complete, and that it was near eleven +o’clock. + +“Are _you_ ready, Susan?” + +“Yes, Madam,” replied the girl, tying on her bonnet. + +“Is the house quiet?” + +“Our portion of it is, my lady.” + +“Very well, then. Now give me my cottage bonnet and shawl.—Thank you. +Now my thick vail and my gloves.—That is right. Have you the packet?” + +“Yes, Madam.” + +“We are ready, then, I believe?” + +“Yes, my lady,” replied Susan; but still she lingered. + +“Come, then, why do you loiter?” + +“Forgive me, dear lady! but I knew you could not walk; besides, it is +coming on to rain hard; so I took the liberty of going out and engaging +a cab, that is to wait for us at the corner of the next square. Pray do +not be uneasy, dear lady; the cabman knows nothing, but that he is to +take two passengers to the cars.” + +“Well, well, my girl! you acted for the best, and I do not blame you, +but thank you; and trust that your act may not lead to a premature +discovery of our flight. Come, let us go,” said Lady Montressor, and she +placed the two letters in a conspicuous position on the mantle-piece, +while Susan extinguished the lights. + +They then left the chamber; Susan closed the door after them. And so +Lady Montressor, attended by her faithful servant, went down the stairs, +through the long passage, and out by the private door—out into the +double darkness of the midnight and the tempest! + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + THE FORSAKEN. + + “Though the world for this commend thee, + Though it smile upon the blow, + Even its praises must offend thee, + Founded on another’s woe: + + “Still thy heart its life retaineth— + Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; + And the undying thought which paineth + Is—that we no more may meet. + + “Every feeling hath been shaken; + Pride, which not a world could bow + Bends to thee—by thee forsaken, + Even my soul forsakes me now.”—_Byron._ + + +Lord Montressor arose early next morning, and devoted the whole forenoon +to engaging a pleasant suite of rooms at the “Royal Adelaide,” and in +superintending their arrangement for the reception of his bride. The +apartments were quite ready by eleven o’clock. + +And a few minutes before twelve, Lord Montressor entered his carriage, +and drove to the “Crown and Sceptre,” to keep his appointment with +Estelle. + +He inquired for Lady Montressor, and was shown up at once into her +private parlor, while the waiter took his card up to her ladyship’s +chamber. He waited impatiently for a few moments until the servant +returned, with the information that neither Lady Montressor nor her +woman was in her ladyship’s room. + +“That is strange,” thought Lord Montressor. “Take this card up to Mr. +Oldfield, and let him know that I would be happy to see him in this +room,” he said, handing the “pasteboard” to the waiter. The man received +it and disappeared. + +There was no suspicion nor misgiving in the impatience with which Lord +Montressor waited for the appearance of Mr. Oldfield. He simply thought +it unusual that Lady Montressor should not be ready to receive him, and +wished to inquire for her of the minister. Presently the door opened, +and Mr. Oldfield entered. + +“Ah! how do you do, my dear friend? I hope Lady Montressor is well this +morning?” said his lordship, advancing to meet the pastor. + +“I hope so too, but Lady Montressor has not made her appearance to-day,” +said Mr. Oldfield. + +“Indeed! and it is now,” said his lordship, consulting the mantle clock, +“half-past twelve.” + +“Her ladyship sometimes breakfasts and spends her mornings in her +chamber, and as she was very much fatigued last night, probably she +prefers to keep her own room to-day. Sit down, my lord! sit down! do not +stand,” said the minister, handing a chair to his visitor and seating +himself. + +“But, my dear sir, I sent up my card, and neither Lady Montressor nor +her attendant is in her ladyship’s apartment. I had hoped that my lady +was with you.” + +“No, sir; no, no; I have seen neither Lady Montressor nor her maid this +morning,” said Mr. Oldfield, beginning to feel a vague uneasiness. + +“This is a little unusual, is it not?” inquired his lordship. + +“Eh?—yes! it _is_, my lord! _Very_ unusual! I—think I will go up and see +if—any thing is the matter!” gasped the old man in a great accession of +uneasiness, as he hurriedly left the room to go in search of his charge. + +Lord Montressor, being left alone, paced up and down the parlor floor +until he was startled by the violent throwing open of the door, and the +impetuous entrance of Mr. Oldfield, who pale and agitated held out two +letters—one sealed, the other open and fluttering in his hand. + +“What! what is the matter? Estelle! my Estelle! Is she ill? Has any +thing happened to her? In the name of Heaven speak, Mr. Oldfield! What +of my Estelle?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, stricken with a panic of +anxiety. + +“Gone! my lord! She is gone!” + +“GONE!” + +“Gone! Fled!” + +“FLED!” + +“Fled, my lord! Fled alone!” + +“In the name of Heaven, my friend, what mean you?” + +“Oh! sir! read and see!” exclaimed the old man, thrusting the two +letters into the hands of his companion, and sinking into a chair, and +wiping the drops of cold perspiration from his forehead. + +Lord Montressor seized the billets, and naturally read the open one +first. It was addressed to Mr. Oldfield, and was as follows: + + + “DEAR AND HONORED FRIEND:—Duty constrains me to depart. And though + your heart so pleads for the temporal happiness of your ‘child,’ as + almost now to drown the voice of conscience, yet on calm, + dispassionate reflection, you will see that it is so. Farewell! Be + Heaven as kind to you, as you have been to the poor + + ESTELLE.” + + +With a heavy groan, Lord Montressor threw this note aside, and tore open +and devoured the contents of the other, which was addressed to himself. +It was written as coolly as she in her self-denial had ordained it to +be: + + + “MY LORD:—Conscience compels me to withdraw from you. Only to avoid + hindrance I go secretly. An Act of Parliament will free you from the + bond of our merely nominal marriage. Farewell, my Lord! May you be + happy with a happier woman than the lost + + ESTELLE.” + + +“What does all this mean? When did she go? Where has she gone? _How_ has +she gone? What friends has she? What means? Answer, in the name of +Heaven, sir, if you can!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in extreme +agitation. + +“Ah, my lord, I do not know. I cannot tell. How should I? Except—yes! +give me time!” cried the old man, wiping the beaded drops from his +forehead, and struggling to regain composure. + +“Well, sir? Well?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, impatiently. + +“Yes! Well, when did she go, you ask? Stay! let me collect myself and +think—yes, she certainly last night spoke of going,” said the old man +somewhat incoherently. + +“Last night she spoke of going, and you did not warn me? Oh, Mr. +Oldfield!” exclaimed his lordship, reproachfully. + +“My lord, she only _spoke_ of going, and invoked my assistance. I +refused to aid her, and endeavored to persuade her from her purpose. Had +I suspected she was about to depart, I should at once have summoned your +lordship. But who could have foreseen that she would have left us in +this sudden manner?” + +“She spoke last night of going! Inform me, sir, if you please, and as +nearly as you can recollect, _all_ that passed last night upon that +subject.” + +“I will endeavor to comply, my lord,” said the clergyman, who then +commenced and related the conversation that had taken place between +himself and Lady Montressor in that parlor on the evening previous. + +Lord Montressor groaned aloud. + +“Sir, did she drop no hint as to _whither_ she intended to go?” + +“Not a word, not a breath, my lord!” + +“Unhappy girl! Oh Estelle! Estelle! whom I would have gathered into my +bosom, safe from all the storms of life! where are you now? Oh! Estelle, +Estelle!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. In another moment +he started up. + +“We waste time, Mr. Oldfield. Show me into her room. Perhaps there, some +clue may be found to her flight.” + +With a deep sigh the aged minister nodded assent, and preceded his +friend up the stairs, and into the deserted chamber lately occupied by +Lady Montressor. + +Lord Montressor, who had by this time recovered his presence of mind, +calmly and collectedly went about the business of investigation. + +“The bed has not been occupied; she did not therefore sleep here. But +the couch is pressed; she must have laid down to rest. Let me see: here +are the sperm candles, half burned down; she must have passed some hours +of the night here. Her trunks are here; therefore she must have +preferred to go out very quietly, and without calling assistance,” he +said, going about the room, and making his observations. + +“Oh, my lord! ring the bell! summon the people of the inn, and question +them,” said the old clergyman, eagerly moving toward the bell-rope. + +“Stay—do not ring yet; to examine these people should be our last +resort; from appearances here, and from other circumstances, I doubt if +they know any thing about her flight. And if they do not, I prefer not +to enlighten them. Let us go down.” + +They left the room, locking the door, and withdrawing the key. + +When they had reached the parlor, Lord Montressor said: + +“Make no stir; create no excitement; leave the people of the inn to +suppose, as they naturally will do, that Lady Montressor has left with +your knowledge and consent. I will tell you how we may manage, without +exciting their suspicion, to get information from them. Ring, and call +for your bill up to this present hour, as if you were about to leave, +which I suppose you will do in the course of the day. When the account +is presented, note its _last items_. See if there is supper, a +post-chaise, a messenger, or a porter, charged last night for Lady +Montressor. If so, you can cavil at these items, and so, by disputing a +little, get the whole facts, as far as they may be known here—whether +she took supper, whether she procured a conveyance from the house, at +what hour she went, and whither—and all without attracting particular +attention.” + +“I see, I see,” exclaimed the old man, pulling the bell-rope so +vigorously that it was speedily answered by a waiter, who was directed +to bring up Mr. Oldfield’s account. + +When, a few minutes after, the man reappeared, and presented the bill, +Mr. Oldfield took it and glanced down its columns: supper for Lady +Montressor was the last item. + +“Hum-m—hum-m—hum-m” said the old gentleman, in the tone of one taking +exception—“I think there is some mistake here; I think her ladyship did +not take supper.” + +“Yes, please your reverence, I carried it up,” replied the waiter. + +“Hum-m—it must have been very late when you carried it up—as you say,” +said Mr. Oldfield, with the manner of a man who won’t be imposed upon. + +“Yes, please zir—at ten o’clock,” replied the man. + +“Hum-m. You have not charged the post-chaise, I see!” + +“There wasn’t no po’shay ordered, for no one here, please zir.” + +“Ah, yes, I—you are right—(the old man was about to say, “I +_recollect_—you are right,” but arrested himself before telling an +untruth)—yes, you are right! Lady Montressor went away in a cab.” + +A few more adroitly put questions resulted in nothing satisfactory. The +bill was paid, and the waiter, with a small donation, dismissed. + +“She _must_ have gone away in a cab, you know; so I told no untruth +about _that_,” said Mr. Oldfield, uneasy upon the subject of his little +duplicity. + +“These, then, are the facts as far as we know them—simply, that she took +supper, rested awhile, wrote a letter, and, attended by her maid, left +the house after ten o’clock. Now, the question is, _Whither_ did she +go?” + +The old minister mournfully shook his head. He could make no suggestion. + +“I think,” continued Lord Montressor, notwithstanding his great anxiety, +calmly reasoning out the matter, “judging from all you told me, that she +meant to leave England; to do this she must have gone to Liverpool or to +London. The night train for London and Liverpool leaves at twelve +o’clock. I think she went by that train. The grand junction is at +Bristol. So far, I think, we have her. But at Bristol—did she take the +London or the Liverpool route? Have you any knowledge to throw light +upon this subject?” + +The clergyman shook his head. + +“Has she _friends_ at either of these places?” + +Again the old man shook his head, with a mournful wave of the hand, +saying, + +“_Once_, my lord, _many_. _Now_, I doubt, _any_.” + +“My God! what will become of her! so delicate, so fragile, so sorrowful, +so inexperienced—alone, and unfriended in this bitter world! Oh! +Estelle! my Estelle! But I must not think of these things! to do so will +unfit me for action. Tell me, sir—has she means?” + +The old man groaned— + +“My lord, her father, when he sent her wardrobe, sent also a check for a +thousand pounds. She placed the latter in my hands for our current +expenses. I drew the money for it; but never could prevail on her to +receive back a shilling of it. It remains untouched in my possession +yet.” + +“Then she has no funds at all! My Estelle! Oh! what will become of you!” + +“Let me reflect—yes, she _has_ funds; she has a small competency in her +own right; five thousand pounds left her by her grandmother; it is in +the hands of a banker in London.” + +“Then she has gone to London to draw it before leaving England. I may +overtake and recover her yet! Oh! if I had known this precious fact +three hours ago, I might then have gone after her by the noon train, and +have been only twelve hours behind her. As it is, I must now wait for +the midnight cars, and be a full day behind! Oh, Heaven! how difficult +to govern one’s impatience and be calm in a forced inaction under such +circumstances! But patience. I shall see her soon: all will be well. +What is the name of the banker who has her funds?” inquired his +lordship, taking out his tablets. + +“Scofield Brothers, Lombard street, London.” + +“Good-afternoon, sir. I am going to pack up for my journey,” said Lord +Montressor, rising, and returning the memorandum to his pocket. + +“Good-day, my lord. I would myself accompany you on this journey, but +that my parishioners are in sad want of their truant pastor, and my old +wife is impatient to see me.” + +“I know it, I know it: it must be so—good-bye, sir. You have my +everlasting gratitude for your kindness to Lady Montressor. Good-bye.” + +“Stay one moment, my dear lord! You know the tenor of her note. Suppose +when you find her, she still refuses to return with you? Excuse my +question, for the sake of anxiety.” + +“Should she still refuse—I should give her time, use reason, persuasion, +prayer: should not these avail, I should then use _my power_. I should +compel Estelle to return with me.” + +“My lord?” + +“Yes, I repeat it. She shall not sacrifice herself to fanaticism. I will +constrain my love to come home and be at peace?” + +Thus the two gentlemen parted: Mr. Oldfield to prepare for his return to +his pastoral charge, Lord Montressor to make arrangements for his +journey to London. + +His lordship was at the depot in full time. The train started at twelve. +Swiftly as he was carried forward, this seemed the longest ride and the +longest night he had ever known. Some minutes less than two hours +brought him to Bristol and the Grand Junction, where half an hour served +for change of cars; and thus at half-past three o’clock, he found +himself whirled along through night, and mist, and rain, on the route +toward London. Soon the morning dawned and reddened in the east behind +what seemed a bank of cloud; it was the mingled mist and fog that +overhung the leviathan of cities. + +The cars entered London from the West and reached the depot just as the +sun arose. Lord Montressor took a hackney-coach and drove to a hotel in +the immediate neighborhood of Lombard street. As it was now very early, +some hours had yet to be lived through before he could hope to find the +bankers at their place of business. He ordered an apartment, and got +through the time as well as he could by making his morning toilet and +attempting his morning meal. Directly after breakfast, he entered a +carriage and drove to the banking-house of Scofield Brothers. He +inquired for either of the owners, and was ushered into a back office +where the junior partner sat writing at a desk. + +“Good-morning, sir,” said Lord Montressor, advancing—“You are——” + +“John Scofield, at your service,” answered the banker, rising. + +“Lord Montressor.” + +“Happy to see you, my lord. Pray be seated”—handing a chair. “Hope we +may be able to serve you this morning?” + +“I thank you, sir.” + +Lord Montressor looked for an instant into the honest face of the +banker, and then with the air of a man who states a fact known to +himself, rather than one who asks information upon a subject, he said: + +“Lady Montressor was with you yesterday?” + +“Yes, my lord.” + +“And withdrew her deposits, of course?” + +“She did, my lord.” + +Lord Montressor paused. How to frame his next inquiry as to the +whereabouts of Estelle, without exciting the astonishment and conjecture +of the man to whom he spoke, was now the difficulty. However, the +question must be put. Lord Montressor was not one to shrink; besides, +what indeed was the importance of Mr. John Scofield’s surmises and +speculations to Lord Montressor? + +“Favor me with Lady Montressor’s London address, if you please, sir,” +said his lordship, quietly. + +It was not with surprise nor wonder, but with simple consternation, that +the banker stood dumbfounded! + +“Did you hear my question, Mr. Scofield?” asked Lord Montressor, after a +pause. + +“I beg pardon, my lord,” said the banker, in a tone and manner in which +astonishment was modified by respect; “but I am unable to furnish you +with her ladyship’s address. Lady Montressor has left England.” + +It was an overwhelming annunciation! Yet Lord Montressor neither started +nor exclaimed; he was a man of too much firmness and self-control to do +either, and perhaps also he had been too well prepared for it by what +had preceded it; yet it was a stunning blow; he felt it so; he looked +again and steadily, almost with rude scrutiny, into the face of John +Scofield. Yes, he thought he could trust that face and confide in the +rectitude and discretion of that man;—he knew also that the banker could +not be really ignorant of the great trial lately concluded at the Exeter +Assizes;—for the rest he must have faith in him. + +“Will you favor me with a few moments of private conversation, Mr. +Scofield?” he inquired in a low voice. + +“Certainly, my lord,” replied the banker, dismissing his clerk, and +closing and locking the door behind him. “Now, my lord, I am at your +service,” he concluded, returning and resuming his seat. + +“You are of course aware, Mr. Scofield, of the painful scenes through +which Lady Montressor—and myself,” (he added in that affectionate and +generous spirit in which he ever wished to associate _himself_ in all +that was distressing and humiliating in her life,)—“have lately passed.” + +“I am aware, my lord,” replied the banker, gravely and respectfully +dropping his eyes. + +“But you do not know, perhaps, that Lady Montressor and myself have not +passed one single moment alone together since our marriage; or that +notwithstanding the perfect legality of the ceremony that binds us +together, Lady Montressor considers it her Christian duty to reserve +herself from my protection; and in order to do so effectually, has +withdrawn herself from my knowledge. Now, I would know whither she has +gone, if you, without a breach of confidence, can inform me.” + +The banker who had listened in respectful sympathy to the words of Lord +Montressor, now paused and reflected before answering— + +“My lord, as Lady Montressor, of course, made no confidential +communications to us, I do not know that any reason exists why I should +not give you all the information upon this subject in my power.” + +“I will thank you then, sir, to proceed.” + +“The manner in which I learned that Lady Montressor was about to leave +England was merely incidental, as my knowledge of her destination, is, I +may say, barely inferential.” + +“Proceed, sir, proceed.” + +“Her ladyship came, early yesterday morning—much about this time, in +fact,—to withdraw the funds she had in our hands. She required a portion +of them in cash and the remainder in drafts upon some American house.” + +“Then she has gone to America!” interrupted Lord Montressor, +recollecting at that trying moment the fervent admiration with which +poor Estelle had often spoken of the young Western Republic. + +“Undoubtedly, my lord.” + +“Go on, sir! pray, go on—when did she sail? Her voyage must have been +very sudden! She must have chanced upon a ship about to leave port.” + +“I think that quite likely, my lord. When she was about to leave us, she +required that the money and drafts should be sent down to her at the +Nelson’s Head before eleven o’clock, as she should leave the hotel at +that hour. We had correspondents in New York and in Baltimore. I +inquired of her ladyship upon which of these the drafts in her favor +should be drawn, and she said—upon the Baltimore house. The money was +sent in due season. Our clerk, who was intrusted with its delivery, saw +Lady Montressor leave the hotel at eleven o’clock. And we know that the +Princess, Captain Caton, sailed from this port at twelve, bound for +Baltimore.” + +“Then we are to infer that she went to Baltimore, though the fact wants +confirmation. One piece of information more, sir,—the name of your +Baltimore correspondents?” + +“Sommerville and Son, Pratt street.” + +“Do you happen to know, sir, when the next vessel sails for the United +States?” + +“I do not, sir.” + +“Then I thank you for the assistance you have already given me. +Good-morning, sir.” + +“Good-morning, my lord. If we can be so happy as to serve your lordship +in any capacity, pray consider us always at your orders.” + +“I thank you, sir. Good-day.” + +And thus the peer and the banker parted. + +“Good Heaven! how very matured her plans must have been, and with what +dispatch she must have carried them out!” thought Lord Montressor, as he +left the banking-house of Scofield Brothers, re-entered his cab, and +drove to St. Catherine’s Dock, to inquire for vessels bound for the +United States. After a diligent search of several hours he found that +there was no ship to sail for Baltimore in less than two weeks. The +first that was expected to leave for that port was the Mercury, that +would sail on or after the fifteenth of June. + +Much disappointed, he returned to his hotel, called for writing +materials, dashed off a hasty letter to Mr. Oldfield, detailing all that +had happened, mailed it, called a cab, and drove rapidly to the +Liverpool depot, which he reached just a few minutes before the cars +left. + +His errand to Liverpool was to learn whether within less than two weeks +any vessel would leave that port for Baltimore. He discovered that there +was one to sail in six days for Boston, one in a week to Halifax, and +one in ten days for New Orleans. But as neither of these promised a +quicker termination to his proposed voyage, or a speedier meeting with +Estelle than did the chances of the Mercury, he turned from Liverpool in +disappointment. + +He took the night train to Bristol, where he was more fortunate in +finding a vessel—the “Queen Charlotte”—that would sail for Baltimore on +or after the tenth of June. Upon further inquiry at other ports, he +found no more satisfactory prospect, and therefore he bespoke a passage +on the Queen Charlotte. + +He then went down to his seat in Dorsetshire, and employed the +intervening time in making judicious arrangements for that voyage, +which, could he have found a vessel about immediately to sail for the +United States, he would certainly without any preparation have +undertaken. + +Withal, however, it was a weary, weary decade of days that passed before +the tenth of June arrived, and Lord Montressor found himself on board +the good ship Queen Charlotte. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + SHIPWRECK. + + “Ah! many a dream was in that ship + An hour before her death; + And thoughts of home with sigh’s disturbed + The sleeper’s long-drawn breath. + + · · · · · + + A hundred souls in one instant of dread + Are hurried over the deck; + And fast the miserable ship + Becomes a lifeless wreck. + Her keel hath struck a hidden rock, + Her planks are torn asunder, + And down comes her mast with a reeling shock, + And a hideous crash like thunder + Her sails are draggled in the brine, + That gladdened late the skies, + And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine, + Down many a fathom lies.”—_Wilson._ + + +It was a glorious summer morning, when the splendor of the sky, the +sparkling brightness of the water, the animating bustle on the docks, +and in the boats—all conspired to raise and cheer the spirits of the +spectator. + +At ten o’clock Lord Montressor entered the long-boat that was to convey +him to the Queen Charlotte, where he found the captain, mate and men all +engaged in the hearty work of preparation for getting under way. A fair +wind had sprung up, and they were but waiting for the ebb tide. They had +not to wait long. At twelve precisely the tide began to ebb. The captain +came upon deck, seized his speaking-trumpet, and called out, + +“All hands! Up anchor!” + +In an instant every man was upon deck. + +“Each officer to post! Man the capstan! Stand by to let fall the +tops’ils. Heave round the capstan! Heave roundly!” + +“Ay, ay, sir! Anchor’s apeak!” + +“Heave! Heave my hearties! Heave and trip the anchor!” + +The men laid themselves to the bars, turned vigorously, and then stopped +to breathe. + +“A-trip it is, sir!” cried the mate. + +The moment the anchor was a-weigh the ship began to cast to larboard. + +The captain shouted through his speaking-trumpet— + +“Hoist the jib and the fore-to’mas’ stays’ils! Helm-a-starboard! +So—steady—steady.” + +“Ay, ay, sir! Steady it is!” responded the helmsman. + +The crew worked heartily, the brave ship righted herself, the sails +filled with the breeze, and the Queen Charlotte, stood gallantly out to +the Channel. A shout from the shore cheered her on. + +But she was not a fast sailer, this honest old Queen Charlotte, any more +than her royal namesake was a “fast woman.” She was, on the contrary, +“slow and sure,” like her good old majesty, the defunct queen. She was, +in fact, an old-fashioned, short and square-bowed brig, one of the last +of her generation, and very unlike in build and behavior to the long and +narrow-decked, high-masted and rakish Baltimore clippers that were then +in such high favor. In something more than due time, then, the Queen +Charlotte left Lundy Island to leeward, got out of the Channel and into +the broad Atlantic. + +The fair wind continued for several days, and yet the brig made but +moderate progress. How she would possibly get on against a head-wind +remained to be seen. + +The season seemed to promise a continuance of fine weather, and +consequently a pleasant voyage, for the violent spring gales were over, +and the latter summer storms were not soon to be expected. + +Yet they had not been at sea more than two weeks before the weather +changed, the sky became dark and gloomy, the wind sprang up, the waves +arose, and for several days the ship beat about in a high sea, against a +head wind, making no progress, scarcely able to hold her own. Day after +day showed the same scene—morning after morning the murky sky, heavy +with clouds, lowered down upon a turbulent sea, broken into high and +coursing waves, whose crests were tipped with frost, like foam upon the +lips of racers—night after night the impenetrable darkness above, +around, beneath, and relieved only by the phosphoric glimmer and sparkle +of the crested waves. A frisky clipper might have been lost in this +gale, but the staid old Queen Charlotte “stood the storm” for a week. + +And then there came another change of weather, bringing a clear sky, +gentle breeze, and a calm sea, which continued with little variation for +two or three weeks, during which the brig made moderate headway. + +Ill could Lord Montressor brook this sort of “making haste slowly.” +Often he reproached himself for taking passage in the Charlotte, instead +of waiting ten days longer to embark in the Mercury. And this regret was +in no degree lessened by an event that occurred when they were nearing +the Azores. + +It was a very fine day in August, with a fair, brisk wind, and the Queen +Charlotte, being in most unaccountably gay spirits, had crowded on all +her canvas, even to the studding sails and royals, and was doing her +best at running before the wind—as if her long defunct majesty had ever +in her court array forgotten her royal dignity and tried to run! While +thus going under full sail the brig was hailed by a vessel bearing down +full upon her. + +“Ship—ahoy-oy!” came reverberating over the water from the +speaking-trumpet of the purser. + +“Halloo!” responded the Queen Charlotte. + +“Who are you? where do you hail from? where are you bound?” + +“The Queen Charlotte, Brownloe master, from Bristol to Baltimore! Who +are you?” + +“The Mercury, Captain Brande, from London to Baltimore.” + +Almost as she spoke she bore rapidly down upon the brig, came alongside, +and without stopping, cheered and passed! + +But among the passengers that crowded the upper deck, Lord Montressor +had recognized a man, whose appearance there sent all the blood from his +heart to his brain! + +This man was Victoire L’Orient. + +How came he there? What was his object? + +He also was going to America—to Baltimore! Why? What should carry him +thither? Was he going in pursuit of Estelle? Had he, perhaps, managed to +keep up a system of espionage around her? Had he discovered her flight +to America—to Baltimore? and would he pursue her thither and persecute +her there? + +Before these questions had fairly formed themselves in the mind of Lord +Montressor, the Mercury, with her crew and passengers, had cheered +again, and passed far ahead. + +The Queen Charlotte, comparatively “slow and sure,” even when under full +sail and before a fresh wind, and unflurried either by the example of +the Mercury or the impatience of her own passengers and crew, kept on +the even tenor of her way. + +All that afternoon and that night she sailed before a fair wind, and at +sunrise the next morning entered the port of Fayal. + +There again she spoke the Mercury, that was just passing out of the +harbor. + +And yet _once more_ the Queen Charlotte saw the Mercury. Alas! but we +anticipate. + +The brig remained in the port of Fayal two days to discharge a portion +of her cargo and to take in freight, as well as to obtain a supply of +fresh provisions and water, and then again set sail. + +The weather continued fine, with little variation in the clear sky, +fresh wind and gentle sea for several days, during which the brig made +fair progress toward the Chesapeake. + +It was the morning of the twentieth of August that the man on the +look-out cried: + +“Land ho!” and the distant points of Cape Charles and Cape Henry hove in +sight. And an hour after noon the Queen Charlotte entered the Bay. + +That night the wind suddenly fell. And the next day—a day ever to be +remembered on that coast—the brig lay becalmed under a burning sky, and +upon a motionless sea. + +And now my mind shrinks from describing the events that made hideous +that afternoon and night; shrinks both because of the deep horror one +feels in reflecting upon those awful scenes of storm and devastation, +when sky and ocean meet in deadly conflict, and fire, air and water—all +the elements of organized nature seem resolving back into original +“chaos and old night.” + +This day—the twenty-first of August, when the Queen Charlotte lay +becalmed in the Chesapeake—had, as I said, been still and hot, with an +oppressive, suffocating atmosphere. Though there was not a cloud in the +sky, a ripple on the water, nor a breath of wind from any quarter, yet +the experienced old seamen seemed grave and thoughtful, and looked to +the rigging of their ship. And the captain paced the deck, casting an +eye—now to the sky, now to the sea, and now to the rigging. + +“What can be the matter with the skipper?” asked one inexperienced +passenger of another. + +“He’s on the look-out for squalls,” answered the other, carelessly, not +believing what they said. + +Abaft, two Baltimore youths, homeward bound, were leaning over the +taffrail, looking despondently into the motionless water. + +“Was ever such a sea and such a sky as this? Not a ripple, not a breath, +and as hot as Hades! Heaven send that the wind would rise!” complained +one. + +“Yes! it is a right down deuced bore to lay becalmed here, for days, +perhaps, almost in gunshot of port,” grumbled the other. + +“Now, d’ye see them two d——d land lubbers with their elbows on the +taffrail?” observed one bronzed and grizzled old “salt” to his shipmate. +“They want to hurry the wind up! Avast there, my fine fellows! don’t you +be impatient! The wind will come out from the west, and speak to you +presently!” + +As noon approached an ominous change crept over the face of the heavens +and the waters. + +Not a cloud was to be seen, yet the whole heavens visibly darkened, +assuming a dull, hazy, coppery hue. + +Not a billow ruffled the surface of the waters, yet the whole vast sea +perceptibly swelled. + +Not a breath of wind stirred, yet at intervals a low voice wailed across +the waters as if nature mourned the coming destruction. + +The captain still walked the deck, telescope in hand, making +observations, and occasionally giving orders. + +“What do you think of the weather, captain? Is there a storm brewing?” +asked Lord Montressor, joining him. + +The skipper lowered his glass, and turning upon the questioner a sly +look that might have been read—Do you really think I am going to tell +you now?—replied: + +“By the soul of Nelson! I cannot at this moment inform you, my lord. It +may be only a fresh wind that will take us large into port; and then +again it may be the confoundest hurricane that has ever been seen on +this coast!—Avast there! Mate, see that the lightning conductors are +rigged out!” he said, suddenly breaking off to give the order. + +“Ay, ay, sir,” replied that officer, touching his hat, and going below +to obey the command. + +“At least,” said Lord Montressor, resuming the conversation, “you have +sufficient time to take every necessary precaution for the safety of the +vessel.” + +“Humph—humph—why certainly it is not exactly upon us yet, whatever it +is! and I and the ‘Charlotte’ have weathered a storm before to-day. Why, +sir! I could tell you of a time, when we doubled Cape Horn——,” said the +skipper, launching into a tale of a tempest that was presently +interrupted—the tale—not the tempest—by the reappearance of the mate on +deck, to report the lightning conductors rigged out. + +“As you said, my lord, there is time to make ready for what may be +coming, thank heaven! This may be only a fresh wind that will carry us +gallantly into port; therefore I shall not take in sail just yet; though +it is best to be ready at short notice to do so. Mate!” + +“Ay, ay, sir!” + +“Call all hands on deck!” + +“Ay, ay, sir!” + +“Let them stand by to take in the royals and to’gallant stun’s’ils.” + +“Ay, ay, sir!” + +As the meridian passed, the sun took on a dark blood-like color, and the +awful stillness of the elements seemed more foreboding. + +Slowly—slowly the Spirit of the Storm advanced and took shape. + +A black cloud, seemingly no larger than an eagle with spread wings, +appeared on the Western horizon, directly under the sun. The wind awoke +with a sigh, and breathed across the waters, curling the surface into +little ripples, and moving the sails of the brig, and then died away. + +“In royals!” shouted the captain. + +The order was executed. + +The cloud climbed faster, higher, increasing in size and darkness. Again +the wind arose and moaned across the waters, rolling the waves against +the tide and fluttering the sails of the ship, and then died away as +before. + +“Take in the to’gallant stu’n-s’ils! And you at the wheel, mind your +helm!” thundered the captain. + +The cloud had nearly reached the zenith. Once more the wind sprung up, +and roared across the now angry waters, driving the sea into high waves, +and filling all the sails of the brig that now bounded before the blast. + +“Clew down the topsails; haul up the courses! Hard down!” shouted the +captain. + +The storm came on apace, the whole sky was overcast and darkened. The +wind lashed the sea into fury and drove the brig rocking and reeling +forward, on her course. + +The passengers swarmed upon the deck, and crowded around the skipper. + +“Captain, captain, is there any danger?” asked one. + +“Captain, captain!” exclaimed several others, as the skipper, regardless +of their interruptions, hurried about giving his orders. “Captain, +captain!——” + +“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, go below! You are in my way! You hinder +me in the working of the ship! You risk your own lives as well as the +safety of the vessel,” said the skipper, impatiently, hastening away. + +“But—for the Lord’s sake, what are you going to do?” asked the first +speaker, laying hold of the captain’s coat-skirt to detain him. + +“We are trying to get into Hampton Roads: there we shall be safe. Once +more, for heaven’s sake, gentlemen, be advised, and go below!” exclaimed +the captain, breaking away. + +A vivid flash of lightning, kindling into blue flame every scrap of +metal about the ship, accompanied by an awful peal of thunder, and +followed by a sudden deluge of rain, so enforced the order, that most of +the passengers were glad to make a hasty retreat. + +The storm hurried onward; the whole heavens lowered down upon the sea, +and all was black as the blackest midnight, save when a dazzling flash +of lightning kindled the whole scene into a momentary conflagration; +showing the whole tremendous sea, rising and falling in mountains and +valleys, and clouds and waves mingling together in wildest chaos, so +that, which was the heavens, and which was the earth, it was almost +impossible to know. And through all this horrible confusion, the brave +ship—heaving, plunging, reeling,—struggled; now lifted upon the top of +some mountain wave, high among the clouds; then pitched headlong down +into the dreadful yawning, chasm of the sea. + +The captain never for an instant left the deck. His presence there +enheartened the crew, who worked gallantly. But their almost superhuman +efforts failed to get the ship into Hampton Roads. She was driven +furiously past their entrance. Through all that awful night the captain +never left his post. At intervals some passenger, more venturous than +the others, would make the desperate attempt to come upon deck; but even +if he were not, by the heaving of the ship, hurled headlong down the +companion-ladder, he was soon glad to retreat. The storm raged on with +unabating violence. The captain never lost his presence of mind, nor the +crew their courage. The former gave his orders, decisively, clearly, +emphatically—the latter obeyed with alacrity. Every sail had been in +succession taken in, and the ship was now driving along under bare +poles. As she had done, many times before, the good ship weathered the +storm. Yet was the night not unmarked by disaster to her brave crew; a +heavy sea, taking her amidships, swept off three of her gallant seamen; +but in the dense darkness, or blinding glare, amid the deafening noise +of the tempest, this loss was not known—it was not discovered until +morning. + +It was long after midnight, when the fury of the storm had in some +degree abated; the ship was scudding along before the wind, and the +captain and the mate, exhausted by their late tremendous labors, were +resting on the deck, when the distant report of a single cannon came +booming over the waters. + +“A ship in distress; but, great heaven! what earthly power can aid her +in such a night as this?” said the captain. + +The mate made no reply, but listened anxiously for a repetition of the +signal. + +In about three minutes, the firing was repeated. + +“The Lord help her,” said the mate reverently—“what can be done for her, +truly! We are making rapidly toward her if it were broad day, we might +help her. Or if she could exist till day, we might save the crew. What +think you, captain?” + +“Good Heaven, that depends upon circumstances. If in beating about in +this storm, she has sprung a leak, she must go down in a few minutes.” + +“But if she has been cast upon a sand-bank, or driven ashore?” + +“Even then it is doubtful whether we could aid her. If she has been cast +upon Smith’s Sand-bar, as I fear is the case, we could not approach her +without sharing her fate.” + +“But the boats?” + +“Would not reach her in this sea.” + +“But the gale may go down before she breaks up,” suggested the pitying +and hopeful mate. + +“Well, Heaven grant it; for if it should turn out so, we may be of +assistance,” replied the captain. + +Every five minutes the signal gun was fired. The captain, mate and crew, +listened in impotent sympathy, or spoke together in hushed and solemn +voices; for well they knew that, but for the blessing of Providence upon +their almost superhuman exertions, this case of shipwreck might have +been their own. + +Meanwhile the Queen Charlotte flew before the wind. At every firing of +the signal gun, she seemed nearer the sound. + +“We are approaching that other ship! We must look out, and not run afoul +of her,” said the captain, leaving his position, and going forward to +give orders. + +Once again the signal gun was fired, and then it was heard no more. When +ten or fifteen minutes had elapsed, and the listening crew found no +repetition of the sound— + +“God help her,” said the captain, “she is lost!” + +The crew echoed his groan. + +Day dawned, and the sun arose over a wild, wild scene. Black and ragged +clouds, the fragments of the broken storm, drove across the sky. The +wind was still very strong, and the waves ran very high. + +The Queen Charlotte scudded along under a close-reefed main topsail and +reefed foresail. She kept a sharp look out for some sign of the fate of +the ship she had heard firing the signal guns in the night. The mate +took his post forward, and with telescope in hand, scanned the expanse +of sea ahead. And thus it was scarcely a quarter of an hour after +sunrise, that that officer suddenly dropped his glass and called out: + +“A wreck on the sand-bank ahead!” + +The captain hurried forward, seized the glass from the hand of the mate, +leveled it and took sight. + +“By my life, it is the poor Mercury! and if we do not look sharp we +shall run foul of her! Mind what you are about there at the wheel. Hard +up. Hard up—so! Steady—steady!” cried the captain. + +The ship answered her helm, and presently came in sight of the wreck. + +It was a terrible spectacle. + +There before them lay the sand-bank and the broken ship! + +The ill-fated Mercury had been pitched headforemost with such tremendous +force upon the bank, that her prow was buried deep in the sands, and her +stern lifted, revealing one-third of the length of her keel. Her masts +had been snapped short off, and with all their sails and shrouds had +fallen forward upon the sand. And there she lay stranded, broken, +helpless—exposed to every assault of wind and wave! At intervals a heavy +sea broke over her. A nearer approach showed some half-dozen haggard +wretches, the remnant of her unfortunate crew, assembled aft, holding on +for dear life to the taffrail, yet scarcely able to keep their hold, +with their hair and garments streaming in the wind. They were seen to +wave signals of entreaty to the advancing ship. + +But a horrible sea raged between the brig and the sand-bank! To have +approached much nearer the wreck, would have been inevitably to share +its fate! To have put out a boat would have been madness!—no boat could +have lived a moment in such a sea. + +Yet the Queen Charlotte could not, would not, pass her by. The only +thing to do then, was to wear and heave to, to watch and seize an +opportunity of rendering aid, if perchance the winds and waves should +subside in time to send out boats to her. + +But it was a terrible thing to lay there inactive, and behold sea after +sea advance and break over that bound and disabled vessel!—at every +advance shaking her hull almost in pieces—at every retreat carrying off +some portion of her rigging or cargo. And it was more terrible still to +behold those half-dozen fellow-creatures, clinging in desperation to +their frail support! + +At last a huge wave arose and rearing itself, like a moving cliff +crested with foam, advanced upon the doomed wreck! + +At this appalling sight, all on board the brig held their breath for +very awe. + +The mountain wave reached and broke over the sand-bank. And the ship was +swamped! + +A simultaneous cry of horror arose from the brig! + +The next moment fragments of the shattered ship strewed the sea, and +from amid the boiling hell of waters arose three struggling wretches. + +One held on to a broken spar that kept him afloat. + +Two others, for a single instant, strove for the possession of a plank +that both had seized, but which was not sufficient to sustain more than +one; then the stronger of the two, whom Lord Montressor thought he +recognized as Victoire L’Orient, freeing his hand, struck off the +weaker, who immediately sank, but in the impetuosity of this cruel blow +he also lost his own hold upon the plank, and disappeared in the +whirlpool of waters. + +The third man—the sole survivor of the wreck, clinging desperately to +the fragment of broken spar, and each moment growing more incapable of +retaining his hold, was dashed hither and thither, at the mercy of the +waves. + +Lord Montressor, who had been standing, leaning over the bulwarks, +chafing with impatience at his own inactivity, could now endure this +sight no longer. It was not in his brave and generous nature thus to +stand and behold a fellow-creature helpless amid such deadly peril, and +not wish to risk life if needful for his rescue. Lord Montressor was a +man of athletic and powerful frame, as well as of heroic spirit. He had +been trained in all those gymnastic exercises calculated to develope +extraordinary muscular strength and skill. Calling upon a seaman to +assist him, he hastily stripped off his upper garments, fastened a +strong rope securely around his waist, and, against the vehement +expostulations of all who were near him, threw himself into the raging +sea. + +The captain, crew and passengers watched him in intense anxiety. + +Buffeting the billows, he made toward the struggling wretch. Wind and +tide were in his favor, though three times was he violently thrown back. +Yet would he not give the signal to be drawn in. He seemed resolved to +save the shipwrecked man or share his fate. At length it was due as much +to an apparent accident, as to his own strength and skill, that he was +enabled to effect his purpose—a friendly wave lifting him upon its +breast, cast him forward in reach of the spar; simultaneously he threw +his arms out and seized the man; it was time! the strength of the poor +wretch was exhausted,—he was about to drop off! Wave after wave dashed +over them, as if the sea had resolved to sever them, but Lord Montressor +held on bravely to his prize. He gave the signal; the men on board the +brig began to haul in the rope, and in a few moments more the +shipwrecked man and his gallant preserver were safe upon the deck of the +Queen Charlotte! + +Lord Montressor left his charge in the hands of the sailors, and to +escape the congratulations of his companions, as well as to change his +wet clothes, he went below. + +Amid all the horror with which he reflected upon the scenes of the +shipwreck, one question forced itself upon his mind. Victoire L’Orient +had been a passenger on board the ill-fated Mercury—was he lost or +saved?—was he the man who had been seen to strike his fellow from the +floating plank and perish in the cruel act? had he, in fact, been among +the number of the passengers who had been swept off from the stern +gallery? Or had he, perhaps, previously taken passage in some boat, that +might, at some earlier hour of the disaster, have left the wreck in the +desperate hope of reaching the shore? and had he perchance so reached +the shore?—in a word, was he lost or saved? This question, as it was +inevitable it should—pressed anxiously upon his mind. + +And yet, reader, had Lord Montressor believed the man whom he saved to +be Victoire L’Orient, he would just as certainly have risked his life +for his preservation. + +Meanwhile, the beaten and battered victim of the wreck was taken into +the captain’s cabin, supplied with dry clothing, refreshed with bread +and wine, and forced to lie down upon a berth to recover his exhausted +strength. The captain, who like all old sailors, was a tolerably good +physician, would not permit his guest to be questioned until he had some +rest. + +“And, indeed,” said the old skipper, “he is Lord Montressor’s own prize, +and shall be examined first of all by his lordship!” + +And in truth the stranger seemed to be of a similar opinion; for after +he had been refreshed by a short rest, his first request was that he +might be able to see and thank his brave preserver. + +Word to this effect was transmitted to Lord Montressor, who lost no time +in obeying the summons. He entered the cabin, and took his seat by the +side of the berth upon which the shipwrecked passenger lay. + +The stranger seemed to be a man of about twenty-two years of age, of +symmetrical form and handsome face, having a Grecian profile; fair, +clear complexion; golden-brown hair, and dark, hazel eyes. + +“I am glad to find you so well recovered, my friend,” said Lord +Montressor, looking with kind interest upon his rescued waif. + +“I thank you, my lord—I beg pardon! but I understood my gallant +preserver to be the Viscount Montressor,” said the young man, fixing his +dark, expressive eyes with a look of inquiry upon the face of his +lordship. + +“That is my name, sir.” + +“And mine is Julius Levering. I am a Baltimore man, my Lord, and am not +unacquainted with the fame of Lord Montressor,” said the youth. + +Lord Montressor gravely waived this compliment, and said— + +“I hope that you have suffered no injury from the floating fragments of +the wreck, sir?” + +“I thank you; none, my lord,” said Julius Levering, passing his hand +thoughtfully across his brow; then withdrawing it, he added, “In truth, +I know not _how_, in adequate terms, to express my eternal gratitude to +your lordship for the preservation of my life.” + +“Thank Providence, my dear sir, and not me. My act was too instinctive +to merit recollection,” returned Lord Montressor. + +“But, my dear lord, you risked your own valuable life to save that of a +stranger!” + +“As I should have also risked it to save an enemy. The act was merely +impulsive—inevitable, I may say! Pray let us drop that part of the +subject. Now tell me, if you please, were there any other persons saved +from the wreck, do you know?” + +“Great heaven! I do not, sir! We struck the sand-bank just after +midnight. At daybreak, fourteen of our number left the ship in an open +boat, that seemed to have no chance of living in such a sea; they +embarked in the frantic expectation of being able to reach the Maryland +shore. Whether the boat ever made the land, or whether, as is most +likely, she went down amid the waves, I have no means of knowing! I only +know, that except myself, those who preferred to remain and take their +chances with the ship, fared no better than she did, whatever her fate +may have been. Before that last great sea took us—and even before your +ship hove in sight of us—we had lost several of our companions, blown +off or washed off from their frail hold. Among those who were swept off +right before my eyes, was a poor old fragile French woman—one Madame +L’Orient. Good heaven! shall I ever get rid of that vision!” + + + + + CHAPTER X. + RECOGNITION OF THE DEAD BODY. + + “And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, + But where he died his grave is quite as deep! + Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, + That earth nor formed, nor marble decked the mound.”—_Byron._ + + +Deeply shocked as he was, Lord Montressor bent earnestly forward to +listen for something further. + +But Mr. Levering, apparently overcome with the thought of the scenes +through which he had just passed, covered his face with his hands, and +continued silent. + +The doubt that troubled Lord Montressor remained unsolved. For all that +he could gather from Mr. Levering’s conversation, Victoire L’Orient +might have been lost in the ship, or saved in the boat—supposing that +the latter had lived to reach the shore. That his mother had preferred +to stay in the ship, where she finally perished, was no sure sign that +Victoire had not deserted her there, as he surely might have done had +she persisted in remaining while he chose to depart. + +Finally, unwilling to disturb Mr. Levering with questions upon this +painful subject, conscious also, perhaps, of feeling too deep an +interest in the fate of Monsieur L’Orient, Lord Montressor bade his new +acquaintance good-day, and, leaving him to repose, went up on deck. + +The storm had spent its fury. The wind and waves, as if they had +accomplished the object for which they arose, had now subsided. + +The scene on deck was a stirring one. The captain, mate and crew were +all busily engaged. One party, under the direction of the captain, were +preparing to get under sail. Another set, at the orders of the mate, +were letting down the boats. + +The captain stood forward, leveling his glass at the sand-bank that, +strewn with sea-weed, shells and fragments of the wreck, now loomed +largely from the retiring waves. + +Lord Montressor came up to the side of the skipper, who immediately +lowered his glass and said— + +“We are making ready to get under sail, my lord! But first I shall send +the boats to the sand-bank to bring off that body, which has been cast +ashore there, and give it Christian burial, at least, if it be only in +the depths of the sea! By the general appearance, I think it is the body +of that man that beat the other one off the plank and drowned himself in +the act. There! you can see for yourself, my lord.” And the captain +placed the glass in the hands of his passenger. + +Lord Montressor raised the instrument and took sight at the sand-bank. + +Yes! there, thrown up by the waves, partially buried in the sand, and +slightly covered with sea-weed, lay the dead body of a man! Various +fragments of the wrecked ship, and remnants of its cargo—spars, yards, +planks, barrels, casks and strong boxes, more or less broken and staved +open, were scattered about. From these various objects Lord Montressor +turned his glass once more upon the dead body. It certainly did bear +some resemblance to the man who had struck his companion from the plank, +and perished in the deed; but beyond this Lord Montressor could not form +any conclusive opinion in regard to it. With a sigh he dropt the +telescope. + +Two boats were now lowered, manned, and pushed off from the brig. + +Lord Montressor watched their course with his naked eye until they +reached the scene of the wreck; then he once more raised the telescope +to scan more closely their operations on the sand bar. + +The men in the small boat landed first, and reverently raised the corpse +and carried it on board their boat, where they covered it with a sail +cloth; then they returned to the sands and joined the men from the large +boat, who went about among the waifs of the wreck, selecting such casks, +barrels and boxes as had received the least injury, and were the most +worthy of preservation. When this was done and the second boat was +laden, the men embarked again and rowed back to the Queen Charlotte. + +The large boat with the rescued relics of the wreck reached the brig +first, and was unladen before the small boat, propelled slowly with +measured strokes, in honor of the dead she bore, arrived. + +She pulled up to the starboard gangway, where the captain, mate, and +many of the passengers were assembled to receive her. + +The corpse, still wrapped in the sail-cloth, was reverently lifted out, +hoisted up, and laid upon the deck. + +The face and breast were uncovered, and exposed to inspection. + +“Is there any one present who is able to identify this body?” inquired +the captain, possibly as a mere matter of form, for it was not probable +that any other than the shipwrecked passenger, then resting in the +cabin, could be competent to do so. + +Many, however, crowded around to examine the features of the corpse. It +seemed that of a man of about thirty years of age, of tall, slight +figure, brown complexion, black hair, eyebrows, and mustachios, and +features that seemed to have originally been regular and handsome, as +far as their present distorted and stiffened condition allowed the +spectator to judge. + +Lord Montressor stood among the lookers-on, and, with folded arms and +serious brow, gazed upon the face of the dead. And well he might! It was +the cause of all his woe—it was the mortal foe of Estelle—it was, in a +word, Victoire L’Orient that lay dead before him! + +No one spoke. + +“Well?” asked the captain, looking around upon the tamest faces bent +over the body. + +“I can identify this corpse, Captain Brande,” said the solemn voice of +Lord Montressor. + +All eyes were now turned upon his lordship. + +“Well, my lord?” said the captain. + +“This is the body of a Frenchman, by name Victoire L’Orient, a native of +Paris, and a late passenger on board the Mercury. It would be well, +also, to have this identity further proved by Mr. Levering, the rescued +passenger below.” + +And Lord Montressor, having delivered these words, bowed gravely and +withdrew from the scene. + +The corpse was again wrapped in the canvas and carried aft to the stern +gallery, where it was laid and covered over, while preparations were +made for the burial. + +Julius Levering, after an hour’s repose, dressed himself in a suit of +clothes supplied to him by Lord Montressor’s valet, and came up on deck +to look about; hearing that a dead body had been picked up and +recognized as that of Victoire L’Orient, he inquired where it lay; and +being informed, he went aft to the stern gallery to behold it. Arrived +upon the spot, he stooped, raised the covering, and gazed upon the face +of the dead. + +He had a heavy stake in the fate of this man, beside whose corse he +stood wrapped in the closest thought. He started like a detected +criminal in hearing a voice speak at his side: + +“I beg your parding, Capting, but do you also know this corpse?” said a +man in livery, touching his hat as he joined him. + +“Yes, my friend, this is the body of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, my late +fellow-passenger,” replied Mr. Levering, recovering his self-possession. + +“Beg your parding again, Capting, but are you certain, now, as this is +really and truly the body of Mounseer Wictwor?” repeated the new-comer, +incredulously. + +“Of course I am, friend,” replied Mr. Levering, gravely. + +“Can’t possibly be _any body else_ by mistake can it?” + +“Assuredly not.” + +“Then he is Mounseer Wictwor to a _dead certainty_?” + +“To a dead certainty, yes,” answered Mr. Levering, wondering at the +strange manner of the intruder. + +“And was he _drownded_ sure enough?” + +“Certainly, he was.” + +“And are you sure he is _quite_ dead?” + +“Can you not see for yourself?” asked Mr. Levering, beginning to believe +his new acquaintance to be a lunatic. + +“Yes, he looks so, sartain; but then you never can depend on these +wenemous reptyles. They’re so uncommon deceiving.” + +“Deceiving?” + +“Yes; you never can be sure on ’em unless you bile ’em!” + +“I don’t understand you.” + +“I mean they’re so werry apt to come round again—do you think _he’ll_ +come round?” + +“What?” + +“Do you think he’ll not _come to life_ presently?” + +“Does he look like it?” inquired Mr. Levering, now firmly convinced that +his interlocutor was a madman. + +“No, he don’t! but as I said afore you can’t place any confidence in +sich!” + +“Why, what do you mean?” + +“Nothing I only this here Mounseer was shipwracked _once afore_ and +drownded—_dead_. And two years arfter, when everybody had forgotten him, +lo! and behold! he comes to life and turns up most onconveniently, in +the wrong time and place, as sprightly as a sarpint in spring! and gives +no end to the trouble to those in high places!” + +“Pray, friend, who are _you_?” inquired Mr. Levering of the supposed +maniac. + +“One of his lordship, Lord Montressor’s grooms.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Levering, with the air of a man upon whom a sudden +light had broken. + +The men coming aft to prepare the dead body for burial, interrupted the +conversation. The new acquaintances both left the stern gallery. The +groom went down to the gundeck to gossip with the sailors. And Mr. +Levering proceeded to inspect the waifs of the wreck that had been +brought on board. He seemed very much relieved to find among them a +strong box which he immediately claimed and proved to be his own. + +At noon that day the solemn ceremony of a “Burial at Sea” was performed. +The crew were all piped on deck, and amid a reverential silence, the +captain read the impressive funeral service of the Episcopal Church. And +at its conclusion the body was solemnly committed to the deep. + +And immediately afterward the Queen Charlotte once more set sail. And +from this hour an uninterrupted season of fine weather, with a fresh +wind, favored her until the fifth day, a beautiful Sabbath near the last +of August, when at sunrise the Queen Charlotte, with all her flags +flying, anchored in Baltimore harbor. + +The same morning Lord Montressor bade adieu to his late companion, and +left the ship for his hotel. + +If any circumstance would have augmented his intense desire to meet +Estelle, it must have been his possession of the important information +he had now to communicate to her. He considered the events of the +recovery of the drowned body by the crew of the Queen Charlotte, and his +own presence on the spot to identify the corpse as that of Victoire +L’Orient, as providential. He felt assured that certainty in regard to +the fate of this man must at least give peace to the tempest-tost life +of Estelle. He hoped also that it would change her purposes and settle +her future. And now that he had reached port, his anxiety to find her +was almost insupportable. But the Sabbath must be lived through; nay, +indeed notwithstanding his weak human impatience, it must be duly +honored! He compelled himself to be quiet, and went to the Episcopal +church twice that day—attending St. George’s in the forenoon, and St. +John’s in the afternoon, in the faint vain hope also that at one or the +other he might possibly see Estelle, whom he knew to be a scrupulous and +regular attendant upon Divine Service. + +And then, after a night of sleepless anxiety, he arose early on Monday +morning, and as soon as there was any possibility of finding the bankers +at their place of business, he took a carriage and drove it to the +banking-house of Somerville and Son. He found the senior partner already +at his desk. He introduced himself, and made inquiries relative to the +lady of whom he came in search. + +Alas! Alas! + +At first Mr. Somerville, senior, knew nothing about such a lady—had +never seen or heard of her, and was certain, begging his lordship’s +pardon, that she had never honored their establishment with a call. But +at this point of the conversation, Mr. Somerville, junior, who had been +standing at another desk, listening with his pen behind his ear, came +forward and recalled to his father’s mind the beautiful English lady, +dressed in deep mourning, who had come from the house of Scofield +Brothers, London, and had called upon them just two weeks ago. + +Then—yes! oh, yes! the old banker did not remember the lovely lady in +mourning, but he remembered the heavy drafts drawn by Scofield Brothers +on them, in favor of——now, who _was_ it in favor of? He referred to his +papers and found— + +“Estelle Montressor.” + +“Yes, that was the lady.” + +Well! the lady had received her money and had departed. And that was all +they knew of her. And from them Lord Montressor received no other +satisfaction. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF THE ISLES. + + “A merry madman this!”—_Prout._ + + ——“Though this be madness, yet + There’s method in’t!”—_Shakspeare._ + + +While Lord Montressor pursues his search for Estelle, we must take up +the fortunes of some other persons who are concerned in our narrative. +But first a brief review of Victorie L’Orient’s course seems necessary +to the reader’s better understanding of what follows:— + + “Tis hard for human actions to account, + Whether from reason, or from impulse only,” + +writes the lamented Thomas Hood. + +It would certainly be difficult to explain satisfactorily the motives of +the course of conduct pursued by Victoire L’Orient toward the hapless +lady whose evil fortune had placed her peace, if not her destiny, in his +power. One would have naturally supposed that, being released from his +penal life, he would have proceeded directly to England, and while her +hand was yet free, would have openly demanded possession of the woman +whom he claimed as his wife. Why he did not do so—why, on the contrary, +he chose to wait for the hour when she should bestow her hand on +another, to humble her before the whole world, is the unresolved +problem. Of course every theory of his motives must be purely +speculative. + +Judging, however, from what we have already seen of his character and +have heard of his history, it is neither unreasonable nor uncharitable, +to suppose the following to have been the case: + +A man like Victoire L’Orient, of depressed moral and intellectual +nature, usually feels a strong antagonism to a woman who is brought into +constant and rebuking comparison with himself, especially when that +woman is his own wife, whom he deems should of right be in all respects +his inferior and subordinate. Very soon must Monsieur Victoire have +discovered the moral and intellectual excellence of the young creature +whom he had ensnared, and consequently the wide disparity of character +between himself and her. This alone was sufficient to have galled a +spirit so egotistical as his own. And when we remember that in addition +to this, Estelle inevitably detected his utter unworthiness, and that, +notwithstanding her sweet patience and forbearance, she must +unavoidably, through the very truthfulness and ingenuousness of her +character, have revealed the low estimation in which she held him, we +need not feel any degree of surprise that his selfish passion for her +was largely alloyed with hate, and that his desire to possess, was quite +equalled by his wish to humble her. + +With these feelings and purposes, having been pardoned, or having served +out his time in Algiers, he embarked in the “Duc D’Anjou” for France. +Picked up by an Algerine corsair from the wreck of that vessel, he had +been reconveyed to the Barbary States. Escaping thence, he once more +returned to Europe. + +He came to England to claim the hand of Estelle, or, failing to obtain +it, to extort money from her parents as the price of silence and +absence. + +But on arriving at Exeter, and hearing of her approaching nuptials with +the Viscount Montressor, and being ignorant of the good and sufficient +reasons she possessed for supposing himself to be deceased, all the most +malignant passions of his heart were enkindled, and all the most cunning +faculties of his mind were employed to enable him to meet the exigency +in a manner that should at the same time punish Estelle and profit +himself. + +Feeling no doubt of the legality of that rite by which he supposed he +had secured her person and fortune, yet fearing, nevertheless, that in +the event of his _then_ claiming her hand, her father would interfere, +and, by means of his vast wealth and influence, contrive to invalidate, +or in some other manner break the bond that united them, he, with a +demon’s art, resolved to reserve himself, to conceal the fact of his +existence for awhile, to allow her—unconscious of his presence in the +country—to go to the altar, and then, armed with a warrant for her +arrest, spring a trap upon her. + +Not that he intended she should suffer the extreme penalty of the law; +but that he wished to degrade her in the eyes of the whole world, so +that even her haughty parents should be willing, as their only resort, +to resign her, with her fortune, to his possession. To accomplish this +end, it had been his purpose, after the interruption of the nuptials by +the arrest of the bride, to have had an explanation, and come to a +compromise with Estelle’s family, and in the event of their closing with +his terms, to have withdrawn his witnesses, so that at the trial before +the Judge of the Assizes, there should be no evidence against her, who, +being then free, though ruined, would fall to his undisputed possession. + +Fortunately for Estelle, her advocate, Lord Dazzleright, at once +detected the policy of the prosecuting party. And the manner in which +the charge was met and the defense conducted at the preliminary +investigation, disabused Monsieur Victoire of the false hope of +obtaining possession of Estelle, and at the same time aroused all the +vindictive passions of his nature, that instigated him to have her +prosecuted to the utmost extent of the law. + +Upon the occasion of the trial before the Assizes, the charge of the +Judge to the jury—in which his lordship distinctly declined to pronounce +upon the validity of the alleged first marriage, declaring that to be a +matter for the adjudication of the spiritual courts—had again, however +irrationally, revived his hopes. + +At the conclusion of the trial, he determined to keep trace of Estelle, +and to file a petition to be heard upon his claim, before the Court of +Arches. + +He soon discovered the flight of Estelle to London, and subsequently her +embarkation for Baltimore. + +In pursuit of her he took passage on the Mercury bound for the same +port. + +But Monsieur Victoire had still another motive, (which shall be +revealed,) for his voyage to America. + +The most debased and unfortunate of wretches possibly have some friends +whom they love or by whom they are beloved. And this miserable Victoire +had his mother, who doted on him, and a fellow voyager on whom he doted. +The name of the last mentioned was Julius Luxmore. How he had first +become acquainted with this young man it is not necessary now to relate. +It is sufficient to say that he had known him intimately for about two +years. + +From the moment of Victoire L’Orient’s embarkation on board the Mercury, +his spirits had suffered a reaction into gloom and apathy, to which +those of his volatile nation are frequently subject. And this +despondency increased with every league of the voyage, until, when half +across the Atlantic ocean, it amounted to absolute despair. He passed +much of the day in leaning over the bulwarks of the vessel, gazing +gloomily into the sea, and sometimes muttering to himself: + +“I shall never see Etoile! I shall never see Etoile!” + +One afternoon he was thus standing in the stern of the vessel with his +elbow resting on the taffrail, his chin leaning upon his hand, and his +eyes fixed intently upon the foaming sea in the wake of the vessel, when +his friend came up to his side, touching his elbow, and said, cheerily: + +“Come, come, shipmate! Do you think we are near a sunken reef? And are +you making leaden plummets of your eyeballs to take the soundings? What +are you gazing at?” + +“_Mon tombeau_,” answered the Frenchman, gloomily. + +“‘These things must not be thought on after these ways so, it will make +us mad,’ as the tender-hearted Lady Macbeth says.” + +“_Mais, mon Dieu!_ I shall never see Etoile! I shall never see Etoile!” + +“‘Consider it not so deeply!’ I think you have every thing to hope. You +must not judge her inclinations by the action of her counsel. Reflect; +she has fled from Lord Montressor, not from you!” + +“Grand heaven! who talks of her? It is not of Estelle, my demon of a +wife, that I speak!” exclaimed Victoire, shrugging his shoulders. + +“Of whom then? Etoile—Etoile—I never heard the name. Has Monsieur +Victoire perhaps _consoled_ himself for the absence of Madame Estelle?” +inquired Luxmore in a tone of raillery. + +“Ah! no, no,” replied the Frenchman in the same mournful tone—“I speak +of my child—my daughter—my pretty little Etoile!” + +“Your child!” exclaimed Luxmore in astonishment. + +“Yes, my friend. Mon Dieu! Yes, my daughter, my dear Etoile!” + +“But you never told me you had a child?” + +“But yes, mon Dieu! I have! I did from all the fact conceal. Listen you. +You shall hear. That woman of perdition, Estelle, had a child—a +daughter?” + +“Is it possible! and that child lives?” + +“Yes, yes! my beautiful Etoile! My princess of the Isle! My star of the +sea!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with real or feigned enthusiasm. + +“You astonish me. And her mother——?” + +“Does not know she lives. Attend you. I will, from you, nothing hide. +She has an uncle—the King of the isle.” + +“Eh? What?” exclaimed the other in perplexity. + +“I have an uncle—the King of the Isle.” + +“My poor Victoire, has grief unsettled your reason?” + +“Why?” + +“Just now you spoke of your daughter as princess of the Isle, but as you +also called her a star of the sea, I considered both phrases figurative. +Now, however, when you talk gravely of your uncle, who is the King of +the Island——” + +“But grand Dieu! my dear and good friend, you comprehend not. I have one +uncle who is a bachelor—old and rich, and resident for a long time upon +an island in the sea. But, mon Dieu! he is foolish, imbecile, idiotic,” +said Victoire, in a tone of real or assumed grief. + +“I am sorry, since it distresses you; but I cannot see what your mad +uncle has to do with the life of your daughter or the ignorance of her +mother.” + +“But, my faith! it has a great deal to do with both the one and the +other. Attend you. I shall nothing conceal. Regard you. You shall know +all. Listen you, then, my dear friend!” + +And Monsieur Victoire L’Orient commenced an explanation which I beg +leave to disembarrass from his idiomatic French and broken English and +give in less unintelligible language. + +It seems from the representations of Monsieur Victoire that the family +of “L’Orient” really once belonged to the ancient seignory of Provence. +The younger and of course poorer branch of that family, were of the +company of French Roman Catholics who went out with Lord Baltimore’s +emigrant troop, and settled the province of Maryland. + +This particular family fixed upon one of the loveliest and loneliest of +the Islands of the Chesapeake, and from that day, through several +successive generations, held it in their exclusive possession. Indeed, +their greatest desire, their hereditary passion, seemed to be to keep +this beloved and beauteous Island in the family. + +In all these years the intercourse between the European and the American +branches of the old house was not suffered to wane. On the contrary, +several successive intermarriages had revived and consolidated the +relationship. Thus when an heir of the Island reached man’s estate, his +choice of a bride was limited by the number of his marriageable female +cousins in France. Or if a daughter happened to be the sole heiress, a +husband was found for her among the males of the same. + +The American branch of the house were called for distinction L’Oriens +_de l’Ile_ (or, of the Island). But this term in the course of time +became a second surname, or a sort of title, so that the owners of the +Island were always called Monsieur L’Orient De L’Ile. And any European +L’Orient who married a sole heiress of the Island became in her right, +also Monsieur L’Orient De L’Ile;—though by his American neighbors of the +coast, he was called simply Mr. De L’Ile. + +We all know that successive intermarriages are not favorable to any +race. Hence it is not surprising that the family of L’Oriens De L’Ile +gradually died out. And the last lineal descendant, Monsieur Hubert De +L’Ile, who married his first cousin, had neither son nor daughter to +succeed him. + +The European branch of the house that had remained in France, and had +married into other families, continued, on the contrary, to be a +handsome and vigorous race. + +And of such was the father of Monsieur Victoire. + +But Monsieur Victoire had, as he says, an uncle, the elder brother of +his father. This man, Monsieur Henri L’Orient, was socially a bachelor +and an oddity, and politically a royalist and a Bourbonist. He had one +grand passion, and that was for—islands! or perhaps I should say for the +family Island in the Chesapeake, to which he was heir presumptive. +During the lifetime of Monsieur and Madame Hubert De L’Ile, he made +several voyages to the Chesapeake, and spent many months on the Island. +His love of the place was immense, his praise of it extravagant, his +compliments to the proprietors as sincere as they were overwhelming. + +“You are like a king and queen here! you are in your insular domain! +Your kingdom is only bounded by the infinite sea!” + +Thus he became a great favorite with the childless old people, who would +laughingly reply: + +“Ah, well! if it is so, if we are a king and queen, then you are the +prince and the heir of the kingdom.” + +And at their death they left a will bequeathing the Island to Monsieur +Henri L’Orient, and in case the latter should die without children, to +Monsieur Victoire L’Orient and his heirs forever. + +Monsieur Henri L’Orient was sixty years old when he “came to his +kingdom.” It was not likely that he would take a wife and become the +father of sons and daughters at that age. So he invited his younger +brother, with his family, to accompany him to his insular domain. But +Madame, his sister-in-law, who was at that time young, pretty, +fashionable and extravagant, preferred the saloons of Paris to the +loveliest Island in the world. And so Monsieur Hubert took leave of his +relatives, and departed alone for his “kingdom.” + +And years passed, during which the old man was too much attached to his +Island, and his relatives in Paris too much devoted to pleasure, to +permit an exchange of visits. + +But fifteen years after the separation, Madame was a widow without +youth, beauty or riches. And her good brother-in-law wrote, proposing +that she should come and bring her son and take up her residence with +him. + +But oh, horror! Madame could not think of such a thing! She infinitely +preferred to trust to her own resources in Paris, rather than to go out +to live among “mulattos and mud turtles on his Island in the Bay.” + +And with the help of friends, Madame opened her Pensionnat des +Demoiselles. + +Five more years passed, and old Monsieur Henri grew older in the +solitude of his insular “kingdom.” Now, whether it were the effect of +his strange and lonely life, the approach of extreme old age, or the +misfortunes of his beloved Bourbons, or all of these causes combined, I +know not, but the mind of the old man became deranged upon one subject, +his grand passion became a monomania, his jest grew earnest, his +ownership of the Island appeared the sovereignty of a kingdom, and his +letters to his sister-in-law and nephew were signed—with more rigid +formality of course than a real monarch would have used— + + “HENRI, BY GRACE OF GOD, KING OF THE ISLES.” + +For as his monomania grew, he imagined that his sovereign sway extended +over all the Islands of the Bay. At first, as his letters betrayed no +other sign of the writer’s mental alienation, his sister-in-law deemed +this signature an odd piece of pleasantry, as indeed in the first +instance it might have been; but when letter after letter came, gravely +signed in this manner, and when, in addition, he expressed his great +anxiety to see her son, the “Prince,” his nephew—Madame’s eyes were +opened! + +“This unfortunate old beast is mad!” she said; “we must look after him!” + +But just as Madame came to this conclusion, her own especial family +affairs demanded her exclusive attention. Her son Monsieur Victoire was +on trial for treason; Victoire’s baby-bride had a baby of her own that +must be concealed; her “pensionnat” was broken up; her character was +impeached; and finally the necessity of a change of residence was for +all these reasons imperative. She only waited the result of Victoire’s +trial, and when he was condemned to Algiers, she gathered together the +remnants of her property, turned the whole into cash, took her stolen +grandchild, whom she chose, for private reasons of her own, to +represent, for the present, to its mother, as dead,—and went down to +Dijon. Thence she wrote to her brother-in-law, “His Majesty, the King of +the Isles,” that her son, the “Prince,” his nephew, had experienced +unheard-of misfortunes, through his devotion to his allies, the +Bourbons; and that he was now banished to Algeria. But that his +“Highness” had left a child, an infant daughter, an angel of beauty; +and—what should she do with this child? + +The course of months brought back the old man’s answer. The “King of the +Isles” expressed the most exalted admiration of his nephew, the Prince’s +heroism, and the most profound sorrow for his misfortunes; and ended by +entreating his unhappy sister-in-law to bring the “Princess,” her +granddaughter, to be educated at his own court. + +“Great Heaven! that old animal is very mad! I hope he is not dangerous! +Very well! if he should be, his negro slaves are strong enough to bind +him at my command. And who will have a better right to command than I +when I get there?” said Madame, who being a prompt as well as courageous +woman, immediately wrote to the “Island King,” saying that she should +quickly follow her letter, and have the honor of presenting the +“Princess” at the court of His Majesty. And so in the course of a few +weeks Madame, having in charge the yearling child, embarked on board the +“Sirene,” bound from Havre to Baltimore, engaging the captain to put her +on shore at L’Orient, or East Island. + +It was after a prosperous voyage of two months, and upon a most +beautiful morning in May, that Madame was early aroused from her berth +to get ready to go on shore. Upon occasion she could be quick in making +her toilet, so in twenty minutes from the opening of her eyes she stood +upon the deck, looking out for the long-talked of, the beloved, the +beauteous Island. + +There it lay before her, in its more than ideal loveliness! There it lay +like an emerald on the bosom of the bay! A beautiful green island, +dimpled with hill and valley, veined with limpid streams, studded with +gray and mossy rocks, shaded with tall groves, and environed by the blue +waters that leaped and sparkled in the morning sun like a living sea of +liquid sapphires! There was a vivid and delicate freshness of hue in the +luxuriant vegetation of the Isle, as peculiar as it was delightful. Far +in the interior, from amidst the green beauty of the grove, arose the +many tall, white chimneys of the Island mansion. Scattered about in +picturesque groups, were the white cottages of the negro servants. Down +on the beach was a white boat-house, built in the shape of a Chinese +pagoda. + +Madame gazed in a sort of enthusiasm upon the scene. + +“It is a magnificent place, after all! My faith! those comical De L’Iles +did well to adore it! As for me, I shall take that old madman in hand! I +shall assume the direction of affairs. I shall introduce a new order of +things. I shall form the acquaintance of the gentry on the main land. I +shall give _fetes_ and dances! My Heaven! I must amuse myself, or else I +shall die of grief for poor Victoire, or go mad like His Majesty, the +King of the Isles! And at last Victoire will come back; or at least my +little Etoile will grow up; and by-the-by, it is very fortunate, my +faith! that I have this child as a passport to acceptance!” soliloquised +Madame. + +And she had scarcely had time thus to lay out her future before the +long-boat came around to the starboard gangway, and her trunks were +lowered into it. + +“The boat awaits the pleasure of Madame,” said the captain, offering +himself to assist her in the descent. Madame was carefully seated, the +babe was put in her arms, the six sailors plied their oars, and the boat +skimmed like a sea-bird the surface of the sparkling waters. + +Ten minutes brought them to the landing-place on the Isle—a little pier +beside the boat-house, painted white, and ascended by three steps. + +From this pier an avenue of half a mile in length, shaded by beautiful +trees, led up through fields and pleasure grounds, toward the house. All +this, Madame saw at a glance, while the boat was pushed up and moored. + +But upon the pier stood a most interesting group—namely, “His Majesty, +the King of the Isles,” and the chief ministers of his court—in other +words, Monsieur Henri De L’Isle and a half dozen of his negro men. + +Madame gazed in a sort of consternation—she had expected to find a very +aged, decrepit, driveling madman. “His Majesty,” on the contrary, though +eighty years of age, was still one of the finest looking men she had +ever set her eyes upon—tall, broad shouldered, and erect in form, with a +fresh, handsome, noble countenance, surrounded by a thick growth of hair +and beard as white as snow. He wore a purple cashmere morning-gown +folded like a royal robe about his person. His manner was dignified and +courteous, as he stood waiting to receive his guests. The half-dozen +negro men that were with him were neatly dressed in white trousers and +pink shirts, and were remarkable for their healthful and joyous +appearance. + +“Very good! the madman and his familiars are not so ill to look upon!” +said Madame, as with the child in her arms she left the boat. + +Monsieur Henri, with the air of the Grand Monarque, came down to meet +her. + +“Welcome, illustrious lady and beloved sister! welcome to our court, our +kingdom, and our heart!” he said, holding out both his hands. + +“I thank you, Monsiegneur!” replied Madame. But as she was embarrassed +with the babe in her arms, she could not accept his offered courtesy. + +“Why, how then! is Madame, my sister, left without her retinue? And has +the Princess, my niece, no attendance?” exclaimed Monsieur Henri, +looking excessively shocked. + +“Madame the Duchesse de Berri had no more, when she wandered in La +Vendee!” said our Madame, demurely. + +“Oh, miserable country!—oh, unfortunate princes!” exclaimed the old man, +lifting his hands and raising his eyes to heaven. Then—“Give me the +illustrious babe,” he said; and taking the child in his arms with the +solemn air of a bishop, who was about to baptize it, he called to one of +his negroes—“Come hither, Monsieur Louis.” + +A tall, aged man, with a very black skin, and very white hair, who was +clothed like the others, in a pink shirt and white trousers, approached +and bowed respectfully. + +“This is my High Constable of the Kingdom, Madame,” said Monsieur De +L’Ile, introducing the new-comer. + +Then placing the infant solemnly in the arms of the old negro, he +charged him, saying— + +“Receive your Princess, Monsieur Louis! and bear her on before us to the +palace! I follow with Madame.” + +Without suffering a muscle of his very intelligent face to change, the +old negro received the babe, and led the way up the shaded avenue toward +the house. + +“August lady, and dear sister, will you accept my arm?” said Monsieur +Henri, bowing and offering his services with the air of Chevalier +Bayard. + +“I thank you, Monsiegneur,” said the ‘august lady,’ suffering him to +draw her arm within his own, and lead her on, up the lovely, shadowy +walk, through the shrubberies, the pleasure grounds, and the flower +gardens. There were so many flowers! especially roses!—‘roses, +everywhere roses’—they flushed all the green island with their bloom, +and filled all the air with their perfume. They clustered thicker as you +approached the white house with its many tall chimneys, and its central +front portico. They climbed its posts, and ran along its eaves and +cornices, and shaded its windows. + +“What a beautiful, beautiful place!” said Madame, in rapture. + +Monsieur Henri led her up the white stone stairs of the portico, through +the front door, and into a broad central hall from which several +half-open doors on either side revealed glimpses of many spacious rooms +in their summer array of straw matting, white curtains, linen covers, +and many flowers; while the wide open doors at the back of the hall +exposed a pleasant view of gardens, vineyards, and orchards, sloping +down to the shore. + +“Welcome to my court, illustrious Madame,” said Monsieur De L’Ile, +opening the first door on his right, and ushering his guest into a +pleasant, airy parlor. He led her to an arm-chair, placed her in it, and +then rang for attendance. + +The bell was answered by the appearance of a handsome and even very +intellectual-looking mulatto woman, of about thirty years of age, who +courtesied and stood waiting. + +“This is Mademoiselle Madeleine, the first lady of your bed-chamber, +Madame,” said Monsieur Henri, presenting the woman to her new mistress. + +“And now, Mademoiselle, conduct your august mistress to her apartment. +Monsieur Louis? Ah, you are there! Deliver the Princess into the charge +of Mademoiselle.” + +The woman took the babe, and bowing to Madame, led the way up stairs to +a suite of apartments on the right side of the central hall, whose many +windows looked out upon the beautiful pleasure grounds of the Island and +upon the surrounding sea, and whose summer furniture was arranged with +the nicest regard to comfort and elegance. + +“My faith, the lunatic knows how to keep house,” thought the lady. Then +turning to her attendant, she inquired: + +“Does your master ever become violent?” + +“Madame?” + +“I ask you, does your master ever become ungovernable—dangerous?” + +“Pardon, I do not understand Madame,” said the woman, gravely and +respectfully. + +“You _will_ not, I suspect,” muttered the lady; then aloud, she asked: + +“How long has your master been mad?” + +“Pardon. Madame has been misinformed; my master is not mad.” + +“Your master is not mad!” exclaimed the lady, in astonishment. + +“No, Madame,” replied the mulatto, calmly. + +“You tell me that your master, Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, is not mad?” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“Then, if he is not mad, I should not wonder if you told me next that he +is King of the Isles.” + +“Certainly, Madame, he is King of the Isles.” + +“How? Your master, Monsieur De L’Ile, King of the Isles?” + +“Assuredly, Madame, since he says it.” + +“Oh, then, since this is so, I see how it is. I have arrived at Bedlam, +and we are all lunatics together!” exclaimed the visitor, highly +provoked. + +“Has Madame any orders?” inquired the woman, humbly. + +“Yes; lay that child on the bed, and go and send Louis to me.” + +“Yes, Madame.” And the woman left the room to do her errand. + +In a few moments, Louis appeared at the chamber door, bowed and stood +waiting. + +“Louis, how long has your master been mad?” inquired the lady, +peremptorily. + +“Forgive, but Madame has been deceived; my master is not mad.” + +“Then I suppose that he is really King of the Isles?” questioned the +guest, ironically. + +“Undoubtedly, Madame, since he says.” + +“And he is not mad?” + +“Assuredly not, Madame.” + +“Then I am, that is all.” + +“Has Madame any orders?” + +“No—yes; tell Madeleine to return to me.” + +The old man bowed deeply and retired. + +Madame clasped her temples with both hands. + +“Yes,” she said; “it is I, without doubt, who am mad, or shall soon +become so. Here I arrive at the extremity of the civilized world—the +very jumping-off place, and what do I find? a courtly madman, who calls +himself King of the Isles, and a pair of mulatto savages, who address me +in the elegantly turned phrases of the Tuileries, and confirm his +title——Ah, in a good hour! here comes Mademoiselle, my maid of honor!” + +The entrance of the mulatto put an end to Madame’s soliloquy, and +suggested the propriety of arranging her toilet. With the assistance of +Madeleine, her black satin dressing-gown was arranged, her well-dyed +black ringlets smoothed, the white lace collar and mits put on, and +Madame was ready to go down to breakfast. + +Madeleine remained to take care of the child. + +Louis stood outside the door, bowed, and preceded the lady to show her +the way to the breakfast parlor. + +It was a delightful room on the right hand of the hall, with its floor +covered with straw matting. Its many muslin-draped windows were open to +a view of rolling green meadows, covered with tender spring vegetation, +and variegated with apple, peach, and cherry trees, all in full bloom. +And beyond, the wide expanse of sparkling, leaping blue water stretched +away until its boundaries were lost under the purple, crimson, and gold +of the morning horizon. + +The breakfast table, covered with fine white damask, and adorned with a +service of silver and white Sevres, was laden with all the luxuries of +the season. + +Monsieur De L’Ile (unless the reader prefers that I should call him the +King of the Isles) stood ready to hand Madame to the table—an act of +gallantry that he performed with the stately courtesy of a Guise or a +Medici. + +Louis took his stand at a sideboard that stood between two of the open +windows, and from whence he served coffee, tea, or chocolate. + +Madame had enough to do to watch her host. She engaged him in +conversation, hoping to be able to measure the extent of his insanity, +and to find out whether, and how best, she could wrest from his aged +hands the control of his own property: first, whether she could not do +it without having _recourse_ to law; secondly, whether she could do it +even _through_ law. Of the first there was little hope; the old man’s +mind upon every subject but the one, acted with a vigor, clearness, and +directness that proved him to be a very unlikely subject for even the +most artful woman’s government; of the second there was no certainty, +for, though upon one idea he was undoubtedly mad, yet, upon the first +suspicion of her purpose to subject him to a medical or a judicial +examination, he would assuredly have the cunning to conceal his +madness—a measure in which he would be supported by his two educated +slaves, Louis and Madeleine, who, for whatever reason, were certainly +flatterers of his mania. + +However, Madame was not a woman rashly to resign a purpose, or grow +hopeless of its accomplishment. + +And all this time, while her head was busily brewing plots, the old man, +the purposed victim of her machinations, was loading her with +compliments and attentions. + +When breakfast was over, Madame set herself to arrange her own personal +attendance. Madeleine was retained as her maid. And a pretty mulatto +girl named Coralie, the younger sister of Madeleine, was appointed nurse +to the “Princess Etoile.” Frivole, the boy brother of those girls was +brought from the garden into the house as page and messenger. And +Madame’s establishment was complete. + +The next day was the Sabbath. Madame was a devout Roman Catholic, and a +scrupulous attendant upon mass. Here was a difficulty not thought of +before. Where and how should she attend mass? She early rang her bell. + +Her maid answered the summons. + +“Madeleine, how far are we from the main land?” + +“About fifty miles.” + +“Very good. How far is the nearest Catholic chapel from this?” + +“St. Inigoes, the nearest, Madame, is fifty miles.” + +“Better! Madeleine, my brother-in-law, your master, his Majesty the King +of the Isles, when he was simply Monsieur Henri, used to be a good +Catholic.” + +“And he is so still, Madame.” + +“But good Catholics are under obligations to hear mass once every +Sunday.” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“‘Yes, Madame.’ It is very well to say, ‘Yes, Madame,’ but how upon +earth do you reconcile the neglect of that duty on the part of your +master with your declaration that he is still a good Catholic?” + +“But Madame will pardon me. She hastens to conclusions. My master does +not neglect his Christian duties.” + +“Then I should be glad to know how he performs them. You do not mean to +say that he goes fifty miles to hear mass at St. Inigoes?” + +“No, Madame.” + +“How then?” + +“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before +breakfast.” + +“EH?” + +“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before +breakfast, in the chapel fitted up for that purpose.” + +“Oh! my head! my head!” cried the poor woman, wildly clapping her hands +to her temples. + +“Is Madame ill?” coolly inquired the mulatto. + +“ILL? Is all the world raving mad? You tell me, you impertinent! you +impudent! you insolent! outrageous——! You tell me that the Pope says +Mass here every Sunday!” + +“Madame can assure herself of that fact,” replied Madeleine, with an +humble, but injured look. + +“I shall go mad! I got over your King of the Isles, your Lord High +Constable, and your Princess Etoile—but his Holiness the Pope saying +Mass here every Sunday—no! I won’t endure that!” + +“Madame undoubtedly has the privilege to object!” + +“Begone!” + +“Yes, Madame. But pardon me for delaying long enough to say my master +bade me inform you, that High Mass would be celebrated in the chapel +this morning; and that Louis would be in attendance to conduct you +thither.” + +“Begone, I say, while I have some rationality left!” + +“Certainly, Madame.” + +“Stop! come back; help me to dress; I will go to the chapel that the +dream may be finished, and I may wake up the sooner.” + +Madeleiene obediently came back. + +Madame quickly made her toilet and left her chamber, at the door of +which she found Louis waiting to attend her. + +“Louis, is it true that Mass will be celebrated here this morning?” + +“Yes, Madame.” + +“But who will officiate?” + +“Our Most Holy Father, the Pope!” + +“Go to the——. I mean go on before me.” + +Madame had nearly permitted herself, in her indignation, to use profane +language. + +Louis, undisturbed by his mistress’s excitement, walked down before her, +until he paused before the door of the chapel, which was one of those +pleasant rooms on the first floor. + +Madame entered, and found herself in an apartment fitted up as a church. + +At the upper extremity stood an altar adorned with sacred pictures and +statuettes, wreathed with flowers, and lighted with many wax candles. +From a silver censer burning before it, arose a rich aroma that filled +the air. Dark, rich transparencies pulled down before the windows +produced something of the effect of stained glass, and threw over the +scene an atmosphere at once brilliant and solemn. Between every window +was some picture of saint, or angel. Rows of neat white benches supplied +the place of pews. All the slaves of the Island plantation, dressed in +their summer Sunday suits of pure white, were here assembled, with a +quiet and devout demeanor. Before the altar, with his back to the +congregation, stood a very tall and dignified old man in the +triple-crowned mitre and the pontifical robes and vestments of his +Holiness the Pope. + +Madame sank into the nearest seat through the sheer exhaustion produced +by an overwhelming astonishment. What did this mean? Who was this +person? How dared any subordinate priest, bishop, or archbishop, or even +cardinal, assume the pontifical robes? + +The strains of an organ now arose, swelling on the air. She looked +around—saw the organ, it was behind her, and beside the door by which +she had entered, but a screen reaching half way up the instrument, +concealed the organist from her view. What _did_ it all mean? + +But the Mass had commenced, and Madame was too devout a Catholic to stop +to think when it was time to pray. So down she dropped upon her knees, +and began in the form of the ritual, and in her case, no doubt, with the +exactest truth, to accuse herself of every sin in the catalogue. And in +her devotions she forbore to look about or raise her eyes again to the +mysterious old man who officiated, at the altar. + +At last at the conclusion of the solemnities, when the celebrant turned +round toward the people, and solemnly extending his venerable hands, +intoned “Deus Gratias,” (Thanks be to God,) Madame raised her eyes, and +to her inexpressible scandalization, recognized Monsieur Henri. + +“Good! This is better than the rest! He is a king all the week and the +Pope on Sunday. But it would be a mortal sin in me to allow _this_ +madness to go on any longer! I would put up with the king for six days, +but the Pope, Holy Virgin! no, that must be stopped. I’ll make an excuse +of an errand to town, get him to let me have a barque, and go to the +mainland, and to the County seat, and take out a writ of lunacy against +him. I will lose no time. I will do this to-morrow.” + +While Madame thus resolved, the congregation were quietly dispersing. As +there was but one outlet to this room, the officiating priest himself +came down; and in passing by his guest, he paused, extended his hands +over her head in the most solemn and benignant manner, and said, gravely +and slowly— + +“Benedicite, illustrious daughter,” and then in measured steps passed +out. + +Sunday, on the Sunrise Island, was a day of Heaven—as the Isle itself +was a terrestrial paradise. + +The fifty servants, entirely freed from labor at the time, and dressed +in their festive garments, wandered about with their children, in +couples, trios or groups—over the green fields, beside the singing +streams, or along the silvery sanded beach; or they sat in groups under +the shady groves; or reposed, stretched at length, beneath some gigantic +tree; or gathered in some large arbor around some one of their number, +who had been taught to read, and who read to them from the Book of +books; or else they united their voices in a psalm of thanksgiving that +arose joyously from that green and blooming Island of the sea, filling +all the sunny air with music. And the lovely day was followed by a +moonlight night, and their Sabbath recreations were closed by the +assembling of the whole band of servants, and the singing of an evening +hymn. Then, after partaking of the simple Sunday supper of coffee, cakes +and fruit, served under the trees, they separated for the night. + +And Monsieur Henri, no longer pope, but king, sat upon his front piazza, +with his niece upon his knee, his sister-in-law beside him, and his two +favorite servants Madeleine and Louis near at hand, and watched the +departing figures of his people as they defiled off in twos and threes +and larger groups, toward their respective neat, white cabins. + +“My subjects are happy, I think, my dear sister! At least it is my study +to make them so! And they love me! Yes, they love me! That is what keeps +my old age green,” said the old man. + +And assuredly no people in the world were happier as a community than +these dependants of the good old man—these subjects of a self-styled +king. + +“They seem contented and prosperous,” said Madame. + +“They have nothing left to wish for, and on their side leave me nothing +to desire. Neither have I any cares of government—Louis manages all my +affairs,” said the old man with a look of infinite content. + +The next day, Monday, “His Majesty” requested a private interview with +his “august sister,” in which he begged that she would give him a full +and particular account of her illustrious son, “the Prince,” his +nephew’s misfortunes. And Madame gave a distorted version of the +truth—relating that Monsieur Victoire had been condemned to the colonies +for conspiring in favor of the Bourbons, and that his young wife, an +English Lady of high rank, had abandoned him in his misfortunes. The +mind of the old man in attending to this story seemed divided between +exalted admiration for the heroism, and profound sorrow for the +misfortunes of his nephew. + +They then talked of the affairs of the Island. And Madame learned from +all she heard and saw, that Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, notwithstanding his +monomania, and perhaps even _because_ of it, was one of the best of +masters and wisest of rulers—truly deserving to be called by the +threefold titles that he claimed of King, Priest, and Father of his +people. + +He had, on first coming to the Island, found Louis and Madeleine—a +bright intelligent brother and sister, the former twenty, the latter ten +years of age. He had taught them both to read, write, and keep accounts. +They were both perfectly devoted to his person and interests, and in the +twenty years of his residence on the Island, an attachment had grown up +between himself and them, that more nearly resembled the confidential +friendship of equals, than the relative regard of master and servants. +Yet their reverential affection for their master amounted to idolatry. +No absurdity of which the old man through his monomania might be guilty, +could provoke from their respectful countenances a smile. They seemed +really to wish to believe him to be a king, rather than to admit him to +be a madman. Never for an instant was their guarded reverence for him +surprised or betrayed. No matter how sudden, startling, and perplexing +the questions, put by Madame upon the subject of their master’s +madness—their answers were always ready, grave, respectful, and +uncompromising. + +“Pray, how long has it been since Monsieur Henri has enjoyed the dignity +of being a king all the week and a pope on Sunday?” inquired Madame of +Louis that identical Monday morning. + +“To us, ever since he first announced himself as such, Madame,” replied +Louis, with an humble bow. + +“Pray, has Monsieur Henri friends and neighbors on the main land?” +questioned the lady of Madeleine. + +“Very many, Madame.” + +“And do they know that he is mad?” + +“They cannot know that since he is not, Madame,” replied the woman +deferentially. + +And Madame never could surprise either Louis or Madeleine, or any other +servant on the plantation into the slightest betrayal of a suspicion +that any thing was amiss with their master’s brain. + +This brother and sister were the mainstays of their old master. Louis +managed his farm, orchard, vineyard, garden and fishery, and attended to +the sale of the products of the whole. Madeleine kept his house, table +and wardrobe in order, and nursed him through any indisposition. Madame +saw at once that she herself was a supernumerary in the establishment; +that the position assigned to her was that of a most honored guest, most +welcome to remain forever, but neither expected nor desired to take any +trouble, or assume any responsibility in the government of the family. +Now this position was by no means acceptable to her feelings, and she +resolved to carry into immediate execution her purpose of going that day +to the mainland to apply for a writ of lunacy in behalf of her +brother-in-law. Having ascertained from Monsieur Henri that the Island +belonged to the County of Northampton, and that the county-town was +Eastville, she begged that he would allow her the use of the barque and +the men to work it to take her to that town, where she said she wished +to make some purchases of summer clothing for herself and the child. + +Monsieur Henri, with the most cordial politeness, at once assented, +adding that he should do himself the honor of attending his beloved +sister. + +Now this was quite an unexpected difficulty. His presence must defeat +her object. She therefore begged that he would not take the trouble to +accompany her, and entreating that he would regard his ease and health. + +But Monsieur De L’Ile was not to be exceeded in politeness. He assured +his sister-in-law that to attend her to Eastville would afford him +unmixed gratification. And he further informed her that he himself had +business at the court-house, that required his immediate attention. + +There was therefore nothing for her to do but to submit to necessity and +trust to circumstances to favor her design. And since he was really +himself going to the court-house, that very event might so turn out as +to enable her, without difficulty, to deliver him into the hands of the +proper authorities for his safe custody. She therefore affected to +accept his proffered services with great thankfulness. + +He informed her, however, that it would require a whole day to go and +return from Eastville, and that therefore, if she pleased, he would give +orders for the barque to be made ready for service by sunrise next +morning. + +To that feature of the plan, also, she assented with seeming gratitude. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + THE SKIPPER’S DAUGHTER. + + “This should become a noble creature, she + Hath all the energy that should construct + A goodly whole of glorious elements, + If they be wisely mingled by her will.”—_Byron._ + + +How gloriously, the next day, arose the summer sun upon that green and +blooming and odoriferous island. + +Madame, from the rose-wreathed balcony of her front chamber window, +looked out upon the delightful scene, as upon some poetic elysium, +encircled by the crystal sea. It was indeed an enchanting vision. The +whole isle was carpeted with a brilliant green verdure, sparkling with +dew-drops, and enameled with flowers of every elegant form and beautiful +color and delicious fragrance!—myriads upon myriads of roses, +rose-bushes, rose-trees, and rose-vines—roses clustering, climbing, +twisting and twining, everywhere—columns and colonnades, piazzas, +balconies, trellises, and arbors, all wreathed and covered and vailed +and festooned with roses, that flushed all the green Isle with their +intense and vivid blushes, and filled the air with their rich aroma. +There were groves of ornamental trees of luxuriant beauty and +fragrance—the flowering almond with its delicate perfume, and soft white +blossoms, seeming as if a fall of summer snow had lighted on its elegant +tendrils; the lanton-belle with its heavy shade and clustering purple +tufts and odoriferous breath; the red-bud with its brilliant green +foliage and scarlet-drops; the stately tulip-poplar, with its fiery +hanging bells; the queenly catalpa, with its aromatic odor; the imperial +magnolia, with its deep green, shining leaves, and “all Arabia’s spices” +in its pure white vase-like cups; orchards of peach, apple, cherry, +apricot and plum-trees, all covered with their pink, white or variegated +flowers; walks flanked with raspberries, gooseberries, and +currant-bushes, all in full blossom. And lastly, through the intervening +branches of the fragrant flowering locusts that overhung the silvery +sanded beach, gleamed the snow-white sails of the fairy barque, the +“Sylph,” that fluttered in the morning breeze like the wings of some +beauteous sea-bird—beyond this flashed and sparkled the deep blue sea, +and above all glowed the crimson, purple, and golden glory around the +rising sun. + +Madame had scarcely taken in this sublime, beautiful and enchanting +vision, when Louis rapped at the chamber door and announced that the +breakfast, the boat, and his master, all waited Madame’s pleasure. + +She descended to the breakfast parlor, where she found the table spread, +and Monsieur Henri equipped for his journey. + +And after the morning meal of rich coffee, delicate bread, fresh butter +and eggs, and delicious fruit and cream, Monsieur Henri announced +himself as waiting the orders of Madame, and gallantly conducted her to +the barque. + +The Sylph was a beautiful sail-boat, gayly painted green on the side, +and white and red within. Her deck and ropes and sails were clean and +nice as a lady’s face and hands and dress. From the mainmast streamed a +snow-white pennant studded with the golden lilies of France. + +Four negro sailors in neat straw-hats, blue shirts and white trousers, +stood on the deck waiting commands. They doffed their hats to the master +and to the lady, as the two latter appeared. + +Monsieur Henri assisted Madame to gain the deck, and seated her in a +comfortable willow-chair under a canopy in the stern. + +Louis placed himself at the helm, the four sailors manned the capstan, +the anchor was weighed, the sails filled, and the Sylph floated out upon +the blue and sparkling water. + +As they sailed from the eastern extremity of the Island, they were +obliged to “’bout ship” and make half the circuit of the Isle, in order +to steer for the Northampton coast, that lay off to the westward. + +After a delightful sail of three hours they came in sight of the main +land, with its rolling hills and valleys, and dark green woods and +meadows. + +A beautiful but solitary shore. + +No house in all its length to be seen save one—an old, half-ruined, gray +stone mansion, standing far out upon a point of land extending into the +sea, and half hidden by the ancient forest trees around it. + +“That is Brande’s Headland, where we are going ashore,” said Monsieur +Henri—walking forward and giving orders to the men to strike sail and +cast anchor where they were. + +A small skiff was then let down from the side of the barque, Monsieur +Henri and Madame got into it, followed by Louis, who took the single oar +and sculled rapidly toward the beach, which they reached in a few +minutes. + +Monsieur, still with the air of the Chevalier Bayard, or the Grand +Monarque, handed Madame from the boat, drew her arm within his own, and +with the aid of a gold-headed cane, began to help himself and her up the +rugged ascent of the bank. + +As they reached its top, and stood upon a level with the old, +dilapidated house, some three or four wild looking, handsome, healthy +boys ran out to see who was coming. Two great Newfoundland dogs that lay +upon the broken, stone steps, sprang up, but were immediately restrained +by the appearance of a very handsome, dark-haired girl, of about +thirteen years of age, who came to the front door, and laying a hand on +the head of each favorite, said: + +“Down, Wind! Down, Wave! Behave, boys! How dare you then? Don’t you see +it’s Monsieur Henri?” + +The dogs, still growling, unwillingly submitted, and the handsome +brunette came down the old moss-grown steps to meet her visitors. + +“Welcome, Monsieur Henri! but you must forgive the dogs; they know +_you_, of course; it was the strange lady they objected to,” said the +brown maiden, extending her hand to the old gentleman, who took and +shook it cordially and held it cozily, while he said: + +“Ah, Barbara, Barbara, still brighter than ever, my brave girl! Why, +what a woman you are growing! And how is the old skipper? Eh, Barbara? +And the handsome young mate? Eh, Barbara?” + +The young girl laughed, displaying a row of the whitest and evenest +teeth in striking contrast with her cherry lips, nut-brown skin, and +sloe-black hair and eyes. She was too young and guileless to blush at +such a question. + +“The skipper is off again? Eh, Barbara?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, with a cargo of flour to Habana. He will bring back West +India sugar and molasses.” + +“Why, what a businesswoman you are, Babby. You know all about every +thing.” + +“Ay, ay, sir!” exclaimed Barbara, laughing. + +“And hark ye, Monsieur”—she said, mysteriously bending toward him, and +whispering so low that but the last words of her communication were +heard—“for Madame.” + +“Oh, Barbara, Barbara, you shocking little smuggler! I ought to deliver +you to the authorities.” + +“No, no, Monsieur. They are for Madame—the sweetmeats,” said the girl. + +“For Madame? Very well. I have not presented you to Madame. I must do +so,” he said, taking her hand with a droll formality, turning her about +facing the lady, and continuing: + +“Madame L’Orient, my sweetheart, Barbarie, the daughter of my brave +Captain Brande, who owns and commands the good brig Kelpie, trading +between this coast and the West Indies, the Bermudas, South America, +England—anywhere. Ma belle Barbarie used to sail with the skipper in all +his voyages, but now she stays home and takes care of the boys, while +her father is at sea, and does a little in the smuggling line when he +comes home—do you not?” he asked, playfully, chucking the girl under the +chin. + +“No—no, Monsieur!” + +“Mon Dieu! she has a hamper or so of West India sweetmeats hidden away, +that has never seen the outside of a custom-house! but she does not +dabble in smuggling! _she_ does not! Eh, bien! She says they are for +Madame, and we will excuse her and thank her.” + +“Will Monsieur and Madame come in and rest?” asked the maiden. + +“No, no, my child—but can you let us have the old carry-all? We are +going on to Eastville?” + +“Oh, yes, Monsieur! Will you want me to drive?” + +“No, my child; I have Louis with me, and if I had not—death of my life! +do you suppose I would sit back at my ease, and allow you to hold the +reins?” + +“Monsieur is very polite, but he knows that I am accustomed to drive +passengers from the coast to Eastville.” + +“Not when they are gentlemen, my pretty one! But, now! how soon can we +have that carriage ready?” + +“If you and Madame will walk in and sit down, I will put the horses to +it directly.” + +“By no means, my little one! Direct my servant, Louis, where to find +them—he will do it.” + +“But, Monsieur,” said the girl, laughing, “if you patronize our house +much, you will spoil me! I shall forget the use of my hands, and permit +them to grow soft and white, like a lady’s.” + +“The gallant young mate of the Kelpie will not object to that, my +beauty!” said the old gentleman, who, looking around and seeing Louis +coming up the bank, beckoned him to approach, and directed him to go to +the stables, get the carriage out, put the horse to it and bring it +around. + +Louis bowed and went off toward a dilapidated pile of grey stone +buildings, at some distance behind the dwelling-house, and which had +probably long ago deserved the name of stables. + +Since the visitors declined going into the house, Barbara ran in to +bring out chairs for them. + +While she was gone, Madame, looking around upon the desolate scene, and +contrasting it mentally with the lovely island they had that morning +left, exclaimed— + +“What a ruinous, dilapidated old place! How can the owner allow a fine +property like this to go to ruin?” + +“Oh! I don’t know! My good friend, Captain Brande, is fit for nothing +but the waters! he nor his race! He belongs to that class of old sea +dogs that have infested these coasts ever since their first settlement, +and before! He married the heiress of all this property—Barbara’s +mother; she died, leaving him with Babby and her three little brothers. +Babby has been a housekeeper for the father, and a mother for the +children, which is as much as can be expected of her, poor child! But +you see how the skipper has allowed the house to go to wreck and ruin.” + +“But do you tell me”—asked Madame—“do you mean to say that this young +maiden stays here with these children day and night, without protection, +in this most lonely and desolate of places?” + +“Not quite; she has two faithful negro servants, an old married pair, +whom she calls Neptune and Amphitrite. And then, those dogs! Either of +those beasts could spring at a strong man’s throat and drag him to the +earth!” + +“And what is that about the smuggling?” + +“Why, my little Barbara takes after her salt-water progenitors, who, +with charity let it be said, were all free-traders, except those who +were pirates!” + +“Ugh! and this young creature resembles them!” said Madame, in holy +horror. + +“I cannot say that she does in the matter of their piratical +propensities;—but as for their buccaniering proclivities,—I tell you +this young thing has such a keen relish for free-booting, that a +smuggled aloe would seem sweeter to her taste than the sweetest orange +that had paid duty! The little villain! she whispered me just now, that +she had a hundred canisters of West India sweetmeats, that were not one +of them flavored with custom-house! The little scamp! how she loves the +sea besides! Just to see her black eyes kindle when she speaks of a +ship! If she were a boy, she would run away and go to sea; being a girl, +with her propensities and in her circumstances, I don’t know what will +become of her! Hush! don’t reply, here she is.” + +Barbara came out, bringing two chairs, which she placed for her +visitors. Then, while they seated themselves, she ran away again, and +returned, bringing a little table, which she set before them, and +covered with a white cloth. And then, in two or three successive +flittings into the house, she brought out the whitest bread and freshest +butter, the clearest guava jelly, and the most fragrant pineapple +preserves; and lastly, a bottle of wine, that Monsieur Henri lifted up +and gazed upon in consternation, exclaiming, when he had somewhat +recovered his suspended breath— + +“Why, you little audacious! don’t you know, then, that this wine is +never, _never_ exported; that it is tantamount to high treason, even if +it be not high sacrilege, to send it out of Italy! Why this is the +Pope’s own particular drink! How dared you? Where did you get it from? +You perceive that I am asking you questions, Mademoiselle!” + +The girl laughed merrily, exclaiming— + +“Try it, Monsieur! try it! Try it, Madame.” + +“Not until you have told me where you got it! You perceive that I have +no politeness; I persist in my questions, Mademoiselle.” + +“My father brought it from the Levant, when he came home from his last +voyage, Monsieur,” said Barbara, laughing. + +“And of course every custom-house officer between there and here has +drawn the cork, and inhaled the perfume?” + +“_Oh of course!_ and tasted the contents and smacked his lips over +it—_of course they have!_” exclaimed Barbara, laughing gayly, and +clapping her hands in glee. + +The luxurious little luncheon was discussed, and by the time they had +finished, Louis brought the carriage around. + +Monsieur Henri handed his sister-in-law into the back seat, and placed +himself beside her. Louis took the front seat, gathered up the reins, +and prepared to drive on. Monsieur and Madame then took leave of their +young hostess, and the carriage started. + +The road to Eastville lay through a thick pine woods, and the ride would +have been a very pleasant one but for Madame’s anxious thoughts, that +kept her silent, and threw a little gloom over the whole party. + +We know what Madame L’Orient’s intentions were in coming to the main +land this day; namely, to obtain a writ of lunacy against her +kind-hearted old host, and a power of guardianship over his person and +property. But was ever a woman so unfortunate as herself? she asked. For +no sooner had she brought this old man away from the island than his +insanity seemed to have dropped from him, as a garment, and he spoke and +acted as rationally as any one,—with no air à la Grand Monarque, no talk +of crowns and sceptres, thrones and kingdoms; but with the gay and +genial manners of an old French “good fellow.” What was the meaning of +it? Was that delightsome island, an enchanted spot, that infected its +owner with the proud madness of an imaginary monarchy? And was he at +once, on quitting its shores, delivered from the spell. It really seemed +so. + +On emerging from the pine woods, after an hour’s drive, they arrived at +the little hamlet of Eastville, then a small cluster of houses, built +around the court-house on the cross roads. + +They drove first to the village stores, that Madame might do her +ostensible errand of shopping. + +And when this was over, and the little packages of linen, muslin, thread +and needles, made up and put into the carriage, Madame and Monsieur +re-entered, took their seats and drove to the court-house, where the +court was in session and the judiciary officers all at their posts. +Monsieur De L’Ile’s business there was simply to pay his taxes. + +Madame watched in vain for an opportunity of denouncing him as a +lunatic. There was none afforded. His conversation upon all +subjects—property, agriculture, manufactures, commerce, politics—with +the various persons with whom he happened to fall in company, was so +strong, so clear, so pointed and conclusive,—evincing an intellect so +profound, powerful, and almost prophetic, that to have hinted at the +possibility of his being a lunatic, would have been to expose herself to +the certainty of being pronounced a maniac or an impostor. In a word, +Madame felt herself constrained to defer her purpose to some more +favorable opportunity. + +Monsieur Henri concluded his business, and they turned their horses’ +heads shoreward. + +It was near sunset when they reached the headland and Barbara Brande’s +old ruined house. + +Barbara had tea ready for them. The table was set out under a great elm +tree, and covered with imported, if not smuggled luxuries, such as guava +jellies, anchovy paste, potted meats, etc., which Barbara exultingly +declared had never been spiced with duty. + +After tea they took leave of their bright, young hostess, and returned +on board their barque. They sailed homeward by moonlight and arrived at +early bed time. + +After this, Madame made many similar attempts to convict her benefactor +of mania; but always without success; for though as long as Monsieur +Henri De L’Ile confined himself to the island, he was for six days of +the week a king, and on the seventh a pope, yet just so soon as he left +its shores, or received any one from the outside world upon its soil, he +became a plain, cheerful, clear-headed country gentleman, whom it would +have been madness to charge with lunacy. But whether on the isle or off +it, whether king or countryman, Monsieur Henri ever remained the same +great, generous, warm-hearted host, friend and master, dispensing +happiness to all who lived on his lovely isle, beneath his benignant +rule. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + THE ISLAND PRINCESS. + + “Within the island’s calm retreat + She lived a sort of fairy life.”—_Milnes._ + + “She was a form of life and light + That seen, became a part of sight + And rose where’er I turned my eye + The Morning Star of memory.”—_Byron._ + + +And so, as the sunny summers slipped away, in this atmosphere of love +and beauty, Etoile, the peerless little “Princess of the Isle,” budded +from infancy into childhood. She was as lovely as the loveliest vision +that ever visited a poet in his most inspired dreams. The inside of a +shell was not more pearly white, or flushed with a more delicate rose +tint, than her fair, transparent complexion; the yellow silk of the +young corn no more golden bright than her shining ringlets; nor the +modest violet of a deeper, purer blue than her heavenly eyes. Yet +blonde, as she was, her fair face was a “softened image” of a _dark +ladye_ whom we have seen before. It was as if a dainty miniature had +been copied in water colors from a fine portrait in India ink. The fair +and roseate face of Etoile was, in fact, a delicate transcript of the +beautiful dark face of her mother, Estelle. + +The life of this lovely child on the delightful Island passed like a +heavenly dream. It was even brighter with enchanting illusions than the +usual life of childhood. She was taught to believe that the stately and +benignant old gentleman, her grand-uncle, was indeed a king; that she +herself was in reality a princess, and that the Sunrise Island was her +hereditary kingdom. “Within the Island’s calm retreat she lived a sort +of charmed life,” never leaving her beautiful home, never even desiring +to leave it. In the pleasant mansion her education was conducted by +Monsieur Henri, who instructed her in what are called the solid branches +of education, and by Madame, who gave her lessons in music, dancing, and +embroidery. Out of the mansion, by Monsieur Henri’s express commands, +she was left to herself and to nature. Here she lived at liberty in a +paradise, the influence of whose beneficent beauty must forever have +saved her graceful wildness from breaking into unseemly rudeness. Here +she played and frolicked with the innocent freedom of the squirrel, or +the bird—going up into the tops of the beautiful grove trees if their +umbrageous branches wooed her presence—and learning to climb as the +kitten learns; or in her own retired haunts, bathing in the blue waters +of the sea until her limbs grew familiar with the waves, and she learned +to breast them, as the young swan learns to swim. Thus her physical +organization was in the fairest way of a full and beautiful development. + +And if this star-bright Etoile was taught to believe herself a princess, +she was the no less instructed to consider her position a high and holy +trust for the welfare and happiness of those soon to be dependent on +her. Nor were these instructions so very far from the truth as at first +view they might appear. For, if this lovely girl were not indeed the +princess, she was certainly the _heiress_, and would be the _absolute +mistress_ of the Island and of the people upon it, over whom she would +possess more than a queen’s power, and for whom she would also feel more +than a queen’s responsibility. And so the young creature felt it. No +selfish, thoughtless, childish exactions, ever embittered the unvarying +sweetness of her manners to “those who labored in her fields, or waited +in her halls.” No harsh tone ever jarred the harmony of her voice in +speaking to them. No dark frown ever clouded the brightness of her face +in looking upon them. And just as surely nothing but smiles and +blessings and devoted service were hers, from those affectionate +creatures. + +Madame was anxious to disabuse the growing girl of her royal +imaginations; but Monsieur was resolved to preserve her proud and +beautiful illusions. And the only occasion upon which Monsieur was ever +known to give way to furious passion, was one morning when he happened +to overhear Madame inform Etoile that, so far from being a princess, she +was only a miserable little beggar, dependent upon the bounty and +caprices of her grandfather, who, far from being a king, was only a +wretched old lunatic. + +Upon hearing this, Monsieur Henri burst like a storm into the room, and +striking his heavy cane upon the floor, roared forth in a voice of +thunder: + +“WOMAN!! I have borne much from your ingratitude and deception! But dare +again to doubt the royal descent of your princess, and you shall pay for +your treason with your HEAD!!” + +There was an awful pause. + +“MADAME! do you hear?” thundered the old infuriate. + +Madame _did_ hear, and turned whiter than the handkerchief that she +pressed to her bloodless lips, while her eyes dilated with terror until +a white circle flared around their black balls. But she was past the +power of speech, and could only gaze panic-stricken after the old man, +as he haughtily strode from the room. + +“Oh-h-h! Mon Dieu, what a situation!” exclaimed Madame, when she had +recovered her breath—“the old beast! the old madman! the horrible old +ogre! Bon Dieu! what bewitched me to come here and put myself in his +power! Grand Dieu! and I am out of the reach of human help! Oh Ciel! if +he should take it into his crazy brain that I am plotting, he would—off +with my head in the twinkling of an eye! Don’t I know he would? And this +yellow demon of a Louis, who never gainsays him, whether he claims to be +king or pope, would do it for him! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! what is to become +of a poor woman, whom her evil fate has committed to the care of a +furious madman!” + +And half-crazy with fear, Madame seized the bell-rope, and rang a peal +that presently brought Louis hurrying to the room. + +“Did you ring, Madame?” + +“Yes! I should think I did. It is you I want! you! Come here! Tell me +now—supposing that old madman were to take it into his precious head to +order an execution, what would you do?” + +“Madame, pardon, I do not comprehend. I know no madman.” + +“Diable! Suppose, then, that my brother-in-law, your master, his majesty +the King of the Isles, were to order you to cut off the head of a +fellow-servant, what should you do?” + +“I should obey him, Madame.” + +“You would? Well, suppose he were to command you to decapitate a member +of his own family?” + +“I should do it, Madame.” + +“Then you would deserve to be hanged,” cried the lady, breaking out into +a cold sweat. + +Louis bowed respectfully. + +“And—supposing it were even my own head?” she gasped. + +“I should have to take it off, honored Madame.” + +“Mon Dieu, I shall go crazy! Begone!” + +Louis bowed deeply and retired. + +Madame sank back in her chair, pressing her handkerchief to her +panic-stricken and ghastly face. + +And from that day forth, Madame L’Orient never felt her life, for an +instant, secure from the caprices of a madman. She ceased entirely to +plot “against the peace and dignity of the king,” and only thought of +the best means of securing her personal safety until she could make her +escape from the Isle. + +She wished above all things to return to Paris, where she hoped that her +“misfortunes,” as she called her _sins_, were by this time forgotten. +But to go to Paris and reside there comfortably required much money, and +though Monsieur Henri was the soul of generosity, she doubted in this +instance whether he would think proper to advance what she would +consider sufficient funds. However, she broke the matter to him, and +found Monsieur Henri very willing to aid her with money to the full +extent of her desires. But when she mentioned her wish to take her +grandchild Etoile to Paris, Monsieur Henri struck his cane upon the +ground, which was his form of taking an oath, and swore that the +“princess” should never depart from the Island, but should remain to +have her education completed at his court. At length, terrified and worn +out, Madame consented to leave the little girl behind. + +A very favorable opportunity offered for her voyage. Captain Brande, in +his fine new clipper, the “Mercury,” was lying off the Headland, +shipping a cargo of tobacco, preparatory to setting sail for Havre. A +passage was engaged for Madame L’Orient. + +And accordingly on a fine day in June, Madame bade adieu to her little +granddaughter, and gallantly attended by Monsieur Henri, went on board +the pretty Sylph, and sailed for the Mercury, lying off the headland. A +three hours’ run before the wind carried them alongside the clipper, +where they learned that owing to a delay in the shipment of a portion of +the lading, she would not weigh anchor until the next tide. There was +nothing for Monsieur Henri to do then, but to take Madame to the house +of Barbara Brande, to wait a few hours for the sailing of the clipper. + +The old house on the Headland was more ruinous and more clumsily mended +than ever. + +The black-haired, bright-eyed, bare-footed boys had grown into fine +lads. + +And Barbara had ripened into a buxom brunette, with a finely developed +form, hair like the purple-black sheen of the falcon’s wing, and eyes +like his glance when flying toward his prey. A splendid creature was +this wild sea-coast maiden; and Madame, who appreciated beauty in the +physique, gazed upon her in unqualified admiration as she stood upon the +bluff to welcome them. + +“Walk up, Monsieur; walk up, Madame. I am so happy to see you,” she +said, smiling and clapping her hands with all her former childish glee. +“Walk up.” + +“Yes, it is all very well for you to keep on repeating ‘walk up,’ and +‘walk up,’ when one had as well attempt to ‘walk up’ the side of a +perpendicular wall,” said the old man, ruefully; and with his right hand +he planted his cane as a sort of grappling hook, and with his left arm +dragged the weight of Madame up the toilsome, steep ascent. + +“Give _me_ your hand, madame,” said Barbara, laughingly stooping and +extending hers to the lady, who seized it and nearly pulled her +good-humored assistant down before gaining the top of the ascent. But +Barbara possessed a firm foot and a strong hand, and safely hoisted her +charge. + +“Grand Ciel!” exclaimed Madame, panting after the performance of this +feat. + +They went on to the house, ascended the rickety stairs of the portico, +and entered the large, cheerful hall. Four spacious rooms, two on each +side, opened into this hall. This story was the only habitable part of +the house. Barbara turned the latch of the first door to the left, and +admitted her guests into a large but scantily-furnished parlor, without +carpet or curtains, with only a dozen black oak chairs, a black oak +table, and an engraved portrait of Paul Jones over the mantle-piece. +This was the most comfortable and best furnished room in the house. +Barbara seated her guests, brought them refreshments, and excused +herself, and went into the adjoining hall to resume her occupation—the +packing of a last trunk for her eldest brother, John, now a fine boy of +sixteen, who was going out in the Mercury to make his first voyage. +While Barbara packed the trunk, the old man watched her through the open +door, launching at her laughing head an occasional jest. + +“Well, my pretty Barbara, so John is going to sea?” + +“Going to see _what_, Monsieur?” mocked the merry maiden. + +“Ah! n’importe! but tell me, pretty Barbara, is the handsome young mate +going on this trip?” + +This time the girl was putting forth so much strength to force an +unmanageable package into the trunk, that it threw the blood to her face +in torrents of crimson, and she remained silent. And Monsieur Henri did +not press the question. + +Monsieur and Madame stayed and dined with Barbara; and in the afternoon +the old gentleman attended his sister-in-law to the Mercury, saw her +comfortably ensconced in her cabin, took leave of her there, and +returned to his barque. In going home, he touched at the Headland, and +went on shore for a moment to ask Barbara a question alone. + +“Now tell me, bright Barbara” he said, “is the handsome mate going this +trip?” + +“Well, he is, Monsieur. He is inseparable from my father—he is his +right-hand man, as the saying is.” + +“I did not see him aboard ship.” + +“He is on the main, hurrying up some hogsheads of tobacco, that are to +go on board.” + +“Ah! Well, when is it to be, my pretty Barbara?” + +“What, Monsieur?” + +“Ah! let us have no secrets between you and me, my girl!” + +“Well, Monsieur, I do not mind telling you alone,” said the young girl, +blushing brightly, while she answered frankly—“When he returns from his +present voyage, Monsieur, my father will give up the command of the +Mercury to him.” + +“Who will then become his son-in-law.” + +Barbara blushed, smiled, and nodded assent. + +“And your brother, John?” + +“He makes his first voyage now; afterward he will be mate to Julius.” + +“Will he? I thought it was John’s _sister_ who was to be mate to +Julius?” said the old man slyly. + +Barbara crimsoned, then laughed aloud, and admitted: + +“I wish it could be so! I do so _long_ to go to sea; my heart has gone +there often.” + +“After Julius?” + +“Before I ever saw or heard of Julius,” said the girl, in slight +displeasure. + +“Oh! I know it, I know it, my girl! You must pardon the jests of an old +man who takes a father’s interest in you. Good-night, my dear; +good-night,” said Monsieur Henri cordially shaking her hand. + +“Good-night, dear Monsieur Henri.” + +Monsieur De L’Ile turned to depart. The inquiries he had put to Barbara +Brande were not the idle questions of gossip. He took, as he said, a +father’s interest in the fortunes of this motherless girl, and had a +private plan of his own for forwarding the prosperity of herself and her +betrothed. He re-entered his barque, and sailed home by starlight. And +the next day, with the first tide, the Mercury weighed anchor, and set +sail for Havre. + +Madame, after a prosperous voyage of five weeks, arrived at Havre, and +traveled post to Paris. She reached that capital a few weeks previous to +the arrival of her son, Victoire, with whom she thus soon had the +happiness of being reunited. + +She accompanied him to England when he proceeded thither to claim his +bride as has been shown. + +And when he failed in this enterprise, she recommended him to file a +petition for a hearing before the Spiritual Court of Arches, to place +the affair in the hands of a competent attorney to manage during his +absence, and then to embark for America, and take up his residence with +his uncle, the pleasant old madman, who fancied himself King of the +Isles; but who would nevertheless receive his nephew with open arms. +Madame also resolved to accompany her son and re-establish herself on +the Island, where she felt that with Victoire by her side, she should be +perfectly safe. + +Upon inquiring at St. Catherine’s docks she found her old acquaintance, +Captain Brande, with his clipper the Mercury, about to sail for the +Chesapeake, and gladly availed herself of the opportunity afforded to +secure a passage for herself and son. + +They embarked the same night and set sail the next morning. + +And from the hour of their embarkation, Monsieur Victoire’s spirits had +sunk, as I said, until they had reached the point of despair. A +presentiment of approaching death overshadowed him. A necessity of +putting in order his earthly affairs weighed upon him. And it was under +the influence of this feeling that he pressed his friend Julius Luxmore +to accept the guardianship of his young daughter, and executed a +testament leaving her to his charge, which he placed in Mr. Luxmore’s +keeping. + +“If I survive, Luxmore,” he said, “I shall find Estelle, inform her of +the existence of her child, and through that child constrain her to my +will. If I die, Luxmore, you are to take charge of Etoile, advise her +mother of her existence, but make Estelle’s eternal separation from +Montressor the only condition of the restoration of her child.” + +“I promise to execute your will, and to do all else that you desire. +Nevertheless, I must assure you that your talk of death is an absurdity +that proves you to be a hypochondriac,” said Julius Luxmore. + +Victoire shook his head, and dropped into a mournful silence. + +And three weeks after that conversation, the Mercury was wrecked as we +have shown, and all on board were lost except Julius Luxmore, who being +rescued by Lord Montressor, and carried on board the Queen Charlotte, +and finding there no one who knew him, gave his name, for reasons of his +own, as Julius Levering. + +In the strong box that had been picked up from the wreck of the Mercury, +he found the will of Victoire L’Orient, and carefully secured it. + +When the Queen Charlotte had reached the port of Baltimore, and the +mournful intelligence of the wreck of the Mercury went abroad to spread +grief and terror over the land, it was also said that every soul on +board perished, except one Mr. Levering, whom no one seemed to know, and +who, in fact, had disappeared. + +And oh! as the dreadful story of the loss of the Mercury, with all but +one on board, spread over the land, how many homes were darkened, how +many hearts made desolate. The awful intelligence, traveling slowly +through cities, towns, and villages, at length reached Eastville, +reached the Headland and Barbara Brande. And upon that home the news +fell like a thunderbolt, smiting it to ruin! For all was gone!—ship and +cargo and crew!—father, brother, and lover! All gone at a stroke! All +lost, except this Mr. Levering whom no one knew, but whom Lord +Montressor had risked his life to save! + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + BARBARA BRANDE. + + “Go when the hunter’s hand hath wrung + From forest caves her shrieking young, + And calm the lonely lioness, + But sooth not, mock not my distress!”—_Byron._ + + +We left the beautiful Estelle a fugitive from love over the wide world. + +We left Lord Montressor anxiously seeking some clue by which to trace +her course. + +We bade adieu to the “Island King” and “Princess,” leaving them together +in their insulated kingdom. + +We parted company with Julius Levering at the moment that he disappeared +from the deck of the ship. + +And finally we abandoned the poor, wounded, young lioness, Barbara +Brande, in the hour of her utmost need, when every earthly stay and +support was stricken from her at one blow. + +We return first to Barbara. She was of a stronger, firmer, more resolute +and courageous nature than any woman, or than most men. Yet when the +blow fell—the blow that deprived her at once of father, brother, lover, +living,—all in an instant, she dropped beneath it, sunk as it were +smitten to the earth! + +I have seen a Titanic forest tree struck with lighting before my +window—seen it suddenly by a shaft from Heaven, rived, branch, and +trunk, and root, from sky to earth! + +So fell the thunderbolt of fate upon her! riving, rending, scathing, +brain and heart and frame! and dropped under it, prostrate. + +But she was strong and could not die—she was a human soul and could not +lie prostrate and immovable forever, as the thunder-stricken tree laid! + +The energetic spirit soon struggled to free itself from the serpent +coils of pain and death, and longed to hurl itself amid some violent, +some tempestuous, terrible action, in which the sense of anguish might +be lost. + +She conquered the agony—she surmounted it as we do every thing in this +world! Yes, she surmounted it; but the world was changed, or she was! + +Life never seemed the same to her again. All seemed dull, flat, +spiritless. She was weary of the careless round of days and nights; +weary of the monotonous rising and setting of the sun; weary of the +unmeaning, unsympathising faces of men and women; disgusted with the +regular recurrence of three meals a day, disgusted with all the eaters +and drinkers, workers and sleepers, buyers and sellers in this tedious, +insufferable world! + +In such a mood of mind, many men and women have gone mad; but Barbara +Brande’s brain was too strong and healthy to permit her to lose her +consciousness of suffering in madness. + +In such a mood many have committed suicide—but Barbara Brande, untutored +child of the sea as she was, and driven to despair as she had been, +possessed too deep a reverence for the laws of God and his holy gift of +life, to cast that life away and rush unbidden into the awful presence +of the Giver! + +So she struggled bravely to free her spirit from the writhing, binding, +fettering serpents of anguish and despair! + +Her heart panted to lose its dreadful sense of loss in action! Oh, +action! action! action! Such action as that into which despairing man +hurls himself, and forgets his despair; struggling, laborious, dangerous +action! Strife, battle, war!—war with circumstance, with man, with the +elements! + +With such irresistible impulses, women have sometimes enlisted as +soldiers—aye, and won laurels, too, in the fields of victory; but +Barbara Brande, with all her strength, and fire, and courage, and her +passionate desire to stun the maddening consciousness of anguish in some +stormy conflict and career—could not have done any thing like this. Her +maiden modesty would not have permitted her to change her woman’s dress +for that of man, any more than her native truthfulness would have +allowed her to practice a deception in regard to her sex. And her free, +wild, ungovernable spirit could no more have submitted to the control of +camp discipline, than her merciful heart could have taken part in the +bloodshed of the battle-field. + +So, though the wounded, tortured, maddened young creature thought of +this, she could not enter upon such a life. + +A stricken lioness, with the arrow quivering in her flesh, lays not down +in patient suffering, but runs roaring, through the desert, until the +shaft falls from the wound, or she drops dead! + +So Barbara! she longed to propel herself headlong into some stormy, +stunning strife! + +Meanwhile two boy brothers of eleven and twelve looked up in her face +for comfort and support,—looked up to the brave and gentle sister, who +was also the only mother they had ever known. + +“Oh, sister, sister! do not stare so! You frighten us to death with your +eyes!” they said, as they came to her where she sat, in the dreary, +half-furnished old parlor, _her_ chamber of desolation! + +They were kneeling each side of her, with their heads upon her lap. Her +arms were around each boy, her face bent over them, and her wild black +hair all unbound, and streaming around them. She might have seemed a +widow with her orphans. But she was even a more desolate creature—this +awfully bereaved maiden with her little brothers. For a widow has +generally some knowledge of life and some experience to meet its +exigencies; but what does a poor, wild girl, thunder-stricken, maddened, +blinded, by such overwhelming calamity, know of battling the watch with +fate? + +Nothing! + +There she sat—her arms around the boys’ heads—her face bent over them, +her dark hair streaming. + +“Oh, sister, don’t look so! Oh, sister, speak to us!” + +“Oh, my boys, my boys! what shall sister say to you! What can sister do +for you? Oh, lads, the best thing we could do would be to put to sea in +a leaking boat and go down with the others!—only that the Lord forbids +such!” she cried, wildly clasping them to her heart. + +“Oh, no, sister! don’t think of such a thing as that! We don’t want to +die at all,” said Edwy, the younger boy. + +The elder, Willful, said nothing, but gazed with unspeakable love in his +sister’s face. + +“Oh, boys, boys! your sister will turn to a pillar of salt if she stays +here!” + +“Well, _don’t_ stay here, Barbara! get the insurance-money and buy a +vessel, and let us lade it and make a voyage to Habana,” said Willful, +gazing earnestly into his sister’s face. + +For the first time Barbara lifted her lion-like head, shaking her black +hair as a mane from her breast—her great, strong eyes kindled, her +nostrils quivered, as those of a steed that scents the battle afar +off—she drew in a deep breath and exclaimed, in a quick, low, resolute +tone— + +“That’s it! I have found it! You are right, Willful, my brother! Our +father’s craft must be ours.” + +“You feel better now, sister?” said the gentle-spirited Edwy, putting +his arm around her neck and kissing her cheek—“you feel better?” + +“Yes!—thank God.” + +“And you won’t any more talk about putting to sea in a leaking boat?” + +“No—Heaven forbid!” + +From this time Barbara’s spirits rallied. She looked around upon her +circumstances, prospects, and duties, and her facilities for meeting the +future. + +First, what were her duties? + +Her brothers looked to her for support, comfort and guidance. She had +always filled a mother’s position toward them. She must also now occupy +a father’s place. + +How should she properly discharge these obligations? + +Her father’s last will and testament, besides endowing her with half the +small property, constituted her the whole executor of that will and the +guardian of her brothers. + +The property consisted of the wild, unproductive farm and half-ruined +house on the headland—an unprofitable but an inalienable estate, that +would just bring garden vegetables and grain enough for family use; +there were three or four negroes who worked the garden, and sometimes, +when the Skipper had been short of hands, worked the ship. Besides this, +there was the insurance-money of the ship and cargo that had also been +assigned to Barbara. + +Looking over, and mentally appraising her property, her peculiar +temperament, talents and circumstances, Barbara’s resolution was soon +formed, and carried out. She determined to go to Baltimore, purchase a +clipper, and lade it, take her negro sailors and her two brothers, and +sail for the West Indies, to open a trade with her father’s old +correspondents. + +Accordingly, leaving the house and her little brothers in the care of +the negroes, Barbara took passage in the first passing vessel for +Baltimore, where in a few days she arrived safely. + +After the usual demur and delay, she succeeded in getting the whole of +the insurance-money, and then she set out in search of a clipper. She +was fortunate in having a choice of three, and went about the work of +inspecting them with a perfectly composed and competent manner, and +astonished the grizzled old skippers of the port, by pronouncing the +first unseaworthy; the second, very little if any better; and by +ordering certain very judicious alterations and repairs to be made upon +the third, which she finally decided on purchasing. + +“Who the deuce have we here? What the demon sort of a girl is this, who +knows all parts of a ship as well as she does the chambers and cupboards +in her mother’s house, and disputes about the build and rigging of a +craft with the oldest ‘salt’ among us? aye! and can work a ship, I have +no doubt in the world, as well as the best mate we have!” said one grey +old sea-captain to another. + +“Well! she _is_ an ‘old salt,’” replied the other, “as _old_ a _salt_ as +so _young_ a _girl_ can be! That is old Brande’s daughter, he who was +lost on the Mercury. I suppose she is about twenty-one or twenty-two +years of age, and Brande used to take her to sea with him from the time +she was five years old! So Barbara may have seen fifteen years of +sea-service, for aught I know.” + +“But what is she going to do with the clipper she has purchased?” + +“Ah! Lord knows! Give one of her brothers the command of it, I suppose, +if she has one grown up and capable of taking it.” + +While the old skippers took “the bearings,” of her course, Barbara, +quite undisturbed by the opinions and comments of others, completed her +purchase, and left the wharf. + +The same week, Barbara returned home to place affairs in order there +before going to sea. She arranged the old house, and left it, together +with the garden and the stock, in care of old Neptune and his wife, with +whom also she left a small sum of money for their incidental expenses. + +Having made all preparations, accompanied by her two brothers and +attended by her negro sailors, young Neptune and Ignatius, two stalwart +sons of the old couple left in care of the house, Barbara embarked in an +up-bay packet for Baltimore. + +Very profound was the astonishment of her old acquaintances, the +skippers, when they discovered that Barbara herself would take command +of her own vessel. Their surprise would have been greater still, +perhaps, if they had known how thoroughly competent in all respects was +this eagle-eyed, lion-hearted maiden for the task! + +She was fitted for the position by nature, constitution, and +disposition, for she was a girl of great personal strength, courage, and +activity, with a profound passionate attraction toward a sea life. + +She was prepared for it by education and habit; for in the dozen voyages +she had made with her father, the old skipper had thoroughly instructed +her in the theory and practice of the science of navigation, and the art +of seamanship. + +Finally, she was compelled to it by circumstances. She had not only to +support her young brothers but to put them in a way of supporting +themselves. Their hereditary attractions, like her own, were to the sea; +and no life offered such facilities to her and to them, as the life of +the merchant-service. Last and not least, her negro sailors, like their +mistress and her brothers, loved the ocean, and knew how to do nothing +else so well as to work a ship. + +Thus being fitted for a sea life by nature; being prepared for it by +education; and driven to it by circumstances, we cannot do better +reader, can we? than permit her to be a sea-captain, if she wishes +it—especially as our most vehement objections would be unavailing to +stop her. + +While superintending the lading of her vessel, she, with her brothers, +boarded at a comparatively quiet house near the wharf. While at this +house, one day she picked up from a parlor table a newspaper, and +listlessly ran her eyes down the uninteresting sahara of its advertising +columns, when her glance was arrested by the following “want:” + + + WANTED—TO PURCHASE OR LEASE FOR A TERM OF YEARS a moderate sized + country seat in a secluded situation. A sea-coast location preferred. + Address box 333, P. O., stating terms, etc. + + +Does the reader happen to know how many fates daily, hourly, turn upon +the mere chance-seeing and answering of newspaper advertisements? + +Now, no sooner had Barbara Brande read this “want” than a possibility +presented itself to her active mind, such as had never occurred to her +previously. + +“A country house in a secluded situation; a sea-coast location +preferred.” Why our old house on the Headland is the very place this +advertiser wants—if it were only in repair! But perhaps this person, if +he has capital to spare, would take it and put it in repair; for I +shouldn’t wonder, being the precise sort of house he wants, that he +would be able to find just such another. Just precisely such houses to +let, are not as plenty as muscle-shells. And if he will take it and +repair it, and deduct the price of the repairs from the rent, why should +I not lease it to him, rather than let the old place lie idle until it +falls to pieces? As for me and my boys—our home henceforth will be the +ship! Why, therefore, should I not get the rents for this old house, so +as to lay an anchor to windward for the boys? It is true that there is +poor old Nep and his wife, who need a home. But it will be easy to make +a proviso in the lease securing them the use of the cabin they now +occupy, and the little garden spot of ground around it, ruminated +Barbara. + +“I’ll do it if I can.” She shortly determined; and sitting down, penned +a note, folded, and directed it to box 333 P. O. Then calling her +brother Willful, she dispatched him with it to its destination. + +The next morning she received an answer, written in a bold, +business-like hand, requesting her to present herself at private parlor, +number 3, house number 10 Blank-street, and signed _S. Copsewood_. + +“This looks as if Mr. Copsewood wanted to take the house,” said Barbara, +who lost no time in obeying the summons. + +When she reached number 10, which she found to be an elegant private +boarding house, she inquired for room number 3, and was at once shown up +into a superbly furnished private parlor, at the door of which she was +received by a rosy-cheeked waiting maid, who civilly inquired her name +and business, and having ascertained that she was the person whom they +were expecting, ushered her immediately into the presence of the +loveliest lady Barbara thought she had ever seen. + +This beautiful, dark woman was clothed in deep mourning, which, however, +could not disguise the exquisite proportions of her graceful form. Her +complexion of the purest, palest olive, was contrasted with jet-black, +slender-arched eyebrows, long drooping, black eyelashes, that +effectually vailed the large languishing dark eyes, and a rich +redundance of silken black ringlets that overshadowed the whole face, +and lent even a deeper tone to the deep melancholy of its expression. + +Barbara Brande was spell-bound, fascinated, not more by the perfect +beauty, than by the profound sorrow impressed upon this most lovely +countenance. + +“This is a most beautiful _shadow_,” thought Barbara; “but where in the +world have I seen a ray of _sunshine_ answering, feature by feature, to +this exquisite shadow? Where have I seen it? My acquaintance is not so +extensive but that I might soon recollect. Let me see! My conscience, +yes, I recollect! It is my Star of the Sea! my Island Princess! My +golden-haired Etoile! She it is who is the _morning_ to this dark lady’s +_midnight_, the _sunshine_ to her _shadow_.” + +While these thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of Barbara Brande, +the maid-servant presented her to the lady, saying: + +“Here, Madam, is the young woman who has come about leasing the house.” + +The lady lifted her languid lashes, and said, interrogatively— + +“Miss Brande?” + +“Yes, Madam,” said Barbara, thinking that she had never heard such +liquid music break from human lips before. + +“Pray be seated, Miss Brande. Susan, draw that arm-chair forward.” + +Susan obeyed, and Barbara accepted the offered seat. + +“I received a note this morning from Mr. S. Copsewood, appointing me to +call here at this hour to open possible negotiations respecting a house +I have to lease. I happen to have a drawing of the house executed by my +brother Willful, if Mr. Copsewood would like to see it,” said Barbara. + +The lady looked at the speaker with serious attention and some +perplexity, while Susan smiled merrily, displaying all her white teeth. + +At last the lady said: + +“You are under an error, Miss Brande. The note received by you was +written by my attendant, Susan Copsewood. And I am the person who +desires to lease a house.” + +“You, Madam?” + +“Myself—Mrs. Estel,” said the lady, placing the accent on the first +syllable of her name. “You may show me the drawing, if you please, Miss +Brande.” + +Barbara produced the drawing, and put it in the hands of Mrs. Estel. + +“Will you please to describe the place to me, while I look at the +sketch, Miss Brande?” said the lady. + +Barbara complied, describing the situation of the house and the scenery +of the Headland. + +“From the picture and your description, I think the place will suit me. +You say, however, that the house is much out of repair?” + +“Very much, indeed Madam; it would take five weeks in time and labor, +and five hundred dollars in money, to make it comfortable,” replied +Barbary, in whose rustic estimation this sum seemed a very large amount. +“But I am willing, Madam, to give up the rent as long as necessary for +the repairs of the house. And I think, also, that the house could be +made ready for you sooner than you could find another to suit you so +well.” + +“I think that is very likely. You have full power to transfer the +property?” + +“I am twenty-two years old, Madam, and I am the sole executor of my +father’s will, and the sole guardian of my brothers.” + +The lady, on hearing this, now, for the first time raised her eyes, and +looked full in the face of the strange girl. + +A tall, magnificently developed form, with no superfluous flesh to +impede activity; a strong, handsome face, with flashing black eyes and +bands of jet-black hair, and an expression of pain, suffered and +conquered, lingering around it,—a dress and cape of grey serge, a bonnet +of coarse straw, was the _tout ensemble_ that met the lady’s gaze. + +“How is this Headland to be reached?” was the next question asked. + +“By means of the packet-vessels trading along the coast of the Bay, +Madam,” answered Barbara. + +“Very well. I will take a few days to reflect upon your proposition, +Miss Brande, and let you know the result.” + +“I thank you, Madam. It is proper to inform you, however, that in a week +hence I sail for the West Indies.” + +The lady here again lifts her lashes with a look of inquiry, to which +Barbara replied— + +“I have command of the ‘Stormy Petrel,’ Madam, and shall set sail for +Habana in six days.” + +The lady looked in gentle amazement upon the girl. + +“Excuse me,” she said—“but could I possibly have understood you to say +that _you_ had command of a vessel?” + +“Yes, Madam, you understand aright.” + +The lady was too high bred to suffer any exclamation of surprise or +wonder to escape her; but she looked at Barbara with such deep interest +that the girl hastened to say— + +“You are doubtless surprised, Madam; but you would be less so, were you +acquainted with the circumstances. I am a strong girl; I was brought up +to the sea, and taught navigation and seamanship by my father, with whom +I made many voyages. When he was lost in his own ship, the hapless +Mercury, Madam, I was under the necessity of looking about for a support +for my young brothers. None offered so readily as my father’s +calling—that of a merchantman. I understood no business so well as that. +My negroes were all sailors. My little brothers were old enough to serve +apprenticeship to the same business. Therefore I am what I am, Madam.” + +Mrs. Estel had been regarding her with the deepest interest; when she +ceased speaking the lady said— + +“Miss Brande, I think I may safely promise to give you, to-morrow, your +answer respecting the lease of the house. I think also, that there is no +doubt but that I shall take it.” + +“Then you have no further commands for me, Madam?” + +“I thank you—no.” + +Barbara Brande arose, bowed, and withdrew toward the door, followed by +the rosy maid. With her hand upon the knob, however, she paused—looked +back and said— + +“Pardon me, Madam, but there is a condition I should mention before this +matter goes any further.” + +“Proceed, Miss Brande.” + +“It may be a mere trifle to yourself, my lady; but a very important +matter to me and _them_. In a word, I have two tried and faithful old +family servants, born on the estate, brought up there, and now in their +old age, living in a small cabin with a garden which they cultivate; and +I should wish——” + +“I understand you, Miss Brande,” gently interrupted Mrs. Estel—“In the +event of my taking the lease, the old people shall not be disturbed. Is +there any thing else, Miss Brande?” + +“I thank you—no, Madam. The terms suit you, I think?” + +“The terms suit me.” + +“Then there is nothing else. Good-day, Madam.” + +“Good-day, Miss Brande.” + +Barbara now left the room attended by the maid. + +When Susan returned she closed the door, and approaching her mistress, +said, earnestly and respectfully— + +“Will your ladyship go down to that bleak, lonely place?” + +“Oh, yes, Susan! Yes, Susan! I never could like the town even in +happiness; and now, now it suffocates me! we with oppressed bosoms, need +more room to breathe. I long for the boundless woods, and the +measureless sea! that is the reason why I prefer a wild, uncultivated +coast.” Susan approached her mistress, and sitting down on the carpet by +her side, half kneeling, half reclining, gazed upon her face with an +expression of mute, appealing affection. + +Mrs. Estel laid her hand benignantly upon the head of the faithful girl, +and said— + +“Besides, Susan, I am imprisoned here; you know I have not left this +room, or seen a soul but yourself, since we came here. I dare not go +out, lest in a seaport town like this I should be recognized.” + +“Does your ladyship suspect then——?” + +“What, Susan?” + +“_That he is here._” + +“My heart! my heart! whom do you mean?” + +“Lord Montressor.” + +“No! no, Susan! Do not tell me that! He has not followed me here!” said +the lady, whose pale, olive cheek seemed turned to marble. + +“Susan, speak! say you were mistaken—you might have been mistaken!” + +“Dear lady, are you so distressed that his lordship should prove the +strength of his——” + +“Girl! girl! be careful of your words.” + +“I will, Madam,—the strength of his _esteem_ and _respect_ for you?” + +“To what end should he prove it? Does it need proof? Oh! why should he +follow me here, only to renew a struggle so bitter, so terrible, so +agonizing!” thought the lady to herself, as she sat twisting and +wringing her white fingers. + +“Dear lady, take comfort. Consider that his lordship, indeed, has the +law on his side. Pardon me, sweet mistress, for reminding you, that for +all that has come and gone you are his wife, and he has at least a right +to the hearing, that you have never given him; a right, in a word, to +plead his cause with you, and——” + +The hand of the lady sank softly but firmly upon the head of the +recumbent girl, and with her face, that was pale before, now dark with +the swelling up of a suffocating emotion, she whispered huskily— + +“Susan, forbear—you know not what you say—he must be free and honored—he +has a brilliant career before him—he must cut me off—I fly that he may +do so—I would _die_ to rid him of me!” + +Susan looked up appalled at her lady’s face, in its dark and terrible +agony. + +“Susan! never, while you live, renew this counsel. But, tell me now, are +you _sure_ you saw him?” + +“Yes, perfectly sure, Madame.” + +“Where?” + +“In St. John’s church, yesterday afternoon.” + +“He did not see you?” + +“No, Madam; I sat far back, in a dark corner. I wore a vail also; and +you know that when a thick vail is down before our faces, close to our +eyes, we can see through it even at a distance, while those far off +cannot recognize our features. If it had not been for my dark corner and +my vail, I think his lordship might have discovered me, for he was +looking about a great deal.” + +“Was he looking well?” + +“Oh! my lady, pardon me, how could he be looking well?” + +The lady groaned, and covered her face with her hands. The attendant +continued— + +“No, my lady, he was not looking well! He was very thin and pale, worn +and haggard, with a restlessness and anxiety on his countenance and in +his manners, that it half broke my heart to behold. Oh, dearest lady, +how can you bear to——” + +“SUSAN!” The word escaped like a sharp cry. + +“Forgive me, lady, my feelings betray me into indiscretion, sometimes.” + +“I am fearful, indeed, my girl, that you are not safe,” said Mrs. Estel, +gravely. + +After this there was a pause for some moments, and then Mrs. Estel said— + +“Was that the only occasion upon which you saw him here, Susan?” + +“Yes, Madam; but I knew before that he was here.” + +“You knew it before, Susan, and never warned me!” + +“You would not permit me to tell you of the shipwreck, lady.” + +“No, no! I cannot bear to hear of the shipwreck. There are wrecks of the +heart and soul, God knows, that none upon the ocean equals! And—but we +were speaking of _him_; and I do not see what the shipwreck you talk of +has to do with him, since, thank Heaven, he was not wrecked.” + +“It has everything to do with him, dear lady! You have confined yourself +to this room ever since you arrived in the city, never once going +out—never seeing any one here—never looking at a newspaper—never hearing +any news, and not even permitting me to speak to you of a subject that +is the universal talk of the city, yet of which you know nothing. And +yet, dear lady, it has something to do with Lord Montressor, since his +heroism upon that occasion is the subject of universal applause.” + +“Applause! truly, applause would seem the natural attendant of Lord +Montressor’s movements; but I wait to hear what special act of his +lordship called forth the applause upon this occasion.” + +“To explain it, my lady, I should be obliged to speak in detail of that +fatal shipwreck, of which you have refused to hear.” + +“Proceed Susan, proceed and have done with it, my girl; for I perceive +that neither you nor I will have any peace until I have consented to +listen to all the horrors you long to relate to me. Only be brief, then, +and spare yourself and me as much as possible,” said the lady, and +resting her elbow on the arm of the chair, and leaning her forehead upon +the palm of her hand, she composed herself into a listening mood. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + THE GIRL-CAPTAIN. + + “Let them be sea-captains, if they will.” + _Margaret Fuller on Woman’s Rights_ + + +Susan commenced and related just so much of the particulars of the +shipwreck as had reached her through the public press, and through the +conversation of those persons with whom she had been thrown in company. +One important fact, however, she reserved for a separate recital—that +fact was the discovery and burial of the drowned body of Victoire +L’Orient. + +Lady Montressor listened, with her head bowed upon her hand, with her +long, black ringlets falling vail-like around her beautiful pale face, +and with her full, dark eyes lowered mournfully to the ground. But that +consuming grief had long ago dried up the fountain of her tears, they +must have fallen thick and fast over the sad recital. As it was, her +lovely eyes were tearless, and her deep melodious voice calm, as she +commented on what she heard. + +“It was indeed a fearful tragedy; but life is full of tragedies that +the eyes of the world see not, or the mind of the world +ignores—heart-tragedies, soul-tragedies—storms in which not ships and +cargoes, but hopes and aspirations are engulfed forever.” + +“But Lord Montressor, dear lady! surely his heroism—” + +“Was a portion of himself, and does not in the least surprise me, my +girl.” + +“Will nothing give her pleasure? not even her lover’s heroism?” inquired +Susan of herself, as she watched the colorless, motionless face of her +mistress. + +“Do not confine yourself to this room with me, my girl. Get your bonnet +and take a walk—only be discreet, keep to the back streets, and the +shady side, and do not raise your vail. Go, Susan,” said the lady, +considerate of her attendant’s welfare. + +“Thank you, dear madam, but I have no desire to do so. Besides, I have +not told you all.” + +“I think you have, my child: pray do not recur to the subject, my +Susan,” said the lady, wearily. + +“But, mistress, dear, this event that I have to tell you, so nearly, so +vitally, concerns yourself.” + +The lady mournfully, incredulously, shook her head. + +“Let me tell you, madam: indeed, I have it upon my conscience to tell +you. I should have told you before, but I was afraid to divulge it +suddenly, lest I should do you an injury; and every time I approached +the subject gradually, you repelled me and repelled me. Oh, it was as if +a drowning lady had waived off, and waived off the life-boat that was +coming to save her. And besides there are some names that you will never +endure to hear uttered in your presence.” + +“Susan, memory is a rack; and I—seek forgetfulness—as if that were +possible, great Heaven!” + +“Mistress, may I speak?” + +“Go on.” + +“Monsieur Victoire L’Orient——” + +“HOLD!” cried Lady Montressor, starting and then sinking back in the +corner of her chair, collapsed, cowering, shuddering, as if that name +had been a musket-shot sent through her bosom. + +“IS NO MORE,” persisted Susan, following up the shrinking form of her +mistress, and speaking close to her ear—“is no more, do you hear, lady? +is dead, drowned, buried in the sea.” + +Lady Montressor lifted a pale, wild, incredulous face to the speaker. + +“Yes, dead, drowned, buried in the sea,” repeated the girl, +emphatically. + +Lady Montressor changed neither attitude nor expression, but remained +gazing almost fiercely upon the speaker. + +“In a word, madam, he was lost on the Mercury.” + +“Why, so he was on the ‘Duke of Anjou,’” said the lady, in a strange, +ironical tone. + +“I know; but this time, lady, he was drowned.” + +“So he was before. He does not mind it, Susan: it does not affect him in +the least,” said Estelle, incredulously. + +“Madam, drowning certainly disagreed with him this time.” + +“I think it will be found that he is well and hearty, Susan.” + +“Oh, I see you don’t believe it. But there is a full account of the +whole affair in the Baltimore American.” + +“Why, so there was of the other affair in the London Times—a reliable +paper, Susan: yet you know the result.” + +“Oh, my lady, but it is true now, beyond all doubt, that the wretched +man is dead. People don’t get over such _attacks_ twice—the second time +it is sure to be fatal—it was so in his case. His body was picked up by +the Queen Charlotte. Lord Montressor and Mr. Levering, the man whom Lord +Montressor saved, swore to the identity, which was also further proved, +if further proof had been necessary, by the papers found on his person, +and by the marks on his clothes. His identity was proved and recorded, +and he received Christian burial, in the presence of the whole ship’s +crew. Lord Montressor and Mr. Levering, among the others, saw his body +committed to the deep.” + +While Susan spoke thus earnestly—solemnly—the ironical, insane +incredulity of the listener was lost in conviction and awe. The face of +the beautiful Estelle underwent a great and fearful change. She, so pale +before, grew still paler, grew livid, while a blue circle darkened +around her eyes; she seemed on the verge of swooning, but rallied her +powers, and clinging to the arm of her chair for support, inquired in a +husky, almost sepulchral voice: + +“_Is this true?_” + +“True as Gospel, dear lady! your mortal foe is dead.” + +“Then may the Lord have mercy on his soul! for he greatly needed mercy,” +said Lady Montressor, solemnly. + +There was a pause of some half hour, during which Lady Montressor +covered her face, and remained in deep thought and prayer, and then the +lady spoke: + +“Susan, you may take the walk I advised, and while you are out go down +to the Ocean House, and see Miss Brande, and let her know that I have +fully decided on taking the lease of the Headland, and that if she will +have the documents drawn up to-day, I will immediately conclude the +business.” + +Susan looked disappointed and distressed, and did not move to obey. + +“Did you hear my order, Susan?” + +“Yes, madam, I heard: pardon me; but, dearest lady, dearest mistress, +will not what I have just told you affect your resolution?” + +“In what respect?” + +“In respect of your retiring from the world to that lonely sea-coast.” + +“Why should it?” + +“Dearest lady, pardon me! pardon one who loves you more than her own +life, for speaking upon this subject; but remember now that you are free +forever from all possibility of annoyance from that haunting man; +remember now that happiness is within your grasp.” + +“Susan, forbear!” + +“Mistress, hear me! have mercy on yourself, and, above all, on _him_. Do +not go to that lone, sea-coast house; stay here and wait for him; he has +followed you across the sea, he will find you in a few days; see him, +lady; listen to him; and then do as you will. Not the most ascetic monk, +or nun, or the most puritanical pietist of any persuasion could venture +to criticise your course, it has been, through all this trying time, so +blameless. Nor could saint nor angel censure you now for receiving him. +See him, hear him, lady! Oh, would to Heaven there were some wiser one +than I am here to talk to you—some great learned divine in whom you +would have confidence. I, alas! I am unlearned in theology, and my +simple wisdom of the heart may be despised,” said Susan, almost weeping. + +“You know that is not so, my child. I would trust the ‘simple wisdom’ of +your true heart as soon—aye, sooner than the opinion of the Archbishop +of York. Is not your relation to me more nearly that of friend than of +an attendant, Susan? Are you not in my confidence? Do I not often take +counsel with you, child?” + +“Yes, dear lady, but—if you would only this once take the _benefit_ of +my counsel,” replied the girl with a latent dash of humor that respect +for her unhappy mistress kept subdued. + +“Susan, my good and loving child,” began the lady in a mournful voice, +“I will tell you, then, why I may not see Lord Montressor. True, the +haunter of my days is dead—but _not_ dead is the dreadful memory that I +had been his—‘victim’—as good Mr. Oldfield mercifully termed it. True, +also, that the law and the church not only acquitted, but vindicated +me—not only pronounced me not guilty but positively INNOCENT; but that +does not free me from the clinging degradation of having been tried upon +a criminal charge! My peace is ruined, my fame blighted, my hopes +blasted—I am a human wreck, a walking shadow, a living death—unfit to +match with the vital glory of Charles Montressor’s future. He is a man +of brilliant genius. He is distinguished, and will be celebrated. Every +successful man has hosts of bitter, carping, envious foes—vigilant, +quick, cruel, in seizing, denouncing, and exposing any possible flaw in +his life, character, or circumstances. Shall _such_ have power to say of +Lord Montressor—‘He married the “victim” of a French conspirator’—‘His +wife was once a prisoner before Exeter Assizes.’ No, no! Oh, no! +Merciful Heaven, no!” + +“But, lady! sweet mistress! hear your poor Susan, yet a little while +longer. Suppose you let his lordship have a voice in deciding this +matter, which concerns his happiness quite as much as it does yours. +Suppose you let him say to you what we know he says to himself—‘I prize +this precious hand of yours more highly than all that mankind could +possibly lavish upon me. I should consider the loss of it a heavier +calamity than the loss of the favor of the whole world’—what then?” + +“Susan! Susan! sooner than join my dishonored life to his most honored +one, I would fly to the most savage extremities of the earth—yes! but +for the grace of God, sooner than that, I would leave the earth itself!” +she exclaimed with passionate earnestness. + +“Lady, lady, I will say no more,” said Susan, beginning to weep—a sure +resort with her when there was nothing else to be done. + +Lady Montressor dropped her brow upon her hand again, and fell into deep +thought for a few minutes, at the end of which she lifted her head and +said— + +“Susan, my child, you followed a generous but too hasty impulse in +leaving home, and friends, and country, to share the fortunes of a +blighted woman like myself. I was very wrong to permit you to do it. I +should have seen this at the time, but that the very tumult and passion +of my flight swamped every other thought. But it is not yet too late to +repair the injury that has been done you.” + +“My lady! good Heaven! what do you mean?” exclaimed Susan, clasping her +hands in deprecation of what she felt was coming next. + +“Susan, I can send you back to England.” + +“I have offended you! Oh, I have offended you! Forgive me, my lady! my +dear, dearest lady!” cried Susan, wringing her hands. + +“No, you have not, my girl! my poor girl. How could you offend me, +Susan? Never did I value you more highly than at this moment, when I +talk of sending you from me, and it is for the very reason that I esteem +you so much, I wish to discharge you. I think of your future, Susan. If +you leave me and return to England, you will probably lead a cheerful, +happy life, and in good time marry happily; while, if you accompany me +to my sad retreat, what is before you but a dreary, solitary life, and +an age of old-maidenhood?” + +“My lady, I haven’t seen such joy among the married as ever to envy +them, the dear knows! and, besides, I have always heard it said that a +woman’s life is in her affections, and I believe it. Now your poor +Susan’s affections centre upon you. It would break her heart to leave +you. In a word, dear lady, if you were to order her to depart, she would +for the first time in her life, disobey you, and follow you until you +gave her house-room or—in charge of the police!” said Susan, falling +into that lurking humor, that under happier circumstances would have +developed into wit. “Marry-come-up! I mean Miserabili! Am I not a sort +of protege of your ladyship? Didn’t you take me, a poor little +bare-footed girl, out of a hillside hovel, and didn’t you dress me +neatly and put me into your own Park school? and didn’t you encourage me +week by week, and month by month, and year by year, to learn? And didn’t +you take me thence into your own service, and still stimulate me to +improve my mind, and didn’t you lend me books, and even direct my +reading? And didn’t you month by month, and year by year, absorb more +and more of my life into your own, until now I have no life without you? +And do you now talk of casting me off?——Forgive me, dear lady, I have +spoken freely, I fear, also impertinently, but I have spoken _truly_. I +cannot leave you.” + +Lady Montressor turned away her head to conceal the emotion that +disturbed her countenance, and after a little while she said— + +“Well! well! we will talk of this another time, Susan! Meanwhile, hurry +down to the Ocean House, and bring that young woman to me; the facts +that you have imparted make it necessary to be expeditious.” + +With a deep sigh Susan arose, put on her straw bonnet with the thick +green vail, drew a black silk scarf closely around her sloping +shoulders, and went quietly out upon her errand. + +In two hours she returned, accompanied by Barbara Brande, young Willful, +and a lawyer, with the deed of lease. + +Lady Montressor sat in her closely curtained parlor, near a corner +table, with her elbow on its top, and her head averted from what little +light there was, and resting upon her hand, her long black ringlets +falling around, and throwing into deeper shadow the features of her +beautiful face. And so she received the party. + +Barbara Brande first approached, and saluting her respectfully, said +that she had brought the lawyer with the lease and her elder brother as +a witness. + +Lady Montressor slightly lifted her eyelids, acknowledged the presence +of these others with a bow, and addressing Barbara, said— + +“Let your attorney read the documents, Miss Brande—he need not come +nearer, I can hear his voice from where he stands. Susan, place a chair +for the gentleman—Miss Brande, sit near him, if you please.” + +Barbara retreated, and instructed the lawyer to begin. + +The documents were read and approved. + +Then Barbara brought the articles and laid them upon the table before +the lady for her signature. + +Susan dipped a pen in ink and handed it to her mistress who affixed her +name to both documents, _Le Estel_. Then the pen was passed to Barbara, +who signed hers, and next to Susan Copsewood, who attached her firm +autograph as first witness, and finally to young Willful Brande, who +wrote his name as second witness. The articles were then delivered, Lady +Montressor receiving one copy and Barbara Brande the other. The payment +for the first year was then tendered in advance, but Barbara preferred +that the funds should be devoted to the repairs of the house, and that +matter being amicably arranged, the business was completed. The lawyer +arose to take his leave, and was permitted to do so; but when Barbara +and her brother would have departed, Lady Montressor made a sign +desiring them to remain for a few moments. + +Barbara returned and took the chair that had been placed for her +accommodation by Susan. + +Willful seated himself modestly at some distance. + +“You were a sufferer by the wreck of the unfortunate Mercury?” said Lady +Montressor, in a voice of deep commiseration. + +“Madam, she was my father’s vessel; when she went down I lost—my father, +my brother, and my betrothed,—all, all except these two boys, for whom I +live.” + +“Brave girl, that you live for them!” + +“Ah, Madam, you know then, that sometimes, in this world of ours, it +requires more courage to live than to die.” + +Lady Montressor essayed to speak, but only bowed; and after a short +pause, slightly changed the subject, by saying: + +“But, Miss Brande, is not the career you have chosen a strange, trying +life for a woman—especially a young and handsome woman?” + +“Not when her name is Barbara Brande—not when she has been brought up on +the sea and loves it—not when she is strong and courageous—not when +fate, by striking her one stunning blow, has made her insensible to +personal danger—not when a storm of grief has rendered her, by the +strength of despair, fit to cope with all other storms—not when she has +two brothers to establish in life, who, like all of their race, herself +included, perhaps, are fit for nothing but the sea,” said Barbara, +earnestly. + +“Pray, forgive my interference; it is the interest with which you have +inspired me, Miss Brande, that urges me to speak; but would it not be +better to place your brothers, since they must learn navigation and +seamanship, with some merchant captain in whom you have confidence, and +then seek, for yourself, some more feminine occupation or interest on +shore?” + +“Madam, _no_, I cannot leave my boys, nor let them leave me—particularly +for the sea. Besides, my life is not the life of other women: calamities +like mine can never be forgotten.” + +“Do not say so; you are young yet; at your age, _all_ misfortunes may be +outlived and forgotten—_except guilt or disgrace_,” added the lady, in a +thrilling, passionate, solemn voice. + +“Neither the one nor the other has ever approached our poor household, +honored Madam; and never shall, while Barbara Brande holds authority +over it.” + +“You speak with great assurance, young woman. Know that it is not +_always_ in human power to ward off those heaviest of human ills.” + +“I speak, dear Madam, with a faith in the Divine protection, as far from +presumption, on the one hand, as it is from doubt, on the other. The +Lord prospers faithful endeavor. It is to ward off temptation from them, +that I choose to watch over my brothers. There is no human guardian like +an elder sister, excepting, only, a mother.” + +“A mother,” repeated Lady Montressor, sadly and thoughtfully, recurring, +perhaps, to the fine London belle, who had shuffled off her maternal +cares and responsibilities upon a worthless French nurse and an +unprincipled French governess; and whose dereliction from duty had been +the origin of all her daughter’s calamities. + +“I lost _mine_ at a very early age, yet, ever since, have I been the +mother of my young brothers; and if ever I grow impatient of their +boyish ways, I have only to remember they are my dear mother’s orphan +children, to bear with them cheerfully. The calling that I have chosen, +for their sakes as well as my own, is not less befitting a woman than +that of the stage, the counter, the bar, or any of the hundred ways by +which poor women earn their bread, or support their families. That it +requires more courage and firmness, surely does not render it more unfit +for woman: no woman will say that.” + +“No, no; it surely does not.” + +“I would rather,” said Barbara, “work a ship through the fiercest +tempest that ever a ship _survived_, than stand before the footlights of +a stage, face a mixed audience, and act out a part in a play, during a +whole evening—as I find even cultivated women sometimes do in this city +of yours. Why, I hear the old sea-captains, down at the Ocean House, +criticising their personal points. My chosen life may be unfeminine, but +it will not expose me to indignities,” said Barbara. + +“I have no more to say. We will rest the argument,” said Lady +Montressor. + +Barbara arose to take leave. + +“Stay, Miss Brande, if you please. I did not call you back for a +fruitless talk. I understood you to say that your vessel would be your +future home?” + +“Yes, Madam.” + +“Will it be your _only_ one? Forgive the question, and answer it frankly +as it is asked.” + +“It will.” + +“Then, Miss Brande, permit me—I know how deep the attachment one feels +to her native home; I know how strong yours must be to the Headland. +Myself and maid will take up but little room in that large house; +therefore, when you return from your voyage, come there as heretofore; +your two old servants will still be there to serve you; come with your +brothers, and make it your home as before.” + +“Madam, you are very good. Your most generous offer has taken me by +surprise; and well as I should like to accept it, I am not sure that it +would be right for us to profit by your extraordinary kindness,” said +Barbara, with emotion. + +“I do beseech you, my dear girl, not to hesitate, not to entertain the +least scruple upon this subject. I assure you that your return to the +Headland will be a personal satisfaction.” + +“Again I thank you from the depths of my heart, lady; but I cannot gain +my own consent at once to take advantage of your kind offer. It would +seem too selfish and grasping on my part.” + +“Take time, then, my dear girl; but remember this the while, that at +_all_ times the sight of your sail near the Headland, or your face +within its doors, can bring nothing but pleasure to its lessee.” + +“I thank you earnestly, dear lady; and I promise you that whenever I +return from a voyage, whether I spend much time with you or not, my sail +shall be seen off the Headland, and my face within your doors,” said +Barbara, gratefully, and once more she had made a move to go. + +“Stay yet a moment. I wish to depart immediately for that house.” + +“Before it is repaired, Madam?” + +“Yes—before it is repaired. If it were barely habitable for you and your +brothers, it is also habitable for me; and I can superintend the repairs +on the spot. I suppose workmen can be found in the neighborhood?” + +“There is _no_ neighborhood, dear lady; but workmen can be had from the +village of Eastville.” + +“Very well—that will answer my purpose. Now tell me, Miss Brande, do you +know of any vessel about to sail that could take us there?” + +“The Sea Mew will sail to-morrow, with the first tide, for Havana. They +have accommodations for passengers, but no passengers, I think. She is a +good ship. If you were ready to sail in her, Captain Brewster could put +you on shore at the Headland.” + +“I will go, if I can get a berth. Miss Brande, could you do me the great +favor of letting your brother ascertain whether I can get one?” + +“I have not the least doubt that you can secure a berth; but I will +assure myself as to the fact from Captain Brewster himself, who boards +at the Ocean House; and I will send Willful to let you know.” + +“I thank you very much.” + +“There is one thing I should tell you—two things, indeed: first, it is +necessary that you should take a supply of provisions down with you, as +there is no store nearer to the Headland than Eastville—secondly, that +if you go at all, you should go on board _to-night_.” + +“I thank you for your careful instructions, Miss Brande, and shall +endeavor to follow them.” + +“I will now take leave of you, lady, as no time should be lost in seeing +Captain Brewster and securing a berth. Good-bye, Madam.” + +“Good-bye, for the present. If I go, I shall see you again this evening; +if I do not go, I shall see you frequently during our stay.” + +“And if it should so happen that you should not obtain a passage in the +Sea Mew, Madam, the Petrel will sail in a week, and I should be very +glad to have you, and could make you passably comfortable in my cabin.” + +“I thank you, Miss Brande; and indeed, but for the great haste I am in, +I should much prefer to go with you. By the way, shall you stop at the +Headland on your way down the Bay?” + +“In any case, _yes_, Madam, I shall be obliged to do so.” + +“Then if I am there in advance of you, I shall be happy to receive you.” + +“I thank you, Madam—now, indeed, I must hasten away. Good-day, Madam.” + +“Good-day, Miss Brande.” + +And declining Susan’s attendance, Barbara and her brother retired. + +“Now, Susan, we must have all things in readiness, in case, as I expect, +we shall be able to obtain a passage on the Sea Mew. Pack up my trunks +at once, girl, and afterward we can attend to those out-door matters.” + +Susan obeyed, and the afternoon was so well spent in preparation, that +when at sunset Willful Brande presented himself with the information +that the lady and her attendant could have a berth in the Sea Mew, +coupled with a request that they would come on board that night, because +the vessel was to sail with the first tide in the morning, he found them +in readiness to depart. + +Willful Brande, by his sister’s directions, offered his services to +assist, called a carriage, helped the travelers into it, and after +seeing them off, remained behind to load and bring the dray with their +baggage. + +Barbara met her new friend on the wharf, and accompanied her on board +the Sea Mew. + +They found the skipper, a bluff, hearty, gallant old sailor, waiting on +the deck. He received his lady passenger with studied politeness, and +handed her down into a comfortable cabin. And Barbara having seen the +lady and her attendant fairly installed, took leave of them with the +promise to stop at the Headland on her way down the Bay. In another +hour, Willful Brande arrived with the dray containing the luggage, which +was conveyed on board and stowed away. + +And the next morning, at sunrise, the Sea Mew, having on board Lady +Montressor and her maid, sailed for Havana. + +The wind was fresh and fair, the weather fine, the water scenery grand, +the whole circumstances animating, as holding out the prospect of a +quick and pleasant voyage. + +The lady and her attendant were accommodated with a state-room in the +captain’s cabin; that state-room had, through the care of Barbara, been +neatly arranged—the berths covered with white counterpanes, and the +window hung with a white muslin curtain. The cabin, through the courtesy +of Captain Brewster, was given up almost exclusively to the use of his +passengers. + +But the sad Estelle passed the most of her time, both by day and by +night, in sitting by the window of her state-room, looking out upon the +heaving sea. + +It was on the ninth day of their passage down the Bay, and just at +sunset, that Captain Brewster came into the cabin and informed the lady +that they were approaching Brande’s Headland. + +Estelle put on her bonnet and mantle, and followed by Susan, went up on +deck, and looked out for her future home. + +And there, a mile to the right, before them loomed the dark and dreary +Headland, crowned with its ancient trees and half-ruined house. + +Their baggage was already in the boat that was waiting to take them to +the shore. + +The captain assisted the lady and her maid to descend, and followed them +into it, the oarsmen plied their oars, and in twenty minutes they +reached the shore. + +The captain handed his passengers to the beach, ordered the baggage +taken out, and finally came up to the lady, expressed his regret at her +departure, bade her adieu, and re-entered his boat which was rowed +rapidly back to the ship. + +And, Estelle, and her maid, were left standing alone in the twilight on +the beach. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + PURSUIT. + + “Oh! thou lost + And ever gentle lady—whose most fearful + Fate darkens earth and Heaven—where thou now art + I know not—but if thou now saw’st what I am, + I think thou would’st relent.”—_Byron._ + + +The same evening Lord Montressor sat alone in his private apartment in +the City Hotel. He looked pale and worn. A month had passed since his +arrival in Baltimore, and notwithstanding his utmost endeavors, he had +discovered no clue to his lost bride. He had come to the conclusion that +she had left the city, and this evening he had formed the resolution, to +leave the next morning for New York. + +While thus he sat in moody silence, neglecting the evening paper that +lay upon the table beside him, the door opened, and Gridley, his +lordship’s valet, presented himself. + +Gridley was a grave, respectable-looking, middle-aged man, rather +bald-headed and stout, clothed in black, and having quite the air of a +high-church clergyman. + +“Well, Gridley?” + +“Well, my lord! I have most important information for your lordship,” +said his lordship’s gentleman, pompously. + +“Speak! what is it? Any thing in regard to your lady?” exclaimed Lord +Montressor, rising anxiously. + +“Yes, my lord! If ever I saw Lady Montressor in my life, I saw her +ladyship come out of a house and enter a carriage to-night.” + +“At what hour? Where? Speak, man, in the name of Heaven!” + +“From number ten —— street.” + +“You are sure?” + +“As the carriage drove off and the people who had opened the house door +for her ladyship, went in and shut it, I ran up the steps and took the +number.” + +“And then?” + +“I ran down again as fast as I could and went after the carriage at the +height of my speed. But though I walked so fast, the carriage which was +driven very rapidly, distanced me, and rolled out of my sight.” + +“In what direction?” + +“Toward the wharves, my lord.” + +“At what hour was this?” + +“About half-past eight, your lordship.” + +“You are _sure_ the house from which she went was——” + +“Number ten —— street, my lord, assuredly.” + +“Go call a cab.” + +The valet bowed and at once withdrew to obey. + +Lord Montressor exchanged his dressing-gown for a close-bodied coat, +took his hat and gloves, and in three minutes—by the time that Mr. +Gridley put his head into the door to announce the cab,—he was ready to +enter it. + +He took out his watch. + +“It is now half-past ten;—a late hour to make a call—but under present +circumstances, I cannot afford to be fastidious. I shall ascertain if +she lives in that house, and if not, _where_ she lives,” thought his +lordship, as he took his seat in the carriage. + +“Where shall I go, sir?” asked the cabman. + +“Number ten —— street,” said Lord Montressor. + +A drive of half an hour brought them to the house. Lord Montressor +alighted and looked at his watch; it was now eleven o’clock. He looked +at the house; every window was darkened, every room silent, every inmate +apparently asleep. He was very much disappointed. He had hoped to have +reached the house some fifteen minutes earlier, and that some fortunate +chance, such as an evening-party, an absent inmate, a late guest, or any +among the thousand and one daily events, that happen to keep a family up +at night, might have occurred this evening. + +He was, as I said, very much disappointed. + +He could almost have found it in his heart to call up the household to +put to them the questions upon which he felt as if his fate depended. +But this he knew, however desirable, was totally inadmissible. Ah! had +he known the vital importance of these passing previous hours, he would +have roused the family! + +As it was, he said to himself—that he was weakly and culpably +impatient—that a few hours could make no difference—that the morning was +altogether the more proper time for making his meditated call and +inquiry; and so determining, he re-entered the cab, and gave the order— + +“Back to the hotel.” + +At ten o’clock the next morning, Lord Montressor entered a hack, and +drove to the house in —— street. Without waiting for the hackman’s ring +to be answered, he alighted and went up the steps, and reached the +portico just as a man-servant opened the door. + +“Is Lady Montressor in?” was the diplomatic question of his Lordship. + +“Lady Montressor does not live here, sir,” answered the negro. + +“Can you tell me where she _does_ live?” + +“I cannot, sir.” + +“Send”——(Lord Montressor glanced up at the name on the +door-plate,)—“Mrs. Brownloe here?” + +“Yes, sir; walk in, and take a seat, sir; what name shall I take up, +sir?” + +“Say a gentleman.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +The man disappeared, leaving Lord Montressor seated in the drawing-room. +And presently, the mistress of the house entered. She was a tall, stout, +middle-aged woman, soberly attired in grey. + +“Mrs. Brownloe, I infer?” said Lord Montressor, rising, and setting a +chair for the lady. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Lord Montressor, Madam,” said his lordship, announcing himself. + +“Ah!—resume your seat, my lord. You sent for me?” + +“Yes, Madam. I called, if you please, to make inquiry of a lady who left +your house in a carriage, last evening, at half-past eight o’clock.” + +“Oh! you mean Mrs. Estel?” + +“Estelle! Estelle!” exclaimed Lord Montressor to himself—then +aloud—“Yes, Madam; I speak of Mrs. Estel.” + +“Oh! she left us, as you said, yesterday evening.” + +“I should be very grateful to be informed whither she went, Madam?” + +“Oh! I don’t know! I haven’t the least idea in the world. I think she +left the city, however.” + +“Perhaps some member of your family may be better informed.” + +“Oh, no! I know they are not; because I had some curiosity to know where +the lady went, and I made inquiries; no one could satisfy me—all they +knew was the direction that the maid gave the hackman, and that the boy +who had charge of the luggage afterward gave the drayman.” + +“And that was——?” + +“Light street wharf, sir.” + +“And that is all the intelligence you can give me?” + +“All, sir; I am sorry it is so meagre; you are interested in the lady?” + +“Yes, Madam. I thank you very sincerely for the information you have +given me. Good-morning, Madam,” said his lordship, not feeling disposed +to be questioned in his turn, and rising to take leave. + +“To Light street wharf,” was the next order given to the hackman, as he +re-entered the carriage. + +And to Light street wharf he was driven. + +On arriving at the spot, he alighted, and walked about among watermen, +porters, sailors, laborers, and all the miscellaneous crowd of the +docks, and, addressing an old skipper, he inquired what vessel left that +wharf since eight the preceding evening. + +“The only ship as has left the port at all, capting, is the Sea Mew, +Captain Brewster, as sailed from this wharf at sunrise this morning, +bound for Havanna,” replied the accurate old sailor. + +“Had she passengers?” + +“More’n I can tell you, capting.” + +Leaving Mr. Gridley to mingle among the sailors at the wharf, and find +out whether the Sea Mew had carried passengers, and whether those +passengers were females, Lord Montressor once more re-entered his +carriage and drove back to the hotel to await the result. + +It was late in the afternoon when Gridley presented himself before his +master. + +“Well, Gridley?” said his lordship, anxiously. + +“Well, my lord, I have ascertained that two females, answering to the +description of Lady Montressor and her attendant, at nine o’clock last +evening embarked on board the Sea Mew, bound for the West Indies.” + +“Ah! then I have her again; but it is certain that the lady was bound +for the West Indies.” + +“Yes, my lord, certainly,” replied the valet, falling into a very +natural mistake. + +“Was the information you obtained to be relied upon?” + +“Without doubt, my lord, since it was from the hackman that took her +ladyship from —— street to the ship, and from the drayman who conveyed +her ladyship’s baggage to the wharf, and from the porters who assisted +in its transportation to the vessel—all of whom I hunted down and +questioned, my lord.” + +“You have done your duty well, and I thank you, Gridley. Did you, by the +way, happen to hear of any other vessel soon to sail for the West +Indies?” + +“No, my lord.” + +“Hand me the evening paper.” + +Gridley gave his master the “News.” + +Lord Montressor turned to the Marine Intelligence, and ran his eye down +the list, muttering: + +“For Liverpool, um—For Havre, um—um—For New Orleans, um—um—um—For +Havanna—here we have it! For Havanna, the Petrel, Brande master, to sail +on the first of October. This is the twenty-fifth of September. Gridley, +we sail for Havanna in a week—be ready.” + +“Yes, my lord.” + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + CAPTAIN BARBARA’S FIRST VOYAGE. + + “How gloriously her gallant course she goes! + Her white wings flying—never from her foes; + She walks the waters like a thing of life, + And seems to dare the elements to strife. + Who would not brave the ocean storm, the wreck, + To move the monarch of her bounding deck!”—_Byron._ + + +Early the next morning, Lord Montressor went down to the wharf to +inquire for the Petrel. + +A trim, tight-looking little clipper, standing a cable’s length down the +river, was pointed out to him. + +He called a boat, got into it, and directed to be rowed to the Petrel. + +On arriving alongside the vessel, Lord Montressor found himself in the +midst of a busy scene. Many other boats, heavily laden, were around the +clipper, the crew of which, seeming to consist of four negroes, were +engaged in taking in freight. + +Lord Montressor directed his boat to be pulled up to the starboard +gangway, and forthwith went on board, where, besides the four black +sailors, who were engaged in hauling up heavy bales from the boats on +the larboard, he found two manly boys of about ten and twelve standing +on the deck. + +“Can you direct me to the Captain?” asked Lord Montressor. + +The darkies suspended their labors for an instant to look at each other +and grin. + +“The Captain, my good fellows—the Captain—where is he?” again asked Lord +Montressor, thinking they had not understood the first question. + +“The gentleman asks for the Captin! My eyes, Sam! I reckon he’s bound +for Point No-Point,” said one of the men; and all, negro-like, slackened +their ropes and left off work, to gaze, grin, or gossip, as opportunity +might offer. + +But before Lord Montressor had time to reiterate his question, he was +startled by a clear, ringing, sonorous voice, shouting: + +“Ahoy there! What are you about men! look alive! look alive! bear a +hand! bear a hand! so——!” + +The men laid themselves with a good-will to their ropes, and the heavy +bales and boxes soon swung between the boats below and the bulwarks +above. + +Lord Montressor turned to ascertain whence the cheery voice came; and he +saw, standing upon the deck, with a small speaking-trumpet in her white +hand, a tall, handsome young woman, with a finely developed form, +broadly-expanded chest, frank, resolute countenance, shining black hair, +and flashing black eyes. Her dress and hood of coarse grey serge could +not disguise her singular beauty. + +“So——That’s it! Haul hearty! cheerly boys!—cheerly!—so——!” called the +same animating voice, as the men hoisted in the freight. + +Then she lowered the little speaking-trumpet, and advanced to receive +Lord Montressor, who was going toward her. + +“Some sister, or daughter, or perhaps wife of the skipper, doing duty in +his absence. Some shore-mate acting as shipmate—a very piquante +position, upon my word!” thought Lord Montressor, as he paused before +the young Amazon, and lifted his hat. + +“How do you do, sir? Have you any business with me?” asked Barbara. The +tone was frank, short, decided, almost abrupt. + +“I have business with the skipper, if you will be so kind as to direct +me where to find him, young lady.” + +“Ah! you wish to see Brande, Master?” + +“Yes, Madam.” + +“Here he is, then,” said Barbara, laying her hand proudly and fondly on +the head of the elder boy, who stood at her side. + +Lord Montressor looked surprised and perplexed. + +“Excuse me, Madam, did I understand you to say——” + +“That this lad is Brande—Master? Yes, sir! The vessel belongs to him and +his brother, and sails under his name. But until he attains his majority +and acquires a competent knowledge of navigation and seamanship, I, his +sister, am Acting Master. I am the responsible person here, sir, if you +have business with the ship. (Ahoy, there! Bob! man the long-boat and go +on shore to bring off those bales.) Now I am ready to listen to you, +sir.” + +“Excuse me, Madam! but expecting to find Captain Brande to treat with, I +came on board hoping to be able to secure a passage to the West Indies +for myself and men.” + +“Who are you, sir?” The question was frank, direct, and abrupt like all +her talk. + +“Pardon me, I should have anticipated your question; I am the Viscount +Montressor.” + +“And how many men have you, sir?” + +“Two—a valet and a groom.” + +“Well, sir, I know of no reason why you should not find a berth here. We +are prepared to accommodate a limited number of passengers. (Look alive +there, boys!) We sail on the first of October, sir, wind and tide +favoring, and shall be glad of your company.” + +Here was a dilemma! + +Lord Montressor was, of course, far too high bred to _express_ his +surprise, perplexity and doubt, and he was also too self-possessed to +_betray_ those emotions to any creature less quick-sighted and +penetrating than the Amazon before him. + +As it was, Barbara saw and understood the utmost extent of his +amazement, hesitation, and curiosity—perhaps it piqued her, for she +suddenly exclaimed— + +“Well, sir! since you have come on business, bring it to a conclusion. +Question me, sir. Question me, sir. I had far rather be questioned by a +gentleman, than see him stand silent before me, suffering the pangs of +suppressed curiosity!” + +The blood rushed to Lord Montressor’s brow, and half in displeasure, +half in amusement, he replied— + +“I regret very much that I have such a tell-tale countenance—but I am +sure you will pardon me for the involuntary betrayal of the surprise I +felt, at finding so young and handsome a woman, in so novel a position.” + +Barbara bowed—lowly, and perhaps ironically. + +“You arraign me, sir! if not in words, yet in thought. I am put upon my +defense. Come, sir! read the indictment—let me hear wherein I have +broken the laws of God or man.” + +(“What a termagant!” thought Lord Montressor; but he said)— + +“Nay, indeed, Miss Brande, I arraign you not—I simply _wonder_—begging +pardon, for even so much.” + +(“He thinks I am a vixen,” said Barbara to herself; then aloud)— + +“There is no need of wonder, sir. It is all very simple. I am left +guardian to two boy brothers, whom I am to support, and to bring up to +self-support. I chose the means best fitted to the end.” + +“But might not some more—I beg pardon, I grow impertinent.” + +“Not so, since I have challenged examination, sir!—you were about to +inquire——?” + +“Whether some more proper feminine occupation might not have been +found?” + +“I thought so! there it is again! What, precisely, do you call proper +feminine occupation?—sewing? teaching? acting? keeping boarders? selling +goods?” Barbara drew a long and deep inspiration, that seemed to relieve +her breast of the weight of these thoughts, and resumed—“No, sir—these +may all be sufficiently feminine, but they require certain +qualifications in which, happily or unhappily, I am deficient; they also +involve confinement, subordination, and patronage—which my soul could +not, for an instant, brook! For I am born to freedom, independence, and +domination!” + +“Yet, methinks all these are not incompatible with the life of a +hostess, a teacher, or a shopkeeper.” + +Barbara laughed scornfully. + +“Yes, Miss Brande, it does suggest itself to me that a sufficiency of +freedom, independence and domination might be found in a house of your +own, a school of your own, or a shop of your own.” + +“And still more in a SHIP of my own!” cried Barbara—her black eyes +flashing in triumph and exultation. + +Lord Montressor regarded the handsome Amazon, with an expression half of +admiration, half of wonder. She continued— + +“No, sir, I am unfitted by nature and education to spend my life in +pouring out coffee for old bachelors, pointing out A, B, C’s to little +children, or pulling down goods for idle lady-shoppers. And on the other +hand—I am prepared both by constitution and culture for my present +vocation. Like all the men and women of my house, I love the sea; from +four years old to fourteen, I sailed with my father, who taught me +navigation and seamanship, which I, with my ardent attractions to the +subject, learned much more readily and thoroughly, than many a dull or +unwilling cadet of the Naval schools has done. So being prepared for it, +driven toward it, and attracted by it, I enter my sea life. No, Lord +Montressor, there is something in my blood and in my circumstances, that +could not brook the quiet land life you have cut out for me! no more +than the majority of women could bear the life into which I rush with +enthusiasm. Be it so! every one to the bent of their own taste and +talent. Such I take to be God’s order.” + +“I have nothing more to say, Miss Brande, except this: Taking it for +granted that you are, as you say, well fitted for your position; still, +are you _safe_? In exigencies that may arise, when life may depend upon +discipline, will your crew obey you?” + +Barbara smiled proudly and confidently. “Lord Montressor! you are, +doubtless, a better student in history than myself! Have you noticed in +your reading, that whenever the reins of government have fallen into the +hands of woman, they have been less successful than men in enforcing +their authority and putting down revolt? Did England’s magnificent +Elizabeth ever quail before her ministers, or her people, or fail to +enforce her own royal will?—or Russia’s terrific Catherine, blench in +the bloodiest scenes of her time? There are such Elizabeths and +Catherines at the present day, and in the humblest walks of life, sir.” + +Lord Montressor bowed, and Barbara continued— + +“As for my crew, I have the means of compelling them to obedience.” + +His lordship looked incredulous. + +“There are but eight souls in all of this ship’s company—first, there is +myself, Acting Master, and my black maid—then come my two brothers, who +are devoted to their sister; then my two negroes, who will obey me as +only old family servants, who have watched over me on land and sea, from +childhood to womanhood, would do; and, lastly, there are two enlisted +men—one of whom is an old seaman, who sailed often with my father, and +is perfectly reliable; and the other is a young fellow whose countenance +is a letter of recommendation, if he had no other—as he has. So that you +see, sir, I have not an insubordinate or dangerous character on board.” + +“I see you have exercised judgment in the selection of your hands.” + +“With all this, sir, you may not feel sufficient confidence in my +competency for the post I have assumed, to trust your valuable life with +us for the voyage. Nevertheless, sir, Messrs. Gobright & Co., Merchants +on Light street—men who are not suspected of lunacy, have entrusted me +with a very valuable cargo.” + +Lord Montressor bowed absently; his thoughts had reverted to one far +away. + +“Am I to understand that you decline a berth with us, sir?” inquired +Barbara. + +This brought his lordship to the point. + +“Certainly not, Miss Brande. Upon all accounts, I would not forego this +opportunity—no, not for a seat in his majesty’s cabinet.” + +“Come, then, into the cabin and let us arrange the terms—come you, also, +Willful! you must learn to transact business,” said Barbara, beckoning +Lord Montressor and her brother to follow. + +They went below, and the terms—where one party was willing and the other +anxious—were soon concluded to their mutual satisfaction. + +It was near sunset when Lord Montressor left the vessel for the shore, +to return to his hotel. + +He employed the succeeding days of the week in writing letters to +England, and in preparations for his voyage. + +Was it strange that, in his conversations with Barbara, he should never +once have mentioned or even remotely alluded to the object of his +voyage? We think not; for the subject of his lost Estelle was too sacred +to be approached, except under urgent necessity, or in the hope of +obtaining direct information. And what necessity did there seem to be +for taking Barbara into his confidence? what information could he +suppose her able to give? or what connection could he possibly imagine +to exist between his delicate and reserved Estelle and this brave +daughter of the sea? In fact, he never once thought of such a +possibility. And yet, had he once broached the subject, how soon Barbara +could have told him that Mrs. Estelle had sailed, not for the West India +Isles as he supposed, but for a much nearer point, namely, Brande’s +Headland, a hundred miles or so down the bay. + +So full is life of mere paper walls! + +It was a fine frosty morning, the first of October, when the Petrel was +to sail. A fresh wind that had sprung up during the night was blowing +from the north-west. At daybreak Lord Montressor entered a hack to drive +down to the wharf. His valet and groom followed, with the baggage on a +dray. A ride of an hour brought them to the scene of embarkation. The +wharves presented a busy, animating appearance. The harbor was crowded +with shipping, whose tall masts, yards, and ropes were distinctly traced +upon the background of a clear blue sky. But the Petrel stood off at +anchor, some cables’ length down the river. And to reach her, it was +necessary to hire one of the many boats that glided in and out among the +vessels. + +Lord Montressor signalled his groom from the top of his dray, and +dispatched him to engage one. + +The man soon effected this purpose; and a large, substantial boat, roomy +enough to accommodate Lord Montressor, his attendants and his baggage, +was rowed up close alongside the wharf upon which they stood. The trunks +were first lowered into the boat, then Lord Montressor, followed by his +valet and his groom, entered and seated himself in the stern. The four +sailors laid themselves to their oars, and the boat flew over the water. + +In a few minutes they were alongside the Petrel which, in her neatest +trim, was preparing to get under way. They pulled around to the +starboard gangway, where Lord Montressor went immediately up the ladder +and stood upon the deck. + +In truth, the vessel presented an animating spectacle. Some of the men +were busy with the ropes, others with the windlass. The eldest boy was +at the tiller. + +But most conspicuous upon the deck stood the handsome Amazon, Barbara +Brande, in her strong, grey serge dress, but bareheaded, with the fresh +wind making free with her blackest of tresses, and flushing with a +deeper crimson her sun-burned cheeks. She stood there self-possessed and +giving orders in her own clear, ringing, decided tones. + +Seeing Lord Montressor, she immediately came forward to meet him, +saying, in her high, cheerful voice: + +“Welcome, sir! you are just in time. We shall be under way in half an +hour. You know where to find your quarters, sir. Will you go below, +or——” + +“I will remain on deck, if you please, Miss Brande,” said his lordship, +who was not a little curious and interested to see how this girl would +proceed to get her vessel under sail—feeling doubtful, also, of the +sound discretion of embarking his life on such a venture. + +“Very well, sir! as you please.” + +And Barbara left him and went forward. + +“Ahoy, there, Willful! see to getting Lord Montressor’s baggage up.” + +The lad left the tiller to obey. The hoisting of the trunks occupied but +a few minutes; the stowing them but a few more. + +The deck being then clear again, Barbara went forward to give orders, +which she did in short, firm, resonant tones, that must have startled a +stranger less prepared for them than Lord Montressor. + +“All hands up anchor! Each man to his post!—and you, Willful, to the +helm!” + +The orders were obeyed with alacrity. + +“Man the windlass.” + +The four sailors came forward and laid themselves to the bars. + +“Heave! heave hearty, my men! And you, Edwy, play up, my boy!” + +This last order was given to the younger lad, who raised the fife he +held in his hand and began to play a lively inspiring air, while the men +with all their strength heaved at the windlass. The anchor was soon +apeak, and hauled up to the side of the vessel, catted and fished. + +“Quick! now, my men!—haul in the larboard braces forward!—haul home the +starboard braces abaft!” shouted Barbara. + +It was done. + +“Stand by to set the tops’il! Man the lee sheet! Ease down the buntlines +and lee clew-line! Haul home the lee sheet! Now then, hoist away! +Cheerly, boys—cheerly! Brace all taut!” + +The tops’il thus set, the vessel moved slowly before the wind, bearing +down toward a schooner that was coming in, on the lee side. + +Barbara shouted— + +“You, Willful! what are you about there? Port the helm! Keep her clear +of that schooner ahead! So—steady—nothing off!” + +The lad understanding the risk, exerted himself until all danger of +collision was past. + +“Set the jib!—there!—Hoist the mains’il!—Brace +round—there—there!—Stand by to haul out the mizzen!—And you, Willful, +helm-a-lee!—so!—steady—stead-y!” + +The sails now filled with the wind, the craft moved swiftly onward. But +Barbara thought that she could carry more canvas. She gave the order— + +“Stand by to hoist the to’-gallant-s’il!” + +The men worked heartily. And the vessel, now under as much sail as she +could safely carry, ran before the wind, and passing between the North +Point and the Bodkin, stood gallantly out to sea. + +Barbara drew a long breath, and came aft to speak to her passenger. Her +cheeks were beautifully flushed, her eyes were sparkling, and her black +hair, in that short ripple that indicates great vigor of constitution, +was floating freely in the breeze. She seemed in no wise “breathed” by +her late exertions. Lord Montressor, as he looked at her, thought he had +never in his life seen a finer woman. + +“We have the prospect of a pleasant voyage, sir,” she said. “With us, +the prevailing winds are, at this season, from the North West; we shall +probably sail before a fair wind the whole way. Neither, this month, is +there much chance of a thunder storm.” + +Lord Montressor bowed. “That is an agreeable hearing, Miss Brande; but +do you not stop at any port on your voyage out?” + +“At no port, sir; but I shall cast anchor for a few hours at the +Headland—my old home, sir, where I shall have to go ashore, to settle +some final business with the young widow lady who has leased it of me. +And if you shall be disposed to accompany me there, sir, I can show you +one of the oldest houses in Maryland—a house that was built in the year +1635.” + +“And when shall we reach this Headland?” + +“With this fair wind, in six or seven days, sir.” + +Now what fatality was it, that prevented Lord Montressor from finding +out the name of “the young widow lady” who had leased Barbara Brande’s +house?—or from at once accepting her invitation, when they should reach +the Headland, to go on shore and look at the house? That life is full of +blindly missed possibilities, is the only answer I can find. + +They continued talking much longer; Lord Montressor growing every moment +more pleased with his acquaintance; for there was a frankness, a +directness, an uprightness and a _down_rightness about Barbara Brande, +that commanded respect. + +“Excuse me now, sir,” she said, at last, “I must go and relieve my young +helmsman; he is tired, I know,” and going forward, she took the tiller +from the hand of the boy and sent him away. + +They had, as Barbara predicted, a very quick and pleasant run down the +Bay; and on the morning of the eighth day, at sunrise, anchored off the +Headland. + +Lord Montressor came on deck, where he found Barbara giving her orders. +On seeing him she came aft. + +“Good-morning, sir! You are out early! We have just cast anchor. We +shall lie here all day. Look, sir! there is my dear, old home.” + +Lord Montressor looked across the water to the dark Headland that, +crested with its old forest trees, loomed to leeward. The sun, rising +behind the shore, threw the whole place into the deepest +shadow—altogether it presented a gloomy, weird, and forbidding aspect. + +“It is very picturesque,” said Lord Montressor. + +“Yes!—and very interesting in some of its features. They are getting +ready the boat for me to go on shore. I should be happy to have you +over, if you would like to accompany me.” + +“I thank you, Miss Brande—if you or your tenant will give me the +privilege of a day’s shooting in your woods, I shall be pleased to go on +shore,” said Lord Montressor, bowing. + +“Oh, sir! We have no game laws or preserves here! Our game is as free as +it is abundant—our woods as open as they are extensive. I am very glad +that you should be able to amuse yourself for a day. There are also +stanch pointers at the Headland, and old Neptune who has them in charge +will be as good a guide as any gamekeeper in England,” said Barbara. + +Lord Montressor expressed his thanks. + +“And now, my lord, let us to breakfast; and then to the boats.” + +Lord Montressor first went below to order his groom to get out his +fowling-piece, powder-flask, shot-pouch, game-bag, etc., and then +followed Barbara into the cabin, where the early morning meal was +spread. + +After breakfast, leaving Willful and two sailors in charge of the +vessel, Barbara, her younger brother, Lord Montressor, and his groom +entered the boat and were rowed rapidly toward the Headland. On reaching +the beach Barbara said— + +“Will you go up to the house, sir?” + +“No, I thank you very much, Miss Brande; I think not,” replied his +lordship, feeling unwilling to intrude upon the unknown Lady, who was +Barbara’s tenant. + +“Then—come hither, Edwy! attend Lord Montressor to Uncle Nep’s quarter. +Tell the old man to take the dogs, and show his lordship where to find +the birds,” said Barbara. + +Edwy came forward and bowed, expressing his readiness. + +And with a mutual “good-morning,” the parties separated—Barbara Brande +going up to the house, while Lord Montressor and his companions sought +the woods. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + THE RECLUSE. + + “Oh! might I here + In solitude live hidden—in some glade + Obscure, where highest woods, impenetrable + To star or sunlight, spread their umbrage broad + And dark as evening. Cover me, ye pines, + Ye cedars; with innumerable boughs + Hide me where they may never find me more.”—_Milton._ + + +We left Estelle and her attendant on the lonely beach below the +Headland, with the night coming on. + +They looked about themselves. + +At their feet lay the baggage, with no one near to take it away. Above +their heads arose the steep cedar-grown bank, with no visible path up +its ascent. + +Westward rolled the infinite sea, now fast darkening under the evening +sky. + +Eastward stretched the impenetrable forest, falling into deeper gloom +under the lowering shadows of night. + +From the sombre and solitary scene they turned to look into each other’s +faces. + +“Blessed saints, my lady! what a savage coast! does any living thing +inhabit it, do you think?” asked Susan, with a shudder. + +“Why, certainly, you know it, my girl.” + +“Beg your pardon, dear lady, but indeed, no, I don’t know it. I’m afraid +the captain has put us ashore at the wrong place; and I, for my part, +feel as if we were cast upon some desert island.” + +“But did you not see the house from the ship?” + +“Yes, my lady; but now I think of it, that makes the matter more +frightful; for it must have been a bewitched house, and we must be on +enchanted ground, else what’s become of it? I don’t see so much as a +chimney of it!” + +“Because we are below the line of vision, being too close under the +bank. The house is up on the headland, back among the trees.” + +“Then how shall I break a path for you, dear lady? for you can never get +through these briars!” + +“There is a path broken, and well worn, of course. And there is an aged +couple of servants somewhere near here, who, Miss Brande informed me, +had the keys, and would show us up to the house, and open it for us. The +path to their cabin starts from this landing, she said. Let us look for +it, Susan.” + +“Holy saints, my lady, the sky is growing so dark that I could not see a +conflagration!” said the girl, peering closely to the ground; “and the +grass is so thickly strewn with fallen leaves, that——” + +“Sarvint, Mist’ess!” uttered a gentle, growling sort of voice from the +bushes near her. + +“Ah-h-h!!” yelled the maid. “Sweet Providence, what is that? We shall be +murdered by this savage,” and frantic with terror, she ran toward her +mistress. + +Estelle laid her hand soothingly upon the girl’s shoulder, and turned to +see what the cause of the alarm might be. + +It was the gentle-hearted old negro, Neptune, who now emerged from the +bushes, and came into full view. And if the terrible sea-god himself had +risen from the waters, sceptre in hand, he could not have stricken +greater terror to the heart of the simple English maiden! And, in truth, +the mistress also gazed upon the apparition in some doubt, as well she +might, for the good old man was rather an awful looking object. + +His form was tall, gaunt, and bent beneath the weight of an hundred +winters. His face was black, hard, shining and seamed with wrinkles as a +dried prune, and framed around with snow-white hair and beard in +spectral contrast to its blackness. A suit of duck, seeming almost as +old and weatherworn as himself, and a tattered blanket, pinned with a +thorn around his neck, and hanging in ragged folds about his figure; a +black tarpaulin hat, with a red handkerchief passed over the crown and +round under his chin; and shoes of undressed leather, completed his +strange and picturesque attire. + +In his hand he carried a rugged, unhewn club, upon which he leaned in +walking. + +On approaching the strangers, he pulled the hat and handkerchief from +his head, and holding them, came on, bowing and bowing, as in +deprecation of their displeasure for the fright he had unconsciously +given. + +The maid shrank away, but the mistress went forward to meet him. + +“Sarvint, Mist’ess,” once more said the old man, bowing very humbly, and +then standing hat in hand before the lady. + +“Good-evening. You are Miss Brande’s servant?” + +“Yes, Mist’ess.” + +“She has let me her house. She referred me to you for the keys. We have +just arrived to take possession. Will you, therefore, be so good as to +get the keys, and show us the way thither?” said the lady. + +Now, this event was so unexpected that it took some time to make its way +into the slow and unprepared brain of the old negro. He found nothing to +say or do, but only stood bowing and bowing. Lady Montressor repeated +her directions. + +But the old man, “still far wide,” only answered by another deep +obeisance, and the pointless words: + +“Yes, Mist’ess—’deed it are.” + +Lady Montressor glanced hopelessly around toward Susan, who stood +peeping over her mistress’s shoulder, and whose fears had disappeared +before the gentle, deprecating manners of the black. + +“Why, what an old jelly brain!” she exclaimed impatiently, coming +forward and confronting the old man. + +“Yes, honey, jes’ so,” replied the latter, bowing to her, and in no +degree disturbed by the rudeness of her words. + +“Chut! can’t you understand, you antique idiot, that my mistress has +rented the house from Miss Brande, and that she wants to get into it?” +asked Susan, angrily. + +“’Cisely so, honey. When’s Miss Barbara spected home?” asked the old +creature, mildly. + +Susan lost the last remnant of her patience. + +“Look here, ancient simpleton, we are tired of standing here! Where are +the keys?” she peremptorily demanded. + +The curtness of her tone brought the old man at last to a point. + +“There ain’t but one key—de front door key; I carries it about with me. +’Cisely so, Mist’ess, here it are,” he said, producing a huge, +old-fashioned iron key, that might have sufficed for a prison lock. + +“Well, now, go on before us, and open the door,” commanded Susan. + +“Yes, Mist’ess; zactly so, chile,” was the meek reply, as the old man, +advancing his stick, groped along and struck into the narrow hidden +path, leading up the ascent of the headland. + +“But, stop! will the baggage be safe here?” inquired Susan. + +“’Cisely so, honey. Dere’s nothin’ to ’sturb it,” said Uncle Neptune. + +“Dear lady, please take hold of my arm; the path is very steep, and +slippery with the fallen leaves,” said the maid. + +It was now quite dark. + +Lady Montressor availed herself of the proffered assistance, and in a +few minutes they reached the top of the headland, and stood upon a level +with the ancient trees and the old house, half hidden among them, and +dimly perceived through the darkness. Uncle Neptune going before, went +up the steps and unlocked the door. + +“Take care, my lady, for the love of mercy! there is not a plank fast on +these ricketty stairs,” said Susan, anxiously guiding her delicate +lady’s steps up into the dilapidated portico. + +Old Neptune was within side the door, hammering at something that he +held in his hand, and with which he presently struck a light, by means +of which they saw the whole length of the old-fashioned hall; and beside +the front door a tiny cupboard, from which the old man had produced a +tinder-box and a candle. + +“Dis way, Mist’ess. ’Cisely so! Dis is the bes’ parlor,” he said, +opening the door on the right, and admitting them into a large, +scantily-furnished room. + +The single tallow-candle made the darkness here so terribly “visible,” +that the old man, after standing it upon the solitary table, and +dragging forward two rush-bottom chairs for the strangers, hurried out +to the little cupboard, and brought three or four more candles, which he +lighted, and set in a row on the mantle-piece. + +With this extra illumination, Susan looked critically around upon “the +best parlor.” The vast dreary room had one great merit—immaculate +cleanliness. The bare walls were white, the bare floor was pure. One oak +table stood between the two front windows, and upon it sat the model of +a frigate, under full sail—the work of Willful Brande; at equal +distances around the room were ranged a half-dozen rush-bottom chairs; +the wide fire-place was filled with fresh cedar boughs; on the +mantle-piece were several rare sea shells, an empty ostrich egg, a +whale’s tooth, a fragment of the old “Constitution,” sprays of coral, +lumps of amber, and other articles collected by Captain Brande during +his numerous voyages. That was all. + +Though this was the tenth of October, the night was very chilly, and the +large room really cold. + +“Would you like a fire, Mist’ess?” asked Uncle Neptune. + +“Yes! certainly, yes! What are you thinking of? Ugh! I believe we had as +well gone to Lapland,” exclaimed Susan. + +The old man took the mass of evergreens from the chimney, carried them +out, and soon returned with an armfull of brush, with which he proceeded +to light a fire. As the cheerful blaze crackled and ran up the chimney, +diffusing light and warmth throughout the room, Susan rubbed her hands, +congratulated her mistress, and set a chair near the fire for her +accommodation. + +“Now then, old father! you _are_ a nice old man, on a longer +acquaintance—how shall we get our baggage to the house?” inquired the +girl. + +“Hem-m—Jes so, chile. Me and my ole ’oman and Sam kin fetch it.” + +“Sam?” + +“’Cisely so, honey—Island Sam, as is on a wisit to us.” + +“Some acquaintance of yours, I suppose. Very well, my good old father! +go and attend to it, and you shall be well paid for your trouble.” + +“Zactly so, honey,” replied the poor old fellow, bowing himself out. + +When the door closed behind him, Susan took off her bonnet and shawl, +put them on a chair and approached her mistress, who during these few +minutes, had been sitting before the fire, in a mood of deep +abstraction. + +“Come, Madam, permit me to relieve you of these,” she said, gently and +respectfully, as she untied the ribbons and removed her lady’s bonnet, +and unbuttoned and took off her mantle. + +Lady Montressor suffered her to proceed, and then drew a deep +inspiration. + +“Don’t sigh, dear lady!” said Susan, mistaking the cause of her +mistress’s pensiveness—“the old barn is, after all, not so bad. Means +will make it very comfortable, and even now it is perfectly clean.” + +“Sit down, and cease to trouble yourself, child. The house does very +well,” said Lady Montressor. + +Susan obeyed, and was very still for about fifteen minutes, at the end +of which the footsteps of the men bearing the baggage were heard +approaching. + +She hurried out to meet them. The trunks were brought in, and placed for +the present in the hall, and the men went back to bring the hampers. + +But the old woman who had accompanied them, came into the parlor to +offer her services to the lady. Going up to her, she stood and +courtesied, with the customary— + +“Sarvint, Mist’ess.” + +Lady Montressor lifted her languid eyes to look at this new-comer. + +She was a little, old, dried up, jet-black negro, looking as though she +had grown hard and strong with age. She was dressed in a bright plaid +linsey petticoat, with a blue cotton short gown, and a check +handkerchief tied over her head. + +“Sarvint, Mist’ess,” she repeated; “kin I be of any service?” + +“Who are you, my good woman?” asked Lady Montressor, gently. + +“My name’s Aunt Amphy, honey, ’deed it is, child—Aunt Amphy. I’s be +known to all the country roun’, for a ’spectable, ’sponsible, age-able +ole ’oman, as knows how to ’duct herself proper’—and as any lady may put +conference in. ’Deed is _I_, honey.” + +“I do not doubt it,” said Lady Montressor, contemplating this original +with a good deal of curiosity—“you said your name was——” + +“Aunt Amphy, child: ’deed it is! least ways that’s what they do call me, +aldough de name give me by my sponsors in Babtism wer Amphitryte, arter +the Queen of the Ocean.” + +“Yes. Well, can I do any thing for you, Amphy?” + +“Lor bless you, no, child! no, honey! not a single thing! I’s +independent, thanks be to my ’Vine Marster. I come to see if I could be +of any sarvice to you, child, in showing you the house and +furniter—seeing how you’ve rented of it jes as it stands—and if I could +make de beds, or get supper ready for you, or any thing.” + +“I thank you: you are very kind. I accept your services, and will reward +them; there is my maid; you can consult and assist her. Susan, come +hither, my girl.” + +Susan came forward. + +“Here is this good woman, Amphy, who will show you through the house and +render you any assistance you may need.” + +“Yes, child—’deed will _I_,” put in the woman. + +“Very well, come along then, and show me where the kitchen is, first of +all,” said Susan. + +“Yes, honey—keep close arter me. And don’t you be ’fraid now, if de +house is haunted,” said Amphy. + +There was not far to go. Amphy simply crossed the hall, and opening the +opposite door on the left hand side, ushered her companion into the room +used as a kitchen;—such a poor place! so clean, yet so bare of +furniture; a wide fire-place with iron fire-dogs, and surmounted by a +mantle-piece upon which stood a row of brass candlesticks, a corner +cupboard—the upper part with glass doors—containing common white delf +ware, a wooden table and four wooden chairs, were all the visible +articles of furniture. + +“Dar honey! What do you say to _dat_ for a ’spectable kitchen?” +exclaimed the old woman in triumph. + +“Where are the cooking utensils?” asked Susan, eluding the other’s +question. + +“The _which_, honey?” + +“The tea-kettle, and saucepan, and toasting-fork, and so on.” + +“Oh, yes, child, surely! Dey’s in de bottom o’ de cupboard.” + +“Now, then, if you will show me where to get some wood and water, I will +have the fire made and the kettle on by the time the hampers arrive.” + +“I’ll go get de wood and water, child—you jes go and wait to unpack de +hampers.” + +“Very well; thank you; go.” + +The fire was soon kindled; the hampers were brought in and unpacked; and +Susan’s dexterous and willing fingers quickly prepared a light repast of +black tea, toast, and two poached eggs, which she neatly arranged upon a +waiter and carried in and set before her mistress. + +“Now _do_, sweet lady, try to eat something,” she said, +affectionately—“these eggs look like snowballs; this toast is browned to +a turn, and this tea—better never came from Canton—try now while I go +and see what prospect there is for comfortable sleeping.” + +And leaving the sad-browed lady, she called Amphy from the hall, and +directed her to show the way to the best chamber. + +The old woman merely opened the door connecting the parlor in which they +stood with the back room, and said: + +“Dar! Dat Miss Barbara’s own sleepin’ room, and it’s de bes’ in de +house.” + +It was as bare and as clean as the other apartments. An open fire-place, +filled with fragrant pine boughs, and flanked on either side by a linen +and clothes press; a four-posted bedstead with a comfortable bed, well +made up and covered with a white counterpane; a tall, three-legged +toilet table laid with a coarse white cloth, and furnished with a small +looking-glass; a pine washstand, with a plain delf-ware basin and ewer, +and two wicker chairs, completed the appointments for comfort. + +“This is all very clean and neat to say the least and _most_ of it,” +remarked Susan, looking around. “But—has the room, and especially the +bed, been aired lately?” + +“De Lor, child! It bin aired _all de time_! De trouble _we_ has is jes +to keep de air _out’n_ dis ole house,” said Amphy. + +“I believe you! But it is necessary to make up a fire and take the bed +to pieces to change the sheets, for they may be damp.” + +“Damp! he-he-he! De Lors, honey! _ole_ as de house is, dere ain’t not +the least bit o’ damp, or must, or moulder, anywhere about it. It are so +high up here, dat eberytime it rain, ebery singley bit’n de water run +right off’n it! an’ it so dry we kin hardly git a bit o’ wegables to +grow here. Damp! Lors, honey!” + +“Well, I’m glad to hear it is not so; but at all events it is cold. So +you take that pine out of the fire-place and kindle a fire, while I take +the clothes off the bed. Where is the linen closet?” + +“Dis a-one,” replied Amphy, pointing out the right hand press, and then +lifting the mass of pine boughs to carry them from the room. + +In a short time the chamber was made comfortable. And Susan closed it +up, and, accompanied by Amphy, left the room. + +“Now, child, dere’s anoder bed-room correspondin’ to dis, as open out’n +de kitchen on de other side o’ de hall, you know, as used to be the +Captin’s room, Heaven rest his soul! and which I reckon would suit you. +It’s clean as a penny, too, only full of sailor’s truck.” + +“Thank you, Mother Amphy, I shall do very well,” said Susan, as they +entered the parlor. + +Susan went immediately to the side of Lady Montressor, whom she found +with her elbow resting on the edge of the table, her head bowed upon her +hand, and her face in the deep shadow of her drooping ringlets. She was +sunk in profound thought, and the little refection stood almost +untouched beside her. + +Susan heaved a deep sigh. + +“This is the way! always the way! I may prepare her the nicest little +repast in the world, and she scarcely ever eats; I may make up the +softest bed, and she hardly ever sleeps! and I—I wear out my life +tending and watching her, to no purpose! I don’t know what she lives on, +I am sure, unless it is on grief and obstinacy, and she is dreadfully +obstinate! If ever again I tack my fortunes on to those of a runaway +lady—may I——but the Lord bless her! and the Lord forsake me if ever I +forsake her,” thought Susan, as she silently removed the service, and +beckoned Amphy to follow her from the room. + +“Come into the kitchen and take a cup of tea with me, Mother Amphy. My +heart is heavy, and I want somebody to talk to,” said Susan, when she +had closed the parlor door behind her. + +“Thankee, honey, wid all de pleasure in life, since you’s so ’bliging. I +should ’joy a rale good cup o’ tea; and I warrant de Madam keeps de +werry best,” said the old woman, as she followed Susan into the kitchen. + +When they had drawn out the table, arranged it, and seated themselves, +Amphy said— + +“De lors! ain’t she purty dough?” + +“Who?” + +“De child in dere—de Madam I mean—_wonderful_ purty!—but what’s de +matter wid her, honey? she seems to be in a heap o’ trouble! Is de child +a widder?” + +“Hem-m! Yes, she’s a widow (—_bewitched_—there’s another consequence of +following a runaway lady! I shall have to lose my soul with lying, or, +what is as bad, distorting the truth,)” thought Susan. + +“A widder! _poor_ thing! she take it wonderful hard! How long she bin a +widder, honey?” + +“Some months.” + +“Dis _is_ wonderful good tea! Some mont’s! and she ain’t begin to git +over it yet? And I spose dat what she come down to this lonesome place +for?” + +“Yes.” + +“De Lors! Well ’tis ’stonishin’ how dey do take on at fust—dese young +widders! but lors! it don’t las long, ’specially when dey’s young and +handsome as _she_—and she’s _wonderful_ handsome! It ’minds me of a +purty young widder as I know’d of; her husband done die of de fever. +Lors! Lors! Lors! how she did take on at fust, to be sure! Nobody +couldn’t hold her! nobody darsent come nigh her! Byme-by, she take and +buy a lonesome country place, ’way off in a woody park, by itself. + +“And she go dere to ’tire from de worl’; ’fuse to see any company; ’fuse +to see her own dear friends; spent de live long day in walkin’ up and +down de locust avenue, a thinkin’ on her husband in his grave. Byme-by, +toward de fall, dere came back from furrin parts, a young Capt’in Lovel, +who was a sort o’ quaintance o’ hern; and he sends and begs de privilege +o’ jes shootin’ game in her woods, an’ he won’t come nigh de house, nor +’sturb anybody. And she guv him leave; ’cause she was too sorrowful to +care ’bout it, one way or t’other. So he kept roamin’ through de woods, +wid gun and dog, day arter day. At last he happen to meet she in her +solemncolly walks. First ’twas only a bow one side, and a sigh t’other, +as they passed each other Next ’twas a bow one side, and a melanchollum +_smile_ t’other. Next it was—‘Good-mornin, madam,’ and ‘How do you do, +sir?’ + +“Arter a bit it growed—‘A fine day, madam’—‘What sport have you had, +sir?’ ‘Good, though excessive fatiguin’, madam,’ &c. ‘Wont you walk in +an’ res’ sir?’ And so de handsome Capt’in gradu’ly got to visitin’ de +house; till byme-by, de May followin’ bless patience if dey wa’n’t +married! True for you, honey! I aint a tellin’ of you a bit o’ lie! +’Stead o’goin down in de church _yard_ with her dead husband she went +into de church altar wid a live one; and ’stead o’ ’mitten’ suicide she +went an’ mitted matrimony! Dem’s um! Ah, dat young Capti’n was a deep +one! _He_ know’d pretty little widders! and so do I; I knows dere ways! +Dey gits over it! And so will de child in dere. You mind! if some +handsome young capt’in don’t come before long to hunt _her_ up—why she +get tired o’ stayin and go into the world agin to hunt some young +Capt’in up. Dat’s all! Dar! don’t you be oneasy.” + +“Your theory don’t apply to my mistress, though, Mother Amphy. _She_ is +not an ordinary woman, nor are her sorrows common ones,” said Susan, +carried past the bounds of prudence by her indignation at the idea of +her own illustrious and most unhappy lady being compared to any other +“widder.” + +“De Lors! child has she seen any heavier trouble dan de loss of +husband?” + +“She lost husband, mother, father, and many relatives and friends at one +fell blow. She is mourning now for them all.” + +“De ’Vine Marster in Heaben, honey! what dat you tell me!” exclaimed the +old woman, rolling up her eyes in horror. + +“I am telling you the truth.” + +“Was it a shipwreck?” asked Amphy, her thoughts recurring to the +Mercury. + +“Worse than that, it was an earthquake.” + +“A YETHQUAKE—MY! Where did it happen of, honey?” + +“In a land beyond the seas. Now you must know that I hate to talk about +these things, Amphy. So drink your tea, that is a good soul, and let me +drink mine.” + +“Yes, honey, yes; ’tis wonderful good tea indeed, ’specially with white +sugar in it. I’se wery sorry for de chile—wery!” + +“After all,” thought Susan, “I might as well have given her this reason +for my lady’s deep mourning, and sorrow-stricken countenance, as to have +her always wondering about it, and perhaps talking of it.” + +She then changed the conversation, and inquired about the neighbors, +which she discovered to be a “minus quantity” in that district; and then +about the traditional ghost, that haunts every old half-ruined, country +mansion, and which ought, of course, to be on duty at the Headland +House, and which she found, in this instance, to be “a lady all in +white, who wandered about the house and grounds at night, weeping and +wringing her hands.” + +“The Lord forbid that I should believe in ghosts; but still I’d rather +not have heard the story; for if I happen to go through the upper rooms, +in the dark, or look out of any of the windows, it will scarcely be in +human nature not to take a patch of moonlight, or the silvery bark of a +white maple or beech tree, for the ghost of the white-robed lady,” said +Susan. + +“Ah, child! if _dat’s_ de worst you see.” + +“But who was she when she was alive?” + +“Ah, honey, she lib many and many a year ago! Her name Miss Blanche +Brande. She was crossed in love, you see, child, and she’s jes pined +away and died, and has been walking here eber since.” + +“A very weak-minded ghost! I don’t think I shall be afraid of Miss +Blanche,” said Susan. + +“Wait till midnight, honey! only jes wait till midnight.” + +As it was now very late, the old woman arose to take leave. + +“Der’s wood enough in for yer mornin’ fire, honey, and please de Lor’ +I’ll step up here yerly in de mornin’, and fetch yer anoder pail of +fresh water to put de kettle on.” + +“Thank you, yes; if you and your old man can engage to bring the water +and cut the wood, and assist me in the little house-work when your +services are needed, my mistress is liberal, and will pay you well.” + +“I wasn’t thinkin’ nothin’ ’bout no pay, honey. Howsever, jes as you +please ’bout dat. I’ll be round yerly in de mornin’,” said Amphy, +preparing to depart, by tying her check handkerchief closely under her +chin, and taking up her thick walking-stick. + +“Good-night, child. I’d a heap liefer it be _you_ nor _me_ stayin’ in +dis lonesome ole house all night. Marster bress you, honey.” + +And with this benediction, the namesake of the ocean goddess departed. + +Susan was not more than ordinarily superstitious—that is to say—in broad +daylight, or in a room full of company, she did not believe in “ghosts;” +but at ten o’clock of a dark night, alone in a room of an old +dilapidated country house, reputed to be haunted, she felt at least +uncomfortable. + +She quickly set the kitchen in order, and went into the parlor to rejoin +her mistress. + +She found Lady Montressor in the very same attitude in which she had two +hours before left her—with her elbow resting upon the table, her head +bowed upon her hand, and her dark ringlets overshadowing her face. It +seemed that in two hours she had not once moved. The fire had burned so +nearly out, that nothing remained but a few embers. + +“Dear lady, it is after ten o’clock—will you retire?” + +“Yes,” with a deep sigh answered Lady Montressor. + +“Your chamber is well-aired and warmed—shall I show you into it now?” + +“Yes,” with another weary sigh, replied the lady, rising. + +Susan opened the communicating door, and ushered her mistress into the +bed-room. + +There was a cheerful fire burning on the broad fire-place and diffusing +a ruddy glow throughout the large room. + +“I hope you find every thing here as comfortable as circumstances will +admit of, my lady.” + +“Yes”—in the same exhausted manner answered the mourner—then, in her +thoughtfulness of her devoted servant, she added—“I thank you, Susan?” + +The maid hurried away into the hall, and returned with the large +traveling-basket in which she had packed her mistress’s night-dress and +toilet articles. These she quickly produced and laid out. Then she +assisted her lady to undress, and when she was quite ready for bed, +prepared as usual to leave her alone for her evening devotions, which +were the very last acts of Lady Montressor, before lying down to her +nightly rest. + +“Do you think you will sleep well to-night, my lady?” inquired Susan, +affectionately. + +“As well as usual, my girl,” answered Lady Montressor, evasively. + +“Good-night, then, my lady; may the angels guard you.” + +“Good-night——but stay; are your sleeping accommodations comfortable?” + +“Yes, I thank your ladyship; I have the room directly opposite to yours, +across the hall; if you should be wakeful, or need any thing in the +night, dear lady, please knock me up—I shall be sure to hear you.” + +“Thank you, my child, I will, if there should be any need. Now go to +your rest. Good-night.” + +“Good-night, dear Madam—and may the Lord be with you,” said Susan, as +she retired and closed the door behind her. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX. + THE GRAVE-YARD GHOST. + + “Strange things, the neighbors say, have happened there! + Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs, + Dead maids have come again, and walked about; + And a great bell has tolled unrung, untouched.”—_Blair’s Grave._ + + +Susan crossed the hall and entered her own chamber, which was even more +scantily furnished than the other rooms. There was a wide fire-place +filled with evergreens and flanked by two closets, as in the others. And +there was a four-post bedstead with a bed well made up and covered with +a comfortable blue and white check counterpane; and there was an +arm-chair and a table upon which stood a quadrant, a compass, an old +chronometer, Bouditch’s Navigation, and other sailors’ belongings. On +the mantle-piece were various curiosities, such as a mummy’s hand, a New +Zealander’s skull, a Chinese woman’s skeleton foot, and other such +enlivening articles of virtu, collected by the late Captain Brande, in +his various voyages. + +“Ugh! it’s enough to chill one’s blood, even without the ghost of the +white-robed lady! Well! it’s a comfort at last that one can say their +prayers,” said Susan, looking around upon the weird scene. + +“And as I hope to be saved,” she added, as she examined the room—“there +are no shutters outside the windows, and no curtains within! So that if +the ghost of Blanche chooses to look in through the panes of glass I +shall have to shut my eyes to avoid seeing her! Well, praise be to +Heaven there remains prayer at least, and no one can be very much afraid +who prays very hard!” + +And with this consoling conclusion, Susan examined the bed, and finding +the sheets all fresh and sweet, hastily undressed herself, said her +prayers, put out the candle, and jumped into bed. + +But she could not sleep. Reason with herself as she might, the utter +isolation of the house, the emptiness of all the chambers, the profound +solitude of her own room; the vague dread of runaway negroes, of whose +occasional acts of violence she had sometimes read with horror; the +story of the white-robed lady, whose ghost was said to wander through +the house and grounds;—thoughts that at noon day, or in company, would +have moved her mirthful scorn, now at midnight when she was alone, +filled her heart with superstitious terror, which she could neither +explain nor discard. + +On the right hand of her bed was a large window, unprotected by either +curtain or blind, and as often, as in her restless tossing about, she +turned to that side, the whole outer scene in that direction was visible +to her. + +And such a scene! a table land, with here and there a solitary spectral +pine, or cedar-tree, and in the midst an old family graveyard, with +ghostly tombstones gleaming dimly white under the clouded starlight. The +sea was not visible, but its monotonous and mournful murmur was all but +too audible, and formed a strangely appropriate accompaniment to the +gloomy aspect. + +At each turning, and each glance out upon the wild, dark landscape, +Susan grew more nervous, and consequently more superstitious and +fearful. + +And presently, a little after midnight, the wind arose with a sigh and a +moan, that seemed like the voice of some denizen of that graveyard, +waking from his death-sleep, to walk the earth at night. + +Susan covered her head and held her breath. Then half-suffocating, she +uncovered it, and looked out. There were the ghostly tombstones gleaming +dimly under the clouded sky. + +“Oh, my goodness alive! I shall go crazy if I stay here!” cried Susan, +rising up into a sitting posture and throwing the bed-clothes off her. +She peered cautiously toward the window pane and looked out. This +position gave her a much more extensive view than she had before +possessed. + +But after the first glance, Susan fell back with a half-suppressed +scream, and buried her face in the bed-clothes. + +She had seen the form of a white-robed, graceful, female figure moving +slowly up and down among the tombstones! + +Her eyes were blinded by the blankets pressed around them, yet she could +not shut out the vision of that white-robed, beautiful form with its +flowing black hair, and clasped hands. + +Susan’s first impulse was to fly to her lady’s room and rouse her; but +terror had deprived her of the use of her limbs, and so she lay +shuddering and helpless. Presently she remembered the Almighty +Protector, and fell to praying. + +Now, it is certain that the sincere prayer of a simple, faithful soul, +is the antidote for all fear; and in praying, the wild throbs of the +girl’s heart subsided. + +And with returning calmness came the power of motion, and the first +impulse of seeking her lady’s presence and protection; but then arose +the generous thought of not disturbing her rest. And forming a +resolution of self-restraint and patience, Susan recommended herself to +the care of Heaven, and ventured once more to creep to the side of the +bed and look toward the window. The spectral form had disappeared, and +with a sigh of relief, Susan sank back upon her pillow. The reaction of +so great a nervous excitement produced its natural effects, and Susan +sank into the deep sleep of exhaustion. + +The broad light of morning falling full upon her face awoke her. She +started on seeing herself in a strange bed and room, and for some +moments could not recollect how she came there; but when memory +returned, she arose at once, feeling how heavily and how long she must +have slept, and how late it must be. + +She hurried on her clothes and went softly across the hall to the room +of her mistress, whom she found apparently sleeping. + +Then she returned and entered the kitchen. No sooner had her footfall +sounded on the plank floor than a knock at the back door arrested her +attention. She went and opened it, to find old Amphy there with a pail +of water, waiting. + +“De Lors, child! how late you—dem does get up, my patience alive! Here +I’s bin t’ree times to de door, and dis time I jis sots myse’f down to +wait—ef it’s all day! But I do spose how you was tired.” + +“Yes, very tired! come in.” + +The old creature entered and proceeded to fill the kettle, while Susan +lighted the fire. + +“How you sleep last night? You didn’t see nuffi’n, did you?” + +“Hush—I’ll tell you after a bit. I don’t believe I really saw any thing, +but I believe I _fancied_ I saw that white vestured female figure +gliding among the tombstones,” said Susan, with a retrospective shudder. + +“_’Tis she!_ Sure as ebber you lib in dis worl’ _’tis she_!” exclaimed +the old woman in a voice of deep horror. + +“Nonsense! it was imagination, optical illusion, no doubt,” replied +Susan, whose superstitious terrors had disappeared with the shadows of +night, and whose right reason had returned with daylight. + +“Don’t matter what you call it, child,—wedder ’magination, optional +solusion, or ghos’—it’s all one and de same thing, and I rudder see a +live lion o a robber, nor one o’ _dem_. Has you any browned coffee?” + +“No; I will get you to brown some,” said Susan, going to a hamper and +taking out a packet, which she handed to her assistant. + +Then leaving the old woman to her task, Susan once more visited the room +of her mistress, whom she now found awake. + +“Have I disturbed you, by coming in, my lady?” + +“No, dear girl, I am about to rise.” + +“Did you sleep well, Madam?” + +“As usual, Susan.” + +“Nothing disturbed you in the night, I hope, my lady?” + +“Nothing, Susan.” + +“No, of course not, _her_ windows have shutters to them, and are, +besides, on the opposite side of the house to the graveyard,” thought +Susan, with a momentary relapse into credulity. + +But her mistress was now rising, and Susan busied herself in assisting +at her toilet. + +Mary Queen of Scots has been criticised for dressing as carefully each +day, in her prison of Fotheringay, as at her palace of Holyrood. I have +no doubt that it was a mere mechanical matter of habit, rather than of +care or thought. Certainly it was only from force of habit that Lady +Montressor, in the course of her simple matinal toilet, seated herself +in a chair and yielded up her beautiful head of ebon hair, to be +carefully dressed by her maid, whose affectionate hands braided up the +back locks and rolled them in as neat a knot, and divided and disposed +the front locks in as beautiful ringlets, as if, instead of hiding in +this half ruined house, her ladyship had been going to receive morning +visitors, in her boudoir of Montressor Castle. And with the same careful +attention, she arranged the black cashmere morning dress, with its white +lace collar and cuffs. + +And then, as was her custom, she left the lady to her devotions, and +passed into the parlor to open the shutters, light the fire, and set the +solitary table for her morning meal. + +Then she returned to the kitchen, where she found that the old busybody +there had set the coffee, made biscuits and put them to bake, and was +now engaged in preparing a fat partridge for the gridiron. + +“Dear me! where did that quail come from?” asked Susan, in surprise and +delight that this luxury was provided for her lady’s table. + +“Dunno what you call _quail_, but if you mean dis ere _peertridge_, +better ax my old man dere, honey; he kin handle a gun now et a hunner +year ole, good as any young feller going’, I tell yer all good; you +hears me, don’t you?” replied the old woman, proudly and fondly rolling +her head toward the back door, whither now Susan directed her eyes to +see old Neptune standing there, leaning on his fowling-piece, and +smiling meekly as was his wont. + +The old man took off his hat and handkerchief, and bowed with his usual +gentle salute of— + +“Sarvint, Mist’ess.” + +“Good-morning, father—you brought these?” + +“Yes, Mist’ess—I trought how de Madam, looking delikky, would like +somethin’ relishing for her breakfas’.” + +“I’ll tell her you brought it; you are so very good. I am sure she will +value your kindness.” + +“’Taint nuffin much, Mist’ess; wish I could do more for de Madam; she do +look _wonderful_ delikky.” + +And the old creature spoke sincerely; such an instance of thoughtful +kindness was nothing unusual in his or his race; for there is not on all +the earth, perhaps, a set of creatures more “kindly affectionate” than +the old family servants of Maryland. + +This old man seemed delighted with the pleasure he had given, and +setting down his gun, went and busied himself with chopping and piling +up wood, and making himself “generally useful.” + +“Now, Mist’ess,” he said, “you has wood enough to las’ you all day.” + +“I am very much obliged to you, indeed. But I am not _Mistress_,” said +Susan, smiling. + +“What shall I call you, then, honey?” + +“My name is Susan Copsewood, and I am only Lady Mont——Gemini!—I mean +Mrs. Estel’s maid. So you may call me any thing you please except +Mistress.” + +“Yes, Miss Susan,” replied the old man, mildly. + +“Aye! that will do very well. Call me that, father.” + +The old creature smiled; he was delighted to hear this rosy-cheeked, +pleasant-spoken girl continue to call him father—not knowing that it was +a title of respect Susan was in the habit of giving to very old men, of +an humble class of life, in her native country. + +As the breakfast was now ready, this “neat-handed” maid arranged it +carefully upon a waiter and carried it into the parlor, where she found +her mistress seated at the table in her old attitude of mournful +abstraction. + +Susan arranged the service upon the table and then, with the purpose of +engaging her mistress in conversation, said, triumphantly— + +“There, my lady! look at that quail!” + +“Thank you, Susan,” answered the lady, abstractedly. + +“But you don’t look at it—you don’t ask where it came from.” + +Lady Montressor made no comment, and Susan slightly piqued, observed: + +“Oh, to be sure, we are in the fabulous country, where quails fly in at +the kitchen windows, already roasted?” + +“My dear girl, what has vexed you?” inquired her ladyship, kindly, +noticing now, for the first time, that her faithful attendant looked +troubled. + +“Nothing, my dear lady, only that you have no more curiosity about this +quail, which I consider a god-send, than if your father’s gamekeeper had +furnished it for the Hyde Hall breakfast table.” + +At this sudden mention of her old home, Lady Montressor grew pale as +death, and Susan in alarm, hastened to apologize. + +“No, no—say nothing, as you are not to blame, child.” + +There was a pause, and then Susan entreated her mistress to try and +partake of some breakfast, and especially to try the “quail.” + +And Lady Montressor, rather to gratify the girl than to please herself, +complied. + +The idea of telling her mistress about the graveyard vision of the +white-robed lady occurred to Susan; but she prudently dismissed the +gloomy subject, and told instead the pleasant story of the old +centennial sportsman, whose gun had supplied the game for breakfast. + +Lady Montressor listened, and replied: + +“Bear the old man my thanks, Susan, and do not let his efforts go +unrewarded.” + +And Susan did as her mistress directed. + +After breakfast, and after the young woman, with the assistance of +Amphy, had put the lower rooms in order, and unpacked and disposed Lady +Montressor’s few books upon the parlor table—leaving her ladyship +engaged in reading, she went up stairs and explored the upper rooms, +which she found completely bare of furniture, and even of window +glasses—the closed shutters concealing this latter named deficiency from +the outside; the plastering was cracked, and hanging in dangerous masses +from the ceiling; and the locks on the doors were all broken; but the +floor, and all the wood and brick-work were perfectly sound. + +From the second story, Susan went up into the attic, which she found in +even a worse condition—the window-sashes being entirely gone, and not +only the plastering, but the lathing broken. But here, also, the plank +and brick-work was sound, although the deep stains on walls and floor +proved that in rainy weather the roof leaked badly. + +“Horridly out of repair, but a good, soundly-built house, for all that; +and a few hundred dollars will make it a very comfortable one,” was the +conclusion to which Susan came. + +She then went down stairs, and inquired of old Amphy how she might best +reach the village of Eastville, to which she wished to go, to procure +workmen to come out and repair the house. + +Amphy assured her that the horse “Charley” and the carry-all, that had +been left by Miss Barbary, in the old man’s care, was at her service, +and that the old man himself would be happy to drive her over there. + +This plan was no sooner proposed than accepted, and Susan went in to +inform her mistress of her projected journey. + +She found Lady Montressor seated near the window, with the book held +idly on her lap in one careless hand, while the other arm, resting its +elbow on the window-sill, supported her drooping head. Susan proposed +her errand, and received the lady’s ready acquiescence. + +Old Amphy promised, during the maid’s absence, to mind the house, and to +cook one of her own chickens for the lady’s dinner; and old Neptune +brought up the carry-all and horse to take Susan to the village. She +prepared herself and soon set out. + +She was absent several hours, but found it impossible to get any workmen +to promise to come to the Headland House in less than a week or ten +days. And with this insufficient satisfaction she was obliged to return +home. + +There was in the grove near the house a curious arbor, the work of +Captain Brande, erected of six jaw bones of the whale, set up on end in +a circular form, and covered with a thick growth of the trumpet vine +with its shining, dark green, star-shaped leaves, and flaming red +vase-like flowers. + +As Susan drove into the park, she saw Lady Montressor sitting within +that arbor, gazing out abstractedly upon the sea. Susan alighted and +went up to her. + +“The evening is chilly, dear lady, pray do not sit here,” she urged, +with affectionate solicitude. + +The lady lifted her large mournful eyes to the face of her faithful +attendant, and without a word arose to accompany her to the house. + +Old Amphy had tea ready in the parlor, and soon after it was served and +cleared away, Lady Montressor retired to her chamber and dismissed her +attendant for the night. + +Old Amphy complaining of fatigue from having set up later than usual +upon the preceding night, took leave and departed. + +Susan, also, from loss of rest, was very tired and sleepy, so she +fastened up the house, put out the fire, said her prayers and went to +bed. But with the darkness of solitude, and the silence, returned her +superstitious terrors. She shut her eyes, and then, not content with +that safeguard against spectral sights, she drew the bed-clothes tightly +over her head. But Susan had capacious lungs that required a good supply +of fresh air, and so the sense of being half suffocated grew so +intolerable that she was forced to uncover her face for the purpose of +breathing. But she kept her eyelids closed. + +Good angels! how solitary, how silent, and how dark it was! She could +not see the darkness, but like the silence and the solitude, she _felt_ +it, in the core of her heart, and quaked with vague terror. + +It was long before she could quiet herself. + +At last, however, she fell asleep. + +How long she had slept she did not know, for sleepers take no account of +time; and why she awoke, she could not tell, for dreamers are not always +cognizant of causes;—but as she awoke, she thoughtlessly opened her +eyes, turned over, faced the uncurtained window, and saw the +half-obscured, star-lighted sky, the level table land with its sentinel +trees—the graveyard, with its gleaming spectral-like tombstones, and +there—oh, Heaven of Heavens!—the gliding form of the graceful, +white-robed woman! + +The panic-stricken girl had no power to withdraw her gaze, that seemed +fascinated to that beautiful form, with its flowing, snowy drapery, and +streaming jet-black hair, and long fair hands that she clasped and wrung +like one in deepest grief, as in slow measured steps she paced up and +down. Presently, in turning away from her monotonous path, to Susan’s +unutterable horror, she slowly and steadily approached her window! + +Just as that wild white face looked in from the outer darkness, Susan, +half swooning, sunk back upon her pillow, with barely strength enough +left to draw the counterpane over her swimming head; and there she lay +half paralyzed with terror, her heart quivering, almost dying in her +bosom with the momentary expectation of some supernatural denouement, +until at length, as before, the deathly sense of suffocation, and the +imminent necessity of breathing, compelled her to uncover her face. + +All was solitude, silence and darkness around her. The spectral face had +disappeared from the window. Still, in deadly terror of its return, she +closed her eyes and lay shivering. She would have given all that she +possessed in the world for the companionship of any human being. Yet in +affectionate solicitude for the uninterrupted repose of her suffering +mistress, she refrained from flying for shelter into the chamber of the +latter. + +And so she lay cowering and shuddering, occasionally lifting her eyelids +a little way, to steal a cautious glance around the room and through the +window; but all continued silent, dark and solitary, until near morning, +when the joyous crowing of Aunt Amphy’s chickens, and the cheerful red +streaks along the eastern horizon, heralding the approach of day, put +her superstitious, midnight terrors to flight, and enabled her wearied +frame to sink to sleep. + +She must have slept long and heavily, when a sharp tapping upon the pane +of glass nearest her ear caused her to start up in affright. + +It was now very late in the morning, and Aunt Amphy stood outside, +tapping on the window. + +“Marster’s dear sake, chile, _is_ you dead, or is yer gwine sleep for +eber?” + +“Oh! is that you, Mother Amphy?” + +“Sure it’s me, an’ its gwine on to seven o’clock, chile.” + +“Oh, is it? I will get up directly and let you in,” said Susan, rising +and hurrying on her clothes. + +“_Dar_, what you tink of _dat_ for your Mist’ess’ breakfas’?” inquired +the old woman, triumphantly holding up a fine fat “red neck” before the +window. + +“What sort of a bird do you call _that_?” asked Susan. + +“Bird? De Lor! Dis ain’t no _bird_ chile! It is one of the bestest ducks +’cept de canwas back as flies over our waters. It’s a red-neck, an’ my +ole darlin’ shoot him dis mornin’ for de chile’s breakfas’.” + +“Why, your old man is the best of gamekeepers. My lady must reward him +handsomely. He certainly is the very best of gamekeepers.” + +“Lor’ bless yer soul, honey, no he ain’t! De dear ole angel, he never +was no gamekeeper! De darlin’ ole creetur is too free-hearted to keep +any thing, much less game, when dat delikky chile in dere might want it +for her breakfas’.” + +“Oh! you have mistaken my meaning, but I will tell you all about it,” +said Susan, as she went around to the back door to admit the +kind-hearted old woman. + +And that morning, while old Amphy picked the red-neck and dressed it for +breakfast, Susan let her into some of the mysteries of the game laws as +they existed in the “old country.” + +Whereupon, the namesake of the Ocean Queen expressed her astonishment +and indignation “Dat any lords an’ ladies should ’sume for to ’nopolize +de Lord’s free, wild creeturs as was ev’dently ’tended for de good of +all, bofe black an’ white; and she thank de Lord, _she_ did, as she +lived in a free country, where no sich divilments ’vailed!” + +Susan laughed gayly at the old woman’s excitement, and then soothed her +by praising her zeal, and skill in cooking. + +This day passed much as the preceding one had done. Susan, in generous +self-control, refrained from disturbing her mistress with the gloomy +story of the apparition in the graveyard, and which now, in daylight, +she tried to persuade herself to have been only the effect of +imagination. She determined, however, not to leave her window bare and +exposed to the visits of such a frightful spectre, however it might have +been conjured up; so she took the skirt of a long green merino +riding-dress, and manufactured a thick curtain, which she hung up at the +window beside her bed. + +Consequently, that night, if the ghost walked in the graveyard, Susan +did not know it; by diligently saying over her prayers, she fell asleep, +and her rest remained undisturbed. + +Nor was she again troubled with ghostly visions up to the night previous +to the arrival of Barbara Brande’s vessel. + + + + + CHAPTER XX. + LORD MONTRESSOR’S ARRIVAL. + + “Oh! had we never, never met, + Or, would this heart e’en now forget, + How linked how blest we might have been + Had fate not frowned so dark between!”—_Moore._ + + +That was a glorious morning, as I said, in the golden month of October. +Susan had risen very early, and was already in the kitchen when Amphy +arrived. The face of the old creature was all aglow as she entered, +exclaiming: + +“Mornin’ to yer, honey! Mornin’!” + +“Why, mother Amphy, you look as overjoyed as if somebody had left you a +fortune!” said Susan. + +“Better an’ dat, honey; please my Heabenly Marster, it is, chile; better +’an dat. Miss Barbara ’riv’—come out’n here an’ let me show you a +beautiful sight!” + +Susan followed her through the hall and out at the front door, where the +stopped and stood upon the old rickety porch, while Amphy pointed out at +sea, exclaiming: + +“Dar; what you tink o’ _dat_?” + +Susan’s glance followed the direction of the black finger, and lighted +upon a pretty craft, anchored off the Headland. + +“Dar, what you say _now_! don’t she look like a white swan, dough, a +sittin’ on de water! dat Miss Barbara’s vessel,” cried Amphy exultingly. + +“But, how do you know it is Miss Barbara’s?” asked Susan. + +“How I know? De Lor! how I know any thing? by the quincequonces, caze no +oder wessel any call to anker here ’cept ’tis de Brande’s.” + +And she was right; for even while she spoke, a boat was lowered from the +vessel, entered by a party, and rowed rapidly toward the beach below the +Headland. + +“Dar, now; ole as my eyes is, I can see dat’s Miss Barbara in de starn, +and dat boy’s little Marser Edwy, and dem der oarsmen is our own +sonnies.—But who de debbil dat sponshous lookin’ gemman as Miss +Barbara’s got long o’ her? Honey, you look, you’s got younger eyes nor +me.” + +Susan looked, and with astonishment and affright turned away. + +“Why, what de mischief de matter wid you, honey?” + +“I’m cold,” said Susan, shortly turning into the house. + +She had seen Lord Montressor in the boat. Lord Montressor was +approaching the shore! + +She went immediately to her mistress’s door and listened. All was silent +in that chamber. She turned the latch and entered softly. + +Lady Montressor was lying—with her arms thrown up over her head, and her +black hair escaped from her little lace cap, and flowing over the +pillow—in that deep and heavy sleep, that in the morning often visits +the mourner, who has waked and wept all night. + +“I will not call her, trouble will come soon enough. That emperor was a +fool who directed his courtiers never to wake him unless it was to hear +bad news. Bad news is always too fast in traveling—we needn’t hurry to +meet it. Though why the intelligence of Lord Montressor’s arrival should +be considered bad news, I do not know,” thought Susan, as she went to +her own room to “smarten” herself up. After putting on her little cap +and silk apron, she went out into the hall, expecting that by this time +the party from the boat had landed. + +She was correct—the party were ascending the bluff; but, arrived at its +summit they paused and talked a few moments, and then separated. + +Lord Montressor, attended by the boy Edwy, and followed by his groom +with the guns and game-bags, took the narrow path leading into the deep +woods toward Neptune’s cabin. And Barbara Brande, attended by young Nep, +came up toward the house. + +Old Amphy, who was impatiently watching for her approach, now set off in +a run to meet her. At any other time Susan might have been convulsed +with laughter, at seeing this aged octogenarian trotting off, with her +head thrown back, her elbows acute, and every step showing the whole +broad sole of her shoeless foot. + +It was a pleasant sight to see Barbara’s handsome, ruddy countenance, +break into a cordial smile of greeting as she put out both her hands to +grasp those of her affectionate old servant. + +Then they came on talking together till they reached the dilapidated +porch where Susan stood waiting. + +“How do you do, Susan? I hope your lady is well,” said Barbara, kindly +offering her hand to the girl. + +“My lady is just about as well as usual, Ma’am; but I don’t know as it +would be quite convenient to her ladyship to receive visitors—especially +gentlemen,” replied Susan, who, however unjustly and unreasonably, +seemed to consider Miss Brande a sort of traitress in having sprung Lord +Montressor upon the Headland. + +“Nevertheless, I think she will not be displeased to see me,” said +Barbara, good humoredly. “Let her know that I have come, my girl.” + +“She is not yet risen, Ma’am, or even awake.” + +“True, indeed, I had not reflected that it is yet very early. Well, my +girl, your lady expects me, will you let me pass into the house?” + +“Oh! I beg your pardon, Ma’am!” exclaimed Susan blushing at the +unconscious rudeness of which she had been guilty, and springing aside +to let Miss Brande pass. + +“Susan, come with me, my girl. A part of my business here is to open +some secret closets that you would never find out, and offer their +contents—stores of West India sweetmeats, pickles, spices, cordials and +so on—to your mistress, if she will favor me by accepting them. And I +had rather deliver them up to you, now, while she sleeps and you are at +leisure, for when she wakes I presume she will require your attendance +at her toilet, and after she is dressed, she will probably wish to see +me,” said Barbara, leading the way into the parlor. + +“Decidedly,” thought Susan, “my lady had little need to draw her funds +from the banker’s. These savages here will support her! The black ones +furnish game, and the white ones supply the sweetmeats. In fact, I begin +to like these barbarians,” she concluded, as she followed Miss Brande +into the parlor. + +Barbara went to the side of the fire-place, touched a spring, and what +seemed an oak panel, flew open, revealing one of those deep, hidden +closets, so frequently found in old-fashioned country houses, and whose +shelves were here laden with rows above rows, of canisters, jars, and +bottles, all filled with imported luxuries, and hermetically sealed. + +“Here! this cupboard contains the sweetmeats and cordials,” said +Barbara, taking out a tin canister and a bottle which she placed upon a +chair, and before reclosing the panel. + +Then she went to the other side of the mantel-piece, and opened a +corresponding closet similarly furnished. + +“This one contains the potted, spiced meats and the pickles,” she said, +taking down two jars and placing them on the chair beside the bottle and +the canister, and then shutting the panel, she turned to Susan and said— + +“The contents of these cupboards are most freely at your lady’s service, +if she will accept them; and now you know the secret of opening the +doors.” + +“Decidedly I _do_ like these barbarians,” thought Susan. Then aloud she +answered— + +“I thank you very much, indeed, Miss Brande. There is my mistress’s +bell! I must go to her. Pray make yourself at home, Miss Brande. My +mistress, I know, will be very happy to see _you_; and breakfast will be +ready in a short time.” + +“I thank you, I breakfasted on board the vessel. Don’t let me detain you +from Mrs. Estel.” + +“‘_Mrs. Estel!_’ She still calls her ‘Mrs. Estel!’ I wonder if she is in +ignorance that my lady bears another name!” thought Susan, whose mind +was still in the deepest perplexity. But before she could satisfy +herself upon the point, she was startled by the second ringing of her +lady’s bell, and hurried away to obey its summons. + +Barbara Brande called in her old servant, Amphy, who had been lingering +in the hall, and scolded her for going bare-footed in the middle of +October. + +“De Lor! Miss Barbra, chile, I likes to have my fut _cool_ on de soft +groun’.” + +“Yes, your foot will be cool in the soft ground, if you go on so,” said +Barbara. + +“I gwine _stop_ of it, honey, ’deed I is.” + +“If you _don’t_ it will stop _you_—that’s all. Now here—here are some +goodies to comfort you and your old man these coming winter evenings,” +said Miss Brande, giving her the canister, bottle and jars. “And in the +boat below, you will find some winter clothing and some flannels rolled +up together.” + +“Yes, honey—yes. Yes, chile, many thanks to you; and I’ll tend to it.” + +“Where is the old man?” + +“Gone down to de boat to see de boys, chile! ’Deed is de ole angel, +honey!” + +Meanwhile Susan had passed into Lady Montressor’s room. + +“Susan, my girl, whose voice was that I heard in the parlor?” said her +ladyship. + +“Miss Barbara Brande’s, my lady.” + +“Ah! she has come, then?” + +“Yes, my lady, this morning at sunrise.” + +“I believe I will rise, Susan, for I shall be glad to see Miss Brande.” + +“Yes, Madam,” replied Susan, so gravely that Lady Montressor looked at +her, and observing for the first time her troubled expression of +countenance, exclaimed— + +“Why, Susan, what is the matter with you, my girl?” + +“Miss Barbara did not come _alone_, my lady!” + +“Miss Barbara did not come alone? Well, I really do not suppose she +did—but what of that?” + +“A great deal, dear lady.” + +“Good Heavens! Susan, what do you mean?” + +“Dear Lady Montressor, did the possibility never occur to you, that he +who traced us from Exeter to Baltimore, might even trace us from +Baltimore here?” + +“Oh! no, no, no. Oh! Heaven of Heavens, no! Do not say that, Susan! Do +not tell me that Lord Montressor has followed us hither?” exclaimed the +lady in an extremity of distress. + +“I wish, dear Madam, that I could say so; but that wouldn’t alter the +facts; his lordship landed with Miss Brande this morning.” + +“Oh, fate, fate! Oh, fate, fate!” cried Lady Montressor, wringing her +hands. + +“Yes, fate! it is just fate! and it is no use to struggle against it, +dear lady! I would not try if I were you! I would just yield!” exclaimed +Susan, who could never be brought to relinquish the hope that her lady +might be persuaded to return to England, and to all the fancied +advantages of her social position. + +“Be silent on that subject, Susan. Oh, angels in Heaven, how shall I +meet this new demand on my firmness! Susan, where is his lordship?” + +“That is the wonderful part of it, my lady! I could easily guess that he +might have followed us here, but that after landing, without coming near +the house, he should take his servant and his guns, and go off to the +woods for a day’s shooting, is what I cannot comprehend at all.” + +“And it is what his lordship would never do, if he knew of our presence, +and had followed us hither! There is more mystery here, Susan! It is +just possible that he has _not_ followed us—yet, even in that case, it +is scarcely possible that he can escape discovering us.” + +“Ah! my dear lady, if he does not yet know of your presence here, it +would be very easy to conceal ourselves from his knowledge, except for +one thing.” + +“And what is that?” + +“Your name, dear lady—your name! Mrs. Estel! Ah! if you had only called +yourself Mrs. Thompson or Mrs. Smith!” + +“Ah, but my girl, neither of these names was mine; while that by which I +am known is my baptismal name, and the only one, that I am certain of +having a claim upon, and the only one that in wearing, I shall do no +injury to another!” said the lady, mournfully. + +Susan sighed, and looked into that troubled countenance with the +wish—with the prayer that she herself could only bear a portion of her +lady’s burden of sorrow. + +“Assist me to rise, my girl, and hand me my dressing-gown and slippers. +There! thank you. Now go and give my respects to Miss Brande, and +request her to come hither,” said Lady Montressor, as she slipped on her +morning-gown, put her feet in her shoes, and sank into the one plain +arm-chair. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI. + THE LAST STRUGGLE. + + “One struggle more, and I am free + From pangs that rend my heart in twain; + One long, last sigh to love and thee, + Then back to dreary life again.”—_Byron._ + + +As soon as Susan had closed the door behind her, Lady Montressor dropped +her face into her hands, and sigh after sigh, and groan after groan, +burst from her overcharged bosom. + +“Oh, Montressor! Oh! my lord! my dear lord! Oh, woe is me! that I must +put far away from my parched lips this draught of joy that would be as +the waters of life to my thirsting and famished soul! Oh, woe is me, +Lord Montressor, that I must deceive and wound your loving, trusting +nature! that I must turn from the light, and life, and warmth you bring +me, and bury myself alive in the darkness and coldness of this my living +grave! for how long, great Heaven! for how long! I am so young—I shall +live so many years! how shall I bear this living death, oh, spirits in +Heaven, how shall I bear it! Will my heart break? Will my brain turn? +Will death come and end my anguish? I cannot tell! I do not know! but +better any fate! any suffering for me, than that reproach should come to +your noble name, my lord! And after all—in my bitter, bitter cup—there +is a single sweet drop! the thought that I suffer for you, my lord—that +I suffer for you, even as I would die for you! Yet if I could see you +but for one moment to-day! could feel my poor hand clasped in your dear +hand for one instant! could meet one glance of your eyes—what life—what +life would thrill again to my dying heart! Oh! heart be still! be +strong! this must not be! we must not meet again! Oh, heart! learn the +heroism of silent endurance!” While she thus lamented and struggled with +herself, there was a rap at the chamber door. + +“Now I shall hear of him”—she said, as with a supreme effort she +controlled her emotion, steadied her voice, and bade the rapper “Come +in.” + +Barbara Brande opened the door and entered. But the traces of extreme +suffering were still so strongly marked upon Lady Montressor’s fine +countenance, that Babara, instead of the smiling greeting she had been +about to offer started back in alarm, exclaiming, + +“Good Heavens, Mrs. Estel, are you ill?” + +“Yes—and no, Miss Brande! Come in and close the door, for I wish to +speak with you—confidentially.” + +Barbara in perplexity obeyed. + +“Draw your chair close beside me, if you please, Miss Brande, for I must +speak low.” + +Barbara feeling more and more embarrassed, complied. + +“Do you know, Miss Brande, that I regret exceedingly not having given +you my full confidence before leaving Baltimore?” + +“I should have felt honored in your confidence, Madam,” said Barbara +with increasing surprise. + +“At least you would have justified it, no doubt.” + +“I should not have been undeserving of your faith, Mrs. Estel.” + +“I am sure of it! But I am called by another name besides Estel.” + +“Madam!” + +“Do not look, or speak in this way, my dear Miss Brande, or you will +repel the confidence I wish so much to give you,” said Lady Montressor, +in a voice, and with a look of such hopeless misery, that Barbara’s +heart was touched, and she said very gently— + +“Speak, then, Madam; I will not be unworthy of your confidence! Your +name you said was not Estel.” + +“No—I said that I was called by another name besides that. Estel is +_really_ my name, else I should not certainly have called myself by it; +but it is my baptismal—not my surname. I am known in the world as the +Viscountess Montressor.” + +“The Viscountess Montressor! Good Heaven!” exclaimed Barbara, in +amazement. + +“And you did not suspect this?” + +“No, Madam, by my sacred honor, I did not.” + +“And yet, he who conferred upon me his name and title, was your +passenger to this place, landed here with you this morning?” + +“That is very true, Madam. Lord Montressor engaged passage for himself +and two servants, in my vessel, for Havana, and his lordship came ashore +this morning for a day’s sport in the woods—that is all that I know! I +am completely mystified, my lady,” said Miss Brande, in augmented +astonishment. + +“Do you think, Miss Brande,” inquired Lady Montressor, with a look of +deep interest, “that his lordship knows or suspects the identity of the +party to whom you have let your house?” + +“I do not know, Madam, since it is not impossible that _he_, also, may +have concealed something from me; but I should judge from appearances +that he knew nothing of your ladyship’s presence in the neighborhood.” + +“Forgive the necessity that compels me to question you, Miss Brande, and +pray tell me, did you ever mention to his lordship the name of the +lessee of your property?” + +“No, Madam, I never did.” + +“Then I will beseech you never to do it; for, if once Lord Montressor +heard the name of ‘Estel,’ it would furnish him with the only clue he +needs to my identity and retreat.” + +“Forgive me, in your turn, dear lady, but all this is very +inexplicable!” + +“Ah! it is so, indeed, to you! And I appear to invite your faith, +without giving you my confidence! Is it not so? Well! I will explain! +and you, if you will have patience, will hear a sorrowful story. But, +first,” said Lady Montressor, even in this anxious hour considerate of +the convenience of others, “have you breakfasted?” + +“Yes, Madam.” + +“And can you give me half an hour?” + +“I am at Lady Montressor’s service for half the day, if she will command +me,” said Barbara, who felt her heart painfully attracted to her +interesting tenant. + +“Listen, then, Miss Brande! Do you ever see the English papers?” + +“Seldom, or never, my lady.” + +“Then you have seen no account of a wretched English woman of rank, who +was struck in her pride of place—struck at her highest culmination of +fortune and happiness—struck down, down, down, to a bottomless pit of +black dishonor and despair! You have heard of no such woman?” + +“No, no, no; Great Heaven, no!” exclaimed Barbara, shuddering. + +“Look at her, then, Miss Brande. She stands before you,” said Lady +Montressor, rising, and fixing her eyes upon the shocked face of +Barbara. + +“No, no, no; Heaven of Heavens, no! You would not have been that guilty +one, my lady,” exclaimed Barbara, covering her face with her hands, to +shut out the sight of that pale and spectral countenance, and those +gleaming black eyes, that seemed to consume those upon whom they looked. + +“I said a _wretched_, not a guilty woman. Are wretchedness and guilt +synonymous? If so, then, indeed, am I a very guilty, being a very +wretched woman,” said Lady Montressor, in a thrilling, impassioned +voice. + +“Pardon me, my lady, if I have not understood you,” replied Barbara, +with emotion. + +“How should you, indeed, until you hear. Attend, then, Miss Brande, and +I will tell you my story,” said the lady, sinking again into her seat. + +And while Barbara Brande heard with painful interest, Lady Montressor +related the tragic history of her two marriages, and ended by declaring +the motives that had induced her to withdraw herself from Lord +Montressor’s knowledge. + +Barbara listened with a face often streaming with tears, and when she +had heard all, she took the lady’s wasted hand and said— + +“He weighs nothing in the balance of his love for you?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Neither rank, nor wealth, nor fame?” + +“No; alas, no!” + +“He stood nobly by you in your trial?” + +“He did, he did; my dear and honored lord! he did!” + +“He followed you across the ocean?” + +“Yes, yes.” + +“And he is still in pursuit of you?” + +“He is. Oh, he is.” + +“Then, Lady Montressor, how can you still elude him? The man who claimed +you, even had his claim been ever so just, is now no more; there is not +the shadow of a reason why you should fly so faithful a friend as Lord +Montressor has shown himself to be.” + +“His honor, Miss Brande. His honor should forbid him to mate with one so +wretched as myself!” + +“A man’s honor, my lady, is, according to my judgment, in his own +exclusive keeping, and cannot be injured by anything but guilt or +folly.” + +“But the honor of the woman, with whom Lord Montressor mates, should be +like that of Cæsar’s wife, ‘not only pure, but unsuspected,’” said the +lady. “Therefore have I withdrawn myself from him and renounced his +name. Therefore, though my heart should break, my brain madden, or my +life go down to death in the pain of this continued effort—will I +conceal myself from his pursuit; until worn out with waiting and with +searching, he shall at last repudiate and forget me.” + +“And you can coolly resolve to drive him to that?” exclaimed Barbara. + +“_Coolly?_ Miss Brande? Oh, look at me and say if you think I do this +coolly! No, no; no, no! but he must be constrained to have that fatal +ceremony that passed between us at the parish church at Hyde, annulled +by Parliament. And he must ally himself to some lady—his equal in +position and of unblemished honor.” + +“Lady Montressor, if I have read his lordship’s character aright, he can +never do that.” + +“He can and must! he owes it to his family, to his position, to his +rising fame!” + +“Lady Montressor, you also are influenced by a worldly education. You +have all the prejudices of caste. You think entirely too much of +‘family,’ ‘position,’ and ‘fame,’ more than Lord Montressor does by +half. I tell you, that next to _duty_, ‘love is the greatest good in the +world,’ and Lord Montressor knows it. Oh, Madam, how can you disregard +the great love he bears you?” said Barbara, pleadingly. + +“_I_ disregard it—oh, Heaven!” exclaimed the lady, growing paler than +before. + +“I see you do not really do so! I see the struggle in your mind! Oh, +Madam, yield to your simpler and better nature! Make him and yourself +happy! Come, let me send into the forest and bring him here to plead his +own cause!” prayed Barbara, with earnest eloquence. + +“Miss Brande, no! if you would not have me die before you—no! You do not +know what you ask. You do not appreciate to how much of humiliation an +alliance with me would subject him at home! You do not know England.” + +“Then _what_ can I do for you? And why have you uselessly harrowed me +with this terrible story?” demanded Barbara, more in sorrow than in +anger at what her simple, honest, straightforward nature looked upon as +the unnecessary self-torturing of a morbid fastidiousness. + +“Not to distress you, needlessly, Miss Brande; but since Lord Montressor +has not yet discovered the clue to my retreat, to beseech your +assistance in still concealing it from him. And this assistance that I +pray is only of a negative character, only your forbearance, only that +you refrain from mentioning in his presence the name of your tenant. +Miss Brande, will you oblige me in this matter?” + +“I will be guided by your wishes, Lady Montressor.” + +“Another thing I must entreat—that you will never call me again ‘Lady +Montressor;’ nor think of me as the wife of Lord Montressor. It is a +name and a position that I have renounced. Nay, that I am not even sure +that I ever had a just right to wear! For, look you, when I left England +the question of the legality of my childish marriage was still pending +before the Spiritual Court of Arches. And law is such an uncertain +thing, you know, that the decision of the bench of Bishops may have been +different and quite opposite to that opinion advanced by the first +lawyer of the day, Lord Dazzleright, who denied the validity of the +first marriage, and affirmed the legality of the second. Therefore, you +perceive that the only name to which I feel sure of possessing an +unquestioned claim, is that one bestowed upon me in baptism, and which +marriage does not change—Estelle—call me Mrs. Estel.” + +“I will do so, since you wish it, Madam. May God comfort you and guide +you through your very trying path, for I begin to see now that _in one +respect_ you are right,” said Barbara, with earnestness, “for as long as +there exists the slightest question of the perfect legality of that +ceremony that passed between yourself and his lordship, you can as a +Christian do no otherwise than reserve yourself—Baron Dazzleright and +Parson Oldfield to the contrary notwithstanding. Upon this subject, a +pure-hearted woman’s instinct is worth all the legal opinions and +theological dogmas in the world. You are right, dear lady, and in your +painful adherence to right I see the brightest hope of your coming +years.” + +“Aye, of my life in another state of existence; and that seems to +hearts—yearning hearts of flesh—so distant and so vague!” + +“No; I spoke of your coming years in this world. ‘Godliness is +profitable unto all things—having the promise of the life that NOW IS as +well as of that which is to come.’ Wait patiently for the Lord—He can +lift you out of this ‘horrible pit,’ this ‘miry clay,’ and set your +‘feet upon a rock.’” + +There was something in the strong, earnest, cheerful faith of this noble +girl, who had herself received so terrible a shock, that cheered and +strengthened and inspired the mourning woman to whom she spoke. + +Estelle had always had strength to _suffer_, but now the cordial clasp +of Barbara’s hand, the earnest tones of her voice, the cheerful +confidence of her promise, gave the sufferer strength to _hope_. + +Feeling now that she would best serve Lady Montressor by withdrawing and +leaving her to take repose or refreshment, Barbara, renewing her +promises to keep Lord Montressor away from the house, took leave. + +Estelle sank upon her knees beside the bed, and burying her face in the +bed-clothes, prayed. + +Presently Susan came in with breakfast, which she inferred that her lady +would choose upon this morning to have served in her chamber. + +At Susan’s earnest entreaty, Lady Montressor compelled herself to +swallow a little coffee and a morsel of bread and jelly, and then pushed +the waiter from her sight, and turned away. + +“Close the front door; keep the house dark and quiet. I will, after +awhile, go into the front parlor and sit by the window, where, without +being seen, I may look out upon the sea,” said the lady, as she +dismissed her attendant. + +What a long, weary, trying day! + +Barbara Brande went over the house and over the grounds, in consultation +with Lady Montressor’s maid upon various matters relating to repairs and +alterations that required their mutual care. + +Lord Montressor, accompanied by little Edwy, and attended by his groom +with the dogs and guns, roamed far and wide through the woods behind the +Headland. + +Estelle, having locked the parlor doors, sat at the front window, and, +shielded from outside view by the closed Venetian blinds, gazed through +their slats, watching the sea-coast, if haply she could catch one +glimpse of the “one loved form.” How long and patiently she sat and +waited for that single transient moment of painful joy! As the day +waned, and the sun declined, and the lights and shadows changed, she +sank into a kneeling posture before the window, and with her clasped +hands resting upon its sill, and her chin leaned upon them, she +continued to gaze through the bars out upon the darkening coast and upon +the sea, still bright in the reflection of the last rays of the setting +sun. + +At length, just as she was beginning to fear that she should not see him +before the evening grew too dark for her to identify his form, her +patience was rewarded. + +A party emerged from the woods off to her right, and foremost among them +she recognized his well-known, commanding form, clothed in a +hunting-suit of green, with the game-bag at his side, the fowling-piece +across his shoulder, and two pointers at his feet. Behind him came the +boy, the old negro, and the groom, all heavily laden with game. He +paused upon the same spot, whereon in the morning he had parted with his +shipmates, he paused and turned his fine face toward the house—toward +the very window whereat she knelt and gazed! + +Oh! could he but have known who watched behind those green blinds!—but +evidently he knew not—suspected not the near proximity of her whom he so +eagerly sought, and who at this very moment, from behind those blinds, +gazed upon him in such passionate love and prayerful sorrow. + +He called the old negro to his side, and selecting what seemed to be the +best specimens from each bunch of game, tied them together, put them in +the hands of Neptune, and pointed toward the house. + +Old Neptune touched his hat, and turned to come up the hill. + +And Lord Montressor continued his course down the steep, until he was +lost to her sight. + +Then her strength utterly gave way! + +“It is over! it is over!” she cried, and sank swooning to the floor. + +When she recovered her consciousness it was quite dark—recollection +slowly returned, bringing its accompaniment of anguish. She arose upon +her elbow, passed her hand before her face to put away the trailing +black tresses of her hair, and looked around. + +The moonlight gleaming through the slats of the closed shutters was the +only object that attracted her attention. She went and opened them and +sank down on the floor with her head resting as before upon the +window-sill, gazing out at sea. + +There, on the moonlit waters, like some fair white-winged bird, floated +the vessel that contained all she loved on earth. She could not choose +but kneel there with her breaking heart, praying for him, gazing after +him. + +She was interrupted by a gentle rap at the door—not of the parlor, but +of the chamber. She arose and feebly crossed both rooms, and laid her +hand upon the latch just as the voice of Susan spoke softly— + +“Are you awake, dear lady?” + +For reply, she opened the door and admitted her attendant. + +“Dear Madam, how long and soundly you must have slept! Here I have been +to the door three times since sunset, and found all quiet,” said the +girl, who had no suspicion that her mistress had lain an hour in a +swoon. + +As Lady Montressor made no comment, Susan said— + +“Miss Brande is in the hall waiting to bid you good-by, my lady, as she +returns on board of her vessel to-night.” + +“Ask her to come in,” said Estelle, in a voice so hollow that Susan +started with the impression that it was the graveyard spectre that spoke +close to her ear. + +Recovering her self-possession, she went out to obey, and soon returned, +bringing lights, and preceding Miss Brande. Susan set the lights down, +handed a chair to the visitor, and retired. + +“You have seen him this evening, Miss Brande?” + +“No, dear lady, I have not. He remained in the forest until sunset, when +he returned and went immediately on board of the ship. I have been on +the premises here all day, and so have not seen him.” + +“I think we may be sure now that I am safe from discovery.” + +“Yes, Madam, for he evinces no curiosity about my lady tenant, although, +having been engaged in shooting through her woods, he has very properly +sent her a fine bunch of game. Old Neptune brought it.” + +As Barbara had only come to say “Good-bye,” and as she was in haste to +return to her vessel, she took leave of Lady Montressor, and with +sincere prayers for her consolation and happiness, prepared to depart. +She had not gone many steps from the room, however, before the plaintive +voice of the lady recalled her. + +“Miss Brande, forgive me, but at what hour do you sail?” + +“At sunrise, to-morrow morning, Madame.” + +“Thank you. May Heaven send you a happy voyage.” + +“And you—peace and consolation, lady.” + +And so they parted. + +That evening, Lady Montressor, scarcely having tasted her supper, soon +dismissed her attendant, and closed herself up in her two rooms. And +when the house was still, she went and sat at the window, looking out at +sea, and watching the white sails of the vessel that bore within its +bulwarks her beloved. Hour after hour she sat there, until the moon sank +below the horizon, leaving the earth and sea in utter darkness. + +Then she arose and paced the floor of that desolate room, hour after +hour, until the dawn of morning faintly appeared in the east. + +Then again she seated herself at the window, and with her head resting +heavily upon her hand, she watched until the brightening day once more, +for a few moments, gave the sails of the departing vessel to her longing +eyes. + +And she watched that vessel,—treasuring every moment that she might yet +behold it—as we watch a beloved and dying face that we feel must soon +vanish from our sight forever. + +She watched it until she saw the sails shaken out of their reefs, and +other sails hoisted, and all draw and fill with the wind as the Petrel +left her anchorage and glided gracefully over the waters in her course +down the Bay. + +She watched it as the sails lessened in the distance; she watched it out +of sight—straining her eyes after it until the Petrel appeared no larger +than a snow-flake on the blue sea against the horizon, into which it +soon seemed to melt and disappear. + +It was gone! _He_ was gone! + +Yet still she did not change her attitude or withdraw her gaze; but +remained with her strained eyes fixed upon the spot under the horizon +where the sail had disappeared! + +It was very late in the afternoon, and Susan had paid many visits to her +lady’s chamber door to listen if she could hear her stir, and had even +rapped once or twice to attract her notice; when at length growing +uneasy, she gently opened the door and looked in; seeing the bed +unoccupied she became alarmed, entered the room and passed on to the +parlor, where, at the front window, she saw her mistress sitting quite +still, leaning her forehead against the window pane, and apparently +gazing out upon the Bay. + +“Why, dear Madam, how indiscreet! Have you been up all night?” inquired +Susan, anxiously approaching the lady. + +But the stationary figure neither spoke nor moved. + +“Lady! Lady Montressor!” exclaimed the girl, going closer to her side. + +But no word or gesture responded to that call. + +“She has fallen asleep sitting there—she will get cold; she must be +waked. Lady! Lady! dear Lady!” exclaimed Susan, taking the hand that +hung down by her side. + +But that hand was a hand of ice. + +“Good angels, how cold she is! Madam! dear Mistress! Oh Heavens! what +ails her?” cried the girl, putting her arms gently and respectfully +around the lady’s shoulders, and seeking to lift her head. + +At that touch the sufferer murmured strangely, wildly, vaguely. + +“What is the matter? Dear Lady, what is this?” said Susan in great +distress. + +“Gone! gone! gone!” exclaimed Estelle in a hollow, echoing voice. + +“Oh! you have been asleep—rouse yourself, dear lady! Wake up!” + +“Gone! gone! gone!” + +“Oh, Heaven! what ails her! What shall I do with her? Lady Montressor! +speak to me! look on me! it is I—your poor, faithful Susan! Speak to me, +please!” + +“Gone! gone! gone!” + +Once more Susan put her arms reverently around her mistress’s shoulders +and sought to lift her head. + +And at that touch the lady turned toward her a death-like face, from +which every shade of color had faded, and vacant eyes whence the light +of intellect had gone out! + +Yes! the heroic soul that had borne up so long, and bravely, and +patiently, under such tremendous afflictions, had succumbed at length; +the sorely over-tasked heart and brain had yielded; the light of reason +had fled. + +Meanwhile Lord Montressor, on board the Petrel, pursued his voyage to +the West Indies. And, reader this was well—this was best! + + + + + CHAPTER XXII. + JULIUS LUXMORE. + + “The gallant’s form was middle size + For feats of strength, or exercise, + Shaped in proportion fair; + And hazel was his eagle eye, + And auburn of the darkest dye, + His short curl’d beard and hair. + Light was his footstep in the dance, + And firm his stirrup in the lists; + And oh! he had that merry glance + That seldom lady’s heart resists.”—_Scott._ + + +It is about time that we should looked up Mr. Julius Luxmore, whom we +have too long left to his own “devices.” + +It will be recollected that after his rescue from death among the waves, +the first thought that arose in the mind of that ingenious young +gentleman was not the religious emotion of gratitude to Divine +Providence for his almost miraculous preservation; but, on the contrary, +the wicked impulse of suppressing his real name and giving a fictitious +one. + +For this act he had, as it was afterward discovered, a very strong +motive. + +Julius Luxmore, from his earliest youth, had been the subject of one +grand passion—the love of money. How to make the largest possible +fortune in the least possible time, was to him the constant subject of +study. The love of money, as the love of any particular object of +pursuit, is accompanied with an instinctive knowledge of the readiest +road to its acquirement. + +As early as his twelfth year commerce suggested itself to the +intelligent lad as the quickest means by which to gain wealth. + +Thus, when in his fourteenth year, he was left a destitute and +irresponsible orphan, without a near relative in the world, and with +only one decent suit of clothes, and one guinea in his pocket, he +applied to his neighbor, old Captain Brande, and was engaged as +cabin-boy on board the Mercury. + +It was on this first voyage, that he became acquainted with Barbara, the +skipper’s little daughter and constant companion. + +Captain Brande was very kind to the fatherless and motherless lad who +had sought his protection, and Barbara, to whom orphanage seemed the +most appalling of all calamities, treated the boy as a dear brother. + +It was the old skipper’s delight, in his leisure moments, to instruct +these children not only in the various branches of a common school +education, but also in the science of navigation, and in the art of +seamanship—and even in the long night watches he used sometimes, without +too much taxing their hours of sleep, to teach them the names of the +constellations and the stars. + +He encouraged a generous spirit of emulation between the boy and girl, +who could never in any one acquirement be quite equal; for Julius +possessed the greater physical power, and Barbara the quicker intellect; +therefore Julius excelled in the _practice_, and Barbara in the _theory_ +of working the ship. But the old skipper was not content that this +should remain just so—and in giving his lessons he stimulated the mind +of the boy to a greater activity; and in directing the firm little hand +of the girl, he encouraged her to lay out her full strength upon the +ropes. + +This constant companionship of the youth and maiden was likely to result +in one of two things—mutual dislike or mutual affection—it eventuated in +the latter. + +Their ship was bound to London. And on arriving at that port, Julius +cast about in his mind the problem—how to invest his precious guinea to +such advantage as finally to turn it into two guineas—for to double his +money in every speculation was with the sanguine lad a fundamental +principle of financiering. + +An accident assisted him—accident _always_ assists those who are +sufficiently in earnest. + +One day, in strolling along the narrow streets of Liverpool, he came to +an auction where the goods of a dealer in Sheffield cutlery were in +process of sale. He stood awhile and watched the bidding, and then with +his five dollars bought about twenty dollars’ worth of morocco cases, +each containing steel scissors, tweezers, penknife, bodkin, needlecase, +thimble, netting and tatting shuttle, knitting-needles, and, in short, +every possibly needful accessory of a lady’s work-box. Having secured +his prize, he took it on board the ship, where he concealed it until he +got an opportunity of sewing it up in his mattress—for Julius had not +the slightest intention of permitting the custom-house to share his +profits. + +On reaching Baltimore, these twenty cases, worth in England a dollar a +piece, were easily retailed by the boy for two dollars. So that, in his +very first venture, from an investment of five dollars he had cleared +thirty-five, or seven hundred per cent.! Why, the thought almost took +his breath! At this rate he should speedily make a fortune. + +But Julius had to learn that, with all its advantages, commerce is a +very uncertain vocation—that its great gains are often counter-balanced +by as great losses. His next venture was not quite so lucky. + +This first voyage of Julius was also the last one which Barbara +accompanied her father. Her mother’s declining health and subsequent +death rendered it necessary that this eldest child should remain at home +to take charge of the younger ones. + +But Julius went to the West Indies with the skipper, and from that time +accompanied him on all his voyages, and in a few years rose from the +position of cabin-boy to that of mate. + +His home on shore was always at the Headland, where Barbara received him +with a sister’s warm affection. + +As the years passed, the youth and maiden grew in strength and beauty, +and in mutual love. + +Julius, notwithstanding the fluctuating nature of his business, had +increased in riches, and was worth several thousand dollars upon the day +when he first asked the hand of Barbara from her father. + +Old Captain Brande gladly consented to a betrothal, with this +stipulation—that the marriage should not be consummated until the end of +the voyage upon which they were then bound, after which the mate, as +Captain Luxmore, should have the command of the vessel, and the hand of +the retired master’s daughter. + +Alas, we know how that promising voyage ended—in the wreck of the +Mercury, with the loss of all on board except Julius Luxmore, who +brought from the waves one wild hope connected with one wicked purpose. +The circumstances in which he found himself placed on his restoration to +life, formed the first terrible temptation to his integrity. + +He saw himself the sole survivor of a shipwrecked crew, with none to +identify his person. He found himself left guardian to a young girl of +almost fabulous beauty and immense wealth, who had always lived a life +of utter seclusion, on a lovely sea-girt island—her own patrimony—and +having no companions except a half-crazy old man in his ninetieth year, +and a troop of negro slaves, that, like the fair island, was her own +inheritance. + +“Princess,” she had been called by her mad old uncle, but was _that_ so +mad a term, as applied to her, after all? Little Island Queen was she, +rather—for, would not all the land, from its centre to its sea-washed +shores, and all the people on it, belong absolutely to her?—to her, not +only for government, but for bargain and sale, if she should will it? +Truly, she would be “monarch of all she surveyed,” and not with a +limited, but with an absolute monarchy! + +And this beautiful little millionaire, this little queen of eleven years +of age, would, in four or five years, be legally marriageable. + +What a rich prize would she be! It almost took the breath of the +ambitious and avaricious young man to think of it! + +He reflected. To wait five years, and then to marry her, would be the +quickest, easiest, and surest way of securing an immense fortune. This +lovely little Etoile—this radiant star of the sea—this young “Island +Princess” had, as it appeared, never left her beautiful, solitary, +sea-girt home, and had never seen any other human creatures than her mad +old uncle and her negro or mulatto slaves. Good! He resolved that she +should never see any other person, except himself—Julius Luxmore. He was +quite conscious of possessing a handsome face and figure, with great +powers of pleasing, and he determined to use his advantages to attach +her affections to himself—and if that eventually failed, to use his +power as her sole guardian to bring about a marriage with her, before he +would ever consent to take her from the lone Isle. + +To this plan her doting, old uncle could be no hindrance, as its +consummation belonged to future years, while a few weeks or months must +naturally terminate the life of a man of ninety, who had already fallen +into second childhood. But it might be well to conciliate even this old +lunatic, and to do this Julius Luxmore resolved. + +There was one serious trouble in his way; it was not an obstacle, for +Julius resolved that it should not be such; but it was a grief. It was +the thought of Barbara Brande, whom, notwithstanding all his selfish +ambition, he still loved—the thought of Barbara in her awful +bereavement—of Barbara, the noble and true-hearted, now crushed down +under an overwhelming weight of sorrow—and whom he should rather hasten +to raise up, support and console—than deceive, betray and abandon—the +thought of Barbara that would _not_ be banished, but that made his heart +intensely ache. For he was not old in sin, or hardened in guilt, this +Julius Luxmore!—his ruling passion had been powerfully tempted, and had +betrayed his integrity; he had sold his soul to the fiend and was +resolved to do his work—that was all! and truly that was enough. + +He knew that to Barbara’s noble, truthful, and confiding nature the +belief in his death would bring less of anguish than the knowledge of +his falsehood—falsehood, the perfidy of which was so extremely +aggravated under the circumstances of her tremendous calamities. He +determined to permit Barbara to believe him dead; and for this reason +gave a fictitious name, instead of his own. + +It is true, he felt that this fraud might be discovered; but if it +should be, he was resolved to shift all the responsibility upon others, +by affirming that _they_ had made a mistake in the name. + +And to defer as long as possible any chance of being identified as +Julius Luxmore, late mate of Captain Brande, he had, immediately on +reaching the port of Baltimore, slipped out of sight and concealed +himself. + +He made his way to New York, and thence took a vessel bound down the +coast. He landed at Norfolk—there purchased a small, clean schooner, and +having manned it with negroes, set sail for the East, or Orient Isle. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII. + ETOILE L’ORIENT. + + “She was all lightness, life and glee! + One of the shapes we seem + To meet in visions of the night; + But should they greet our waking sight, + Imagine that we dream.”—_George Hill._ + + +It was the afternoon of a warm, refulgent day in October that Julius +Luxmore came in sight of the loveliest of Isles. It lay like some jewel +of rich mosaic on the heaving bosom of the bay. The girdle of woods, +that skirted its shores were just beginning to turn, and on the northern +and western side were tinged with a ruddy, crimson color; the low, +descending sun, striking full upon this hue kindled it up into a +flame-like refulgence,—a glorious, indestructible conflagration. +Contrasting with this was the green of the grass and shrubberies in the +interior of the Isle, that still retained its spring-like verdure. +Central in this oasis of verdancy and bloom, stood the white buildings +of the Island mansion and out-houses. + +In his ignorance of the usual landing-place, Julius Luxmore could not +decide toward which point of the Island beach to direct his course. At +length, however, he determined to come to anchor, and go out in his +little skiff to reconnoitre the coast, and perhaps to make his first +visit to the mansion house. He accordingly gave orders to drop the +anchor, and to let down the skiff. And when these commands were +fulfilled, having made a careful toilet, he entered the little boat, and +alone, with his single oar, struck out toward the Isle. + +On a nearer approach this gem of the sea grew, if possible, still +brighter and more beautiful. The calm repose and crystal clearness of +the water that kissed its shores, reflected as in a mirror the rich +refulgent foliage that girdled them. Julius Luxmore pushed his boat up +close under the overhanging branches, and so in the deep refreshing +shadows, proceeded to row around the Isle in search of some convenient +landing-place. + +Presently he came to a tiny rock-bound islet of pellucid depth, that +might have been the grotto of the Naiad Queen, or the bath of beauty for +all the sea-nymphs. + +And, oh, Orpheus! what sounds are these that break the silence like the +shiver of a thousand silver bells? + +It is a voice of entrancing melody—a sweet, rich, elastic, bird-like +voice, caroling a jubilant, exultant air, the words of which are lost in +the rapture of the notes. + +To enjoy this delightful song without disturbing the singer, Julius +Luxmore pushed his boat up under the shelter of an overhanging alder +tree, where he remained concealed in the deep obscurity. + +Presently the song ceased, and the cessation was accompanied by the +sound of a plunge into the still water of the inlet. + +He peered out from his hiding-place, but for a few moments saw nothing +except the widening circle of ripples where the water had been +disturbed—and then—oh, Amphitrite, and all the Naiads! What was it? Was +it a mermaid or was it a mortal? + +The face and head of a beautiful girl of that sweet age between +childhood and womanhood, yet nearer childhood, appeared above the +surface. This fair creature was clad in a long flowing white garment +that completely vailed her perfect form as she floated gracefully about, +disporting herself in the bright pellucid water. Julius Luxmore dared +scarcely breathe, lest he should dissolve the lovely vision from which +he could not withdraw his fascinated gaze. As she swam or dived, or +reared her radiant head with its golden hair all spangled with the +diamond dew that sparkled in the slanting sun rays, she still sang +snatches of a wild, gay air, though in a somewhat lower key, as though +her sportive evolutions in the water, carried off some portion of the +overflowing life that had at first inspired her song. So she continued +to sport and sing—sometimes diving to the bottom and bringing up +handsful of the pearl-like pebbles that she threw high into the sky to +see them fall a mimic hailstorm into the calm water that then leaped up +in a thousand rainbow sparkles!—sometimes swimming joyously on to the +mouth of the fairy inlet, and whirling around and hurrying back, lashing +the water with her white arms in a whimsical affectation of terror; and +sometimes with bosom level and head only slightly raised, floating upon +the surface as idly and lightly as a lotus leaf, until the sun went +down. + +“That is my Princess of the Isle!—that is my Star of the Sea!—as poor +Victoire called her! It can be no other!” said Julius Luxmore, gazing in +a sort of ecstacy of anticipated possession on the bewitching creature. + +“Ah, Barbara, Barbara! even you would scarcely blame me for being +dazzled by such a prize!” he continued, devouring this beauteous vision +with his eyes. + +“At this moment a voice was heard from the Island—— + +“Etoile! Etoile! my Pearl!” + +“Here, Maman, here!” responded the clear, silvery tones of the swimmer. + +And at her voice, a handsome quadroon woman, middle-aged, and neatly +dressed, emerged from the bushes overhanging the spot, and came +cautiously down to the brink of the inlet. + +As she appeared, the little maiden came out of the water, laughing, and +wringing her dripping hair. + +“Little Nereid!” said the nurse, fondly holding out her hand to assist +her in the assent of the bank. + +“No! unless you mean the Queen of the Nereids!—Amphitrite, if you will, +nothing less!” laughed the maiden, as she joined her nurse, and both +disappeared among the trees. + +“Was ever any thing out of Heaven so wondrous beautiful! And is that +exquisite creature, at some day or other, to be mine, my own? Upon my +life and conscience it may be so, for I see nothing to prevent it! Come! +even if to wait five years for her, were not the quickest, easiest, and +surest way of securing an immense fortune, it would still be well worth +while to wait to secure such a pearl as herself alone!” mused Julius +Luxmore, as he came out of his retreat, and pushed his boat onward on +his exploration of the Island shores. + +After making about three-quarters of the whole circuit, he came to the +regular landing-place with its neat little pier, the protective railings +and the steps of which were painted green and white. + +Here he moored his boat and paused to consider the propriety of, at that +late hour, presenting himself at the Island mansion. + +The sun had set; but the reflection of his last rays still flushed with +crimson all the western horizon, while the orient was bathed in golden +glory with the beams of the risen full moon. Under the two lights the +lovely Island lay like a scene of enchantment. Lamps gleamed from the +lower windows of the white fronted mansion. + +Upon the whole, Julius Luxmore could not resist the temptation to go +forward. He looked critically at his own dress. In view of this possible +visit he had, before leaving the vessel, carefully arranged his toilet; +and now upon examination, he found that it had contracted no soil, nor +in any other way had it become disarranged. + +He stepped out of his boat, went up the steps to the pier and walked +onward under the tall branches of the trees, that met over his head, up +the long avenue leading to the house, until at last he reached a terrace +crowned with a trellis, thickly overgrown with climbing roses, still in +full bloom. He had but just reached this spot and noted a graceful, +golden-haired, white-robed female form leaning over the trellis of +roses, when he was suddenly struck and thrown down beneath an +overwhelming weight, to find himself in the powerful grasp of a huge +bull-dog, who had fastened his jaws firmly on his shoulder. Tightly as +the beast held him, it was with a certain wise and merciful reserve of +his fangs, for though his strong teeth clenched, they did not penetrate +the broadcloth of the coat, far less the skin of the man. Yet Julius +Luxmore felt certain that at the first struggle to escape, those fearful +fangs would be buried deeply in his flesh and crimsoned with his blood. + +All this passed in a single instant of time, for, “in the twinkling of +an eye,” the white-robed female figure, whom Luxmore had recognized as +Etoile, darted down the terrace, and threw herself upon the great brute, +half-caressingly and half-rebukingly, and said— + +“Why, Dragon! how dare you, sir? What ails you? Let go, this moment!” + +But the huge beast, without relaxing his hold, rolled his blood-shot +eyes up toward his little mistress, and growled a remonstrance. + +“What, sir! you will not obey?” exclaimed the little girl, taking hold +of his ears, and shaking his head. The dog released the prisoner, but +growled a very decided difference of opinion with his mistress upon this +subject of setting the stranger at liberty. Julius Luxmore, who had at +all hazards struggled to rise, now sprang to his feet, bowed, and was +about to deliver the neat salutation he had improvised for the occasion, +when Etoile interrupted him by saying, with inimitable grace and +simplicity— + +“Stranger, I am very sorry that Dragon should have behaved so rudely; I +pray you to forgive him; he is not naturally wicked, and must have been +very unwell to have acted in such a surly manner to a visitor. I hope +you will think no more of it, sir, but do us the pleasure to walk into +the house.” + +“I thank you, young lady,” said Julius Luxmore, with a bow, “I am here +to see Mr. De L’Ile, if he can be spoken with.” + +“Yes, sir! and your name is——?” + +“Julius Luxmore.” + +The little girl raised a small silver whistle that hung at her side, and +blew a clear, sweet blast, that presently brought a mulatto page to her +presence. + +“Go to your master, Frivola, and say that a gentleman of the name of +Luxmore has arrived, and desires an interview with him,” she said. + +The boy bowed low, and went to obey. + +“Excuse me, young lady,” said Mr. Luxmore, with a waive of his hand, as +he left the side of Etoile, and stepped after the page to say, “Tell +your master that Mr. Luxmore brings him news of his niece and nephew, +Madame L’Orient and Monsieur Victoire.” + +Again the boy bowed, and then hurried onward toward the house to do his +errand. + +Mr. Luxmore returned to the side of the little maiden. + +“What a paradise is this home of yours, young lady,” he said, in a tone +of sincere admiration. + +“Oh! do you find it so? I am very glad you like it; but it is very +strange you should!” + +“You think it strange that I should like this charming spot!” exclaimed +Luxmore, in genuine surprise. + +“Do you find it charming also? How curious!” + +“Why, yes! Do not _you_ think it charming?” + +“Oh, certainly, _I_ do! but you perceive I know nothing better than +this! But it is very strange that _you_ should find the Isle so +charming?” + +“But why?” + +“Oh! because _you_ came from the beautiful world beyond!” said Etoile, +with a sigh of aspiration. + +“Ah! and you think the world beyond so beautiful?” + +“Oh, yes, sir! I think it is!” + +“Again—why?” + +“Oh, because I know it!—it is a beautiful! a glorious! an enchanting +world, beyond these seas!” + +“But how do you know it, my little angel?” + +“Oh, sir! I can see from here its lovely shores! vaguely, indeed; but +still, I _can_ see them, and can judge what their celestial beauty on a +nearer view must be!” + +“Whe-ew! ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,’ and ‘hills are +green far away,’ say the poets and the sages; and here is a little fairy +living in a fairy land, who thinks all beauty, poetry, and delight +resides in the work-a-day world ‘beyond these seas,’ as she calls it!” +thought Mr. Luxmore, as he stood contemplating the fervent, enthusiastic +little creature before him. + +“And you have never been to the world beyond?” + +“Never, sir! They say I came from that lovely world, but it is so long +ago I do not remember it.” + +“I suspect you came not from the world _beyond_, but from the world +_above_, fair seraph!” said Mr. Luxmore, with an attempt at flattery. + +But his little companion was far too unschooled in worldliness to +understand or appreciate the compliment, and she answered, simply— + +“I do not recollect, sir! I wish, indeed, that I did remember the lovely +world whence I came.” + +“And you have never had an opportunity of reviving your recollections, +even by a visit to the mainland?” + +“Oh, no, sir!” + +“Do you ever see persons from those shores?” + +“Ah, sir! I have never in my life seen but _two_ persons from the world +beyond—and they were both so beautiful! just like the shores whence they +came; but like nobody at all on this Island!” + +“And who were those angels, or demigods, in human form, young lady?” +inquired Julius Luxmore, as a pang of jealousy shot through his heart. + +“Oh, sir! _one_ was Barbara Brande. She came to see me once after my +grandmere, Madame L’Orient, went away. Oh! Barbara was something better +than any thing I had ever seen before! She reminded me of a chieftainess +such as I have read of in history—I do not mean of a commonplace queen, +but of a warrior queen—a leader of armies, a Boadicea, a Zenobia, a +Semiramis! Her eyes were the eyes of a goddess—so full, and clear, and +commanding! Are all women in your world beyond like Barbara Brande, do +you know?” + +Julius was thinking of that Barbara, that grand girl, whom the graphic +description of Etoile had conjured in all her noble beauty before him, +and he did not reply until the little maiden had repeated her question, +then he answered: + +“Probably not. There are very few anywhere who would answer to your +description of Miss Brande.” + +“Oh! but I would like to see her again!” + +“Has Miss Brande been to see you often? Is she in the habit of coming?” +inquired Julius, very uneasily; for there could scarcely be conceived an +event more threatening to his projects than a visit from Barbara Brande +to the Island. + +“Oh, no! oh, no! She was never here but once—that was two years ago, +directly after my grandmere departed!” + +“Do you know why she never came again?” + +“I think so! My uncle discourages visitors from the world beyond!” + +“And he is quite right,” thought Julius Luxmore, to himself. + +But Etoile looked pensive. + +“Well, fair one! you spoke of _two_ very handsome visitors—the only +persons from the main you had ever seen!—_one_ was Miss Brande! Now I +have a curiosity to know who was the _other_?” + +“Why, do you not know?” + +“No, indeed!” + +“And can you not guess?” + +“Not I.” + +“Well, then, of course it was _yourself_, stranger! Who else, indeed, +could it possibly have been?” + +“Well, if that is not a sincere piece of flattery, I do not know what +else it should be called!” said Julius Luxmore, to himself. + +“Ah! I do wish to go on the beautiful main!” sighed Etoile. + +“But you have not yet told me, fair child, how—since you have never been +near the main—you know it to be so beautiful?” + +“Oh, sir, you forget! I did! I told you that I saw both shores—dimly, it +is true, but I saw them! There is the coast that I call the sunrise +shore!—its beach looks like glistening silver! the verdure on its higher +swells of land like shining emeralds! and over all the morning sun +diffuses a rich, roseate glow! Oh, it is so beautiful even from this +distance! and how much more so it must be from a nearer view.” + +“Whe—ew! the coast of Accommac! a flat reach of sand varied only by +starved grass and stunted evergreens. But I suppose the atmospheric +magic throws a charm over even that desolate shore,” thought Julius +Luxmore, watching with interest the young enthusiast, who ignorant of +his secret comments—continued in her strain of sincere, though erring +admiration. + +“And then there is the opposite coast that I call the sunset shore, and +that is a thousand times richer, more varied and more beautiful than the +other. At different seasons, on different days, and even at different +hours, its aspect changes, and each change is lovely or magnificent. +Sometimes it looks like a shore of gold, when the refulgent light of +sunset glances athwart its sands—sometimes the hues are of amethyst, +sometimes of emerald, then of ruby, but always is the color of the coast +varied with the ever-changing, ever glorious sunset sky above it.” + +Even in that pale moonlight, he could see her eyes kindle and glow, as +she spoke. And while he listened and gazed in growing admiration of this +fair creature, so beautiful, so refined, so cultivated, yet so entirely +inexperienced and simple, the boy Frivole reappeared upon the terrace +and announced that his master was now ready to give audience to Mr. +Luxmore. + +“That is well,” said Etoile, who had had some doubts upon the subject of +the stranger’s reception by the reserved old man. “That is well, and I +am glad.” + +“This way, please sir,” said Frivole, as he bowed and led the way across +the rose-terrace, and up the granite steps, through the front portico of +the mansion. + +“My master is in his library,” he continued, as he preceded the visitor +down the central hall, until he arrived at the second door on the right +hand. + +“Mr. Luxmore,” he then announced, ushering in the visitor. + +Julius found himself in a plain, medium-sized apartment, having two back +windows. The simple furniture consisted of a straw matting on the floor, +straw-bottomed chairs ranged along the walls, window-blinds, and +fire-screen of painted canvas, a single mahogany centre-table, and one +arm-chair beside it in which sat Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, otherwise, his +Majesty the King of the Island, who now arose and stood in an attitude +of gracious dignity to receive the “Embassador.” + +Mr. Julius Luxmore gave one quick, comprehensive glance at this +potentate. + +The Island King had aged much since we last heard of him. His venerable +face, surrounded by its circle of snow-white hair and beard, was +bleached and sunken, his imposing form was feeble and bowed; his dress +was still studiously neat, and even elegant, though in the style of the +last century—consisting of a somewhat faded mazarine blue velvet coat, +white satin vest, white doe-skin small-clothes, white silk hose, black +pumps, and diamond shoe-buckles. He stood with his right hand resting +upon the table, and his left hand opened and waved—in an attitude and +with an expression that in a real king might have been called royal +courtesy, but that in Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, was something +indescribable. + +Mr. Julius Luxmore found himself in a dilemma, as to the manner in which +he should address this anomalous personage. Firstly, it was vitally +important that this potentate should not be offended—secondly, that he +should be conciliated. How should Mr. Julius Luxmore avoid the first, +and effect the last? In truth, this was a serious difficulty—for should +the lunatic happen to be enjoying a lucid interval, it would be +insulting to address him as “Sire,” or “Your Majesty,” whereas, should +he, on the other hand, chance to be still under the influence of his +monomania, it would be treason and destruction to address him as +Monsieur De L’Ile. Meanwhile he filled up the swiftly passing moments by +slowly advancing and lowly bowing. And when he could draw no nearer he +came to a stand and bowed in silence, hoping that some word or gesture +on the part of his host would furnish him with the cue. + +Not so—for the manner of Monsieur De L’Ile, or his Majesty, might +equally have been the patient politeness of a prince or of a private +gentleman. + +Julius was almost in despair, while the necessity of speaking was +imminent—he bowed for the last time and commenced: + +“I have the honor of addressing——” Here he paused not daring to add +either—“Mr. De L’Ile,” or “His Majesty, the King of the Isles,” but +waited, hat in hand, for the other party to come to his aid. + +The other party did nothing of the sort, but merely nodded courteously, +and waited his further words. + +Upon the whole, Julius decided not to take up and complete his +unfinished sentence, and “shirked” the difficulty by saying: + +“I have the honor, sir, of being the custodian of certain documents +entrusted to my care by Monsieur, the late Victoire L’Orient.” + +“The ‘late!’ Mon Dieu! the ‘late!’ And is the prince, my nephew, dead +then?” exclaimed the old man, in consternation, controlled even at that +trying moment by his sense of kingly dignity. + +But Mr. Julius Luxmore now had his cue! he bowed with the greatest +deference, and lowering his tone to a key of the deepest solemnity, +said: + +“Sire—it is with the profoundest grief that I announce to your Majesty +the death of his Highness, the Prince, your nephew, Monseigneur Victoire +L’Orient.” + +“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh, hapless house! Oh miserable princes!” +ejaculated the old man, sinking into his chair and covering his face +with his hands. + +For a little while both were silent—Monsieur De L’Ile, from real +sorrow—Mr. Julius Luxmore, from affected respect and sympathy. + +At length the former raised his head, saying: + +“How and when did this occur? Give me all the details, sir.” + +Julius bowed, and standing, cap in hand, before his Majesty, gave an +account of the voyage and wreck of the Mercury. + +“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” was still the interjection of the bereaved old +man. + +“But, pardon, sire—Monseigneur Victoire, the prince, your nephew, left a +daughter.” + +“Go on, Monsieur; go on. You would speak of the Princess Etoile.” + +Julius bowed profoundly. + +“Say on, sir.” + +Julius then explained that he had enjoyed the friendship and confidence +of “Monseigneur” Victoire L’Orient, who had entrusted him with the +guardianship of his young daughter; that he was prepared to exhibit the +will of the “Prince” at any moment most convenient to “His Majesty.” + +“I will, then, overlook the documents to-morrow, Monsieur. Bring them to +me, in this room, at ten o’clock in the morning. For the present, I feel +overcome and must retire. Meanwhile, let me hope that you will avail +yourself of what poor hospitality a reduced king can offer. Be good +enough to ring, sir,” said the old man, in a weary but still dignified +manner. + +Julius took the bell-rope, and rang a peal that presently brought the +little page, Frivole, to the presence. + +“Boy, show this gentleman into the back drawing-room, and set +refreshments before him. Afterward, when he shall wish to retire for the +night, attend him to the bed-chamber formerly occupied by Madame,” said +“His Majesty.” + +Then turning toward the visitor, he added: + +“I hope you will palliate to yourself any lack of attendance that you +may perceive, sir. I have lately suffered a great loss in the death of +my chamberlain, Monsieur Louis, whose place I have not been able to +supply. Good rest be yours, sir,” and with a courteous nod and wave of +the hand, the King of the Isle dismissed the ‘Embassador.’ + +Julius bowed nearly to the ground, and walking backward, as from royal +presence, withdrew from the room. + +“A courteous gentleman—a truly courteous gentleman. I like him well,” +ruminated his Majesty, who had never before been so adroitly flattered. + +Meanwhile, Julius Luxmore followed the little page across the hall to +the opposite room, where the boy left him to go and bring refreshments. + +“So—so,” mused Julius when thus left alone—“that clever quadroon +man-of-business, Louis, who gave the late lamented Madame L’Orient so +much trouble, and who might have given me a deal more, is now out of +everybody’s way—good. And his place as premier is not supplied—better. I +will endeavor to supply it—best. Come, Julius Luxmore, your star is in +the ascendant.” + +While thus he soliloquized, Frivole reappeared, bringing a waiter with +lights and refreshments, that he arranged upon the table. + +“Where is your young mistress?” inquired Mr. Luxmore of the boy, +hesitating to designate her as Miss L’Orient or as the princess, for the +simple reason, that he was ignorant of how much this boy might be imbued +with the illusions of his master. + +“The princess has gone to bed,” replied Frivole. + +Mr. Luxmore understood,—whether from credulity or policy, the negroes of +the place entered into the humor of their master’s monomania. The only +doubt left to be cleared upon this subject was, whether they believed in +or flattered the royal assumptions of the old man. And this problem +Julius determined to solve—if he could. But Julius Luxmore, with all his +cunning, was no match for the secretiveness of the youngest negro on the +Isle. He dared not, in many words, ask his young attendant if he +considered his master a madman. And to all his astute observations and +indirect questions, intended to draw out the boy’s thoughts upon the +subject, Frivole replied with a tact of evasion quite equal to the +questioner’s art of investigation. The boy’s manner was graceful, +smooth, and subtle. Mr. Luxmore felt himself playing with some +beautiful, slippery serpent, whose evolutions were all charming, but who +might possibly turn and sting him. He let Frivole alone. + +When his meal was finished, the boy offered to show him up to his +sleeping apartment. + +And Mr. Luxmore arose and accepted his services. He was conducted up +stairs and introduced into the second floor, front, right-hand chamber, +the best in the house. + +From the front windows of this room, Mr. Luxmore looked out to sea, and +saw his schooner riding at anchor a short distance from the coast. Some +little anxiety he felt upon the subject of this vessel, left all night +in the hands of the negro crew; but, after mature deliberation, he +decided that it was best that he should remain for the night the guest +of Monsieur De L’Ile. So he left the vessel to its fate, and went to +bed. + +It was a long hour before mental exhilaration yielded to bodily fatigue +and permitted him to sink to sleep, and then his slumber was disturbed +by exciting dreams of wealth and grandeur; and, after a restless and +perturbed night, he was early awakened by the carolling of a sweet, +joyous voice under his window. He knew that voice, and he slipped out of +bed, went to the window, and, concealing himself in the curtains, peeped +out. + +First of all, out at sea, he saw his ship, still riding safely at +anchor. + +Then, on the rose-terrace below, stood Etoile, her graceful little +shoulders wrapped in a blue silk mantle to protect them from the early +morning dampness. + +Julius hastened to make his toilet and descend to the portico. + +As soon as she heard the door open, and saw the visitor come out, she +turned and came dancing up the steps to greet him. + +Mr. Luxmore saw by her manner that she knew nothing of the calamitous +intelligence he had the night before revealed to Monsieur De L’Ile. + +He thought as she came toward him that she looked far more beautiful in +the morning light than she had seemed the evening previous. She was but +eleven years old, yet well grown and well developed for that age. There +was in her fair young beauty a look of unsunned newness and freshness +delightful to contemplate. + +She came up carolling, but ceased her song to say: + +“I am so glad you came down so early, Mr. Luxmore. The sun is rising. +Oh, come see it over my sunrise shore!” + +“With pleasure,” said Julius. “From what point shall we view it?” + +“Oh, from the eastern extremity of the rose-terrace, here—where there is +nothing to intercept the view,” she said, dancing down the steps, and +leading the way. + +Julius followed, whither she led, to the eastern end of the terrace, +where they stood under an arch of multifloras. + +“There; look out over the water. Look at the glorious world beyond!” she +said exultingly. + +From the height on which they stood the ground descended in a succession +of gentle undulating green hills, down to the pearly beach, whence the +broad blue waters rolled sparkling away toward the far distant “sunrise +shore,” which looked, under the glorious morning light, like the very +foundations of the celestial city. + +“See, oh see!—if all the precious stones that ever were created were +fused and streamed along the orient, they could not burn and glow and +radiate and flash like that!—could they? Look, oh look! first along the +blue water, a long line of silvery light; then golden, then ruby, then +topaz, then sapphire, then all the colors of the rainbow flushing the +clouds. Ah! that shore! shall I ever set my foot upon that shore,” she +breathed with intense aspiration. + +“Ay, that you shall, my pretty one! I promise you.” + +“Oh! have you that power, sir?” she exclaimed, turning quickly and +flashing upon him a sudden, penetrating gaze. + +“Aye, I have that power, fair one, else I should not now be here.” + +“But tell me how is that?” + +“You shall learn in the course of the day, little lady.” + +“Shall I tread that glorious shore very soon?” + +“As soon as it may be proper and expedient that you should,” replied +Julius Luxmore, feeling a curious interest in the visual illusion that +presented a wild, rugged and desolate coast, under such a celestial +aspect to the insulated Island maiden; but wondering no longer that her +whole imagination invested the whole world beyond with such heavenly +beauty—for after all, the cause lay in the atmospheric effect of +distance, and she conceived the glorious shores only as she saw them. + +The ringing of the breakfast bell summoned them to the house. + +The breakfast table was neatly arranged in the back parlor on the left +side of the hell. + +Madeleine the quadroon and her son Frivole were in attendance. But two +covers were laid. + +Madeleine courtesied and announced that her master would not appear at +the table, but would breakfast in his room, and begged that his guest +would excuse him and command his house and servants. + +Julius Luxmore would do that thing with great pleasure at some future +time, he thought. + +He handed the little girl to her seat at the table, and took his place +at the opposite side of the board. + +Madeleine was a good housekeeper, and the breakfast was excellent. + +When the morning meal was over, Mr. Luxmore assorted his papers that he +always now carefully carried about his person, and prepared for his +visit to Monsieur De L’Ile. + +At the appointed hour he presented himself. + +He found “His Majesty” in the same room, seated at the same table, where +he had been first introduced to him. In truth, the Island King looked +not much the worse for the sad news that had been told him. He was +clothed in a somewhat faded purple cashmere dressing-gown, and now +seemed fuller of business than of sorrow. + +“I am glad of this. It is the way of madness, however,” said Julius +Luxmore to himself, on seeing the state of the case. + +As the “Embassador” advanced to the table, “His Majesty” looked up and +nodded graciously and desired that Monsieur would waive ceremony, draw +up a chair and seat himself, that they might proceed to business. + +Mr. Luxmore complied. + +But it is not necessary that I should trouble the reader with the +details of “business” transacted between a madman on the one part and a +villain on the other. It is sufficient to say that Mr. Luxmore presented +his credentials—consisting of the last will and testament of Victoire +L’Orient together with various documents, all valuable as corroborative +testimony to the authenticity of the will. + +The credentials were so well received, and the bearer of the credentials +so well approved, that after some excellent diplomacy, Julius Luxmore +found himself so high in royal favor as to receive the appointment to +the post of premier, _vice_ Monsieur Louis, deceased. + +His Majesty then occupied himself with details of the solemnities of the +royal mourning, which he decided should be purple; and then he +commissioned Monsieur the Minister—_videlicet_—Mr. Julius Luxmore, to go +upon the main, and make the needful purchases. + +Finally, dismissing Mr. Luxmore to do his errand, he sent for the +“Princess,” and in a private interview communicated to her the facts of +the decease of her relatives. This intelligence threw over the youthful +maiden an air of seriousness that was, however, as far removed from +sorrow, as was the golden haze of these autumnal mornings from thunder +clouds. It was not natural that the young Etoile should grieve over the +loss of relatives, one of whom she had never seen, from the other of +whom she had been so long separated. In truth no one sorrowed. The young +maiden was too happy, the old man too crazy, and the servants all too +indifferent to do so. The “bereavement” spread no gloom over the bright +Island, where it was not fully realized. Only sometimes the mad old man +would suddenly recollect that he ought to be overwhelmed with +affliction, and then he would fall to tearing his white hair and +exclaiming: + +“Oh, miserable princess! Oh, hapless house!” And having paid this +tribute of lamentation to the departed, would resume his habitual +cheerfulness. + +The truth is, that the old man was sinking deeper into the infirmities +of body and imbecilities of mind attendant upon extreme old age. + +And Julius Luxmore soon found himself invested not only with the +government of the farm, fisheries, and financial affairs of the Island, +but also with the care of the old man’s person, and with that of the +young girl’s education. It really seemed as if the place had needed and +waited for his coming. Had he been a conscientious and disinterested +man, his arrival would have been a most opportune blessing. But he was +selfish, and unprincipled, and he turned, you may readily believe, every +circumstance of his position to his own advantage. + +He adroitly and successfully flattered the old man, and thus attained +the first place in the dotard’s esteem and confidence. + +By delicate attentions and interesting instructions, he so well +recommended himself to the favor of the fair Etoile, as to become in +some degree essential to the little maiden’s happiness. + +He also, in conducting the sales of produce from the farm and fisheries +of the Island, changed the place of trade from the hamlet of Eastville +on the eastern shore of the village of Heathville, about sixty miles +further up the Bay on the west coast. His motive for this change, it +will be easily seen, was to avoid a neighborhood where he was sure to be +recognized, in favor of one where he was a total stranger. + +In short, Mr. Julius Luxmore did as he pleased. His rule “there was none +to dispute.” The old man was duped; the young maiden fascinated; and the +quadroon, even if she escaped the spell of his deceit, was, since +deprived of her coadjutor, Louis, notwithstanding her intellectual +brightness, but a meek creature, to be cunningly managed rather than +feared. + +His schooner had for some weeks remained at anchor near the Isle; but +the negro crew were forbidden to leave her deck, and so had never +approached the beach. Every day Mr. Luxmore had visited the vessel to +look after the safety of the craft, and the necessities of the men. And +when at last it was convenient to do so, he had taken two of the Island +sailors, embarked with them on the schooner, and set sail for Norfolk, +where he paid off and discharged his hired men. + +Then, having thus got rid of the “aliens,” he purchased some books and +pictures for Etoile, and a gorgeous purple dressing-gown for “His +Majesty,” and with the two home negroes, set sail for the Isle. After a +short and pleasant voyage, he arrived there to rejoice all hearts. And +it is difficult to decide whether was Etoile the more delighted with her +books and pictures, or “His Majesty” with his royal robe. + +It is not to be supposed, however, that a man of Julius Luxmore’s age, +habits, and temperament, could be content to confine himself within the +contracted limits of a sea-girt Island, with no other society than an +old lunatic, a young maiden, and a troop of negro slaves, and with no +change of scene than an occasional voyage to Heathville, to sell a cargo +of corn or fish. With all Etoile’s delightful beauty, she was but a +child; with all his golden prospects, the time passed heavily; he was +wearied, bored; he no longer wondered that Etoile pined for “the +glorious world beyond.” He himself, who knew it well to be any thing but +“glorious,” also pined for it. + +In a word, he felt the necessity of devising some plan of safe and +frequent intercourse with “the rest of mankind.” + +But this communication with his fellow-creatures, to be secure, must be, +like the “reciprocity” of some people, all on one side. He must change +the scene; must often go somewhere; but no one else should ever come to +the Island. No one should know of the precious treasure hidden there. + +But we will, for the present, leave this delectable young gentleman to +make the best of his good fortune, while we go back after his forsaken +love, Captain Barbara Brande, and her noble passenger. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV. + BARBARA’S VOYAGE. + + “Merrily, merrily goes the barque, + On a breeze from the northward free; + So shoots through the morning sky the lark. + Or the swan through the summer sea! + Upon the gale she stoops her side, + And bounds before the swelling tide, + As she were dancing home: + The merry seamen laugh to see + Their gallant ship so lustily + Furrow the green sea foam.”—_Scott._ + + +The Petrel was favored with fine weather until the seventh day out, when +near 30° north latitude she entered the Gulf stream, and faced the trade +winds then blowing from an east and north-easterly direction. The +violence and persistence of this gale kept her back for several days, so +that it was the first of November before she dropped anchor in the +harbor of Havana. + +Here Lord Montressor took leave of Miss Brande, cordially shaking hands +with her at parting, and asking and receiving permission to visit the +vessel during her stay in port. + +And while Barbara occupied herself with discharging her cargo, Lord +Montressor established himself at the Hotel Macon, and from this quarter +pursued his inquiries for Estelle. He found that the Sea Mew had reached +port about fifteen days previous to the arrival of the Petrel; that she +had discharged her cargo, taken in fresh freight, and about a week since +had sailed for Rio Janeiro. But he could hear of no passengers that she +had brought to Havana; on the contrary, he was assured by several +persons of whom he made the inquiry that she had certainly brought none. + +But opposed to this testimony were the facts that he had learned at +Baltimore. Thus with a perplexed, discouraged, but persevering heart he +still pursued the almost hopeless search. + +In the progress of his investigations, particularly near the harbor, he +often met with Barbara Brande. No word had ever passed between them upon +the object of his voyage, yet that object was well known to Miss Brande. +She longed for the sister’s privilege of counseling him. Knowing the +utter futility of his search, she felt it to be, in herself, a sort of +treachery to permit him to pursue it. Often when they chanced to meet, +her sympathizing eyes were fixed with a sorrowful, prayful expression +upon his troubled countenance. + +Once when he visited her, in the cabin of her own vessel, while both sat +at the little centre-table, she fixed her honest eyes full upon his +care-worn face and said— + +“Lord Montressor, give me your confidence.” + +He looked up in surprise. + +Her open countenance did not blench, nor was her straightforward look +for a moment withdrawn. Indeed there was in her resonant tones, +unflinching regard, and confident manner something of the authority of +the sybil. Lord Montressor really admired the honest, brave, upright and +downright nature of Barbara Brande. And now it was something more than +admiration, it was a sort of deference that he felt for her. But she was +looking straight at him, and was waiting for an answer. + +“But why, Miss Brande, should I burden you with my confidences?” he +asked mildly. + +“Because I can aid you.” + +“You can aid me!” + +“Ay, sir; for I know your history. Do not ask me _how_ I know it; for I +cannot tell you without a breach of confidence. But, sir, I know the +object of your pursuit, and know it to be, for the present at least, +utterly futile—as it indeed should be!” + +“Miss Brande!” + +“Lord Montressor, I have no puerile fear of misconstruction at your +hands—you are not the slave of a conventionalism that may be ‘a good +servant, but a bad master.’ You will not, I am sure, accuse me of +obtrusiveness—and even if you did——” + +“And if I did——?” + +“I should survive it!” smiled Barbara. + +But then growing suddenly serious, she said— + +“I told you that I could aid you, sir; but for that power of helping you +I had not spoken!” + +“I thank you from the depths of my heart, Miss Brande! And I am sure +that your words will be justified. But—you know my story! You know the +object of my voyage! _do_ you know where Lady Montressor is?” + +“Sir, I cannot answer that question without a breach of confidence. What +I can tell you without blame, I will tell you without question. In the +first place, your search here is utterly hopeless! Lady Montressor is +not in Havana. In the second place, where she tarries, she is well, only +wishing for the present to sequester herself from you.” + +“For the _present_.” + +“_I_ said for the present. Your lordship will please to put yourself for +a moment in this lady’s place, and you will see that as a Christian +woman, she can do no otherwise than she does. Consider, sir, that the +validity of your marriage is _questioned_ and rests for final decision +with the Spiritual Court of Arches.” + +“Miss Brande! a higher tribunal than any earthly court has already +adjudged this cause. The claimant of Lady Montressor’s hand is numbered +with the dead.” + +“I know it. Yet how forgetful men are! You should remember, sir, that +this claimant was also once, whether rightfully or wrongfully—the +_possessor_ of this lady’s hand. Therefore, my lord, the lady is right, +right, right, and forever right, in having considered that +circumstance—while that claimant lived, a barrier to her second +marriage. And now, Lord Montressor, let me say to you, that all your +hopes for a future union with the Lady Estelle rest upon the decision of +the Court of Arches.” + +“In the name of Heaven, _how_—what do you mean?” + +“This—should the Court of Arches decide the marriage of Monsieur +L’Orient and Miss Morelle to have been illegal——” + +“Well! then?” + +“She will never emerge from her obscurity; as a delicate and high-minded +woman she never can. But on the other hand, should the Court of Arches +decide that her childish marriage was legal——” + +“Well! then?” + +“Then, my lord, you are free to woo the widow, and I—Barbara Brande will +give you the aid I promised!” + +“Miss Brande! Is this your ethics? How is it possible that a decision of +the Court of Arches can affect the righteousness of an action already +past, as its record now stands before the higher tribunal of Heaven?” + +“It cannot do so, of course. Whatever be the decision of the Court, the +case remains in the sight of God the same. And this, lady Estelle, whose +womanly instincts have never been confused by the sinuosities of law, or +the subtleties of theology, feels that her childish marriage, however +wrong in itself, was binding in its obligations. Those who assail the +legality of that unhappy union, wound her in the tenderest point. And +should the Court of Arches decide against it, they will cast upon her a +reproach that she will never consent, by marrying, to reflect upon any +one she loves!” said Barbara, as a sudden and burning blush, for the +freedom of her speech, swept over her cheek and vindicated the woman’s +under the hero’s nature. For Barbara was as modest and sensitive as she +was frank and brave. She could deeply feel, as well as disregard the +pain of speaking upon this delicate subject. + +Lord Montressor admired the rare honesty, courage, and disinterestedness +of her really great nature. He paused a few moments before replying, and +then said— + +“You have given me some food for reflection, Miss Brande. I do not know +but that you have been the best exponent of my lady’s motives and +conduct, with whom I have yet met; although I have talked upon this +subject with the Bishop of Exeter, and with the Baron Dazzleright, who +both regarded the affair in an opposite light to that in which you view +it.” + +“The reason was, that one was a clergyman, and thought only of the +theological aspect; the other a lawyer, and considered wholly the legal +appearance; while I, a woman, with only the grace of God to throw light +upon my natural instincts, enter heart and soul into all my sister +woman’s feelings.” + +“I believe you are right, and, by your showing, Estelle was also very +right in reserving herself from my knowledge and pursuit from the moment +that our marriage festivities were interrupted.” + +“Undoubtedly, my lord! Oh, sir! I feel sure that you will yet have cause +to bless Heaven that she _did_ so—that she was _known_ beyond doubt to +have done so.” + +“You may be proved to be right—in case that the Bishops’ Bench establish +the legality of the first union. But, Miss Brande, since, as it appears, +you know Estelle, since you have conversed with her, and received her +confidence, you must also be aware that the doubt which rests upon the +legality of her first marriage, is not her only reason for sequestering +herself.” + +“I know it; but it is the most important one; let it be removed, and it +rests with your lordship to make her forget or forsake the other. _And +you will do so._” + +Lord Montressor smiled. There was something so confident, so animating, +so inspiring in the cheerful faith of this good and brave girl. He +greatly needed more satisfaction in regard to Estelle, but he felt that +he could not in justice or generosity seek intelligence of Barbara, who +had said that to give him more information on the subject would involve +a breach of confidence. + +He cordially expressed his gratitude for the friendly interest she had +taken in his cause, and with a promise to repeat his visit, bade her +adieu. He returned to his hotel to reflect upon his future course. + +The next day he called up his valet, and said: “Go and search for a +vessel about to sail for England.” + +“My lord, the vessel in which we came, the Petrel, is bound for +Liverpool in a few days,” replied the man. + +“Ah, is that so? Miss Brande told me nothing of the sort yesterday. +However,” added his lordship mentally, “we were too closely engaged in +talking of another matter.” + +“It is true, however, my lord; the Petrel is advertised for Liverpool.” + +“Oh, yes! probably Miss Brande took it for granted that I had seen the +notice, and knew all about it. Go down to the docks, then, and secure +berths in the Petrel. Or, stay, remain here, and pack up; I will go down +to the vessel to engage a passage,” said Lord Montressor, who was not +only well pleased to have this excuse for visiting Barbara, but also +delighted with the prospect of returning to England in her vessel in her +company. + +A rapid walk brought him to the docks. A little skiff took him alongside +the Petrel, upon the deck of which stood the handsome Amazon, busily +engaged in giving her orders. + +The sun on this November day shone down brightly and hotly on the harbor +and the shipping, and fell directly upon the stately form of Barbara, as +she stood bareheaded upon the deck. No sea breeze now lifted her +tresses, but her raven black hair lay rippling and glistening in +purplish lustre under the beams of that tropical sun, that seemed not to +burn, but only to ripen her luscious southern beauty. The rich bloom of +her complexion rivaled that of the ruddiest tropical fruit. And in hue +like the purple glow of grape tendrils, were the tresses of her hair +against those pomegranate cheeks. The broad and massive forehead, the +well-defined black brows, the strong flashing eyes, the straight high +nose, firm though rounded lips, and above all, the erect, elastic +carriage; the fearless, resolute look; and the clear, resonant voice, +gave a character of strength and energy to a style of beauty otherwise +too voluptuous. Her costume evinced her usual disregard to every quality +in dress, except its fitness, and consisted of the customary gray serge +gown and sacque. + +She was engaged in giving directions in regard to the stowing of some +freight. On seeing Lord Montressor coming up the starboard gangway, she +advanced with a smile and an extended hand to meet him. + +“Good-morning, Lord Montressor. I am _very_ glad to see you.” + +“Not so glad as I am to stand before you, I dare be sworn, Miss Brande.” + +“Ah! but to have returned so soon you must have had a motive. Now, how +can we serve you, Lord Montressor?” + +“You are going to England?” + +“Yes, sir; it is the best thing that I can do! I am going to Liverpool +to take a cargo of sugar and molasses and probably to bring back one of +Manchester dry goods. Can I do any thing for you in England?” + +“You can take me thither.” + +“Ah! you have decided on going home?” + +“I have, after mature deliberation, determined to return to England and +await the action of the Spiritual Court, if, indeed, the action has not +been arrested by the intelligence of the death of Monsieur L’Orient.” + +“And if it has, you will cause the proper parties to set it going +again?” + +“Perhaps,” replied Lord Montressor. + +“At all events, I am glad that you have decided on going to watch the +progress of the affair, my lord, and _very_ glad to have the pleasure of +your company on the voyage,” said Barbara, with such cordial sincerity, +that her whole warm countenance glowed with the light of the happiness +she expressed. + +“I thank you very earnestly; and, believe me, the satisfaction you +express is much more than reciprocated by myself. I would have waited +some time and foregone many other good things for the pleasure of +sailing with you, Miss Brande,” replied Lord Montressor, heartily, +regarding the handsome creature before him with an honest admiration, +free from the slightest alloy of covetousness. He could appreciate her +noble beauty and unique attractions without the least wish to +appropriate them. + +This, Barbara instinctively knew. Hence her frank cordiality of +friendship. + +“Good, then! we are both well pleased,” she said, laughing and extending +her hand. + +The preliminaries of the passage were then settled, and Lord Montressor +seeing that the girl was excessively busy in superintending the taking +in and stowing away of the freight, bade adieu, and returned to his +hotel. And the third morning from this, being the twentieth of November, +and a fine day, the Petrel, having on board Lord Montressor and his +attendants, set sail for Liverpool. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV. + THE GLORIOUS UNCERTAINTY OF THE LAW. + + “There was on both sides much to say, + They’d hear the cause another day. + And so they did, and then a third + They heard it, and so kept their word. + But with demurrers and replies, + Long bills and answers filled with lies, + Delay, imparlance, and assoign, + The judges ne’er could issue join; + For many years the cause was spun, + And then stood where it first begun.”—_Dean Swift._ + + +As all the readers of this true history may not acknowledge the same +grand passion for the sea, possessed by Barbara Brande and her present +biographer, I will spare them the description of the voyage to +Liverpool, merely saying, by the way, that the passage was pleasant, +quick, and prosperous. And that in five weeks from the day of sailing, +the Petrel, on the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas eve, cast her +anchor in the harbor of Liverpool. + +A flood of business immediately overwhelmed Barbara. + +Lord Montressor took leave of Miss Brande, and promising to see her soon +again, he left the vessel, took a cab, drove to the Metropolitan Railway +Depot threw himself on board the first train of cars, and steamed away +to London, where he arrived early the same evening. + +He directed his servants to convey his baggage to Gerard’s Hall, Aleyn’s +Lane, then entered a carriage, and drove immediately to the bachelor +establishment of Baron Dazzleright, in Berkely Square. He was very +fortunate in finding Lord Dazzleright at home. He sent up his card and +was shown into the library, where, in a very few minutes, he was joined +by the advocate. + +Lord Dazzleright advanced, eagerly extending both hands, and saying—not +only with his tongue, but with his eyes, his smile, and his whole +attitude and expression— + +“Good Heaven! my dear fellow, I am so glad to see you!” + +And he grasped his lordship’s hand and squeezed it, and without waiting +for him to speak, asked, hurriedly— + +“What was the last news you received from England, previous to setting +out on your return?” + +“News? None, except through the public prints. I have not had a letter +from England since I left her shores.” + +“Why, how was that? We wrote frequently, anxiously.” + +“I suppose there was no chance of my receiving letters. I left England, +as you know, about the middle of last June. I reached the United States +the first of September; left it for the West Indies the tenth of +October; reached Havana the first of November; left that port on the +twentieth, and here I am!” + +“Ah! I see how it is! You have run away from our letters, that have +never been able to overtake you. But—first of all, have you seen _her_?” + +“No.” + +“Have you heard of her?” + +“I will tell you,” said Lord Montressor. And forthwith he commenced and +related the history of his long search and only partial success. + +“Then we certainly have a clue that if firmly held and followed will +lead to her recovery.” + +“We have a clue; but I am under parole, not to follow that clue until +the decision of the Court of Arches is made known.” + +“Humph—humph—humph,” muttered Lord Dazzleright—“and you know nothing?” + +“Of her residence—no, nothing except that she lives in strict seclusion, +and is believed to enjoy some degree of health and tranquillity.” + +“Ah! I was not just then thinking of _her_, though she generally +occupies my thoughts to the exclusion of all other subjects.” + +“Of what then were you thinking?” + +“Of what had occurred at this side of the water. But you say you have +heard nothing?” + +“Nothing, but public news through the public prints! What _can_ you +mean, my friend?” + +“I will tell you! but sit down! sit down! Bless me, you have been +standing hat in hand, like the collector for a charity, all this time! +sit down.” + +Lord Montressor sank into a seat. + +Lord Dazzleright went and pulled the bell-tassel, and when the next +moment a servant entered he gave the brief order— + +“Supper an hour hence, in this room.” For Lord Dazzleright was one of +those Englishmen who never could separate the idea of conversation from +that of eating and drinking. + +“Now then to business!” he said, returning and seating himself near Lord +Montressor. “First permit me to congratulate you upon the fortunate +circumstance that you _did not_ succeed in meeting Estelle.” + +“Why, in the name of wonder, do you congratulate me upon any such +misfortune?” inquired Lord Montressor, in astonishment. + +“I deny that it _was_ a misfortune! I contend that it was a providential +blessing—and that the misfortune would have been to have met Estelle.” + +“Explain yourself! why should it have been such, to have found the +beloved one whom I went to seek?” + +“Because it might possibly have happened that that beloved one, worn out +by importunity, might have rejoined you.” + +“And what calamity would have followed then?” inquired Lord Montressor, +ironically. + +“Just, simply ruin!” + +“RUIN!” + +“Ruin; unless you like a stronger word better!” + +“A stronger word!” + +“Yes! there is such a one—listen!” and Lord Dazzleright uttered the +single syllable—“shame!”—close to the ear of Lord Montressor, who +started as if struck by a bullet. + +“This is not so!” he said. “Come, my friend, let us leave exaggerated +views of what might have been, and talk quietly of what _is_. In the +first place—as you have heard—Monsieur L’Orient is dead.” + +“You are certain of it?” + +“I was present when he was picked up from the sea identified his body +and assisted at his funeral.” + +“He is therefore not likely to reappear and claim Estelle.” + +“I should think not!” + +“But I had rather hear you say that you are _sure_ not! After the lesson +we received from that gentleman on the danger of taking things for +granted, it is better that we should proceed only upon certainties.” + +“Then I am _sure_ that Monsieur L’Orient will give us no more trouble.” + +“Very well then, _circumstances alter cases_! that fact of Monsieur +L’Orient’s ascertained decease changes the whole face of affairs, and +the whole policy of proceeding!” + +“I listen to hear further,” said Lord Montressor. + +“As Monsieur L’Orient can never reappear to claim his hapless victim, we +must now go to work and establish the validity of his marriage with +her.” + +“_What!_” + +“Certainly! To establish his marriage will not _now_ be as _once_ it +would have been—to raise up an insurmountable obstacle to your own! +since the same decision that will declare Estelle to have been +Victoire’s wife—will prove her now to be his widow.” + +“Yet still I do not see the necessity of pushing this affair through the +Spiritual Court, since the decision of that court can in no degree alter +the position of the facts as they now stand,” said Lord Montressor, +whose honest soul was concerned for realities rather than appearances. + +“It is necessary to redeem the name of Estelle from unmerited +reproach—nay, more, it is necessary for your own honor.” + +“I cannot feel that my honor or hers rests, or ever could rest, upon the +chances of a decision of the Court of Arches, or any other court upon +earth.” + +“Hem! you would not wish it said that you had married Monsieur Victoire +L’Orient’s ——” + +“SILENCE, SIR!” thundered Lord Montressor, growing livid with emotion. + +“—— Victim,—would you?” concluded Lord Dazzleright, heedless of the +interruption. + +“Dazzleright! Dazzleright! you abuse my forbearance.” + +“You would not like to have that said? I know you would not. But then, +again, you had not looked at it in that light? I thought not. Now, +however, you perceive that it is necessary for Estelle’s sake, as well +as for your own, that her name be redeemed from unmerited reproach by +the establishment of the validity of the marriage! We must go to work as +fast as we can and prove that, after which you may woo and wed the +widow.” + +“Dazzleright! Dazzleright! you are usually styled the best lawyer in +England!” + +“Mine honorable friend, the best lawyer in England is he who best knows +how to use the legal tools,” replied Lord Dazzleright, laughing. + +“You yourself took the ground that the childish marriage of Estelle was +illegal—to use your own expression, entirely ‘null, void, and of none +effect!’ You even _proved_ it to be so!—proved it by law, testimony, and +precedents!—proved it to the satisfaction of Sir James Allan Parke, of +the Bishop of Exeter, of the Reverend Mr. Oldfield, and of myself!—in +short, to the satisfaction of every body, except Estelle.” + +“Which you think would make it very awkward for me now to go to work and +prove the same marriage to be perfectly legal, valid, and binding! to +prove this by as strong ‘law, testimony, and precedent!’—to prove it, if +necessary, ‘to the satisfaction of Sir James Allan Parke, of the Bishop +of Exeter, of the Reverend Mr. Oldfield,’ of yourself, and of all +others, not excepting Estelle! Not at all. It will be the easiest thing +in life! My dear sir, a lawyer who knows his business can, by a +judicious application of ‘law, testimony, and precedent,’ prove or +disprove any thing that he may be required to establish or to overthrow. +In law, ‘those who bind can loose,’ those who loose can bind! I will +undertake to establish before the Court of Arches, the marriage of Miss +Morelle and Monsieur L’Orient to have been perfectly legal, binding, and +indissoluble, except by crime or death!” + +“Oh! Dazzleright! Dazzleright!” + +“Of course, having once successfully assailed and overthrown that +marriage before one court, I cannot consistently support it before +another! But I can find a lawyer of talent and character, and can arm +him with my argument, so that he shall be able to do it.” + +“Oh, Dazzleright! Dazzleright!” + +“My conscientious client, you never worked your way up from the position +of a provincial pettifogger’s clerk to that of a Baron of the Exchequer, +or you would certainly have learned something of the infinite +possibilities of the law for those who know how to avail themselves of +its advantages. The law is the most exact of all _sciences_ in +_theory_—the most uncertain of all _arts_ in _practice_. All depends +upon the application of its powers. In law, we can do or undo just what +we please,” said the best lawyer in England. + +“Oh, Dazzleright! Dazzleright! well named Dazzleright!” + +“Hist! here comes Johnson to lay the cloth for supper,” said the Baron, +as that functionary appeared. + +Lord Montressor arose and paced up and down the floor, saying to +himself— + +“Thank God, my sweet Estelle knows nothing of this worldly wisdom, this +doubling and twisting, this steering by expediency! She has no hand in +it, is not responsible for it, is indeed totally ignorant of it. From +first to last, through all this veering and trimming of others, _she_ +has held her pure, high, straightforward course, her path of duty, of +self-denial, self-immolation!” And by contrast with these time-servers +she seemed so true, so holy, and so lovely, that his feeling for her, +took the form of prayer, and he stood in perfect silence before the +window, until the cheery voice of Lord Dazzleright summoned him to the +table. + +“Tell me one thing!” said Lord Montressor as he took his seat at the +board, “tell me for the satisfaction of my old friendship for you,—how +you could conscientiously seek to overthrow Estelle’s first marriage, +unless you believed it to have been illegal?—and if you believe it to be +so, how can you possibly seek now to establish it!” + +“I will tell you—as you said, a lawyer’s opinion or a Judge’s decision +cannot in the slightest degree alter the moral aspect of any case. Now +the moral aspect of that case, to me, was this:—that no sinner should be +allowed to take advantage of his own sin—that Monsieur Victoire should +not be permitted to carry off a woman of whom he had so dishonestly +possessed himself—if there was any law to prevent him from doing so! And +of course I knew that there was plenty of law for that, as for most +other purposes, good or evil. And I determined to use the law. As for +the legal character of that marriage—there was so much to be said on +both sides, that really, had my own feelings been disinterested, I +should have found it difficult to have taken up with zeal, _either_ +side; but my sympathies were strongly enlisted, and I went to work with +all my heart and soul to save Estelle from the talons of the vulture +Victoire. Now that the bird of prey is dead—though neither the moral nor +the legal aspect of that fatal marriage is altered by that circumstance, +any more than it could be by the decision of a court—yet my policy is +changed—it is now expedient, for the reasons heretofore stated, that I +use the powers of the law to establish the validity of the marriage, +which it was then expedient that I used the same powers to overthrow. +Then I was compelled to choose between two evils—now I advocate a +positive good.” + +“Thank God, Estelle is innocent of the knowledge of your policy! I can +bear this system of expediency in _you_. I can even thank you for it, +and admit that there is a sort of worldly wisdom in it! Nay, more—I can +accept your congratulations upon my disappointment in failing to meet +Estelle! And I can rejoice in the knowledge of never having passed one +moment alone with her since our marriage ceremony! For, indeed, scarcely +to save my own soul alive, would I bring upon her stricken young head +one shadow of reproach! I will await the action of the Arches Court.” + +“And then?” + +“If that court pronounce her first, infantile marriage to have been, as +I was led to believe, illegal, it follows that the second one was legal, +and that Estelle is my lawful wife. If, on the contrary, they adjudge it +to have been valid—still by the death of L’Orient, Estelle is free—I +should woo and wed her. That is all.” + +“Except that in the latter case, Estelle would be freed from the sign of +blame!” + +“She is free from that in either case! She was innocent of the intention +of wrong doing!” + +“Assuredly, but the world judges _acts_, not intentions.” + +Lord Montressor made a movement of impatience, and then said— + +“Since L’Orient, at whose suit the action was brought before the Arches +Court is dead—at whose instance is that suit now carried forward?” + +“At her father’s.” + +“At her father’s!” + +“At Sir Parke Morelle’s.” + +“He has returned to England?” + +“And to his right mind, which is better still.” + +“You amaze me! Is he reconciled to his unhappy young daughter, then?” +inquired Lord Montressor, in astonishment. + +“Easy—easy—do not be in a hurry. You said that Estelle was in Maryland, +North America. Now, Sir Parke has but just returned from Italy, and is +spending his Christmas at Hyde Hall, Devonshire. How is it possible they +should be now reconciled?” + +“By an epistolary correspondence I should think it might have been +done.” + +“But it has not been done! Sir Parke does not even know where she is, or +any thing of her movements since the trial, except that which we learned +from yourself, namely, that she embarked for America. He is exceeding +anxious for a meeting and a reconciliation with her. He is too proud and +fastidious to advertise even with caution and disguise; but he has +dispatched a confidential agent to America to seek her out.” + +“‘A needle in a haystack!’ Does he expect so to find her on that vast +continent?” exclaimed Lord Montressor, impatiently, for he remembered +that but for Sir Parke’s unnatural severity and too late repentance, the +poor, “stricken deer” might now be safe in the covert of her father’s +house. + +“Yes! he hopes his agent will find her even on that ‘vast continent!’ +Sir Parke, like most untraveled English country gentlemen, looks upon +the ‘vast continent’ of America as a ‘vast’ wilderness, with only a few +coast towns such as Boston, New York, and the like, whose population +might be soon sifted by an intelligent ‘detective.’ That now, in spite +of geography and newspapers, is the cherished idea of Sir Parke.” + +“Pshaw!” + +Lord Dazzleright laughed. + +Lord Montressor arose, and looked steadily into the eyes of the +advocate. + +“What do you suppose, Dazzleright, to be the cause of Sir Parke +Morelle’s change of feelings and purposes toward his daughter?” + +“We might readily suppose Dame Nature to be the fundamental cause. +Surely, his present relenting is more natural than his former severity +toward her.” + +“Sir Parke is not a man to be governed by his natural affections.” + +“Perhaps not _always_. But in this case, what is left him but revision +of his former sentence against Estelle? Has he any other daughter?—has +he any son?—has he even a niece or nephew, or any other heir to his vast +estate?” + +“It is true he has not; you put the point pertinently. Yet, that +circumstance alone would not sway his conduct! The opinion of the world +is the breath of his nostrils.” + +“Eureka! you have found it?” + +“Then I am more confounded than ever! being at a great loss to know how +his love of the world should move him in favor of her whom the world has +forsaken.” + +“There you are mistaken. Most people _are_ confounded, who reason from +false premises. The world did not forsake Estelle! Estelle forsook the +world; you pursued her in such hot haste, as not to have first +discovered this fact?” + +“What do you tell me!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in a sort of glad +surprise and incredulity. + +“That there is not a woman in England more beloved and respected by +those from whom love and respect are most valuable, than our Estelle.” + +“Dazzleright! this cannot be so! The world is not so just to the +unfortunate.” + +“The world, like the devil, is not half so black as it is painted. +‘Listen! reaction is commensurate with action.’ It was inevitable, at +first, when the suddenness and enormity of the charge brought against +Estelle had shocked her friends and acquaintances from their propriety, +that she should have been regarded with abhorrence. But when that panic +was past; when people had time to become composed and thoughtful; and, +above all, when the simple FACTS developed and proved upon the trial had +replaced the exaggerated _fictions_ of gossip; and when it was +understood that Estelle had, from the moment of her arrest at the altar, +reserved herself from the presence of Lord Montressor, and had, as soon +as possible, withdrawn herself from his knowledge, there was a mighty +reaction in her favor.” + +“Thank God! Oh, thank God for that! Thank God that the public were able +to know Estelle and to do her justice!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, who, +though in heart might despise the fluctuations of popular opinion for +himself, yet dreaded it for Estelle. + +“Thank God for all things, and the world for nothing,” replied +Dazzleright; “Estelle’s whole life of goodness was not to be abrogated +by one storm of calumny! That was a crisis in which the power of her own +personal righteousness saved her. Your own name, character, reputation +and popularity also served her well!” + +“Whatever of good repute, or ‘golden opinions’ I possessed were at her +service—were under her feet, if that would have saved them from the +burning plow-shares!” said Lord Montressor, fervently. + +“Unscorched she passed those fiery plow-shares. Her trial over, people +judged her, in some sort, as you and I judge her. Her beautiful +Christian life, the facts elicited on her trial, her subsequent +self-sacrifice, all tended to draw back to her esteem and affection. All +whose good opinion is worth having, love and revere her. Even the +envious and malignant dare not traduce her, lest their motive become too +apparent. And now I say, as I said in the beginning, there is not a +woman in England more sincerely esteemed than Estelle. Sir Parke +Morelle, restored in some degree to his reason, came back to find this +state of feeling prevailing. It affected, it influenced, it governed +him. He resolved to seek and call home his wandering child. If his +resolution needed confirming, it received confirmation. Estelle’s +misfortunes had moved sympathy in the highest quarters—Sir Parke, and +Lady Morelle attended the first drawing-room of the season. It was +unusually brilliant, and so crowded that Royalty could vouchsafe but a +word or two to each passing aspirant for notice. Lady Morelle’s turn +came; judge the effect when Queen Adelaide—her goodness is +proverbial—inquired graciously after the health of Lady Morelle’s +daughter, expressing regret at not seeing her present! This was done for +a purpose, and it effected its object. Ladies of the most ancient +peerages—of a nobility indubitable and redoubtable, who can do as they +please, because it is impossible for them to do wrong—followed now the +royal lead. The more timid, though not less well-disposed, brought up +the rear. You understand this was not done all at once at the +drawing-room—though thence the fiat issued—thence the impetus was given. +Even the most cowardly were not afraid to venture where Royalty had gone +before!” + +“But Sir Parke! Lady Morelle! what reply could _they_ make, good Heaven! +when asked for their hapless daughter? Some such answer I suppose as +Cain gave when asked for his brother!” + +“Humph! they just replied that she was in America, and they had sent out +a confidential agent there to seek her. Eh bien! you comprehend that the +ordeal is well past!” + +“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Lord Montressor. + +“Amen—and long live Queen Adelaide!” replied Dazzleright. + +Lord Montressor looked around. + +“What do you want?” inquired Lord Dazzleright. + +“My hat.” + +“You are not going?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, no! here are some famous cigars—stop and try them.” + +“Cannot. I am down into Devonshire by the midnight train! Good-bye!” + +“But you are not going, certainly?” + +“Absolutely and instantaneously. I shall not even first return to my +hotel, as it is now eleven o’clock, and the Western train starts at +twelve. So I will tax your kindness to send one of your men to Gerard’s, +to direct my people there to follow me by the next train, if you will do +me the favor.” + +“Certainly; but you have not said to what point in the great county of +Devon I shall direct the fellows.” + +“You surely know! I am off to see Sir Parke Morelle at Hyde Hall. Tell +them to put up at the ‘Morelle Arms, Hyde.’” + +“Humph! Do you know that I was due there to eat a Christmas dinner +to-morrow? So it may ensue that I shall follow you to assist at that +grand pow-wow that must come off to-morrow evening.” + +“I shall be very well satisfied if you do! Shall I say to Sir Parke that +you will come?” + +“If you please?” + +“Good-bye, then,” said Lord Montressor, extending his hand. + +“Bon voyage!” replied the other, pressing the proffered member. + +And so the companions parted. + +Lord Montressor re-entered the cab that had, during his visit, waited at +the door, and gave the order: + +“To Western Railway Depot.” + +The cabman drove on, and in due season reached this place. + +Lord Montressor entered the cars, which were on the eve of starting, and +soon found himself whirled onward toward the Western Grand Junction, +which near daybreak he reached. + +Here he left the cars for the mail-coach that daily passed the village, +which was the point of his destination. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHRISTMAS IN THE VILLAGE. + + “The misletoe hung in the castle hall, + The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall, + The baron’s retainers were blithe and gay, + Keeping their Christmas holiday. + Oh! the misletoe bough! + Oh! the misletoe bough!”—_Old Song._ + + +The sun was rising when the mail-coach arrived at the little hamlet of +Hyde, and drew up before the “Morelle Arms.” + +Bright and gay with misletoe and holly was the little inn. + +Busy and cheerful was the buxom little landlady. Bustling she hurried +out to welcome any chance guests that the mail might have brought her. +Evidently she expected some one—probably Lord Dazzleright, for Hyde +Hall, so anxious and scrutinizing were the glances she sent into the +interior of the coach. Her honest countenance beamed with joy at seeing +Lord Montressor alight. Yet still she looked for some one to come after +him. + +No one followed. The stage-coach drove on. + +The little landlady courtesied. + +“Welcome back to Devonshire, my lord! Walk in, my lord! This way, my +lord! Would your lordship choose breakfast?” she inquired, with busy, +respectful solicitude. + +Yes, his lordship would take breakfast, and afterward a post-chase to +Hyde Hall. + +The little landlady bustled out to obey his orders; and then bustled +back again to lay the cloth for breakfast. Her cheerful face was now +disturbed by anxiety. She cast furtive searching glances into Lord +Montressor’s thoughtful, abstracted countenance—and quickly withdrew +them in fear of discovery. In fact, the little body would have given the +world, or at least her share in it—“Morelle Arms”—to have the privilege +of inquiring after her nursling, Estelle. On observing Lord Montressor +alight from the coach, she had naturally looked to see him hand _her_ +out, thinking that they were both together, and both going to spend +Christmas with the lady’s parents up at the Hall. She could not +understand why “my lord” should be _en route_ alone, to enjoy Christmas +with her family, where she was not. It is true that many contradictory +rumors had reached Hyde. But Dame Higgins doubted each and all, and now +seeing Lord Montressor, she sighed for Estelle. + +When the breakfast was ready she brought it in, and with the hope of +hearing something indirectly of her “nurse child,” she remained and +waited on the table. + +“Do you know, are the family at the Hall in their usual health, Mrs. +Higgins?” inquired his lordship, as he received a cup of coffee from her +hands. + +“Ah, my lord, begging your lordship’s pardon, is it like they should be +well? Sir Parke is much broken, and Lady Morelle is not the handsome, +youthful-looking woman that she was a year ago,” said the landlady, +shaking her head gravely. + +Now Lord Montressor had not asked for, or expected this implied +reflection upon the family misfortunes, on the part of Mother Higgins. +He surmised in himself, a certain indiscretion in having made any +inquiries whatever. He now made no comment upon her communication, but +continued perfectly silent. + +Not so the landlady. As his lordship had set the example of asking +questions, she ventured to follow it. + +“I hope my lady was in good health when your lordship came away?” said +Mrs. Higgins, putting her question in the most polite—that is, in the +affirmative, form. + +“I thank you—yes,” replied Lord Montressor, in a tone and manner that +forbade farther encroachments on the part of his hostess. + +The little woman therefore occupied herself with waiting on her guest, +and held her tongue until again she was spoken with. + +“Can I have a chaise from this place to take me over to the Hall, Mrs. +Higgins?” at length asked Lord Montressor. + +“Indeed, your lordship, I am very sorry, but the chaise has gone to +Horsford, this morning, to take over some Christmas visitors that came +down from London last night, and it won’t be back before noon,” replied +the landlady, with a look of real regret. + +Horsford! How that name recalled the scene of the preliminary +investigation. “Ah, Sir George Bannerman, that is a debt that remains to +be settled,” thought Lord Montressor. + +Observing his lordship’s deepened gravity, and attributing it to his +disappointment in regard to the chaise, the hostess hastened to add— + +“But, my lord, Jenkins has not yet gone home.” + +“Jenkins?—who may he be?” + +“Yes, my lord, Jenkins—Sir Parke Morelle’s man, who was sent here from +the Hall this morning with the carriage to meet Lord Dazzleright, who +didn’t arrive.” + +“And Jenkins, you say, has not gone back with the carriage.” + +“No, my lord; he is in the kitchen at this present moment, having a +rasher and a pot of ale.” + +“Very well. When Jenkins has finished his repast, be good enough to send +him here,” said Lord Montressor, rising from the table. + +“I will, my lord,” she replied, going out to obey. + +In a few minutes, the coachman from Hyde Hall entered the presence of +his lordship. + +Here again was a recognition full of painful reminiscences! Jenkins was +the gray-haired old man who had driven the carriage containing the +bridal party, from the Hall to the church, on that fatal first of May. +Lord Montressor had not seen him since that dark day. + +The old man stood respectfully, hat in hand, waiting his lordship’s +commands. + +“How do you do, Jenkins? I hope the family at the Hall are well?” were +Lord Montressor’s first words. + +“Hem—m—m, as well as usual, I believe, my lord,” replied the aged +domestic, hesitatingly, though respectfully. + +Lord Montressor then announced that he had come down to visit Sir Parke +Morelle, and would be pleased to have a seat in the homeward-bound +carriage. + +The horses were feeding; but Jenkins would have them put to the carriage +immediately; and bowing low, he went out to attend to the matter. + +Lord Montressor then called for a room, paid such attention to his +toilet as the circumstances admitted, then went below, settled his +reckoning, and entered the carriage that waited to take him to Hyde +Hall. + +This was a fine, clear, bright winter morning. A light snow, that had +fallen during the night, just covered the ground, and added to the +cheerfulness of the scene. A slight frost, like the embroidering of fine +pearls, just touched the trees. + +The little village was already gay with Christmas revelings. Misletoe +and holly decked many of the doors and windows of the houses each side +of the only street, at the head of which stood the “Morelle Arms,” and +down which the carriage now drove. Neighbors hailed each other; children +in troops ran gayly, with “Merry Christmas,” from dwelling to dwelling, +or came out thence, with hands, hats, or pinafores, full of “goodies.” + +The carriage leaving the gay village street behind, passed on down the +turnpike road leading through the common toward the park. + +Just before turning in the great gate, they passed the little Gothic +church, the scene of Estelle’s fatal bridal and subsequent arrest. This +was the most painful of all the reminiscences awakened by his return to +the neighborhood. The little church was open, and was dressed within and +without with mistletoe and holly. And some of the most devout among the +parishioners had assembled thus early to assist at Divine worship, and +were now walking about and conversing cheerfully in the church-yard, +while waiting for the hour of service to arrive. Several of the old men +took off their hats to his lordship, as the carriage passed. + +But Lord Montressor could ill bear this scene with the graphic pictures +of the past that it recalled. So bowing gently to their salutations, he +quietly put up the blinds of the carriage, gave orders to drive faster, +and then sunk back into his seat until they had entered the park. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHRISTMAS IN THE DESOLATE HOUSE. + + “This holly by the mansion’s bourne, + To-day, ungathered shall it stand, + She dwells within the stranger’s land, + And strangely comes our Christmas morn. + + “So neither song, nor game, nor feast, + Nor harp be touched, nor flute be blown, + Nor dance, nor motion, save alone + What lighteus in the lucid east.”—_Tennyson._ + + +Having passed the park gates, the whole scene was changed. No sign of +Christmas festivity was here. No winter wreath of mingled misletoe and +holly arched the entrance. No gay troops of village children carolled +their Christmas song as they went up to the Hall to receive from the +steward their Christmas gifts of cakes and shillings. All was quiet, +sombre, gloomy, as though a recent death in the family had put the +household and premises into mourning. The carriage entered the park by +the “winter drive,” an avenue shaded entirely by gigantic evergreens, +and for its continued verdure and close shelter used exclusively in the +cold months by this comfort-loving family. Now these dark trees, with +their branches meeting overhead, threw a funereal shadow over their way. + +As they neared the Hall, the gloom deepened. The dark gray front of the +mansion was closed and silent. The carriage drew up in front of the +great portal. The coachman got down, opened the carriage door, dropped +the steps, and Lord Montressor alighted. + +The old man then went up and rang the bell, and to the grave footman +that opened the door, said: + +“John, show his lordship into the black oak parlor, and take his +orders.” + +John bowed, and as the old coachman withdrew, closed the door behind +him, turned and with another bow led the way to a small, snug, but +gloomy little sitting-room on the same floor, stirred the fire, drew +forward an easy chair, and leaving him comfortably seated, went to take +up the card. + +In a few moments, John returned with the request that the visitor would +walk up, and straightway preceded him to the door of the morning room, +which he opened, announcing— + +“Lord Montressor.” + +Sir Parke and Lady Morelle were seated at opposite corners of the ample +fire-place, in the grate of which burned a fine fire of seacoal. + +Both were greatly and sadly changed. Worldliness might indeed have +chilled their parental affections, and pride might have repressed all +utterance of grief or mortification. But that they had suffered deeply, +keenly, bitterly, was indelibly impressed upon their faces. + +Sir Parke had grown bald and gray; his features were visibly sunken, his +form perceptibly shrunken. + +Lady Morelle’s fair, classic face had lost its firm oval contour and +delicate bloom, and was marked with a light tracery of lines about the +brow and eyes. + +But both retained their cold and stately self-control. + +As Lord Montressor advanced, Sir Parke arose and offered him his hand, +saying merely— + +“I am glad to see you, Montressor.” + +“Thank you, Sir Parke; that is but just, since I come to you within +twenty-four hours of my landing in England,” replied the visitor, +smiling. Then he passed on to Lady Morelle, who arose coldly and offered +her hand. + +“I hope I find your ladyship in your usual good health, this morning?” + +“I am well, sir, and am happy to welcome you back to England,” she +replied, sinking again upon her sofa to the left of the chimney. Sir +Parke resumed his seat on the right of the same. And Lord Montressor +took the comfortable easy chair that had been drawn up for him by the +footman, in front of the glowing fire. And there he sat with the haughty +and reserved baronet, on his right, and the cold and stately lady on his +left,—all silent for a few minutes until Sir Parke bethought him to +dismiss the footman. + +When they were alone, Lord Montressor turned to the baronet, and +plunging directly into the subject of all their secret thoughts, said: + +“Sir Parke, it has given me the profoundest satisfaction to learn from +Lord Dazzleright that you have relented toward your daughter.” + +The baronet’s countenance never changed. He passed his hand once or +twice across his thin and sunken lips and then said, slowly and +composedly: + +“That trial, sir, however deplorable and ever-to-be regretted in itself, +nevertheless elicited facts that proved Estelle to be much less +blameworthy than she at first appeared. Yes, sir. Such is the judgment +of those who rule, and who should rule, public opinion.” + +To this sentiment Lord Montressor merely bowed while waiting to hear +further. + +“Estelle, sir, was but an infant, in bad hands, when she committed that +fatal act of disobedience.” + +Lord Montressor could not exactly understand how Estelle had disobeyed +her parents, in marrying Victoire, whom she had never been forbidden to +marry; but he let it pass. Sir Parke continued in the same slow and +composed manner— + +“The calamities growing out of that unhappy event are not to be +attributed as crimes to her—the greatest sufferer by them.” + +“I am glad you see it in this light, Sir Parke,” said Lord Montressor, +at the same time thinking within himself that it was a signal pity he +could not have seen it so before borrowing old Queen Adelaide’s +spectacles. + +“We have determined to establish the first marriage,” said the baronet, +with the cool confidence of an autocrat. “I have talked with my friend, +the Archbishop of York, and he thinks with me that it is the only thing +to be done.” + +“But—you are sure of your ground—you are certain that it can be done?” + +Sir Parke put down the hand that had been caressing his own chin, turned +upon the caviller a look of cool surprise, and said: + +“Assuredly, sir. Can there be a question of it? The only obstacle to the +validity of that childish union was the lack of my consent. Now I intend +to leave it to be supposed that my silence all these years, was the +silence of consent. Yes, sir. Had I known of, and felt an opposition to +that marriage, I might have broken it up at first. That I failed to do +so—from whatever cause—argues my consent. That I allowed it to exist +unquestioned, up to the date of the legal majority of my daughter, +establishes the marriage. So my friend, the Archbishop, views it. The +affair will be heard in chambers. The Court is friendly to my interests. +The decision will involve no question of property or of dower, only the +honor of my house, which must be redeemed.” + +“When will the case come on?” + +“Very soon. It will be the first cause taken up.” + +“You have not lately heard from your daughter?” + +“Not since her departure for America. I, however, dispatched a messenger +after her, from whom I am expecting to hear by every mail,” replied Sir +Parke, slightly betraying the great uneasiness he felt. + +“Then I bring you the latest news of Estelle.” + +Now both Sir Parke and Lady Morelle had expected this; but were both too +cool and self-governed to hazard an inquiry, or manifest anxiety upon +the subject. + +At Lord Montressor’s words, however, Lady Morelle raised her head, and +Sir Parke answered: + +“Ah, indeed; then I hope, my lord, that you will tell me she is well, +and within reach of my agent.” + +“She was well when I left, and living in retirement, in Maryland.” + +Sir Parke bowed, and compressed his lips. Lady Morelle flushed, and +averted her face. Self-controlled as they were, their increasing anxiety +betrayed itself. + +Lord Montressor understood its full meaning, and, with his usual +straightforward candor, replied: + +“Fear nothing, Sir Parke. Although when I left the shores of England in +pursuit of Estelle, I believed her to be my lawful bride; yet, since +affairs have taken this unexpected turn, I thank Heaven that I have not +seen her from the day she left the protection of her aged pastor, and, +moreover, that I had not passed one moment alone with her since leaving +the altar.” + +“That is well,” answered Sir Parke, coolly, and in no degree revealing +that a great burden of anxiety had been lifted from his mind. + +Lady Morelle’s countenance resumed its slightly discomposed serenity. + +“But it is only fair to inform the parents of Estelle, that when the +decision of the Arches’ Court is rendered, I shall become a candidate +for her hand. Until that time, I am forbidden, of all, to seek her.” + +Sir Parke bent his head. + +“You are right, my lord,” he said. + +Lady Morelle now, also, for the first time, entered into the +conversation, by saying— + +“You informed us that Estelle was living in retirement, in some part of +Maryland. Will you please to designate more exactly the place of her +residence?” + +“I cannot do so, Madam, since I am not advised of it. Had I been so, it +is probable that I should not now be sitting among you.” + +“Your information, then, is not very precise or satisfactory.” + +“It is satisfactory, so far as it goes, Madam; though I admit it is not +very precise. Permit me to explain;”—and Lord Montressor here related +the circumstances of his acquaintance with Barbara Brande, together with +the conversations he had held with her upon the subject of Estelle. + +“But is this reliable? Is not Estelle the last woman in the world, even +in her extremity, to make a confidante of such a she-savage?” inquired +Sir Parke. + +“Have I, then, been so unjust or incompetent as to give you _that_ idea +of Miss Brande?—a heroic Christian woman, if ever I saw one!” exclaimed +Lord Montressor, warmly. + +“A female sailor, at best. But let that pass, Montressor, since you are +her apologist. Here comes John from the steward’s room.” + +The footman now indeed appeared and announced— + +“The tenants are all arrived, Sir Parke.” + +“Well!” said the baronet, rising with a dissatisfied air—“I suppose we +must show ourselves to them—I suppose they came pouring in hither from +the church, eh, John?” + +“Church is just out, sir, and they have just dropped in to Mr. +Thompson’s room, to wish your honor a merry Christmas.” + +“And to drink a pipe of wine!—very good! Lady Morelle, will you go with +me?” + +“I thank you, no, Sir Parke,” said her ladyship, shrugging her graceful +shoulders at the thought of meeting the heterogeneous company below. + +“And you, Montressor?” + +“I will attend you with pleasure, Sir Parke.” + +“Come, then! It is an old custom, to treat our tenants on Christmas day; +and though I would have well dispensed with their company upon this +occasion, and though nothing was said about their coming, you see they +have not forgotten it,” said the baronet, as they left the room. + +“A time-honored custom, worthy to be observed, Sir Parke! and I hope +indeed that my bailiff at Montressor is not forgetting my children +there, at this present time,” replied the young peer, who was indeed the +patriarch of his own tenants and dependants. + +“By the way, can you tell me why Dazzleright has not made his +appearance?” + +“He will be down by the noon train, Sir Parke.” + +“Ah, indeed, if that is so—John!” + +“Yes, sir,” said that functionary coming up. + +“Tell Jenkins to put the greys to the carriage and go to the ‘Arms’ to +wait for Lord Dazzleright.” + +“Yes, sir!” and this official disappeared. + +They went down another flight of steps and entered the steward’s room, +where about fifty or sixty persons, men, women and children, were +assembled. + +The men were all standing for the want of sufficiency of seats to +accommodate their numbers; and the women all sitting, with the children +gathered at each mother’s knee, to be kept out of mischief. + +Four moderate-sized tables were set out and laden with huge loaves of +bread and rounds of beef, great cheeses and mammoth seed-cakes—all +veritable pieces of resistance. + +In one corner, under the direction of the butler, stood two grinning +footmen, surrounded by several hampers of wine, and flanked by a stand +laden with glasses. One of these worthies was engaged in drawing corks, +while the other filled the goblets on the stand. + +At the opposite end of the room, with his firm feet planted upon the +rug, and his broad, responsible back toward the fire, stood Mr. +Thompson, the steward, to impose decorum by his magisterial presence. + +Upon the entrance of the Lord of the Manor and his distinguished guest, +this “decorum” grew more decorous—took a higher degree. The flunkies at +the hampers stopped grinning. The men all bowed. The women all arose and +courtesied. + +Sir Parke received their homage graciously. + +“I am happy to see you here as usual, my friends. Sit down all of you +who can find seats; but you will give the women the preference, I +know——Thompson, see that our good friends lack nothing. Brodie, mind +that you do not spare the cellars,” said the baronet. + +A few of the elder and more privileged among the tenants now advanced, +bowed to the guest, and shook hands with their landlord, wishing both— + +“A merry Christmas and many happy returns of the same.” + +The first course of wine was then served around. And a grey-haired +tenant arose in his place and proposed— + +“Our honored landlord, his family, and his guests—may everlasting +happiness be theirs!” + +The toast was heartily taken up and drank with enthusiasm—for just at +Christmas Sir Parke Morelle and his lady were well liked by their +dependants—or if they were not, their Christmas cheer _was_, which +answered the same purpose. + +When the uproar of the toast-drinking had subsided, the baronet and his +visitor, wishing the assembled people health and prosperity, withdrew, +leaving them to their repast. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII. + THE EVENING FEAST. + + “Come to the festal board to-night, + For bright-eyed beauty will be there, + Her coral lips in nectar steeped, + And garlanded her hair. + + “But where is she whose diamond eyes + Golconda’s purest gems outshine? + Whose roseate lips of Eden breathed, + Say, where is she, the beauteous one?” + _Thomas Dunn English._ + + +The gentlemen then went to the drawing-room, whither Lady Morelle, in +full dinner dress, had already preceded them. And here Lord Montressor +learned that other guests were then staying at the house—a fact that he +never could have supposed from the gloomy aspect of the place. However +they were soon joined by her grace, the old Duchess of Graveminster, +with her grand-daughters, the ladies Jane and Mary Chappelle, and oh! +“tell it not in Gath! publish it not in the gates of Askelon!”—by Lord +and Lady Monson, Mr. and Mrs. Howard Kennaugh, and Mrs. Bute +Trevor!—ladies who, in Lady Bannerman’s boudoir, had been the most +unsparing in their denunciation of the beautiful Estelle, the only +daughter of that house, whose hospitality they now sought! Does the +reader wonder at this? No, he does not! He or she knows this double +dealing to be the way of too many people in this world of ours, and will +not therefore wonder even when I affirm that these were almost +self-invited guests, a party made up to please themselves, and through +the medium of the Duchess of Graveminster, all but forced upon the +hospitalities of Hyde Hall. For in truth, neither the baronet nor his +lady were in the slightest degree disposed to entertain a Christmas +party at their sorrowful house. + +Late in the afternoon Lord Montressor’s valet came in a post-chaise +from the “Morelle Arms,” with his master’s portmanteau and +dressing-case—conveniences that were growing imminently necessary; for +in truth his lordship’s toilet, by reason of his hasty journey, was in +a very unlordly plight. + +A little latter in the evening Lord Dazzleright arrived by the carriage +that had been sent for him, and just in time to dress for dinner. + +That Christmas feast was served by candle-light at six o’clock. + +A distinguished company gathered around the board, but something was +felt to be wanting! Where was she, the heiress of that house, the +father’s pride, who should have been the “star of that goodlie +companie”? Missing, gone, lost! And though many splendid chandeliers +flashed down their rainbow radiance over the festive scene, they would +not compensate for that light withdrawn. All felt the gloom and shadow +of her absence. And very dull would have been this dinner party, but for +the presence of the brilliant conversationist, Baron Dazzleright. Sir +Parke Morelle understood his value upon these occasions, and therefore, +when in a manner compelled to invite this Christmas party to his gloomy +house, had, for this reason, among others, pressed Lord Dazzleright to +come down to Hyde. Witty, sparkling, sarcastic, caustic, he was the +right sort of biting acid to throw into the alkali of this flat set, to +sting them into life and effervescence. And he did it. The conversation +prospered—the jest, the jibe, the repartee, and the laugh went around. +When the ladies had retired from the table, the festivity turned to +revelry, and laughter, song and toast went around for an hour longer. + +Then, in good time, they joined Lady Morelle and her companions in the +drawing-room, where coffee was served. And there still was Lord +Dazzleright “the life of the company.” He was but thirty-five years old, +handsome, talented, witty, distinguished, wealthy, titled, +and—unmarried! consequently he was the worshiped of all young widows, +virgins, and maneuvering mammas. In the first part of the evening he +distributed his services very equally among the ladies present; but, in +the latter part, divided his attentions between the two ladies +Chappelle; and, last of all, confined his devotions to the pretty widow, +Mrs. Bute Trevor. + +When the hour for retiring had arrived, Lord Dazzleright bowed out every +guest before he bid Sir Parke and Lady Morelle good-night. And after +these Herculean labors, these unheard-of exertions, he bowed _himself_ +out, and, with a weary air, followed up stairs the footman who was +appointed to show him his sleeping-room. + +“Where is Lord Montressor’s chamber?” he inquired of this functionary, +as soon as he had dragged himself up one flight of stairs, and paused in +the hall of the second floor. + +“There, sir, just opposite your own,” replied John. + +“Go, then, you needn’t wait.” + +John touched his forelock and retired. + +“Let me in! Let me in!” exclaimed the lion of the evening, roaring +rather peremptorily at the door of Lord Montressor’s apartment. + +His lordship himself opened the door, and appeared with a look of +surprise on his face. + +“What! has your fellow gone to bed, Montressor?” + +“He has not come up from the servants’ hall yet. But what upon earth +ails you?—fatigued with your exertions, or borne down under the weight +of your laurels—which? You look, at once, as weary and as triumphant as +‘a warrior who putteth off his armor.’ What is it?” inquired Montressor. + +Dazzleright threw himself into a chair, exclaiming— + +“Oh! these women! these women!” + +“What women?” + +“These fine ladies! It is a weariness of the soul to try to entertain +them for one evening!” + +“Ah! and now I look at you more closely, it is not triumphant but +desperate that you look.” + +“I am just a little excited! and if some of these are not taken away +to-morrow morning, I shall elope!—that is all!” exclaimed Dazzleright, +drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiping his heated brow. + +“With whom?” coolly inquired Lord Montressor. + +“Montressor, don’t aggravate my symptoms! I am in a considerable state +of nervous excitement.” + +“The truth is, that you suffer from what the French wittily call the +‘embarrassment of riches.’ You do not know how to choose between the +fair Lady Jane or Mary Chappelle, and the pretty Mrs. Bute Trevor. + +“Where are my pistols? If I had them at hand I might do something +indiscreet—the ladies Chappel and Mrs. Bute Trevor! two inane, +characterless girls, and a flat, spiritless widow! I had as leave wed +one of Madame Tousaud’s wax images as either.” + +“You are severe; they are what are called ‘harmoniously developed +women,’” answered Lord Montressor, with the least possible of quiet +humor. + +“Then, in the name of all life, give me monsters!” broke forth +Dazzleright, with energy. “Bah—bah—bah—bah—they are as like each other, +and as like all their class, as peas in a pod. I beg the peas +pardon—peas have life——these women are as uniform, as dull, as dead, and +as heavy as leaden bullets from the same mould; with no more +originality, individuality, life, power than the leaden balls aforesaid! +By my soul, they are so uniform, that each should be ticketed with her +name, that we may know her from her fellows.” + +“Chut! you have received a flat from Lady Jane or Mary Chappelle,” +laughed Lord Montressor. + +“_I_ received a flat! No! and I never shall from any fine lady. I have +been trying to entertain a score of flats, that’s it.” + +“You will marry Mrs. Bute Trevor, yet,” persisted Lord Montressor. + +“I’ll marry an Indian squaw. Civilized women are degenerated—besides, +being so much alike that I can’t tell one from another!” exclaimed +Dazzleright, bouncing out of the room. + +The next day was the Sabbath, and the family and their visitors attended +Divine service at the little Gothic chapel outside the park gate. + +On Monday Lord Dazzleright put his threat in execution and rather than +spend another evening in the arduous and unprofitable labor of trying to +leaven lead, took leave of his friends and departed, telling no one the +fact that imperative business called him back to town. + +On the second of January, the Christmas party broke up, and the guests +left the sombre shades of Hyde Hall, to seek more cheerful scenes. + +On the evening of the same date, Lord Montressor, accompanied by Sir +Parke Morelle, took the up train to London, where they arrived the next +morning at daybreak, and proceeded immediately by appointment, to the +house of Lord Dazzleright, on Berkley Square. + +It was time they had come. The Arches Court was sitting, and the +question of the L’Orient marriage was before it. Sir Parke Morelle used +all his powerful connection and social influence, and Lord Dazzleright +devoted his great regal abilities to bring about the desired decision. +And after a session of ten days—shall we also say, after a deliberate, +careful, and impartial investigation?—that decision was rendered. + +That decision established the validity of the marriage. + +Lord Dazzleright laughed aloud when he heard it. + +Sir Parke Morelle received the news with the composure of a man who was +prepared to expect nothing else. + +But Lord Montressor turned pale, he was thinking how perilously +uncertain are the dearest interests in life, when their permanency may +be shown to depend upon the merest legal quibbles! he was remembering +how nearly, in his blind devotion, he had fatally compromised Estelle; +he was thanking Heaven that her pure instinct had been a safer guide +than all his power of intellect. + +The three gentlemen consulted upon the question of what should be their +next step. All agreed that it was better they should wait no longer to +hear from the agent who had been dispatched to America in quest of +Estelle; but that Lord Montressor should get all the information he +could possibly obtain from Barbara Brande; after which his lordship +should accompany Sir Parke Morelle on a voyage to the United States in +search of the missing one. + +This plan having been determined upon, Sir Parke hurried down into +Devonshire, to have his wardrobe packed up, his purse replenished, and +to bid adieu to his lady; meanwhile leaving Lord Montressor in London to +wait for Barbara Brande, whose vessel had crossed the Channel, but was +daily expected back. + +Almost every day Lord Montressor went down to St. Catherine’s Docks to +inquire for the Petrel. At length his perseverance was rewarded. + +One day he went down to the dock, accompanied by Lord Dazzleright, and +was so fortunate as to spy the Petrel, anchored some distance down the +river. + +Hailing a waterman, he hired his boat to take himself and friend to that +vessel. They entered the boat, and in a very few minutes were rowed out +and brought up alongside the little craft. + +The Petrel, as usual, was in the nicest possible trim. Her snow-white +sails were neatly clewed up; her clean ropes were carefully coiled away; +her deck was newly scrubbed; her painted doors and ports freshly washed, +and very bright; and every scrap of metal about her body shining like +gold and silver. A Sabbath stillness reigned aboard. Two boys, neatly +dressed in sailor’s costume, had charge of the deck. + +As Lord Montressor and his friend came up the starboard gangway, the +elder of these boys walked forward and took off his hat. + +“Ah! this is my friend, Willful Brande,” said Lord Montressor, taking +his hand, cordially shaking it, and then presenting him to Lord +Dazzleright. + +“Where is your sister, my lad?” inquired Montressor. + +“Gone up to Manchester to see if she can make a better bargain for +cotton goods with the manufacturer.” + +“Indeed! Why, when did she go?” + +“Yesterday morning.” + +“Really? Why, I thought that you were just in?” + +“No, sir; we cast anchor yesterday at sunrise. Sister left for +Manchester at about eleven o’clock.” + +“And when do you expect her home?” + +“Every moment. She promised to be back to-day by the midday train, and +sister never disappoints us. It is now past noon, and we may look for +her every minute. There she is now! I said so!” exclaimed the boy, in +sudden joy, pointing to a boat well laden, and having besides one female +passenger, and which was just pushing off from the shore. + +They followed the direction of his finger, and recognized Barbara seated +among many bales of what seemed dry goods. + +“Who takes care of the craft while your sister is away?” + +“I do—but Nep and Jack do any heavy work that is needed; and Climene, +sister’s woman-servant, cooks for us. And then sister never leaves us +for more than one day at a time.” + +Lord Montressor now went to speak to the younger lad, who was sitting +under the shade of the foresail, reading. + +“What are you studying, my lad?” + +“It is,” said the boy, turning to the back of the book to give the title +more accurately, “‘The Manners and Customs of Different Nations,’ a book +that Mrs. Estel’s woman made me a present of.” + +“Mrs. Estel!” exclaimed Lord Montressor, exchanging glances with +Dazzleright, who had just come up to his side. + +“Yes, sir, Mrs. Estel—the lady who leased the Headland from sister.” + +A sudden light broke on both gentlemen. + +“Fool that I was, not to have guessed before that the recluse lady who +was Miss Brande’s tenant, could have been none other than our lost +Estelle!” said Lord Montressor to himself. + +He took Dazzleright’s arm and walked aft. + +“There will now be no necessity to urge Miss Brande to a revelation that +she might consider a breach of faith, and refuse to make. Providence has +put us in possession of the retreat of Estelle. We will therefore make +no further inquiries upon that subject; but engage passage to Baltimore +more, and when we get opposite to the Headland, go on shore to seek +Estelle in the old house.” + +“Yes, that is a good plan——Look at that fine creature!” exclaimed Lord +Dazzleright, suddenly breaking off and pointing to a young woman in a +gray serge dress, who was just coming up the starboard gangway. + +It was Barbara Brande, who was looking in high health and beauty. No +adventitious arts of the toilet lent their aid to this brave and gentle +daughter of the ocean—a gown, a large sacque and hood, all of dark gray, +comprised her outside garments. But the hood was rolled back, revealing +the handsome, spirited face, with its bands of shining, jet-black hair, +parted and rippling in waves down each side of her broad forehead and +damask cheeks, and the strong, flashing black eyes, that at a glance +seemed to take in the whole deck with every detail thereon. + +“Willful! call the hands up to haul in freight,” were her first words of +command, delivered in her own clear, ringing, resonant voice. + +As the boy sprang to obey, Barbara walked aft to receive her visitors. + +“You perceive that I render myself according to promise, Miss Brande,” +said Lord Montressor. + +“I am happy to see you again, sir.” + +“This is my friend, Lord Dazzleright,” said Lord Montressor, presenting +his companion. + +“How do you do, sir?” said Barbara, then breaking off suddenly, before +Dazzleright could get off his handsomely-turned reply, she called +out—“Boys, look alive there! You will not get the freight in to-day at +this rate! Willful! take the little boat and go ashore to hurry those +watermen with those other bales. Paul, bear a hand there! Now, +gentlemen, I am at your service! What can I do for you?” she inquired, +turning to her visitors to give them her full attention. + +But Lord Dazzleright felt piqued and turned away. Evidently the handsome +creature, the child of the sea, cared no more for this Baron of the +Exchequer, this brilliant conversationist, this lion of the London +salons—in a word, for this Lord Dazzleright, than she did for any other +honest man! Here was an unsophisticated savage. What did the young woman +mean? he asked himself. Had she eyes? Had she sense? + +While Lord Dazzleright sulked at being unconsciously snubbed by the +handsome Amazon, Lord Montressor opened his business. First he told her +that the Court of Arches had established the L’Orient marriage. + +Barbara bowed—she had expected as much. + +“Consequently,” he went on to say, “Sir Parke and myself go to America +to find Estelle.” + +“That is right,” Barbara answered. + +“Can Miss Brande give us a passage to Baltimore?” + +“Yes, with pleasure.” + +“Will you also give the address of Estelle?” + +“No, as that would be a breach of confidence; but I will go to the lady +and entreat her permission to inform you.” + +Lord Montressor smiled, and said that would do. + +The arrangements for the passage of Sir Parke Morelle, of himself, and a +single servant for each, were forthwith completed. + +And then, as the boats with the freight, under charge of Willful, had +arrived, and Miss Brande was thronged with business, the two gentlemen +took their leave. + +“What do you think of that young merchant captain,” inquired Lord +Montressor, as they were rowed from the side of the vessel. + +“Barbara?—well named! A young Barbarian she is!” exclaimed Lord +Dazzleright, angrily. + +Lord Montressor smiled. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX. + BARBARA MAY BE A BARONESS. + + “O! she is a golden girl! + But a man, a MAN should woo her, + And when she seems to fly away, + He should like storms pursue her!”—_Anonymous._ + + +The next morning, Sir Parke Morelle, with his favorite servant and his +baggage, made up for a long sea voyage, arrived from Devonshire. When +informed that passage for the party had been engaged on Miss Brande’s +vessel, the Petrel, he at first demurred at the idea of risking their +lives in a craft commanded by a woman. But in the course of half an +hour’s conversation, Lord Montressor convinced him that the inevitable +dangers of a sea voyage could in no way be enhanced to them through +their sailing with Barbara Brande, who was, in all respects, admirably +well adapted to her chosen position. + +His lordship then imparted to the Baronet the fact of their accidental +discovery of Estelle’s place of abode, and also of their fixed +resolution to keep that discovery a secret until they should arrive at +the Headland—a plan that the baronet heartily approved. + +Lord Dazzleright rendered himself very officious and busy! Never was so +zealous and serviceable a friend. He insisted that Sir Parke and +Montressor had quite enough business to occupy them on shore, and that +he himself should see to the embarkation of their baggage. But Lord +Dazzleright, assuredly, proved himself incompetent, or else willfully +negligent of his self-assumed duties; for the manner in which he +contrived to spread the business of one day over an entire week, was +highly exasperating to the prompt and energetic Barbara. For instance, +one day he would see a trunk safely on board, and, having done so, would +remain on deck by the hour, watching that handsome, falcon-eyed, +commanding young Amazon, who had no time to talk to him; who took no +notice of him; in short, who cared no more for _him_—Lord +Dazzleright—than she did for the old waterman that had brought him to +the vessel, or for any other decent poor man. This sort of indifference +was something new to the lion of the London salons! It was novel, +piquant, provoking, incomprehensible. He mentally termed her a +barbarian, without capacity for appreciating a handsome, brilliant Baron +of the Exchequer! Nevertheless, upon the pretext of seeing safely on +board the vessel some trunk, box, packet or hamper, he visited the +Petrel every day. And he was always treated in something like the +following cavalier style. Hat in hand, he would step on deck,—where he +ever found Barbara busily engaged—and, walking up to her, would say— + +“Good-morning, Miss Brande! I have brought some boxes belonging to my +friend, Sir Parke.” + +“Good-morning, sir—Willful! here! see to getting up this gentleman’s +freight!” and without another word, away she would go to attend to some +other matters, in some other part of the vessel—unceremoniously leaving +“the observed of all observers” of the fashionable drawing-rooms to bite +his nails for vexation on the deck of the vessel. He called her “A +savage! positively, a young savage! destitute of the very first +principles of civilization!”—notwithstanding which, under the pretense +of taking excellent care of some precious piece of baggage or other, he +continued his daily visits to the Petrel. Barbara’s patience, that had +lasted six days of the week, gave way on the seventh, “which was the +Sabbath,” when she saw at the usual hour a boat come alongside, +containing Lord Dazzleright and a quarter cask. + +“Good-morning, Miss Brande,” he said, as he stepped on deck. “This is +some pure port wine, for Sir Parke’s own use——” + +“Good-morning, sir!” said Barbara, shortly—“Willful! see that this wine +is got up and stowed away.” + +Then, turning to Lord Dazzleright, she said, with great severity— + +“Sir, this is the first time that I have ever received freight on board +my vessel upon the Sabbath day, and I hope it will be the last; and I +only take it in now rather than send you back with it.” + +“The inconceivable young bearess!” thought Lord Dazzleright, but to her +he said—“I am very sorry, Miss Brande, I did not know your rule.” + +“Sir, the rule was not one of my making; it was not I who wrote—‘Thou +shalt keep holy the Sabbath day.’” + +“I beg pardon—pray forgive me,” said the Baron very humbly. + +“Ask pardon, sir, of Him whose commandment you have set at naught.” + +“The exasperating young Barbarian! I wonder if I should have got a +sharper sermon on Sabbath-breaking, or received a better lesson on +humility, in any chapel in London,” said the Baron to himself. + +“Is there any thing else to come on board?” asked Barbara. + +“To-day?—no, Miss Brande.” + +“To-morrow, then?” + +“Yes, Miss Brande, there are Lord Montressor’s trunks.” + +“Well, suppose that you just permit Lord Montressor’s servants to +complete this business of transportation. I think they understand the +work better, and will get through it sooner,” said Barbara bluntly +turning away. + +“Miss Brande,” exclaimed Dazzleright, going after her, “I was presented +to you by our mutual friend, Lord Montressor. My character and position +are not unknown to you. I hope, in addition to that, you believe me to +be an honest and well-meaning man. I trust therefore that you will not +be offended when I confess to you, that the great esteem and respect +with which you have inspired me, brings me daily to the Petrel. If there +were any more regular way of approaching you, I should gladly avail +myself of it—as it is—I am forced to this, hoping to cultivate your +acquaintance.” + +“With what view?” inquired Barbara, coolly turning and facing him. + +“With the view that we may become better friends, Miss Brande.” + +“You are mad,” said Barbara, walking away and leaving him to digest this +“flat.” + +“I AM!” exclaimed Dazzleright, in a rage, as he went to the starboard +gangway and beckoned the waterman to bring his boat alongside. As he +descended into that boat he heard her clear ringing voice—commanding— + +“Willful! call all hands on deck. I am going to read the Morning +Service.” + +“Umph! Umph! oh-h-h!” muttered Lord Dazzleright, in a succession of +inward grunts. “What a young barbarian! Excepting that she seems an +orthodox Christian, she is a most unmitigated young savage! She appears +to have no more appreciation of social advantages than a swordfish—which +in character she resembles! Did the young Vandal know that a +possibility—a mere possibility was hinted—that she might become Lady +Dazzleright?” So angry was the Baron, that on landing, he went straight +to Lord Montressor and informed him that his lordship’s servants would +have to see to the embarkation of the remainder of the baggage. And from +that day, Lord Dazzleright went no more with box or bundle to the +Petrel. + +But, nevertheless, upon the day before she was expected to sail—without +having informed his friends of his intention—Lord Dazzleright boarded +the Petrel, desired to see the “Captain,” expressed his wish to take +passage to America, and inquired if he could have a berth on that +vessel; Barbara informed him plainly that he could _not_, that the cabin +was already inconveniently crowded. + +Whereupon Lord Dazzleright expressed his willingness to put up with a +hammock swung anywhere—in the steerage for instance. + +Barbara told him there was not a hammock to spare. + +Then would Miss Brande take him as freight? he asked, smilingly. + +No—the hold was packed from keel to deck, and could not stow another +hundred-weight. + +“Well! Miss Brande would not certainly be so unkind as to refuse him a +roost on the rigging; he could sleep on the top,” he persevered. + +“Lord Dazzleright, since you force me to say it, there is not an inch of +space on board the Petrel at your disposal. Furthermore, under any +circumstances, I should decline you as a passenger. Nor is it possible +that you can ever have a berth in my vessel unless you should chance to +be shipwrecked in our sight, in which case we should be obliged to pick +you up,” said Barbara, with great severity. + +“Then I’ll go and get myself shipwrecked forthwith!” exclaimed Lord +Dazzleright. + +“You perceive now, sir, I am busy. Good-morning. Avast there, Paul! what +are you about!” and suddenly breaking off, Barbara hurried forward to +look after her hands. + +“A Barbarian! a Savage! a Goth! a Vandal! a Cannibal! a Bearess! and the +handsomest, most piquant, and provoking young creature I ever met with +in my life! Upon my honor, I do not know which is the most +inexplicable—that I should become infatuated with this young woman, or +that she should repulse me! By my life, I do not understand it, unless +she is rabid and has bitten me, and I am in process of becoming mad!” +said the “glass of fashion,” as with a crest-fallen air he dropped +himself into the boat and was rowed to the shore. + +The same evening it happened that Lord Dazzleright attended a ball at +Almacks, where he was as usual the “cynosure of neighboring eyes,” the +rich prey for which maneuvering mammas laid their plans, and mincing +maidens laid their nets. + +But with the usual perversity of human nature, Baron Dazzleright +obstinately refused to become enamored of any willing Lady Clara or +Geraldine among them and perseveringly sighed after the dark-browed, +eagle-eyed, lion-hearted girl of the sea, who cared less for his +baronial coronet than for her little brother’s tarpaulin hat; less for +the title Baroness than for that of Sister Barbara; and still less to +follow the phantom of pleasure through the mazes of fashion than to +guide her “Stormy Petrel” through the wild waves of the pathless ocean! + +But if this Vesta of the sea was all sufficient unto herself,—her +admirer was no longer independent of her. She had revealed to him a +phase of character as attractive, as fascinating, as it was novel and +unparalleled! Compared with the vapid, insipid, insincere butterflies of +fashion, this Barbara Brande was so full of vital force, of truth, +courage, independence, and self-reliance! To crown all, she was a real +and thoroughly conscientious Christian. He could not choose but think of +her, and the longer he reflected, the more he approved and admired her. + +Leaving Almacks at an early hour, he went to Gerard’s to seek Lord +Montressor, whom he found busily engaged in writing. + +“Ah, you are occupied. I will not disturb you.” + +“No—only writing to Slater, my bailiff, at Montressor; I have done now,” +said his lordship, rapidly folding, directing, and sealing the letter. +“Now I am at your service.” + +Lord Dazzleright threw himself into a chair, and cast his hat into a +corner. + +“What is it? What can I do for you, Dazzleright?” + +“You are going on board to-morrow. You are in the confidence of Miss +Brande. You will be in her company for some two or three months. Just +use that opportunity to impress upon her rather hard head, that your +friend Dazzleright is a well-meaning man, not utterly unworthy of her +consideration, even if he _has_ had the misfortune to be successful in +life!” + +“Why?” + +“Because if ever I marry a woman—her name will be Barbara Brande!” + +“EH!” + +“If ever I marry a woman her name will be Barbara Brande.” + +“You are mad!” + +“Just what she said! But—if ever I marry a woman, her name will be +Barbara Brande! Now I will tell you what I want you to do—just let her +know in a delicate manner, that I am an honest man, who, in spite of his +coronet, is not totally beneath her notice.” + +“Prove that to her yourself in person.” + +“Ahem! I think I see her giving me the opportunity! My friend, as long +as I keep a _very_ respectful distance, and merely touch my hat on +meeting her, Miss Brande treats me with the same decent civility that +she accords to the boatmen, hucksters and porters of the Docks. But just +as soon as I presume to advance and aspire to a higher degree of +consideration, she puts me down as quietly as though I were the Tom, +Dick or Harry aforesaid. And when I gave her to understand the honesty +of my ‘intentions,’ as the dowagers would say—she told me I was mad.” + +“Miss Brande was right in repulsing you. What has the all-accomplished, +all-praised Baron Dazzleright in common with that free, wild, +irresponsible maiden of the ocean?” + +“What?—nothing at all, of course! And that is the very reason why he +wants her, and why he must have her as the complement of himself. Every +quality of Barbara’s nature will become a new possession to me.” + +“But the difference of rank——” + +“_Peste!_ am I not ‘a son of the people,’ as the French would say? +Should I not take to wife ‘a daughter of the people’? And, in one word, +if I cannot get Barbara Brande to help me found a noble dynasty—why, +then, the first Lord Dazzleright will also be the last of his +illustrious line!” + +Lord Montressor arose and clapped his hand into the palm of his +friend’s, saying cordially: + +“You are right! I did but try you! You are altogether right! And _she_ +was also right in repelling your advances—for great reserve and firm +repulsion are ever necessary as shield and lance for a woman in her +strange position. But—barring your professional quibbling—you are worthy +of her, and if I do not find a way of convincing her of that fact—and +smoothing the path for your next overtures—why you may then set me down +as an incompetent diplomatist, that is all.” + +“I thank you, Montressor. Well, that is just all I had to say to you for +this evening. I will not keep you out of bed any longer, for you will +have to rise early to be on board in time, as the vessel sails with the +early tide. The sky promises fine weather for to-morrow,” said +Dazzleright, going to the window and looking out. “Well, Heaven grant +it! Good-night, my friend!” he exclaimed, returning and offering his +hand. + +“Good-night, Dazzleright—but not good-bye,” answered Montressor, +cordially pressing his offered hand. + +“Oh, no, no! certainly not! I shall meet you at St. Catherine’s Docks +to-morrow morning, and say good-bye only on the deck of the Petrel. _Au +revoir!_” + +“To our meeting!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXX. + CAPTAIN BARBARA’S SECOND VOYAGE. + + “O’er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea! + Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free! + Far as the breeze can bear the billows’ foam, + Survey our empire and behold our home! + + “Oh, who can tell, save one whose heart has tried, + And danced in triumph o’er the waters wide, + The exulting sense—the pulse’s maddening play, + That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way.”—_Byron._ + + +The next day was the fourteenth of February, and St. Valentine’s day, +and of all the three hundred and sixty-five, the luckiest for lovers’ +enterprise. The weather was as fine as it had promised to be, with a +clear sky, a soft air, and light breeze from the south, heralding an +early spring. + +Soon after sunrise, Sir Parke Morelle and Lord Montressor drove down to +the docks, where they found Lord Dazzleright already awaiting them. +Willful Brande was also in attendance, with the long-boat from the +Petrel, to take the party to the vessel. + +After a general greeting and shaking of hands, they entered the +long-boat and were rowed to the barque. + +The Petrel was, as always, neat and clean as a dainty maiden in her +May-day dress. + +The few hands were all at their posts. + +Barbara walked the deck, overseeing the final arrangements, and issuing +her orders. She paused at the starboard gangway to receive her +passengers; but frowned slightly when she recognized Lord Dazzleright +among them. But since the baron understood her reserve, he was not +discomposed. + +“We are ready, and the tide is on the ebb; we only waited to ship you +before weighing anchor,” she said cordially offering her hand to Lord +Montressor, and bowing to the two other gentlemen. + +“So that I shall be obliged to take immediate leave of my friends and +hurry back,” said Lord Dazzleright, who had not been addressed. + +“Yes, sir,” said Barbara, curtly turning away—“Willful! have the +long-boat hauled up and made fast,” she commanded. Then to Lord +Montressor and Sir Parke she said: + +“Gentlemen, accommodate yourselves, if you please. You know your +quarters in my cabin, or if you prefer the lock there are pleasant seats +in the stern.” + +They bowed and begged her not to incommode herself, as they would take +care of themselves. As the men had now hauled up the long-boat and +secured it to the davits, Lord Dazzleright began to blame his rashness, +and wonder how he should get back to the shore. + +Barbara immediately relieved him of his dilemma by taking her speaking +trumpet, going to the side of the vessel and hailing an idle wherry from +the shore. + +“Boat ahoy!—come alongside to take a passenger off!” + +“Ay, ay, sir!” sung out the waterman, who began to ply his oars, swiftly +propelling the boat in the direction of the vessel. While it was coming, +poor Dazzleright shook hands with his friends, wishing them a good +voyage, and then turned to look for Barbara. She had gone forward and +was standing there to give orders. + +“All hands to the windlass! And you, Willful, to the wheel!” + +She was obeyed on the instant, and the men and boys stood waiting +further commands. + +She paused, for Lord Dazzleright approached her—took her hand and said +respectfully: + +“Good-bye, and a good voyage to you, Miss Brande! You are severe and +even unjust to me; but you will know me better; I can wait for that; God +bless you and yours!” + +“Heaven save you, sir! Good-bye!” said Barbara, in a somewhat softer +voice, thinking that in this parting hour she could safely relax her +rigor. He understood and refrained from presuming on this new kindness; +but immediately went to the starboard gangway and descended into the +boat, waiting there to receive him. + +“Up anchor!” shouted Barbara, as she saw the wherry push off. + +And while the men laid themselves to the windlass, and heaved with all +their strength, Lord Dazzleright stood waving his hat from the receding +boat. On reaching the shore, with a last wave of adieu, responded to +from the decks of the vessel, Lord Dazzleright’s boat disappeared in the +crowd at the docks. + +The anchor was soon up, the sails all set, and the Petrel stood +gallantly out for the mouth of the river. + +When the vessel was thus fairly under way, Barbara walked aft to speak +to her passengers. + +Sir Parke Morelle met her half way. Sir Parke looked pale and unnerved. +He had never made a sea voyage further than from Dover to Calais, or +from Liverpool to Cork, in all his life, and to begin at his age to +cross the Atlantic ocean, in such an egg-shell as the Petrel, with such +an extraordinary captain as this young girl, was, notwithstanding the +opinion of Montressor,—“indiscreet—to say the least, indiscreet.” He had +stepped upon the planks of the deck with feelings fearfully akin to +those of a condemned criminal stepping upon the flooring of a scaffold. +He had watched Barbara walking fore and aft giving her orders as though +she had been the sheriff giving directions for his execution. Every +order that she gave, and that the men obeyed, seemed to precipitate his +fate! He had serious thoughts of forfeiting his passage money, and +offering Barbara a handsome remuneration for putting him back on shore. +But a latent confidence in Lord Montressor’s judgment and a sense of +shame for his own nervousness, restrained him from proceeding to that +length. But now meeting Miss Brande, he accosted her with: + +“Young woman, I would like to have a few moments conversation with you.” + +“I am at your service, sir.” + +“Turn about then, if you please.” + +Barbara complied. + +Now, Sir Parke Morelle was as considerable a “landlubber” as could be +found in all England or America. He was, in his profound ignorance of +nautical affairs, quite competent to be a U. S. Secretary of the Navy. +As they walked forward he said: + +“Ahem—aha. Young woman——” + +“I beg your pardon, sir, I am called Barbara Brande.” + +“Ahem—Miss Brande, can you rely upon your own competency for a—for +taking care of this vessel.” + +Barbara Brande’s great, strong black eyes flashed down upon him with an +expression that made the autocrat of Hyde Hall quail. + +“I could rely upon myself to take care of a fleet!” was upon her +tongue’s end. But Barbara possessed the rare virtue of self-control, and +pitying the poor old man who had neither the physical courage to go +fearlessly to sea with her nor the moral courage to confess his weakness +and stay home—she answered: + +“Sir Parke, I have two little brothers on board whom I love better than +my own life. They are hostages for your safety.” + +“I do not understand you, Miss Brande.” + +“Nor did I engage to furnish you with an understanding,” thought +Barbara, but repressing herself, she replied:—“Loving Willful and Edwy +as I love my own soul, I never would have taken them on this voyage had +I not known myself in every respect fully competent to take care of the +vessel and of them, as well as any captain in the merchant’s service +could do.” + +“But you are a woman,” said Sir Parke, still hesitating. + +Another flash of the great black eyes, and Barbara warming up, replied: + +“Well, sir! am I on trial for being a woman, or for being a sea-captain, +which?” + +“For being both in one, rather,” answered the baronet. + +“Indeed! And why for being both in one? Has not a woman a brain as well +as a heart? Has she not courage as well as gentleness? Fortitude as well +as patience? Has it not been proved over and over again, a thousand and +a thousand times, that in moments of danger woman have exhibited as much +presence of mind, courage, promptitude, and skill as the best men among +you?” + +But we have elsewhere given Barbara Brande’s defense of herself in her +chosen vocation, and will not repeat it here. + +The baronet was silenced if not convinced by her argument, and presently +turned the attack from the captain to the craft. + +“How could such a little craft live in a stormy sea for instance.” + +Barbara’s eyes glowed, and her ripe lips wreathed in the smile that +beamed from her face. + +“How, sir, does the little sapling survive the storm that twists off the +great oak of a hundred years growth? Why, sir, a craft like this will +ride lightly on the crest of waves that would break over and engulf a +ship of the line! Why, sir, the great waves that would thunder over the +decks of a heavy man-of-war would lift this peaceful little merchantman +and bear her on in safety—as if indeed there were a sentient magnanimity +in old ocean, which, while warring upon the strong would spare the +weak.” + +They now turned in their promenade and walked aft. + +“So you think you and the Petrel could weather a storm? Have you any +experience of the fact?” + +“Have I any experience of the fact?——Willful! what are you about there! +Will you run over that lighter? Helm-a-lee! Helm-a lee!—steady, so!—Have +I any experience of that fact? I should think so! The little Petrel +behaves beautifully in a storm! She rides the waves like a buoy, or +lies-to snugly as a little duck! the brave little Petrel! the bonny +little Petrel!” + +“Then you have been in a storm—you have carried your vessel safely +through it?” inquired Sir Parke, as they reached the stern, in which +Lord Montressor sat with a pocket telescope in his hand, taking sight at +the villas on the shore. + +“Lord Montressor,” said Barbara, “your friend asks me if I have ever +worked this vessel through a storm. Tell him how we weathered the gales +in the Gulf Stream!—for I am immensely tired of him,” she added, as she +dropped the arm of Sir Parke and left him on the hands of her other +passenger. + +Barbara walked forward to the “caboose.” + +Let my inland readers now imagine a little box two yards square, on the +forecastle—painted on the outside, and furnished inside with a store and +dresser, and a full complement of pots, pans, kettles, and +crockery-ware. + +The presiding genius of this place was a stout, jet-black negro woman, +whose smiling eyes and ivory teeth imparted a contented and good-humored +expression to her homely face. + +“What have you got for dinner, Climene?” + +“Dere’s a ham on a b’ilin, and I jes gwine put down a line o’ mutton to +roas’.” + +“That’s right; cook the fresh provisions every day, for they’ll not +keep, and we have no live stock to kill. And the vegetables?” + +“Why, dere’s taters, an’ cabbidge, an’ spinidge.” + +“That will do—and the desert?” + +“I gwine make apple pie and custard puddin’—caze you see I tuk notice +afore how Lord Monstrouser allers likes somfin deliky.” + +“Yes, that will do; that will do quite well.” + +And leaving the namesake of the sea-nymph to her culinary conjurations +in the caboose, Barbara went down into the cabin to lay the cloth for +dinner. + +I have neither time nor space to follow the details of this voyage. + +For the first two weeks the voyagers were blessed with the finest +weather. + +But in the midst of the third week the sky changed. + + “And such a change, oh night, and storm, and darkness!” + +March came in “like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.” The wind +arose in the north-west, and blowed almost incessantly for four weeks, +that is, it would blow continuously for three days, then lull for a day, +or only “pause to gather its fearful breath,” and rise with recovered +strength, and blow harder than ever. As the vessel entered the Gulf +Stream, the weather grew worse—the gale became a hurricane—the rough sea +ran mountains high. + +But the brave little Petrel behaved beautifully, as Barbara had said; +she tacked like a skillful politician, rode the high waves like a jockey +boy, or lay-to like a duck, as occasion required. + +Lord Montressor and his man worked as hard as the seamen, whenever their +aid was needed. Sir Parke Morelle was too miserably sea-sick to care one +sous about the fate of the vessel, unless it was to wish his own +sufferings and the Petrel engulfed in the same sea. His valet spent day +and night in attendance upon him. + +But Barbara Brande was a sight to behold. Her perfect appreciation of +the danger, combined with her perfect fearlessness, was a subject of +wonder to all. Her unwavering courage, her undisturbed cheerfulness, her +unruffled temper, the constant firmness and serenity of her countenance, +the prompt, clear and ringing tones of her voice—heard through the +howling of the wind and the thundering of the waves, inspired faith, and +hope, and courage in every bosom. + +Only once was Barbara moved; this was when her little brother Edwy—whom +she had sent below, but who, in sympathetic excitement, had stolen again +upon deck—was, by the pitching of the vessel, thrown violently forward, +and only saved from going overboard, by Lord Montressor, who sprang and +caught him in his arms. Barbara, pale as monumental marble, took the boy +from his lordship’s arms, carried him below, and locked him up in the +state-room for safety. Then she reappeared on deck as cool, as firm, and +as prompt for action as before. + +At length the wearying and wearied wind lulled. At last fine weather, +with a fair southerly breeze, succeeded, and on the fifth of April the +Petrel entered Chesapeake Bay; and the next day at sunset she dropt +anchor off Brande’s Headland. + +It was with the deepest emotion that Lord Montressor gazed upon the spot +that had become the chosen retreat of Estelle. + +The setting sun shone full against the yellow sandy beach, the gray, +rocky bank, and flecked with golden light the tender spring foliage of +the oak trees that surrounded and half concealed the old stone house +upon the summit. + +With the profoundest interest he contemplated the scene. + +That mansion was her home. There she lived, suffered and endured. There, +from some hidden covert, she had undoubtedly wept and watched for, and +gazed upon his form; while he, unconscious of her proximity, had, gun in +hand, wandered through the woods and fields and moors around the place. + +Where was she now? In or near that old gray house undoubtedly. But what +was she about?—at her lonely tea-table?—in her parlor, reading or +meditating?—in the woods, rambling alone?—in the graveyard, ruminating? +Where? How would she receive him? Was she, perhaps, that moment thinking +of him, if not expecting him? + +She would be greatly surprised to see him and her father. But would her +surprise be altogether one of joy? That she loved him was undoubtedly +true. That she loved him more than her own dearest earthly interests, +and only less than her Creator, had been proved. But would she now +consent to forget her own horrible calamity, and permit him to make her +and himself, in his own rational manner, happy? + +That she had a theory of his future brilliant destiny, which she had +resolved not to dim by sharing, he had heard. That she could be as firm +as she was disinterested, he had ascertained. Could he, then, be able to +convince her, that, to him, _her_ “love was the greatest good in the +world?” + +But, patience—patience. Very soon these questions must be answered—these +doubts set at rest. In an hour he should stand face to face with his +beautiful, his beloved, his long lost, but now recovered Estelle. Till +then, oh, throbbing pulse, be still!—oh, faithful, long-suffering heart, +be hopeful! No one was on deck but Barbara and the crew, whom she was +ordering to take in sail and let go the anchor. When she perceived her +favorite passenger, she came forward smilingly to greet him. + +“Good-evening, sir. It is a glorious spring evening—the air is as soft +and balmy as that of June. You see that we are off the old place again.” + +“Good-afternoon, Miss Brande. Yes, I see. Will you permit me to inquire +how long you will remain here, and whether you will go on shore?” + +“I shall remain at anchor through the night, and set sail again in the +morning. And I will go on shore this evening, for I could almost imagine +the poor old place feeling hurt if I passed it,” said Barbara, with one +of her earnest smiles. + +“Will you further permit me to remind you of a promise you gave when you +were here last, to show me over your old house—one of the oldest houses +in Maryland, as you said?” + +Barbara looked embarrassed, hesitated, and then replied— + +“Lord Montressor, that promise did not project itself down all time. It +was only for the day upon which it was given. And now, I hope you will +excuse me.” + +Lord Montressor bowed. “If you wish to go on shore, sir, the long-boat, +is, of course, at your service; but I cannot invite you to the house.” + +“Then I should feel obliged to you, my dear Miss Brande, to give me a +seat when you yourself go on shore.” + +“I will do that with pleasure, sir.” + +Sir Parke Morelle now waked up from his after-dinner nap, came on deck, +and joined Montressor. Barbara bowed and left them alone together while +she went forward to give orders for the long-boat to be prepared. + +“That is your daughter’s home, Sir Parke,” said Lord Montressor, +pointing to the dreary Headland, now growing darker under the thick +falling shadows of evening. + +“Good Heaven! what a desolate place!” exclaimed the baronet, in +consternation. + +“Yes; but I can well imagine that the desolation of the heart within +should have rendered her insensible to the desolation of the scene +without,” replied Montressor, solemnly. + +Not perhaps feeling the latent rebuke hidden in these words, the baronet +continued to gaze upon the picturesque Headland, until the long-boat was +reported ready. + +“I am going on shore—will you accompany me now?” + +“Of course! of course! I will accompany you now,” replied the baronet. + +Barbara came up dressed in the gray serge gown, sacque and hood that was +her usual out-door costume. + +“Sir Parke has also decided to go on shore, Miss Brande,” said Lord +Montressor. + +“Very good, sir,” said Barbara, betraying some little distrust and +anxiety—“the boat awaits your convenience, gentlemen.” + +“We are ready to attend you, Miss Brande.” + +They went to the starboard gangway, where Lord Montressor led the way +down the ladder, and having reached the boat, he put up his hand to +assist Barbara in the descent; a courtesy which the girl accepted solely +on the principle of politeness, for in truth, so far from requiring such +assistance, she was rather embarrassed by its offer, as well as impeded +by its forced acceptance. By the same ready hand, Sir Parke was next +helped down the ladder. And when they were all seated, the oarsmen plied +their oars, and the long-boat glided swiftly over the starlit waters +toward the Headland that loomed darkly above them. In a few moments, the +boat touched the sand, and was pushed up under the heavy shadows of the +overhanging, wooded bank. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI. + THE DREARY HEADLAND. + + “Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, oh sea! + But the tender grace of a day that is dead, + Will never come back to me. + + “And the stately ship goes on + To the haven under the hill, + But oh! for the touch of a vanished hand + And the sound of a voice that is still.”—_Tennyson._ + + +“What a place to land in! It is like entering Hades,” said Sir Parke, as +they got out of the boat and stood upon the beach. + +“Take the boat back to bring off the boys,” ordered Miss Brande. + +And when she was left alone with her passengers, she said— + +“Now, gentlemen, how can I serve you? How will you amuse yourselves? The +sporting season is long over. And I regret to say that I am not at +liberty to invite you up to the house.” + +“Then, Miss Brande, we must waive ceremony and proceed without +invitation,” said Lord Montressor, gently, as if to atone in his manner +for any seeming rudeness in his words. + +“What can you mean, sir?” inquired Barbara, with increased distrust and +anxiety. + +“Pardon me, Miss Brande. You cannot but have guessed the object of Sir +Parke Morelle’s voyage to America?” + +“I am no Yankee, sir; yet, of course, as you say, I have surmised that +the father comes but in quest of his daughter,” replied Barbara, with a +glance full of sympathy toward the baronet. + +Sir Parke responded by slightly lifting his hat. + +“And would you, Miss Brande, knowing the present home of that long-lost +daughter, suffer her father, in his ignorance of her retreat, to leave +the spot far behind, to pursue his unavailing search in another hopeless +direction?” inquired Lord Montressor, solemnly. + +Barbara did not at once reply, but seemed buried in profound reflection, +as if seeking the clue to some unexplained mystery. + +Lord Montressor could scarcely repress his vehement impatience. + +“Well, Miss Brande?” he said, anxiously regarding her. + +“Well, sir,” replied Barbara, gravely, “I perceive that you have somehow +discovered the retreat of this lady. I only trust that it has been +through no indiscretion on my part.” + +“We have. She is your recluse tenant. And we have learned this fact +through no inadvertency of yours.” + +“Since this is so,” said Barbara, earnestly, “I will admit, that I am +glad of it. Knowing, or rather believing as I did, that yourself and her +father were on the way to seek her where she could not be found, in the +city of Baltimore, my heart, through all the voyage, ached because I was +not permitted to say to you—‘She whom you seek is my tenant at the +Headland.’ Thank Heaven, that without any breach of faith on my part, +you are informed of it. Sir Parke”—she said, turning and addressing the +baronet—“you will let your daughter know this.” + +“I will, Miss Brande. How shall we get up this steep? It is a very dark +night.” + +“I will show you. Follow me, if you please. Lord Montressor! I really +think you had better give your arm to Sir Parke. The ascent is very +difficult even in daylight, and now we can scarcely discern the cedar +thickets from the chasms in the rocks,” said Barbara, as she carefully +led the way up the bank. + +Lord Montressor took the hand of the old man, and with a wildly +throbbing heart, that all his resolution could not quiet, followed. A +few moments more—a few swift, vital moments more and he should see +her—should hear her speak—should clasp her living hand! Oh! wild +impatient heart be still—be still—it is but an instant, and then! and +then! + +They toiled up the bank; they reached the top, and then the old trees +waving in the night wind, and the old house looming in the darkness, +stood before them. A gloomy, foreboding, funereal atmosphere +overshadowed the place. Hope sickened as she looked upon the scene. + +“It is as dark as Erebus! There is not a light to be seen in all the +house, and not a sound to be heard without. I hope the mistress and her +maid have not yet retired,” said Lord Montressor, uneasily. + +“Oh, no, sir! I think not. The lady’s chamber, which is also her usual +sitting-room, and the maid’s kitchen, are both in the back part of the +building. I will ring.” + +And going up the rickety steps of the portico, Barbara rang a peal, and +waited a minute—two minutes—but no advancing light was seen; no coming +step was heard. She rang louder. + +Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling! + +The peal was re-echoed through the great, desolate house, with a +strange, vacant, hollow reverberation! + +Then followed a dead silence; they waited anxiously and tried in the +darkness to read the expression in each other’s faces. Three minutes +passed like an age, and Barbara pulled the bell-handle with all her +strength. + +Ting! a-ling! a-ling! a-ling! A-LANG! A-LANG! LANG! + +It sounded through the vast gloomy house with a clamor and a clangor +loud enough to rouse the old dead ancestors in the burial-ground beyond; +it awoke nothing but the dreary, wailing, ghostly echo! + +Five minutes of anxious waiting, peering and listening, passed, and then +Barbara jerked the bell-handle a third time, with peril to the ropes. + +CLANG! A-RANG! A-RANG! RANG! RANG! RANG! RANG! + +It seemed enough to have shaken the old chimneys to their base, and +started the slates from the roof! + +But only the phantom Echo was within to wail forth her weird response! + +They looked at each other, with dimly visible, troubled white faces, +gleaming faintly in the surrounding darkness For some moments, no one +spoke; each seemed fearful to give voice to his or her forebodings. + +Had Death been there before them, and forever set the seal of the grave +upon Estelle’s earthly fate, and rendered vain, as far as life was +concerned, her father’s late relenting? + +Lord Montressor’s deep troubled voice first broke the silence. + +“Miss Brande, what think you of this?” + +“I dare not yet think,” replied Barbara, in a tremulous tone; “but we +will go around to the back part of the house, and see if we can discover +any thing.” + +And carefully descending the rickety stairs, she groped her way around +to the rear of the dwelling. The two gentlemen followed her. But at the +back as at the front, all was shut up, dark and still. No sign of human +habitation was near the place. + +“Miss Brande,” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in voice of anguish, “what is +the meaning of this?” + +“The Lord only knows!” responded Barbara, in great agitation. “But, +follow me, gentlemen.” + +“Where are you going?” inquired Sir Parke Morelle. + +“Down to a cabin at the foot of the bank, where two old negroes live who +may be able to give us some satisfaction.” + +And hurrying onward, she began the difficult descent of the steep, with +a precipitancy more indicative of haste and anxiety than of a regard for +her own life and limbs. + +The gentlemen followed with all speed consistent with Sir Parke’s +infirmities. + +At the foot of the bank she ran against the boys, just landed from the +boat. + +“Why, where in the world are you running to, sister?” exclaimed Willful, +when stopped by the wild and hurrying figure. + +“To Uncle Nep’s cabin! The house above is abandoned! Follow me. But +where is the boat?” + +“It is just putting off,” replied Willful. + +“Boat ahoy!” she called—“come back and wait for us at the foot of the +ash tree.” + +Lord Montressor, who had by this time helped Sir Parke down the descent, +now joined her. She also heard the light splash of the oars of the +returning boat, and knew by the sound which followed that it was pushed +up on the sands. + +“Come, now,” she said, and hurried along under the overhanging bank +until she came to a place where the bluff suddenly sunk into a little +bowl-like hollow, where, closely sheltered and deeply shaded even at +noonday by the overarching trees, stood the little cabin, with its +single dip candle gleaming through the tiny window out into the deep +darkness. + +Willful ran forward and rapped at the door, which was immediately opened +by the namesake of the Ocean Queen, who called out— + +“Who dar?” + +“It’s me, Aunt Amphitrite,” replied the grammar-despising lad. + +“Lors a messy pon top o’ my soul, if it aint de chile! Hi, boy, where +you come from? Drop right outen the sky, didn’t yer? Come in, chile! +Come in! Lors a messy, come in outen de night air! Where’s your sister?” + +“Here I am, Aunty, and here are strangers,” said Barbara, as she came +up. + +“Lors, Miss Barbra, chile, I’se so ’joyed to see yer, ’deed I is; but +what made you go for to fetch strangers here and ketch me in my ole, +ebery-day duds? Ef you’d a only guve me time I’d a put on my black silk +gown as dat dear, bressed, free-hearted chile, Miss Estel, guve me for a +Sunday gown! An’ dere’s my ole man in dere a fuming de whole place wid +his ’bacco, like a saint in de odor o’ sanctity, which I knows as white +folks don’t like! Heave it away, you mis-beguided ole sinner you, an’ +let de white folks in!” cried Amphitrite, breaking off from her +discourse to take the pipe from her dark liege lord’s lips. + +“Never mind his smoking, Amphy! We do not want to come in! Ask your +husband to come here to the door; we wish to speak to you both,” said +Barbara, who with her heart pausing with dread, now that she had arrived +at the spot, seized the slightest pretext for delaying the question upon +which the happiness of so many hung. + +The old man came bending toward the door. + +“How does you do, Miss Barbra, honey? ’Deed I’se mighty proud to see +you! How do, Mars’t Edwy, honey? How de chile do grow!” + +“I am very glad to see you so well, Neptune, but have no time nor heart +for compliments now, old man,” said Miss Brande, when she saw that Sir +Parke Morelle and Lord Montressor had come up and were now standing near +her, in great anxiety. “Tell me, Neptune! What has become of Mrs. +Estel?” + +The hearts of all suspended their action while waiting the slow reply of +the old man. It came at last in the form of another question. + +“Mrs. Estel, honey?” + +“Yes!” + +“De beaut’ful chile as lib up yonder?” + +“Yes. Yes!” + +“De one as you rent de ole house to?” + +“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh! speak at once, and tell us where she is!” + +“Done gone.” + +“Gone! we know it! but WHERE?” + +“Dat’s what I can’t tell you, honey. She done gone ’way in a wessel!—she +an’ de young ’oman.” + +Thank Heaven that their worst fears were set at rest. She was not “gone” +out of the world! she was still living! they had still a future! all +breathed more freely. + +“But surely you know something about the lady’s departure? Come! collect +your faculties, Neptune, and tell us what you do know!” said Barbara. + +“’Deed I doesn’t know a singly thing more’n I’se telled yer; an’ dat’s +de Hebenly Marster’s trufe!” + +“Don’t you know _when_ the lady went?” + +“’Deed, honey, she went t’other week; but de zact one I could not ’form +you; dough ’haps my ole ’oman might.” + +“What an idiotic creature!” exclaimed Sir Parke Morelle, in disgust. + +Lord Montressor remained silently and intently listening “Amphitrite, +can you tell me when Mrs. Estel went?” + +“’Bout a mont’ ago, chile!—’deed she!” + +“Where did she go?” + +“’Deed, chile, Miss Susan—she ’cline for to tell me, when I ax her!” + +“You don’t know where she went, then?” + +“’Deed, Lord knows don’t I, honey! I wish to de Lord how I did!” + +“What was the name of the vessel she sailed by?” + +“’Clare to Marster, honey, I couldn’t tell you, being as how I don’t +know myself.” + +“Nor the name of the captain?” + +“Nor likewise de name o’ de cappen, chile.” + +“Umph! Was the vessel she sailed in going up or down the Bay?” + +“’Deed Lors-a-mity knows, I couldn’t ’form you which, Miss Barbra—case +de wessel come to anchor some time in de night, and den next night, some +time ’fore day, she sailed ag’in. So we nebber seen whedder she came up +or down when she ’riv’, or whedder she go up or down when she lef’.” + +“But surely you can tell us which way her prow pointed?” asked Barbara, +catching at this faint clue as the drowning catch at straws. + +“I donno what you mean by the _prow_, honey.” + +“Her head, then. In which direction was her head? Where did her head +point? Up or down?” + +“Why, chile, when _I_ seen her, her head pointed straight up in de +_sky_, wid a blue an’ white flag aflyin’ from the top of it! least ways +it wer a blue groun’ wid a ’mendous big white cross on it, as Miss Susan +said, wer a Union Jack—which _Jack_ being short for Jonathan, and +_Union_ meanin’ de United States—made me think how she must a’ been a +’Merican ship. But any ways, long as yer so anxious to know, her head +pointed straight up to de sky!” + +“Oh dear me, Amphy! we are not talking of the _mast_ head, but of the +prow—the forepart of the vessel!” said Barbara, impatiently. + +“’Den ’clare to my ’Vine Master I doesn’t know de head from de tail!” +retorted the Ocean Queen. + +“Neptune! can you inform me whether, when you saw that vessel at anchor +in the day time, her prow pointed up or down the bay?” + +“’Deed, honey, she stood neyther up _nor_ down the Bay; but right +_crossways_, wid her prow pintin’ right in toward the Headland here!” + +“Satisfactory! And you do not know, Neptune, whether she went up or down +the Bay?” + +“’Deed, honey, I don’t know nuffin ’tall, ’bout ’cept what I’se already +telled you.” + +“Did the lady leave a letter or a message with either of you?” + +“’Clare to Marster, honey, de chile didn’t leave no letter ’long of us, +nor likewise no message cept ’twas to give her love an’ de Lor’ might +bless you.” + +It were tedious to repeat the close and severe cross-questioning to +which the old people were subjected. Suffice it to say that the +catechism proved fruitless. The old couple had already informed their +mistress of all they had learned upon the subject of the mysterious +flitting. + +At length Barbara said, “It is barely possible, my lord, that she has +left a note or letter for me upon her dressing-table, or somewhere in +the house. Shall we get lights, proceed thither, and examine the +premises?” + +Lord Montressor bowed in silence. His heart was too heavily oppressed +with despair for many words. + +Barbara told the old man to light a lantern and attend them back to the +old house. And once more the whole party, preceded by the old man with +the light, traversed the winding beach, ascended the weary bluff, and +stood before the half-ruined mansion. + +Neptune, who had the keys as well as the lantern, unlocked the front +door and admitted them. + +The damp, dreary wind that must have blown out the light had it not been +protected by the glass lantern, was the only thing that welcomed them. + +They went into the barely furnished parlor, where Barbara found every +thing standing as it had stood for years; but no note or letter on +table, stand, or mantle-shelf. They next passed into her bed-chamber, +where they found every thing in order, but no note or letter. They +visited the kitchen and Susan Copsewood’s sleeping-room with no more +successful results. And at last, after a thorough but fruitless +examination of the whole premises, they were forced to abandon the +hopeless search. + +“All clue seems lost,” exclaimed the baronet, in despair. + +Lord Montressor could not suppress a deep groan. His strong heart seemed +about to break beneath this new blow. + +“Let us hope,” said Barbara. “We set sail from London for the port of +Baltimore, where you, first of all, expected to find her. Let us proceed +on our voyage. We may yet come up with her in Baltimore.” + +“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed the baronet, whose anxiety to find his lost +daughter increased with the difficulty and delay. + +Barbara then gave the old man, Neptune, the money and packets of +groceries that she had brought for him; completed the other little +arrangements that had brought her to the shore; took her leave of her +old servants, and, accompanied by her disappointed and saddened +passengers, returned to the vessel. + +Assembled around the little centre-table of the cabin, they held another +consultation. + +“Had Estelle no friends or neighbors in this place, with whom she might +have left a letter or message?” inquired Lord Montressor. + +“No, there are none nearer than Eastville. And yet now that I think of +it, she may have left some charge with my attorney at that village. So +if you think best, we will lie at anchor over to-morrow, to ride up +thither to make inquiries. What say you, gentlemen?” + +“Undoubtedly, that is the plan,” replied Lord Montressor and Sir Parke. + +The party then separated for the night. + +Early the next morning they went on shore. Old Neptune, being ordered, +quickly put the horses to the carry-all. Sir Parke and Miss Brande +entered and took the back seat. Lord Montressor and Willful sat in +front. The boy took the reins. After a rapid drive of two hours, they +reached Eastville, and drew up before the lawyer’s office. + +Miss Brande alighted and entered, where she found the lawyer seated at +his desk, writing. He instantly arose and came forward to meet her. + +“Good-morning, Miss Brande. Pray take a seat.” + +“I thank you, no sir. My tenant, Mrs. Estel, has left the Headland. Has +she possibly charged you with any letter or message for me?” + +“Letter? Yes, Miss Brande; here it is,” answered the lawyer, going to +his desk and producing the missive. + +Barbara almost snatched it from his hand, tore it open, and glanced +eagerly along its lines. Then, with a deep sigh, she went out and read +it to Sir Parke and Lord Montressor. It ran thus:— + + + _The Headland, March 18._ + + MY DEAR MISS BRANDE:—In withdrawing from the Headland, for an + indefinite number of years, I do not throw up the lease; but leaving + the key in charge of Neptune, I beg that during my absence you will + freely use the house. Enclosed, you will find payment for the whole + term of the lease. + + Truly your friend, + ESTELLE. + + +“And that is all!” simultaneously exclaimed the father and the lover. + +“Yes.” + +They were not contented. They left the carriage and went into the office +of the lawyer whom they minutely questioned. But he could tell them +absolutely nothing. + +They re-entered the carriage, and, at Barbara’s suggestion, drove to the +dwelling of the parish clergyman. + +This venerable man had attended Estelle in her illness; but he could +give them no satisfaction as to her present retreat. All further +inquiries in that neighborhood proved fruitless. Evidently Estelle had +concealed from all, the place of her destination. + +With heavy hearts they returned to their vessel. + +The next morning they set sail for Baltimore, where they duly arrived. + +For weeks Sir Parke and Lord Montressor pursued their search through the +city. Then finding all their efforts unavailing, they took leave of +Barbara Brande and of Baltimore, and began a tour of all the principal +cities in the United States. Meanwhile they appointed an agent in New +York to whom all communications for themselves were to be addressed. +Then they inserted in all the newspapers, carefully-worded +advertisements, designed to be understood by Estelle alone, and to be +answered through this agent. + +After several months of fruitless travel, search, and anxious waiting, +it occurred to Sir Parke that his daughter might possibly have returned +to her native country. And acting upon this idea, and still accompanied +by his intended son-in-law, the baronet sailed for England. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII. + THE FLIGHT FROM THE HEADLAND. + + “Overlive it?—lower yet—be happy? + —wherefore should I care? + I myself must mix with action, + Lest I wither by despair!”—_Tennyson._ + + +Estelle had been too strong to die. + +With the skillful attention of the village physician, the devoted care +of her faithful servant, and the fervent prayers of the parish minister, +she had recovered from her long and dangerous illness. + +The first use she made of her convalescence was to abandon the Headland +House. + +Since the first exciting visit of Lord Montressor to the place, the +scene had become insufferable to her. To fly from it, or to lose her +reason seemed the only alternative. + +Ah! it is a comparatively easy thing, in some exalted mood of mind, to +make a supreme offering of affection to the shrine of duty—as easy as +self-slaughter is, if that were required! for the wrench of parting, +like the throws of death, is but a short agony! But such voluntary +immolation is not self-slaughter, it is more, it is the self-inhumation +of the living! The heart thus cut off from the love which is its life, +does not find the peace of death but the dull anguish of the living +tomb—it cannot die, but continues to throb, to yearn and to suffer. Thus +the TEST is not in the fierce struggle with temptation and the keen +pangs of sacrifice, but in the terrible reaction; in the dull gnawing +pain of all the after time; in the aching sense of bereavement, +loneliness and utter desolation; in the long succession of dreary, weary +days that dawn without hope, and decline without comfort—each an added +link to the heavy chain of hapless years, that drag the spirit to the +dust; years of slow heart-wasting; years of death in life! + +Estelle had thought, when she had severed herself from her lover, that +the struggle and the agony was over and the victory won. And after the +torture of the criminal trial, and the pitiless battery of myriad eyes +that had fallen upon her defenseless head, and after the moral warfare +between her deep affections and her high sense of duty,—after all the +tempestuous, thronged, and trying scenes through which she had been +dragged,—worn out in frame and exhausted in spirit, _rest_ had seemed +welcome and _solitude_ inviting. She had sighed for “a lodge in some +vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade.” + +She had sought and found in the Headland such a retreat. The very +desolation and dreariness of the locality had attracted her. The +solitary gloom of the dark pine woods, the sterile brow of the bank, and +the lonely waste of waters accorded well with her soul’s sadness. The +melancholy days of Autumn—“the saddest in the year;” the incessant +weeping of the skies; the unceasing wailing of the wind; the perpetual +sighing of the trees for their ever falling leaves; the monotonous +moaning of the sea;—all harmonized with the dirge-like, mournful music +of her own spirit. + +But this mood was in itself, morbid and temporary. It would not have +lasted, even had Lord Montressor never arrived at the Headland to break +it up. + +Unsuspecting her presence at the house, he had appeared. Unseen by him, +she had watched him from her window. Stifling the mighty hunger of her +heart, she had suffered him to depart. + +And then had come the crisis of the fever. + +After her recovery—to remain upon that spot associated with the memory +of his short and sad visit; in that house so void, so lonely, so +cheerless; without a companion, without an occupation; without an +interest in life; to rise each morning without object; to lie down each +night without sleep; to put away day after day, week after week, month +after month, the longing desire to hear from him, to write to him, to go +after him; to continue such a life and not go mad, was difficult—was +impossible. + +To save herself from this last worst evil, she resolved to shut up the +house and leave the Headland; to go—somewhere, anywhere, she knew not, +cared not,—whither! + +If her journey should only afford her change of scene, and distraction +from one clinging grief—that would be enough. + +At this extremity of need, when she was scarcely competent to the +conducting of her own course, providence sent her unhoped for aid and +advice. + +This came in the form of old Mr. Goodloe, the parish clergyman, who had +visited, pitied, and prayed for her during her severe illness. + +The Reverend Barnabas Goodloe, was not a man of any great depth of +feeling, breadth of intellect, or extent of experience. But he had +passed the greater portion of a long life, in performing the quiet +duties of a country clergyman. For forty years he had preached simple +sermons to a rustic congregation; had married young men and maidens; +christened children; buried the dead; counseled the living; comforted +the afflicted; visited the sick; and relieved the poor of the parish of +Eastville. But in all his life, so interesting an object as Estelle had +never crossed his path. In his capacity of clergyman, he had been called +to her bedside to pray for her recovery, by Susan Copsewood, who had a +great and saving faith in “the effective, fervent prayer of a righteous +man,” and who ascribed her beloved lady’s restoration to health, not so +much to the skill of the physician, as to the petitions of the pastor. + +But Mr. Goodloe could not forget the sweet pale face, and deep, soft +tones, and gentle manners of the beautiful sufferer, in whom at the very +first sight, he had felt so keen an interest. And though she did not +belong to his congregation, and had not once appeared in his church, nor +yet had, in thanking him for his attention, invited him to call again; +despite his dread of being considered intrusive, he felt irresistibly +impelled to pay her a visit. + +Estelle received him with the gentle courtesy for which she was +distinguished, again thanked him for his kind attentions during her +illness; and afterward on receiving his adieu requested him to come +again. Probably her first omission of this civility had been +unintentional. At least so reasoned the aged minister, who soon repeated +his visit to Estelle, between whom and himself a mutual esteem arose. + +On one of these visits, after contemplating her despairing but most +lovely face, and noticing that it grew visibly thinner, paler, and more +shadowy, he took her slender hand and said:— + +“My child, I would not for the world seek to intrude upon your +confidence; but your countenance too plainly betrays that you are the +victim of some deep, consuming, almost incurable grief. Whatever that +grief may be—and I do not seek to know—this dreary scene and lonely life +is not the way to wrestle with it successfully; for it is overcoming +you—you are dying under it.” + +“Were that all, indeed, that were well!” replied the lady mournfully. + +“Not so, my child; for life has duties. You have no right to drop the +burden of existence; we must all first earn the Heavenly rest. You are +not a native of this place, lady; for you there is no healing in these +solitary scenes; you must arise and go hence; you have means; go into +the crowded city; seek out the unfortunate with which the lanes and +alleys are thronged—find the lost men, the wretched women, and destitute +children; forget your own, in ministering to their greater sorrows.” + +“‘Greater sorrows’, good Heavens!” echoed Estelle, in mournful +incredulity. + +“Yes! _greater_ sorrows! however great yours may be—I repeat that there +are many, very many who all their mortal lives labor under greater +sorrows. You—whatever your grief may be—have youth, health, beauty, +intellect, education, competence, a conscience void of offense, and, +above all, you are not ‘without God in the world.’ Your single sorrow is +a disappointment, or a bereavement. That is all you probably have to +suffer. But for many others,—to disappointment, and to bereavement, is +added age, illness, famine, cold, squalor, the evils of ignorance, the +remorse of guilt,—and under all the horrors of a practical atheism! +Behold! I have given you a glimpse of an existing Gehenna, of which you +had never heard or dreamed; but to which you will go as a ministering, +and redeeming angel.” + +Estelle was deeply moved; pale and breathless she arose and placing her +hand in that of the pastor, murmured faintly: “That is my work. I thank +you for indicating it. I will go.” + +He laid his hand on her head— + +“Go! an unprofessed sister of charity, among the poor, the ignorant, the +sick, and the prisoners. Go! hand-maiden of the Man of Sorrows, follow +Him in works of mercy, and He will give you His ‘peace—not as the world +giveth will He give it you.’ And so God bless you!” + +And the good old man departed. + +And she did not sink again into the bathos of a self-indulgent sorrow. +She went to work and prepared for her mission. She set her house in +order; visited the quarters of her humble friends, the old negro couple, +and added many substantial comforts to their cabin. She wrote a letter +of adieu to her landlady, Barbara Brande, and committed it to the care +of her attorney to be delivered. Then she closed her house, left the +keys, for the convenience of the proprietor, with old Neptune, took +leave of her few lowly acquaintances, and, accompanied by her devoted +attendant, departed without leaving behind any clue to her destination. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII. + THE PASSAGE OF YEARS. + + “On! on! our moments hurry by + Like shadows of a passing cloud.”—_Bowring._ + + +Five years have elapsed since the events recorded in our last chapter, +and six since the fatal incident with which this story opened. + +Sir Parke and Lady Morelle, after having used every means in their power +for the recovery of their daughter, gave up the search in despair, and +retired to Hyde Hall, where, year after year, they lived in a sort of +hopeless watching for some one circumstance to arise that might guide +them to a knowledge of her home. + +Lord Montressor, after long and fruitless efforts to discover the +retreat of his lost love, unable to endure life amid scenes so +associated with vain hopes and memories of Estelle, had accepted service +under the Crown and represented his sovereign at one of the highest +continental courts. + +Still young, eminently handsome, accomplished and graceful, endowed with +great wealth, high rank and the distinguished favor of his sovereign, he +moved, “the cynosure of neighboring eyes,” among the youthful, +beautiful, and gifted of his own and other countries. But no second love +displaced his lost Estelle, no transient fancy for a single instant +disputed her home in his heart. Her memory was dearer to his soul, than +the most beautiful woman’s presence; the faint hope of some day finding +her, was sweeter than the highest aspirations of his worldly ambition. +Her idea filled his whole heart, from which it was never for an instant +absent. He loved her above all created beings, with a pure, passionate, +undying love—with a longing, hoping, praying love. He understood and +honored the motives of her self-sacrifice. And be sure, that if ever he +shall find her, he will hasten to lay at her feet an unchanged heart. + +A year previous to the time at which we resume the thread of our story, +Lord Montressor, by the death of a distant relative, had succeeded to +the title and estates of the Earldom of Eagletower. And six months after +this new accession of dignity his lordship had been ordered by the +government upon a secret and most important diplomatic mission to the +city of Washington. To vail the political aspect of his voyage, as well +as to form a pleasant party, Lord Eagletower (as we must now call him), +had invited Sir Parke and Lady Morelle and Lord Dazzleright to accompany +him to the United States. The baronet and his lady, weary of Hyde Hall, +needing a change, and vaguely hoping to hear of their daughter in the +country in which she had been last seen, accepted the invitation. Lord +Dazzleright, who had never visited America, was glad to avail himself of +the present opportunity of doing so in the company of his friends. Thus +it was in May, 184-, five years from the time when they had lost sight +of Estelle, that the whole party sailed for the United States, where +they arrived safely in June. + +But where meanwhile, was Estelle? The scenes that had known her, now +“knew her no more.” Save in the hearts of the few who loved her, her +memory seemed to have perished from the face of the earth. Yet, in the +far distant, great metropolis of the western world, the poor, the sick, +the imprisoned, the all-suffering, daily invoked blessings on the head +of a dark-robed, lovely lady, whose beautiful pale face was seldom +unvailed, save by the side of the invalid, the destitute, or the +sorrowful, and whom those who gratefully remembered her in their +prayers, called by the name of “Estel.” How or where this angel visitant +lived, not one among her proteges knew. But, day after day, and week +after week, this child of wealth, luxury and refinement might have been +seen in the squalid haunts of poverty, disease and ignorance, sitting +beside the fetid bed, breathing the sickening air, waiting upon the +often repulsive objects of illness. And this not for one month, or two, +but month after month, and year after year, for the whole lustrum during +which her friends had lost sight of her. And not in vain, for, with her, +into miserable dwellings came light, knowledge, and purity; and before +her fled ignorance, prejudice, and disease. The close room would be +thrown open to the reviving air of heaven; the heated clothing renewed; +the parched lips and burning skin of fever refreshed with coldest water; +and, above all, the fainting and despairing spirit raised and guided to +the feet of the all-merciful Physician of souls, who never yet sent a +suppliant away unhealed. And oh, how often her slender hand has been +clasped in tearful gratitude, and prayers and blessings have greeted her +coming, and followed her departure? And those who prayed for the lovely +minister of mercy, besought the compassionate Father of love to look +down in pity upon her who pitied all other sufferers, and to lift from +her palest brow that heavy cloud of strange sorrow that overshadowed it. + +Such, for five years, had been the life, labors, and consolations of +Estelle. + +And our favorite, Barbara Brande, the handsome Amazon, the brave +girl-captain, what of her and her boy brothers, who must have almost +reached the bourne of manhood? + +Barbara was now twenty-seven years of age. Under favorable +circumstances, woman should continue to grow handsomer until her +thirtieth year. Whether the beautiful Amazon was under such auspices or +not, it is certain that at twenty-seven she was a much finer-looking +woman than she had been at twenty-two. She had continued her sea life, +and had prospered therein. The little brigantine, the Petrel, had been +exchanged for the “Ocean Queen.” Her crew was quadrupled, and each hand +had been selected with the greatest care and caution. Her brothers had +nearly reached man’s estate, and were now able to sustain her authority +in cases of exigency. Her trade had greatly increased. + +In a word, Barbara Brande had but one living regret. + +This was caused by the conduct of her eldest and favorite brother, +Willful. Now, do not hasten to conclude that young Willful Brande +contracted evil habits, for such a judgment would be the very antipodes +of justice. + +A nobler-hearted, or more upright youth than Willful Brande never lived. +He comprehended and appreciated his brave and beautiful sister, and +thence he loved and honored her above all creatures on earth; and also, +thence he was her greatest comfort and her best beloved; her “right-hand +man,” her “gallant mate,” her “beau,” were some of the playful pet names +she had bestowed on him. Her “rudder,” her “sheet-anchor,” her +“storm-staysail,” were other earnest synonyms for her brother, Willful +Brande. + +He resembled his sister. In the tall, lithe, strong and graceful figure, +in the well-turned neck and stately head, in the clean cut, noble +features; in the jet-black curling hair, and the full commanding eyes, +he seemed the very counterpart of Barbara. Had they exchanged dresses, +the one might have been taken for the other. And as this grand style of +beauty was rather masculine than feminine, it proved even more +attractive in Willful than in Barbara. Willful Brande had continued to +be his sister’s greatest pride and joy, until he approached his +sixteenth year. Then the youth conceived the ambitious idea of entering +the United States Navy, and gave his sister no peace until she had, +through an influential friend of her family—General ——, one of the +senators from her State, procured for him a midshipman’s warrant. And +Willful Brande now rejoiced in a naval uniform, and looked forward to +the time when he should wear the epaulets. + +And Barbara, with Edwy for mate, still commanded the Ocean Queen. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIV. + THE HEIRESS OF THE ISLE. + + “Thus from within and from without, + She grew a flower of mind and eye + ’Twas love that circled her about, + And love that made her quick reply.”—_Sterling._ + + +Changes had also in this time passed over the charming sea-girt island +and its inhabitants. + +Etoile from a beautiful child, had grown into a most beautiful maiden. +Her form was of medium size and of exquisite symmetry. Her golden +ringlets were more sunny bright, her smooth forehead more snowy-white, +her blooming cheeks and lips flushed with a richer carnation, her blue +eyes softened with a deeper tenderness. All her motions were perfect +grace, all her tones perfect melody. + +Her mind was one of the finest order, and was well cultivated, because +she had followed up her earlier course of instruction by diligently +reading the numerous volumes carefully selected for her use, by Julius +Luxmore. She was passionately fond of music and of painting, to the +study of which she had first been introduced by the accomplished Madame +L’Orient, and which, of late years, she had, with the aid of manuals, +enthusiastically cultivated. For the rest the beautiful girl was blessed +with the sweetest temper and the gayest spirit. And thus, taken all for +all in all, she was the moral sunshine of the Island. + +Julius Luxmore continued the honored friend and confidential agent of +Monsieur Henri De L’Ile. He sought by every means to ingratiate himself +into the confidence, esteem, and affection of the master, the heiress, +and even the negroes of the Island. He was handsome in person, plausible +in sentiment, and pleasing in address. He seemed a miracle of ability, +honor and benevolence. The master distinguished him, the servants lauded +him, and Etoile having few to love in the world, loved him; but it was +with a younger sister’s innocent, confiding affection. + +And even if in some unguarded hour, when his mask of fair seeming was +not fitted closely, Etoile with her fine feminine instinct faintly +perceived that he was not in all respects perfect excellence, she +quickly suppressed this idea, accusing herself of injustice and all +uncharitableness. She absolutely _saw_ nothing wrong in Julius Luxmore; +there appeared to be no _reason_ for her occasional suspicions of his +soundness of integrity, and therefore she repelled those suspicions as +both unjust and ungenerous. + +For with all her mental and moral wealth—with her strength of intellect +and warmth of affection, this beautiful young recluse of the isle, cut +off from communication with all the rest of the world, was the most +unsophisticated child of nature, entirely innocent of the knowledge of +conventional life. If she always moved, spoke, and acted with the most +exquisite politeness, it was because her soul was as gracious as her +person was graceful. And if sometimes she made quaint mistakes, they +were always the natural mistakes of a pure heart that thinketh no evil. + +Mr. Luxmore had done all that man could do to recommend himself to her +good opinion. He taxed his invention to increase her resources of +interest and amusement. + +In his frequent visits to the cities of the main land he collected the +rarest and most attractive books, pictures, statuettes, vases, and +ornamental, useful or instructive objects of every description. + +At the Island, he had a green-house built and filled with the rarest +exotics, that she might enjoy flowers all the year round. Adjoining the +green-house, he caused an aviary to be erected, which he peopled with +the finest song birds of our own and other countries. These +conservatories were connected by glass doors with the favorite parlor +and bed-chamber of Etoile, which now occupied the right hand side of the +hall on the first floor. And thus the young heiress could at all seasons +of the year enjoy the perfume of flowers, and the songs of birds. + +The Island was, as I have already said, a mile in diameter, and three +miles in circumference. Mr. Luxmore caused a road to be cleared around +the whole circuit of the Isle above the beach, that Etoile might have a +long three-mile race-course. And on his next visit to New York, he +purchased from a celebrated riding-school a lady’s trained palfrey—a +beautiful silvery white Arabian, which, together with a rich saddle and +bridle, he shipped and conveyed to the Island for the use of Etoile. + +Of all the presents that he had brought, this the most delighted the +young girl. And she cordially expressed her thanks. It was Mr. Luxmore +who first lifted her into the saddle, and taught her to guide her +horse—it was Mr. Luxmore who was her constant companion in riding. + +I will sketch one day, that the reader may judge how the beautiful young +Islander, without companions of her own age, passed her time. + +At the rising of the sun, the jubilant matin songs of the myriads of +birds that swarmed the Isle awakened her. She arose, and knelt, and +offered up her morning worship, then came out of her chamber, and when +she was joined by Madeline, who with a bathing dress hung over arm, +attended her young lady down to the crystal creek, where for half an +hour she bathed and swan about like a Nereid in the limpid stream. Then +resuming her ordinary dress, she returned to the house where Julius +Luxmore would be waiting with two horses to take her on her morning +ride. After a gallop of three-quarters of an hour around the beach, she +would return with a fine appetite for breakfast. After the morning meal +was over, she would retire to her own parlor, the front room on the +right hand of the passage on the first floor, where she would occupy the +long forenoon in reading, drawing, and practicing music on the piano or +guitar, until one o’clock—when she would go out for an hour’s walk in +the shady groves before returning to dinner at two. After the midday +meal she would take her needle-work and go into her uncle’s cool +sitting-room, where she would sit and sew, while the Monsieur Henri +reclined in his arm-chair, and Julius Luxmore read to them both from +Milton, Shakspeare, Paley, or some other of the English poets or +essayists, until the old man fell asleep. They would then leave him to +enjoy his nap, and go down to the beach, enter the smack, hoist a sail, +and take a run of five or six miles up and down the Bay; after which +they would return to an early tea. When the evening repast was over, +Etoile would take her guitar and join her uncle and Julius Luxmore on +the vine-shaded piazza, where they would sit, and she would sing and +play for them, until the hour of retirement. At ten everybody on the +Island was in bed. + +Thus I have given you as a sample one day of Etoile’s life. A +sufficiently happy programme for a single day; but when day after day, +week after week, and month after month, with little variety, passed in +this manner, it is not surprising that it should become monotonous and +wearisome, and that, notwithstanding all the means and appliances of +happiness with which she was surrounded, the beautiful Etoile should +sigh for the unknown world beyond, which her imagination painted in such +brilliant hues. And when Mr. Luxmore, after one of his visits to the +main land, would return, bringing some rare exotic, some beautiful bird, +some exquisite picture or sweet-toned lute, she would receive them with +a smile of joy and gratitude that would be quickly followed by a deep +sigh of aspiration for that world beyond, whence all these beautiful +things came! For if every thing that came from that distant, shore was +so charming, how much more charming must the shore itself be, she +reasoned. And thus time and circumstances increased her longing to see +the mainland. + +But it was during the severe winter months when the ice-bound shores of +the island sequestrated its inhabitants from all the rest of the human +race, and allowed neither going forth nor coming in, that the society of +Julius Luxmore was considered the very greatest acquisition to the +enjoyment of the family. During the short days, when they could not +venture from the house, Mr. Luxmore would play chess or backgammon with +the old man all the morning; read to him and to Etoile all the +afternoon, and recount for their amusement his adventures by sea and +land, all the evening. Thus he rendered himself almost indispensable to +the house. + +It was in the fifth year of Julius Luxmore’s residence upon the Island, +that an important event occurred, which shall be related in the next +chapter. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXV. + EUTHANASY. + + “Methinks it were no pain to die + On such an eve, when such a sky + O’er-canopies the west. + To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, + Then like an infant sink to sleep + On earth my mother’s breath.”—_Old Poem._ + + +The circumstance alluded to at the close of the last chapter, was the +death of Monsieur Henri De L’Ile. + +It was early in the autumn of the fifth year of Julius Luxmore’s +residence on the Island, that the old man departed to the better land. +His decease, as is frequently the case with the extremely aged, was +sudden and painless. His death was as beautiful as his life had been +beneficent. And this was the manner of his falling asleep. Upon the +afternoon of the first of October, he had, in company with his niece and +his friend, partaken of a slight supper of coffee, cakes, and fruit. He +lingered awhile in the piazza, listening to Etoile’s guitar. At the +close of her song, he smiled, laid his hand upon her bright curls, +prayed God bless her, and then calling his pet spaniel, he walked out to +his favorite arbor seat of late Bourbon roses, to sit and watch the +golden autumnal sun go down behind the distant shore of Northumberland. +He remained out so much longer than usual, that Madeleine went forth to +seek him. + +She found the old man sitting on the bench; leaning back against the +frame of the rose-wreathed arbor, seemingly sleeping a sweet sleep. Not +a feature of his fine old face was disturbed, not a tress of his silvery +hair disheveled. His hands rested together on his lap; a blooming rose +remained in his relaxed fingers. His favorite spaniel lay at his feet, +quietly looking up into his calm face. His two white pigeons were +near—the one perched upon his shoulder, cooing and pecking fondly at his +cheek, the other flying in playful circles around his head. Madeleine +spoke to him once—twice—thrice—and receiving no answer, took his hand. +The lingering rose fell to his feet; the hand, the form, was icy cold. +The loving spirit that had warmed it for more than ninety years, had +left it for a higher sphere. Such had been his Euthanasy. + +Etoile wept vehemently over his death; but the tears of youth are like +morning dew or April showers—quickly dried. + +He was buried quietly beneath a great old elm-tree near the shore. By +his own long previously expressed wish, no marble tomb oppressed his +body’s last sleeping-place. Etoile would remember his grave, and the +angel of the resurrection would know where to find him; that was enough, +he had said. + +By his will, which he had executed during a lucid interval at +Heathville, where his monomania was unsuspected, and which was duly +opened the day after the funeral, it was found that he had left the +whole of his vast property to his grand-niece, Etoile L’Orient, and +appointed his good friend, Mr. Julius Luxmore, the guardian of his +heiress. Not a single allusion to king, kingdom, or princess, betrayed +his partial insanity. A codicil to the same instrument emancipated his +faithful servant Madeleine, and her son Frivole. + +This codicil, strange as the circumstance may at first sight seem +_pleased_ Mr. Luxmore. He had always dreaded the secret influence of +Madeleine over her nursling, without well knowing how to obviate it. +Now, however, the way was clear. + +And he informed the quadroon that herself and her son being manumitted +by their late master’s will, must forthwith quit the Island. + +At first, poor Madeleine was dismayed. The mild service of her master +had been to her, protection, safety and support. The shores of the +Island had bounded her world. She knew no other. To leave the Isle, to +abandon her young nursling!—freedom under such conditions struck her as +an overwhelming misfortune. She actually reversed Catiline’s immortal +speech, and exclaimed—“What’s set free, but banished?” She tearfully +represented to Mr. Luxmore, her strong attachment to her home, and to +her young charge on the one hand, and on the other, her own +inexperience, her helplessness, and her dread of the world of strangers. + +But Julius on his side described in glowing colors, the “world beyond,” +dwelling with enthusiasm upon the great advantages it possessed for her +own advancement, and above all, for that of her beloved son Frivole. He +also fired the mind of the boy with a vehement desire to tread those +unknown shores. And between the eloquence of her patron, and the +importunity of her son, poor Madeleine became resigned, if not +reconciled to depart. + +Mr. Luxmore also voluntarily promised to take the mother and son to New +York, and to procure for them suitable employment. + +And Julius kept his word—being quite willing to put himself to thus much +inconvenience, for the sake of separating the nurse from her charge, and +ingratiating himself with Etoile. + +For, though the young creature sadly lamented the loss of her “Maman,” +yet having been persuaded by Mr. Luxmore, that it was all for +Madeleine’s good, she was not only reconciled to her departure, but even +grateful to him for taking her away. + +“You are going to the beautiful world beyond, Maman,” she said, “and +some day I, too, shall follow you.” And unwilling to cloud the departure +of her nurse with a single complaint, the girl had heroically abstained +from expressing the keen regret she felt at losing her. When the sail +that wafted Madeleine and her son away, was lost to view, Etoile +abandoned herself to weeping for a while, but on recovering she took +herself to task, saying— + +“How selfish I am to weep, because Maman has gone to the beautiful world +beyond! I ought to be glad, because I myself wanted to go there so +much.” And she repelled grief as a sin of selfishness, and went and got +her drawing materials, and occupied herself with painting from memory a +portrait of “Maman.” + +Mr. Luxmore performed his promise, that is to say, he conveyed the +mother and son to New York, procured for Madeleine the place of +chambermaid, and for Frivole that of waiter, in a third-class hotel, and +abandoned them to their fate. Now, whether this change of fortune was +considered “favorable” by the servants of the late Monsieur Henri De +L’Ile, remains an open question. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVI. + ETOILE COMES INTO HER ESTATE. + + “But what are these grave thoughts to thee? + For restlessly, impatiently, + Thou strivest, strugglest to be free: + Thy only dream is liberty.”—_Longfellow._ + + +Mr. Luxmore returned early in November, bringing many rare presents for +Etoile, consisting of costly books and pictures, an elegant paint-box, +furnished with drawing materials, model plaster casts and marble +statuettes, an exquisitely sweet-toned lute, and a collection of fine +music. + +It was in Etoile’s boudoir that these attractive presents were displayed +to her delighted eyes. + +“Ah, how beautiful! how glorious! how heavenly! must be that world, +whence all these charming things come!” she exclaimed. + +Mr. Luxmore smiled at her hallucination. + +“Ah! when shall I, too, see that lovely world?” + +“When you are married, Etoile.” + +“When I am married,”—softly repeated this child of nature—“and shall _I_ +ever be married?” + +“Certainly, fair one.” + +“And to whom shall I be married?” she inquired, looking up in innocent +surprise. + +“Do you not know then?” asked Julius Luxmore, gazing wistfully into her +eyes. + +“No, indeed, Mr. Luxmore, no one ever told me,” she answered artlessly, +without dropping her pure unconscious eyes. + +“I thought you understood that you were destined to be my bride.” + +“Your bride? No, indeed, I did not know that before Mr. Luxmore! Did +uncle wish it?” + +“Certainly, my fair one. Besides, it is your interest.” + +“I need no inducement to obey my dearest uncle, Mr. Luxmore; but when +are we to be married then?” + +“Are you in a hurry?” + +“Oh, yes!” answered the innocent creature with a deep sigh of +aspiration. + +“But why?” inquired Mr. Luxmore, curiously. + +“Oh!” she replied, with another deep inspiration, “because I do so +_long_ to go to the beautiful world beyond!” + +“And you wish to get married that you may go thither?” + +“Oh! yes, indeed!” she said, clasping her hands fervently. “When shall +we be married, Mr. Luxmore?” + +“In some few months from this.” + +“So long! Oh, Mr. Luxmore! why can it not be now?” + +“Because, my lovely girl, you have not yet reached a marriageable age.” + +“And what age is that?” + +“No matter, my dear, you have not reached it.” + +“But, oh, Mr. Luxmore, how can you say that? I have read in history, +again and again, of princes and princesses married in their cradles. +There was the Princess Elizabeth of Hungary, and the Prince of +Thuringia, and many others.” + +“But they were princes.” + +“And am not I a princess?” + +“Yes, my sweet! by virtue of your beauty, genius and goodness, you are a +princess; but in no other wise,” replied Julius Luxmore, thinking that +the time had now come for this explanation. + +“How, in no other wise?” + +Mr. Luxmore proceeded to explain to her that the Island kingdom, king +and princess, had been merely a pleasant phantasy on the part of her +late uncle. Not for the world would Mr. Luxmore have risked the danger +that might have grown out of his communicating to the young heiress the +fact that Monsieur Henri De L’Ile was of unsound mind, and, +consequently, legally incapacitated to execute the instrument which +constituted himself, Julius Luxmore, the sole guardian of the young +heiress and her large estate. + +Etoile received the news with less surprise than might have been +expected. + +“I am satisfied now,” she said, “upon a point that for a long time +troubled me.” + +“And what was that?” + +“I used to pick out our Island in the map of the United States, and I +found that it was an adjunct to the State of Maryland. Therefore, you +see, I could not understand how it should be a little kingdom.” + +“And you are not much disappointed to find that it is not?” + +“Oh, no, no; on the contrary, I am glad to understand clearly my real +condition.” + +“And yet, fair one, in some sense our beautiful Island is really a +kingdom, and we are its sovereigns.” Julius Luxmore henceforth always +spoke in the first person plural thus associating himself with Etoile +and her estate—it was to accustom her to consider him as a joint +proprietor. + +“How then, Mr. Luxmore, since, our Isle”—(the simple girl followed his +lead in the use of the plural pronoun)—“is not a kingdom in all +respects, can it be a kingdom in some senses? and how then are we in +_any_ sense sovereigns?” + +“Thus, my sweet. Our Island is our undivided possession, cut off from +all the rest of the world——” + +——“The beautiful world!”—interrupted Etoile. + +“Over this insulated possession we have far more power than a king has +over his kingdom. We can let it, lease it sell it, or bequeath it to +whomsoever we will! A king cannot so dispose of his kingdom.” + +“No, certainly not.” + +“And then again, my fair one, we have more authority over our people +than a sovereign has over his subjects. We can hire, sell, or bequeath +any man, woman or child among them to whomsoever we please. A sovereign +cannot so dispose of his subjects.” + +“Assuredly not; but this superior power we possess over ours, should +only make us more mindful of our people’s welfare and happiness.—So my +dear uncle taught me.” + +“He was right,” said the wily Julius, “and that was the reason why I +took Madeleine and Frivole to New York, where they will be so much +better off.” + +“Oh yes, you are so good,” replied the innocent creature. And then she +fell into a deep reverie, and wondered why it was that _she_ so often +felt that Mr. Luxmore was _not_ so good as he seemed. And this fine +insight she blamed as an injustice; its suppression she regarded as +insincerity; its confession she seemed to consider almost a duty. Yet +the unwillingness to give pain restrained her communication; she +resolved silently to combat what she considered an uncharitable feeling. +And thus her natural instincts, which might have saved her, were +conquered as sins. After this little struggle with herself, she spoke +again. + +“To return to our first subject, Mr. Luxmore, why may not I who am so +nearly a princess, have the privilege of one, why may I not marry now, +and go to the beautiful world beyond?” + +“Is there in the civilized world, another young girl so unsophisticated +as this sweet maiden?” said Julius Luxmore to himself, as he met her +pure clear blue eyes raised in innocent inquiry to his face; he +answered. + +“Because, my sweet, not being really a princess, not having a royal +father to give you away, your marriage would not be legal.” + +The conversation here closed for the time. + +Julius Luxmore had formed the determination to spend the winter in +Paris. The beautiful Island was in summer a delightful residence; but in +winter, its ice-bound shore was to this roving Sybarite the walls of a +prison, while distant Paris seemed to him a paradise of freedom and +pleasure. + +But in order to leave Etoile with safety to his own interests, there +were many previous arrangements to be made. It was now, as I have said, +early in November. He wished to sail for Paris about the first of +December. The time was short, and it was necessary to bestir himself. + +First of all, with a portion of the ready money left in his trust for +the heiress, he purchased a small wild farm, some twenty miles inland +from the Northumberland shore. Then he drafted from the Island slaves +every young and middle-aged man, and several women, and sent them off to +“Black Thorns Farm,” his new purchase, where he placed them under the +care of a competent overseer. + +Thus there were left on the Island, only aged men and women and +children. + +For the service of the young heiress, he had selected an honest, +affectionate old negro woman called Moll, a hunchbacked old man, +misnamed Timon, and their granddaughter Peggy. These were directed to +take up their abode in the mansion house, to supply the place of +Madeleine and Frivole and to protect and wait upon Etoile. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVII. + ETOILE LEFT ALONE. + + “Her sweet song died, and a vague unrest, + And a nameless longing filled her breast— + A wish that she hardly dared to own, + For something better than she had known.”—_Whittier._ + + +Not until all these arrangements had been completed did Julius Luxmore +announce to Etoile his intention of leaving the Island to spend the +winter in Paris. + +The young creature looked dismayed. + +“Oh, Mr. Luxmore, you will not go and leave me also! My dear uncle is +dead; Madeleine and Frivole have gone; winter is at hand, when I cannot +go out; you will not leave me alone on the Island all these dreary +months!” + +“My sweet girl, I go at the call of duty. Besides you will not be alone. +There is still a gang of young women and a force of old men on the +Island, and in the house you have Timon, Moll, and their granddaughter +Peggy.” + +“I know, and they are good creatures, and I will do all I can to make +them happy; but, Mr. Luxmore, I cannot make companions of them,” replied +the maiden, with a certain mild majesty. + +“But, my fair girl, you can seek companionship in your books, your +music, and your drawing. You can employ these winter days in perfecting +yourself in belles-lettres and arts, and let me see when I return what +progress you have made; for, Etoile, with the earliest spring I will be +here again.” + +Etoile smiled, but the smile was so sad that Julius Luxmore hastened to +say: + +“You would not detain me here against my duty, would you, my fair?” + +“No, oh no! it is selfish in me to repine. I will do so no longer. Go, +Mr. Luxmore, to the lovely, distant world; but, come back to me with the +flowers and birds of spring,” said Etoile, and with a brighter smile she +offered her hand. + +“With the earliest birds and flowers of spring, I will be again beside +my princess, and claim the hand of my promised bride,” exclaimed Julius +Luxmore, gallantly lifting the tips of her fingers to his lips. Then, +with a smile and bow he left her, and went to make his final +preparations for departure. + +From this day a man with telescope at hand was constantly stationed on +the look-out from the beach, to watch for and hail the first up-bay +vessel. For it was Julius Luxmore’s intention to go to Baltimore, thence +to New York, whence he expected to find the earliest opportunity of +sailing for Havre. + +He held himself prepared to leave at half an hour’s warning. + +It was at sunrise on a fine, clear morning, early in the month, that the +man on the look-out reported a sail bearing up the bay. + +Mr. Luxmore ordered him to exchange his telescope for a speaking +trumpet, and when she drew sufficiently near, to hail her, to take on a +passenger. + +The man obeyed, and the clipper came to anchor within half a mile of the +Island, and sent her long-boat ashore. + +Julius Luxmore, all ready to depart, sent his trunks and boxes on board +the boat, and only waited for the appearance of Etoile, to take leave of +her before going. + +He knew that he had not to wait long. + +Etoile, fresh, blooming, and beautiful as a rose, came down from her +morning toilet, and stood beside him on the piazza. + +“You are going then, this morning, Mr. Luxmore?” she asked, trying to +smile and to speak cheerfully. + +“Yes, my fairest and best beloved; I am going. It is duty that turns me +from your side.” + +“And duty must always be obeyed, I know,” she said. + +Julius Luxmore looked at her for a moment. He seemed to realize with a +strange thrill that the fascinating creature beside him was no longer a +child. + +He thought her, as she stood there, the most beautiful creature that his +eyes had ever beheld. Her dress of deep black by the contrast of its +shadow only threw out into stronger light the dazzling clearness of her +snowy skin, the brilliant bloom of her cheeks and lips, and the sunny +splendor of her golden ringlets. + +He longed to clasp her to his heart and press a kiss upon her rosy lips. +But he durst not as yet. He never had dared to embrace Etoile. For +though in her unconscious innocence she had freely promised to become +his wife; and though, as long as his endearments had been confined to +words, she had received them very quietly, yet he had noticed that +whenever he ventured to caress her, she shrank as a sensitive plant +shrinks at the slightest touch. + +Therefore he abstained from a parting embrace, lest he should alarm her +delicacy, and fatally repel her confidence. And thus, alone, helpless, +and in his power as she seemed, his gentle and submissive ward, and his +promised bride as she was, her maiden modesty, and native dignity +effectually protected her from all undue familiarity on the part of Mr. +Julius Luxmore, until, as he promised himself, the law and the church +should place her irrevocably in his power. + +“The boat waits—I must tear myself away from you, my own Etoile,” he +said, taking her hand. + +She gently withdrew it; but affectionately replied: + +“I will go down to the beach with you, Mr. Luxmore. Surely you do not +think I would part with you on the threshold of the house, when I might +walk with you down to the shore, and watch you even to the ship?” + +“My darling girl, but it is so cold for my Etoile.” + +“No, I had prepared for the cold,” replied the child, beckoning her +sable maid, Peggy, and taking from her hands a large fleecy white shawl, +in which she wrapped her head and shoulders. + +They then went down to the shore, where the boat waited. The baggage was +already stowed, and the sailors were impatient. + +“Remember your promise to write every week, and to send Timon to mail +the letters at the Heathville post-office,” said Mr. Luxmore. + +“Oh, yes, you may be sure that I will never miss doing so. It will be my +best comfort,” replied Etoile. + +“And if you should ever be ill enough to need a physician’s services, +which is not at all likely, send for old Doctor Crampton.” + +“Yes, I will remember and obey you in all things, my dear guardian.” + +“And now, farewell, my beloved and beautiful Etoile,”—he said, lifting +her fair hands to his lips—“farewell for the winter.” + +“Yes, farewell for the _winter_; but with the first birds and blossoms +of spring you have promised to come back.” + +“To claim the white hand of my beautiful bride,” replied Mr. Luxmore, +pressing her slender fingers. Then he relinquished them and jumped into +the boat, which was immediately pushed off, and where he stood looking +back and waving his hat as long as he could see the fair Etoile +lingering on the shore. + + * * * * * + +Julius Luxmore’s voyage was rapid. Favored with a fair wind, he soon +reached Baltimore, whence he took the cars to New York, where he arrived +early upon the morning of the day when the regular packet was to sail +for Havre, and in which he immediately took a berth. The passage across +the Atlantic was equally prosperous, and early in the new year he found +himself at Paris. + +Mr. Luxmore’s immense wealth, or rather that of his ward, which he +freely appropriated, enabled him to enter extensively into the English +and American society of the French metropolis. + +He contrived to get admission into an English Club, and by his adroit +maneuvering, he learned, for the first time, a fact of the greatest +importance to his plans; it was that of the decision of the Court of +Arches, recognizing the legality of the marriage of Victoire L’Orient +with the only daughter of Sir Parke Morelle. + +And Julius Luxmore discovered with a thrill of joy, that the beautiful +Etoile was not only the actual owner of the rich Island, but also the +sole heiress of one of the wealthiest estates in the West of England. + +Thus, in birth and in fortune, as well as in beauty and accomplishments, +she was a match for a prince! But she should never know it! He would +guard her more jealously than ever, and not until she had become his +wife, should he take her from the Island, present her to her +aristocratic relatives, or claim in her behalf the Island estate to +which the documents in his possession would enable him to establish her +right. + +And he longed with eager, vehement, passionate impatience for the time +to come that should secure to him the possession of this peerless prize. + +He resolved that their marriage should be delayed no longer than her +sixteenth birthday, which would arrive the ensuing midsummer. To pass +the intervening time with as little sense of tedium as possible, he +plunged into all the gayeties of the French capital. Then he made a +short tour through Italy. And finally, toward the spring, returned to +Paris, to collect _bijouterie_ for Etoile, and to prepare for his +homeward voyage. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + THE SOLITARY MAIDEN. + + “What shall I do with all the days and hours + That must be counted ere I see thy face? + How shall I charm the interval that low’rs + Between this time and that sweet time of grace?”—_Mrs. Kemble._ + + +Etoile, left alone with her servants upon the Island, found the time +pass less heavily than she had dared to anticipate. + +The winter was less severe than usual. The atmosphere was elastic and +bracing, and the Island maiden was enabled to pass part of every day in +the open air. + +Her plan of self-improvement was conscientiously carried out. The +earlier hours of every day were devoted to a course of reading. Finding +herself wearied at about twelve o’clock, she would put on a warm hood +and sack, buckle on her skates, and have an hour’s fine skating on the +frozen bosom of her own crystal creek. The first hours of the afternoon +she employed in practicing music, painting, or embroidery. Growing tired +of sitting, at about four o’clock she would order her pony to the door, +and spring into her saddle for an hour’s gallop around her circular +race-course. Or if the weather confined her within doors, so that she +could neither skate at noon nor ride at sunset, she substituted for both +those recreations a visit to her sheltered birds and flowers, that +always afforded her ample entertainment. The long winter evenings were +employed in needle-work, or in light reading. And upon some occasions, +she would permit her two aged domestics to pass the evening in her +parlor, where she would entertain them by reading aloud some interesting +book, or else, while busily plying her needle, she would listen to some +wild and wonderful legend of ghost, wizard or demon, related by some one +or the other of the old people. + +Then she had the weekly excitement of receiving or answering letters +from her guardian, and the permanent interest of anticipating his +return. + +Thus her daily employments helped off the week, and the weekly mail-day +served to mark off the months, and hurry forward the period for Mr. +Luxmore’s return and her own liberation. + +Her own liberation! That, at last, was the great object of Etoile’s +aspiration! + +So the winter wore away, and spring was at hand. + +About this time, having read all her books, learned all her music, +copied all her pictures, and worked embroideries from all her patterns, +and having no material of any sort to labor upon, Etoile bethought +herself of painting her own miniature, as a present to her guardian. So +one morning she conveyed her drawing materials to her bed-room, arranged +them upon her toilet table, and seated herself before the mirror, to +commence operations. In three days, the miniature was completed to her +satisfaction. And an exquisite face it was—a golden-haired, blue-eyed +and rosy-cheeked blonde, beautiful as an angel. Etoile was charmed with +her success; having completed the picture, she could not leave it, but +continued to play with the subject, by changing the color of the +drapery, first, from white to rose-color, next to lilac, then to blue; +then to black, and finally, after sponging out the black, restoring it +to its original snow. + +Then, feeling at a loss what to do next, she resolved to paint a +miniature of herself with black hair, eyes and eyebrows, to see how she +would look thus. She took her place at the mirror, and went to work; and +as she proceeded, Pygmalion-like, she fell in love with her own +creation. She worked at it with enthusiasm; but as the picture grew +toward perfection, her artistic mind discovered that in contrast with +those darkest eyes and blackest ringlets, the blonde complexion was too +dazzlingly fair for harmony—that she must put in darker and richer tints +in the lights and shadows of the face. The subject possessed for her a +strange spell of fascination. Under the force of powerful inspiration, +she perfected the picture. + +And then, why, as she gazed upon her finished work, did her heart swell +with a strange trouble, her lips tremble, and her eyes fill with tears? +What was there in that beautiful pale face, with its large, dark, +mournful eyes, and falling vail of shadowy ringlets, to attract her with +such painful power? + +She had unconsciously drawn the likeness of her mother! + +She selected from her numerous trinkets a plain gold locket, enclosed +the miniature therein, and hung it around her neck, wondering all the +while, why she felt so strongly inclined to wear this picture! + +She placed her own miniature in a similar locket, and reserved it as a +gift for her guardian, whose arrival might now be soon expected. And at +length, early in May, old Timon brought from the post-office a letter +announcing the speedy advent of Mr. Luxmore. + +And from the day of the reception of the letter, Etoile prepared all +things to welcome with eclat her returning guardian. + +And at last he came. + +It was high noon, and Etoile, dressed in a white muslin gown and straw +hat, stood upon the front piazza, about to take her daily before-dinner +walk, when one of the negroes came running up the avenue toward the +house, bringing the intelligence that a vessel had come to anchor about +three miles out in the Bay, and that a boat put off from her side was +rapidly rowed toward the Island. + +Etoile, with a cry of joy, hastened down the avenue toward the +landing-place, which she reached just as the long-boat, containing Mr. +Luxmore and all his baggage, rowed by six sailors, was pushed upon the +sands. + +Julius Luxmore sprang out and hastened toward Etoile. The beautiful +creature looked so attractive as she stood there with her straw hat +hanging on her arm, her snowy drapery and golden ringlets floating on +the breeze, that Luxmore’s first impulse was to catch her to his bosom +in a warm embrace. But she arrested him, as with her innocent child-like +look of gladness she sprang forward, offering both her hands, and +exclaiming: + +“Welcome home, my dear guardian!” + +He caught her offered hands, pressed them, shook them heartily, and +lifted them to his lips, saying: + +“Oh, Etoile! my bride! how enchanted I am to be with you again!” + +Then leaving a command with the negroes to unlade the boat, and convey +the baggage to the house, he drew the arm of his ward within his own, +and they walked up the avenue, homeward, both conversing—he with +consummate art, she with guileless simplicity. They reached the house, +and Mr. Luxmore retired to his chamber, to prepare for dinner, which was +soon served. + +The afternoon was spent in unpacking boxes, filled with rich presents, +which were displayed before the delighted eyes of Etoile. + +“And these are all for my promised bride,” he said. + +“Oh, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed the maiden, in sincere gratitude, +as one beautiful article after another dazzled her sight. + +“Oh! how glorious must be the world beyond, whence all these wondrous +beauties come,” she said, for perhaps the hundredth time. + +“Well! come midsummer and your birthday, which is also to be your +wedding-day, and you shall see that ‘beautiful world beyond.’” + +The artless creature responded by a radiant smile. + +The costly gifts were then all arranged in her own suite of apartments. + +The evening was passed in the moonlit and vine-shaded piazza, where +Julius Luxmore related the events of his tour in Italy and his life in +Paris—or, at least, so much as was proper for the hearing of Etoile, who +listened with deep interest. + +“And now at last you are here!” she said. “You have come back with the +earliest birds, and flowers of spring, even as you promised!” + +“And I shall always keep my word to my beauteous bride,” he answered, +gallantly. + +“And you find the Island in its very loveliest looks! The Isle is never +so charming as in May, when the grass and the foliage wear their +greenest and most delicate hue; when the spring flowers are all in +bloom, and the orchard and groves are forests of blossoms; and the birds +are singing as they build their nests, or feed their young!” + +“Yes, it is all lovely! all charming! but the fairest blooming flower +and the sweetest singing bird of all, is my own Etoile! my promised +bride.” + +“And yet to you, who come from the beautiful beyond, this poor Isle +cannot look so fair as it does to me who never saw any thing brighter!” + +Luxmore smiled at her hallucination, and said to himself— + +“Has _any_ one _ever_ seen any place brighter?” But while he asked that +question only in his heart, he replied to her by his lips saying— + +“Come your wedding-day, and you shall see that beautiful beyond!” + +And again the artless maiden responded by a smile of innocent delight. + +So passed the first afternoon of Mr. Luxmore’s return. And from that +time to two weeks previous to their appointed wedding, Julius Luxmore +never left his betrothed. + +Five weeks passed away like a dream, and brought July. Etoile knew that +she was to be married on the fifteenth. As it was necessary that Mr. +Luxmore should visit the main land to obtain the marriage license, the +services of a clergyman and a lawyer, and also the rich trousseau, +including the bridal vail and jewels, that had already been ordered for +Etoile, and as he wished to reach Baltimore in time to join in the +celebration of the great national festival, he informed his betrothed +that he should set out from the Isle on the first of the month. + +“Three days to go to Baltimore, six to transact business there, and +three to return, bringing the attorney, the clergyman, and the bridal +regalia for my princess!” exclaimed Mr. Luxmore, after detailing his +plan to her. + +“So, by the fifteenth of July, you will be with me again!” she said. + +“Aye! and on the morning of the fifteenth we will be married, and +immediately after we shall sail for London, where I shall present you to +your English relatives.” + +“English relatives!” exclaimed the maiden, in astonishment—“have I +English relatives, then?” + +“Yes, my love, did you not know it?” inquired the wily Julius. + +“Why, of course not! I did not know I had a relative in the world! You +must have been aware that I was ignorant of the existence of any kindred +of mine,” she said, as a feeling of cold distrust chilled her heart. + +“I supposed, my love, that you had heard of your mother’s family.” + +“No, no!” exclaimed the maiden, in a voice of deep emotion. “No one +would ever tell me of my dear lost mother. I have asked a thousand and a +thousand times, but could not learn who she was, or where she lived, or +when she died. It is so sorrowful to have never had a mother either +living or dead. For though I never saw my mother, if I only knew the +place where she sleeps her last sleep, I should sometime go and water +the turf with my tears. Mr. Luxmore, can you tell me any thing about my +mother?”—she asked, clasping her hands, and fixing her eyes on his face +in the earnestness of her entreaty. “Oh, Mr. Luxmore, please, can you +inform me of any thing relating to my dear mother?” + +“No, nothing whatever, my sweet love.” + +“Of my mother’s relations, then? Has she sisters or perhaps parents +living, who would tell me all about her?—Oh, _do_ answer me, Mr. +Luxmore!” + +“My best love you shall go to England, see your relations, and know +all—after we are married.” + +“After we are married!—after we are married! _Why must every thing be +deferred until after we are married!_” inquired Etoile of herself, as +the same cold distrust chilled her heart. But the next moment she +reproached herself for this incipient suspicion, saying mentally— + +“I am unjust and ungenerous! My guardian must know best! My guardian +_must_ be right.” And to atone for her momentary doubt, she held out her +hand and said submissively— + +“As you will, dear Mr. Luxmore. But—after we are married, you will help +me to find out all about my dear unknown mother.” + +“I will, so help me Heaven, sweet Etoile!” he replied lifting her hand +to his lips. + +And the next morning, with a promise, wind and tide favoring, to be back +in two weeks, Julius Luxmore took a tender and respectful leave of his +affianced bride, went on board a passing schooner, and sailed for +Baltimore. + +Etoile went to her room and wrote a letter to her nurse Madeleine, in +New York, informing her that her foster child was to be married to Mr. +Luxmore, on the fifteenth instant. This letter was mailed at Heathville. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIX. + ESTELLE’S HOME. + + “She dwells amid the city: + The great humanity which beats + Its life, along the stony streets, + Like a strong, unsunned river, + In a self-made course, is ever + Rolling on, rolling on.”—_Mrs. Browning._ + + +The time was the 15th of July. The place to which I will introduce you +was a narrow, two-storied, red brick house, in a humble but decent +alley, in one of the most crowded neighborhoods of New York city. + +The street door opened immediately into a tiny parlor, furnished in the +simplest style. + +The walls were covered with paper of a light-grey pattern; the floor +laid with a grave Kidderminster carpet; and the single front window +draped with plain white muslin curtains. Over the mantle-piece hung the +portrait of a very handsome man in the early prime of life. Each side of +the chimney the recesses were furnished with book-shelves, filled with +plain looking but standard volumes. On the opposite side of the room sat +a horse-hair sofa, while half a dozen reception chairs of the same +material sat around the walls. A guitar and a music-stand stood in one +corner. A plain mahogany centre-table occupied the middle of the floor. +Beside this was a large horse-hair lounging-chair. + +Reclining in the chair, with her elbow resting on the table, and her +head supported by her hand, sat a beautiful woman of perhaps thirty +years of age, clothed in deep mourning. By the elegant form and graceful +attitude; by the clear cut, classic features, the delicate pallor of the +complexion, the slender-arched, jet-black eyebrows, the large, languid +dark eyes, with their sweeping length of lash, the full and +sweetly-curved lips, and the shadowy vail of falling black ringlets, we +might have recognized Estelle. Incurable sorrow was still impressed upon +her brow, occasional sighs escaped her lips. This look of suffering had +become habitual, these frequent sighs were involuntary, unconscious, yet +they helped to relieve her oppressed bosom and keep her heart from +utterly breaking. + +On her lap lay a medical book that she had been studying to enable her +better to understand the case of a sick woman whom, in her rounds of +charity, she had lately discovered, and whom she attended. + +And now the book lay idly open; with her elbow resting on the table, her +forehead bowed upon her palm, her dark ringlets falling low around her +lovely face, her dark eyes fixed mournfully on the floor, her mind had +gone far back into the past, and was lost in reverie. + +The street door opened softly, and Susan Copsewood entered the parlor. + +So deep was the reverie of Estelle, that she was unconscious of the +presence of her faithful maid. The lady did not often weep, her grief +was too deep and lasting for such ephemeral relief. Yet now tear after +tear gathered under her drooping lashes, and rolled slowly down her +cheeks. + +Susan looked at her mistress, in deep sympathy, but did not immediately +address her. Isolation from all persons of her own rank in life, and +constant companionship with her mistress, had refined and elevated the +character of this faithful girl, until she had become more the friend +than the servant of Estelle. And there seemed a fitness in this +relation. + +At length the lady with a deep sigh wiped away her tears, shook off her +depression, and looked up. Her first glance alighted upon Susan. + +“Ah, you are come, child?” + +“Yes, dear lady,” answered the girl, but her looks and tones were so +full of surprise, uneasiness, and sympathy, which she refrained in +delicacy from otherwise expressing, that her mistress, with a faint +smile, answered her mute appeal. + +“It is nothing, Susan; at least, nothing new. This, you know, is the +birthday of my little child—my little child on whom I was permitted to +gaze but once, before my eyes closed in insensibility, and her’s in +death—my little child whom I never saw but once in life, but whom I have +seen a thousand times in dreams! She would have been fifteen years old +to-day, Susan. Ah, if my little child had lived, I should not to-day +have been so desolate. Yet it is a strange, sweet thought that I _have +been_ a mother?” + +“Say that you are a mother, dear lady—the mother of an angel who is +fifteen years old to-day, in Heaven. A mother never, never, never can +lose her infant child, unless——” + +“Unless?” + +”——she loses her own soul, so that she cannot enter the company of those +who ‘are of the Kingdom of Heaven.’” + +“True, true!” + +“Then grieve no more to-day, dear lady.” + +“I will not, Susan. Indeed, I know it is very morbid to do so; and only +on this anniversary do I shed a few tears over her memory.” + +“Well, give that habit up, dear lady; and weep no more to-day, because +your child is keeping her birthday in Heaven.” + +“Because my Etoile is shining among her kindred stars!” + +“Your Etoile, dear madame?” + +“Yes, Susan; that was her name. It was a girlish fancy of mine, before +her birth, in case she should prove a daughter, to call her Etoile, +because her family name was L’Orient, and Etoile L’Orient, you know, +Susan, by a free translation means ‘Morning Star.’ She was my +first-born, my only one, my morning star—how quickly lost to mortal eyes +in the light of the eternal day! Enough of my star, now shining among +the celestial constellations! Tell me of my poor patient, Susan, how is +she?” + +“Madame, she is restless and moaning. She asks for you continually.” + +“Then I must go to her immediately.” + +“Do wait until the cool of the evening, dear lady; it is very hot this +afternoon.” + +“No, I cannot wait while a sick one is moaning for me. Go up stairs and +bring my things.” + +Susan went, and soon returned with the black lace bonnet, thick vail, +silk scarf, parasol, gloves, which was the lady’s out-door dress. +Estelle quickly arrayed herself, and attended by Susan, soon left the +house. + +A walk of half a mile through one of the most thronged thoroughfares of +New York, brought them to an ancient street, into which “improvement” +had not even peeped. It was built up on either side with houses that had +once been tall, stately and aristocratic edifices, but were now old, +dilapidated and leaning dwellings, tenanted by the poorest lodgers. + +Before one of the most forlorn of these—a dingy tumbling, three-storied +house, the lady and her attendant paused. + +They entered the dirty door-way, passed up the hall, ascended the +stairs, turned to the right, and entered a poor but clean, cool and +shady room, where the walls were well whitewashed, and the floor well +sanded, the two front windows darkened with slat blinds, and the air +refreshed with aromatic vinegar. + +On a cot near the centre of the room lay the sick woman. A clean, white +counterpane lightly covered her form. A stand, with a pitcher of +ice-water stood by her side. + +The woman was a quadroon of about forty-five years of age, who had +evidently once been very handsome, but whose fine face was now worn down +by sickness, want, and care. + +In a word, she was our old acquaintance, Madeleine, whom nine months of +city life, inexperience, and ill-luck had reduced to this pass. Months +previous to this, her son, Frivole, had accepted a situation as +traveling valet to a young gentleman going to Europe. And after his +departure, Madeleine, disgusted with her life as chambermaid in a large +hotel, had left her place, taken a room, and commenced business as +laundress. Sickness had overtaken her, in the midst of her labors, and +reduced her to her present condition. As yet, Estelle knew nothing of +her except her name and need. Only a week before, she had been told of +this subject of charity, had sought her out, found her in a wretched bed +in a filthy attic room, in this same house, abandoned by all, and +wasting with want and with a low fever. As her condition would not +permit her to be removed to any distance, Estelle found a vacant room on +the first floor, front, had it thoroughly scoured and whitewashed, hung +those cool, dark green slat blinds to the windows, and put in that cot, +with a spring mattress and fresh, snowy draperies. Then she had her +patient laid in a bath, washed, dressed in clean clothes, and removed to +the apartment. + +And for the few days that had elapsed since her improved circumstances, +the woman had visibly amended. + +The lady now drew forward a chair and seated herself beside her patient, +took up a palm-leaf fan that lay upon the counterpane, and began to fan +the panting sufferer, while she inquired in a gentle voice— + +“How do you find yourself, this evening, Madeleine?” + +“More comfortable, but very weak, my lady.” + +“It is the very warm weather that enfeebles you, but we shall soon have +a thunder shower that will cool and purify the air, and you will grow +better.” + +“On the contrary, my dear lady, I am sinking slowly but surely.” + +“You should not despond, Madeleine.” + +“I do not, my lady. I am sinking easily, easily, as a tired baby +dropping asleep on its mother’s bosom.” + +“I am nearly sure that you will recover, and see happier days, +Madeleine,” replied the lady, hopefully. + +“Oh, Madam!” said the quadroon, fixing her glittering eyes upon the face +of her benefactress. “When you look and speak so cheerfully, how the +likeness does beam out!” + +“What likeness, my poor Madeleine?” + +“Your likeness to my little nursling, dear lady. I never did see such a +strong likeness in all my life, although you are so dark and she was so +fair, and though you are always so grave, and she was so gay. It is as +if the same picture were copied in light upon one plate and in shadow +upon another. And then you both have the same inflexion of voice and +turn of the eyes, though hers were blue as heaven and yours are so dark. +But I grow impertinent, dear lady. Pray, forgive a poor woman’s +garrulity. I make too free, I know.” + +“Oh, not so! You loved your little nursling very much then.” + +“Oh, I did!—I did, dear lady!” said Madeleine, covering her face with +her hands and beginning to weep. + +“Madeleine—I was told that you wished particularly to see me,” said +Estelle, with the view of distracting her grief. + +“Oh, yes Madam, it was for her sweet sake I wished to see you this +afternoon. Forgive me, dear lady, for troubling you so much.” + +“You do not trouble me the least in the world. You console me when you +let me see that I can do you good. Now tell me how I can serve you or +your little nursling?” + +“Dear lady, I wished to pray you to write a letter for me to my +darling.” + +“This afternoon, Madeleine?” + +“Yes, Madam.” + +“But you have too much fever to dictate it, Madeleine.” + +“Ah, dear lady, never mind the fever in my veins if you can make it +convenient to write to her to-day.” + +“All times are convenient to me, my poor Madeleine; but why press the +matter this afternoon, when you are so feverish? Why not wait until +to-morrow morning, when you will feel more refreshed, Madeleine?” + +“Ah! how much you look like her now! But I must write to her to-day, for +this, dear lady, is her birthday.” + +“Her birthday?” replied Estelle, feeling some interest but not the +slightest suspicion of the truth hidden in this coincidence. + +“Yes, dear lady, it is her birthday. And as she has no mother or father +to remember it for her, I must do so.” + +“Poor child, she is an orphan, then?” + +“Yes, my lady, or rather worse than orphaned from her birth. But then I +always loved her as my own. She was given into my sole care in her +second summer, and never was separated from me from that time until +about nine months ago. This is the first birthday she ever remembered to +have passed away from her Maman Madeleine.” + +“And how old is she now?” inquired the lady taking a kind interest in +her patient’s conversation. + +“My little Etoile is fifteen years old to-day.” + +“AH!!——” + +With this sharp and sudden cry, Estelle sprang forward, her hands +clenched together, the blood rushing in torrents to her heart, her whole +frame shaken by an inward storm;—and then in an instant, she grew livid +and sank back half, fainting in her chair. The sudden revelation—the +shock, the truth, the joy had overwhelmed—had nearly killed her. + +Susan had heard and understood—Susan sprang to her assistance, bathed +her face with the ice-water, forced her to swallow some, and held the +sponge of aromatic vinegar to her nostrils. + +She said to the sick woman, who had raised up in bed and was gazing in +surprise at this scene: + +“It is a sudden pain to which my mistress is subject. Do not be +afraid—it will be over soon.” + +And, in fact, just then, Estelle lifting herself, put away the offered +assistance of her attendant, made a supreme effort, and though still +pale as a lily, and tremulous as an aspen, she controlled her voice +sufficiently to say in steady tones: + +“That will do, Susan. Sit down.” + +And when her attendant withdrew from her side, and took a seat at the +foot of the cot, Estelle turned to the invalid and quietly observed: + +“I fear, my poor Madeleine, that in your weak state my sudden +indisposition must have startled your nerves. But you perceive that it +is quite over with me now, so pray be composed.” + +“Dear lady, never mind me. I was only pained to see you suffer.” + +“’Twas but for a moment; ’tis over now. Come, let us talk of something +else—your nursling——” + +“Dear lady, do not trouble yourself about the letter now.” + +“Yes, but I _prefer_ to do it,” replied Estelle, and then, anxious to +hear repeated every particular, so as to have confirmed that +intelligence that seemed too joyful to be real, she said: + +“You informed me that her name was——” + +“Etoile L’Orient, my lady.” + +“Yes!—and her age?” demanded the mother breathlessly. + +“Fifteen years to-day, Madam.” + +“Yes! yes!—and you have had her in charge how long?” + +“From the day when, at one year old, she was brought from France to +L’Orient Island, where I lived with my master, her uncle, Monsieur +Henri—I had charge of her until last November.” + +“Where is she now?” + +“On L’Orient Isle, where she has, since twelve months old, resided.” + +“And her parents?” + +“I never saw either of them. Her father, Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, was +lost on the Mercury. Her mother, an English lady of rank, lived with her +own family I believe.” + +“And the young girl, Etoile,—did she know, had she ever been told any +thing of her parents?” + +“Of her father, only that he was lost—of her mother, nothing.” + +“‘Of her mother, nothing!’” repeated Estelle, in a tone of anguish. + +“Yes! it _was_ bad, was it not, lady? But I was forbidden to sadden her +young heart by speaking of her lost parents. And yet the innocent little +heart was often sad enough, especially for her unknown mother; and she +used sometimes to say to me—‘Ah! Madeleine, it is so sorrowful never to +have known my mother, either living or dead. I should have loved my +mother so much, Madeleine!’ But, my lady you are weeping!” + +“Ah! it is because I sympathize with your orphan nursling, Madeleine. +But go on—I think you said she was beautiful?” + +“As fair as a lily, as blooming as a rosebud, and as graceful as a vine. +She has heavenly blue eyes, and a halo of golden ringlets around her +lovely face.” + +“And good? above all, is she good?” + +“As an angel, lady!” + +“Beautiful and good! thank Heaven for that!” + +“Lady, you weep, you turn pale and red, and tremble and gasp for +breath—what is all this?” + +“Susan! Susan! tell her.” + +“Must I, lady?” asked the girl, coming up. + +“Yes! yes!” + +The sick woman raised on her elbow and bent forward eagerly. + +Susan took her mistress’s hand with the deepest respect and turning +toward Madeleine, said— + +“My lady is the mother of Etoile L’Orient, your nursling.” + +“Good Heaven!” exclaimed the quadroon, sinking back upon her pillow. + +Then silence fell upon the three for a few minutes. + +At length the lady said— + +“Madeleine, the letter you spoke of must be written this evening; but +first, do you feel quite equal to giving me a short, succinct history of +all you know, in regard to my child?” + +“Quite equal to it, my lady! And not only that, but so anxious to tell +you, that if I did not do it, I should not sleep a wink to-night.” + +Estelle arose and arranged the pillows more comfortably under the head +of her patient; ordered Susan to get some jelly from the basket she +brought; fed the sick woman with a few spoonsful; made her swallow a +half glass of lemonade; bathed her face and hands in perfumed ice water; +and when she saw her perfectly refreshed, she sat down beside the bed, +and said— + +“Now, if you feel able, Madeleine, commence.” + +And the quadroon, beginning with the arrival of Madame L’Orient with the +yearling baby at the Island, related the whole after history of the +child, up to the time of the sudden death of Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, +the guardianship of Mr. Luxmore over the heiress, and the emancipation +and departure of herself—Madeleine and her son Frivole—from the Isle. + +“And you have not heard from her since?” + +“Oh yes, my lady! After Mr. Luxmore went to France, I received letters +from the sweet creature almost every month. She spoke of having written +two letters previous to that, but I had never received them!” + +“And what sort of a man is this Mr. Luxmore, who is left the guardian of +my child?” + +“My lady, he is about thirty-five years of age, handsome, fair, +accomplished, and seemingly amiable and upright—but——” + +“Well, ‘but’ what?” + +“Notwithstanding all that, I have no confidence in Mr. Julius Luxmore!” + +“Why?” + +“I cannot tell you, indeed, my lady, for I do not know. Yet _he_ +perceived it, and for that reason banished me.” + +“May not your want of confidence have been unjust?” + +“Possibly, my lady; yet a circumstance has come to my knowledge, which +would seem to justify my instincts.” + +“And that circumstance?” inquired Estelle, bending eagerly forward. + +“In Mademoiselle Etoile’s last letter to me, dated six weeks since, she +tells me that she is to be united in marriage to Mr. Julius Luxmore, her +guardian, for that such is his will.” + +“Oh, Heaven of Heavens! No, no! I shall not so lose my child! She is too +young! She is but a babe! She cannot love this man of thirty-five!” +exclaimed the lady, half rising in her strong excitement. + +“I never said she loved him, Madame. Oh, in all affairs relating to +love, courtship and marriage, she is as innocent as an infant.” + +“Then he _dare_ not coerce her! Isolated and helpless, though she be, he +_dare not_ coerce her!” + +“My lady, he not only dare not, but he _will_ not. It is the _fortune_, +and not the hand of this child that is the object of his desire, I feel +sure; therefore, he will use no force that might afterward tend to +invalidate his claim.” + +“Then since she loves him not, and since he dare not compel her, I do +not see how a marriage is to be brought about?” + +“Ah my lady! I told you she was as innocent as the babe unborn of all +knowledge relating to love and marriage. She does not know that love is +necessary both to the good and happiness of marriage. She is ignorant +but that matrimony is a mere arrangement of convenience. And she +naturally takes her fate from her guardian, who is of course interested +in securing her large fortune and her beautiful person to himself. And +she, poor lamb, is even anxious that this union should take place, that +she may leave the Island and go into the world. She sees the east and +west shores of the main land, only under the strong lights of the rising +and setting sun, and so believes that all glory and delight is in what +she calls ‘the beautiful world beyond!’ It appeals that her guardian has +promised to bring her to this imaginary paradise, immediately after +their marriage.” + +“I see! I see the infamous motive under this! He would give her no +freedom of choice, until she is irrevocably his own!” + +“That is just what occurred to me, my lady.” + +“And when, does she say, that this atrocious marriage is to be +attempted?” + +“Soon after her guardian’s return from France, for he has not yet come, +or at least, I have not yet received notice of his arrival. And in fact +I have not received a letter from Etoile for nearly two months!” + +“I must save my child! I must go to her immediately.” + +“Oh yes, dear lady, _do_! But how will you prove to her your identity as +her mother?” + +“By nature first of all! _You_ did not doubt me, although no blood of +mine runs in your veins. Still less will _she_ hesitate, who is +altogether my own.” + +“But for the satisfaction of others, dear lady; though you and Etoile +may be perfectly certain of your relationship, how will you prove to +others that you are her mother, she your daughter, and so establish your +right of authority over her?” + +“Thus. By documents no doubt to be found in the Island Mansion, which +will prove that Etoile is the child of Victoire L’Orient and his wife, +Estelle Morelle. And by Susan here, and a thousand others, if needful, +that I myself am that very Estelle Morelle.” + +“So far, so good.” + +“Now, tell me, how am I to reach this Island; for it is my intention to +hire a nurse to take care of you, and to proceed at once in search of my +child.” + +“Oh, thank you, my lady, you are all goodness; but do not stop to find +me a nurse.” + +“I must do as I see fit in that respect, Madeleine; that is not the +question now; but how I shall reach the Island.” + +“My lady, I cannot tell. For years past no one has arrived at the Island +except Mr. Luxmore, and he came in his own schooner.” + +“Then tell me at least what is the position of this Island in the Bay?” + +“I cannot tell you, exactly; but it is within two or three hours’ sail +of a point called Brande’s Headland.” + +“Brande’s Headland!” + +“Yes, my lady! You know the place?” + +“Somewhat.” + +“It was always my late master’s favorite point of communication with the +shore. I believe also that there is always a sail-boat at the place, +under the charge of the negroes. And I think perhaps your quickest and +surest way of reaching the Isle would be to go to the Headland and hire +a boat from there.” + +“So I believe. I now know what to do. And now, Madeleine, for the letter +that we must write.” + +The requisite materials were found in the drawer of the little stand, +the top of which, when cleared, served as a writing-table. + +“Dictate now, Madeleine, as you would have done had my relationship to +your nursling never become known to you.” + +The quadroon looked surprised at this order; but with perfect confidence +in her patroness she obeyed. + +It was just such an affectionate letter of congratulation as any nurse +might have written to her beloved child on her birthday. And in the +postscript was added, by the lady’s wish, merely these words— + +“_I have news of your mother!_” + +“That is sufficient; we must not overwhelm the child; we must +communicate only enough to prepare her for my coming,” said Estelle. + +After the letter was sealed and duly directed, it was given in charge of +an honest lad, the son of a poor widow, living in the same house, who +was called up to carry it to the post-office. + +“And be sure, my boy, to inquire if there is a letter for Madeleine +Rose,” said the sick woman, as the lad left her side. + +“It has been so long since I have heard from Etoile, that I think there +_must_ be a letter in the office,” she added. + +As there was much to do in a little time, the lady had her attendant +arose to take leave. + +“I shall endeavor to send you a nurse this evening, Madeleine. And if +you should get a letter from Etoile, will you send the lad to No. 5 —— +Lane, and let me know?” + +“Indeed I will, my lady.” + +They now took leave and departed. + +On reaching the street door the overcast appearance of the western sky +struck them. + +“I am afraid there is going to be a dreadful storm, my lady. Look what a +black cloud!” said Susan. + +“Yes! we shall have a tempest. I knew, by the state of the atmosphere, +that we must have one before long. And it is coming. But, Susan, we have +a great deal to do, and storm or calm, we must do it this afternoon; for +I propose to sail in the very first vessel that leaves this port for the +Chesapeake, even though there should be one going to-morrow morning. So, +in order to save time we must take a cab.” + +And as an empty carriage was just then passing, Susan stopped, and +engaged it for the remainder of the afternoon. + +When mistress and maid were seated within, the first order given was— + +“To the Infirmary Intelligence Office.” + +A drive of ten minutes brought them to the place, where Estelle was so +fortunate as to engage a well-recommended, middle-aged woman, who, being +paid in advance, agreed to go at once to the sick room of Madeleine. +They next drove to the nearest upholsterer, and sent a new cot, +mattress, and bedding for the accommodation of the nurse. + +They then purchased all the day’s newspapers, and gave the order— + +“No. 5 —— Lane.” + +And in half an hour they were at home. + +They were no sooner in the little parlor than Susan struck a light, +relieved her mistress of her outside garments, and carefully ensconced +her in her easy chair. Then placing a lighted lamp and the pile of +newspapers on the table beside her, she said— + +“And now, my lady, while you look at the ship news, I will hurry into +the kitchen and have your tea ready in a moment.” + +She hastened to the adjoining little back room, leaving her mistress +opening the papers. + +Estelle turned at once to the list of vessels “to sail,” ran her eye +eagerly down the column, and then exclaimed, reading aloud— + +“For Baltimore, on the 17th of July, the fast-sailing brig Ocean Queen, +Brande Master.” + +“It is my old friend Barbara, whom I desire, but dread to meet! Yet she +could serve me in this cause better than another. Shall I go with her? +Let destiny decide! If I can find another vessel going to the Chesapeake +to-morrow, or the next day, that is to say at or before her time of +sailing, I will go by such an one. If I cannot, I will sail with +Barbara; for I have said that I will certainly go by the first craft +that leaves.” + +Then addressing herself again to the list, she went carefully down the +column. And afterward she successively consulted the ship news in all +the remaining papers, but without finding any other vessel that was to +sail for the Chesapeake for days to come. + +“Indubitably I go with Barbara,” concluded the lady, as she folded up +and put away the last paper. + +Susan then opened the door and said— + +“Supper is served, my lady.” + +Estelle went out into the little back room, and seated herself at the +neat table. But her spirits were too much hurried to permit her to do +justice to the fragrant tea and nicely-browned toast that Susan had +prepared. + +Susan scarcely observed that her cookery was slighted. The storm that +had been gathering all the afternoon was now about to burst upon the +earth and sea, to the mortal peril of all, great and small, that floated +upon the one or stood upon the other. And Susan was flying about, +closing shutters, and letting down windows, for the better preservation +of their own tiny homestead. Scarcely was the last fastening secured +before there blazed forth a blinding flash of lightning, followed +instantaneously by a deafening crash of thunder, that seemed to shake +the whole heavens and earth into dissolution. + +Susan, arrested half way across the floor, turned deadly pale, and +grasped the nearest chair for support. + +“Come into the parlor,” said Estelle, rising from her almost untasted +meal. + +They immediately went into the front room; Estelle sat down in her easy +chair; Susan, who was dreadfully afraid in storms, dropped down at her +mistress’s feet, and buried her face in her mistress’s lap. + +And then for six hours, there raged one of the most terrific tempests in +the memory of the present generation. From seven, P.M., till one A.M., +wind, hail, thunder and lightning, made night hideous with their strife. + +Unprecedented desolation marked the progress of the storm on shore. +Trees were twisted off at their trunks, or torn up by the roots; groves, +gardens and growing crops were devastated. In the towns and cities, old +buildings that had stood the storms of centuries, as well as new +edifices in process of erection, were alike leveled to the ground. +Creeks and rivers, swollen to enormous size, overran their banks, +flooding the whole shore, and sweeping off vegetation, buildings, +cattle, men, women and children. The sea arose in its awful might, and +advanced upon the land, desolating many towns and villages along the +coast. + +Great as was the devastation of the storm upon the land, those who were +competent to judge, prevised a far greater mischief to the ships at sea. +And those who had relatives or friends afloat, waited in extreme anxiety +to hear news of them. + +The six dreadful hours were passed by Estelle and her attendant in +prayer to Heaven for all those who were exposed to the horrors of the +storm. + +At one o’clock the phrenzy of the tempest began to subside as the +passion of an infuriated madman might, in sullen howls, and sometimes +returns of frantic violence. And by two o’clock, the thunder and +lightning had ceased, the sky was marbled over with troops of black, +dispersing clouds, like a disbanded army of storm fiends, and the moon +shone out, clear, bright and benignant, as some fair angel speaking +peace to the world. + +Susan lifted her head from the lap of her mistress, where all this time +it had lain, and arose from her kneeling posture. + +Estelle also stood up and bade her attendant prepare for retiring. +Evening prayers were said. And thanks were returned to Heaven for the +calm that had succeeded the storm. Then, unsuspicious of the great +damage that had been done by land and sea, the mistress and the maid +cheerfully sought their beds. + +Estelle slept in the front room over the parlor. Susan occupied the back +room over the kitchen. The door of communication was always open between +the chambers Thus Susan, whose mind had been too thoroughly excited by +the events of the day, to admit the possibility of her composing herself +to rest, knew also that her mistress did not sleep for an instant; but +turned, and turned in her bed, and sometimes arose softly and paced the +floor. Hoping that the lady would at length lie down and sleep, and +fearing to confirm her wakefulness by addressing her, Susan refrained +from speaking or moving until some time after daybreak. + +Then, seeing that her mistress opened the blinds to admit the daylight, +and proceeded to make her morning toilet, Susan quietly arose and passed +into her room. + +“My dear girl, go back to bed. I did not wish to disturb you so soon +after your loss of rest. Go to sleep again,” said Estelle, as soon as +she perceived her attendant. + +“As if I _could_ sleep again! Dear lady of mine, _you_ have not slept +all night! no, not for an instant. Why?” inquired the girl, with +affectionate solicitude. + +Estelle turned and came up to her humble friend, laid her hand upon the +girl’s shoulder, and with her eyes, her lips, her whole eloquent +countenance beaming with a tender gladness, said— + +“My Susan, many, many nights in my life have you known me to lie awake, +from eve to morn, from _sorrow_. But never, in the whole course of my +existence, Susan, have I lost but this one night’s rest from joy! Oh, +Susan, think of my not being able to sleep for joy! My Etoile! my own +child, whom I have mourned for so many years as dead! To think that she +lives! that I shall soon clasp her living form to my bosom! It grows +upon me, this sense of joy, Susan! it overpowers me! Oh, pray Heaven, +that I, who cannot sleep for gladness, may not become unable to reason +because of ecstasy!” + +“God bless you and preserve you, in joy as in sorrow my lady!” prayed +her faithful attendant. + +Alas! short-lived joy! + +Scarcely had the words of self-congratulation left the lips of the +mistress, and been answered by those of fervent sympathy from the maid, +ere the door-bell was rung. + +Susan hastened her toilet, and, wondering who it could be who came so +early in the morning, went down to open the door. + +It was Jerry, the lad whom they had sent to the post-office on the +preceding evening. + +“Please ma’am, will you ask Mrs. Estel to come directly to Madeleine, +who has got a letter to show you.” + +“A letter from whom?” + +“She told me to say from the young lady on the Island.” + +“Good news, or bad?” asked Susan, breathlessly. + +“She didn’t tell me.” + +“Very well; run home as fast as you can, and tell Madeleine that my +mistress will be with her immediately.” + +The lad obeyed, and Susan ran up stairs to inform her mistress. + +“You needn’t tell me. I have heard all, Susan! Quick! my bonnet and +gloves!” exclaimed Estelle, who with trembling fingers was fastening her +black silk mantilla. + +And in less than five minutes the mistress and maid set out for +Madeleine’s lodgings. + +“I should have sent for you last night, but for the dreadful storm,” +said Madeleine, as the lady took a seat beside her bed. + +“But the letter, Madeleine? the letter! What news? How is she?” + +“Well, Madam, but——” + +“But what? Speak!” + +“It seems that another letter has miscarried, since she says that she +wrote me about six weeks since, advising me of the fact of her +guardian’s return.” + +“He has returned!” + +“Yes, Madam—and—lady, it appears from her letter, dated ten days ago, +that her guardian had gone to Baltimore to make preparations for their +marriage, but was expected home yesterday, which was to have been their +wedding-day.” + +“Oh, no, no, no! Great Heaven, no! It cannot be that this innocent girl +should be left to fall a sacrifice to that creature’s cupidity! Surely +something has intervened to save her! The steamboats have brought us +news of many vessels becalmed at sea, in the great stillness of the +atmosphere that prevailed until the storm of last night. He may not yet +have been able to reach the Island!” exclaimed Estelle, vehemently, +catching at the merest possibilities, as the drowning catch at sea-weed. + +“Or—he may never reach it. He may have been wrecked. Many vessels must +have been lost in the tempest,” suggested Madeleine. + +“No, Heaven forbid! But the great calm that preceded the storm must have +stopped him. In the tempest of last night, he had enough to do to save +his vessel: he could have made no progress. This morning something may +have happened to detain him. I shall sail to-morrow in the Ocean Queen, +the first vessel that leaves this port, for the Chesapeake. I may yet be +able to save my child.” + +“Heaven grant it, madam!” + +“Read the letter now—nay, give it to me, if you have no objection.” + +Madeleine took the precious missive from under her pillow, and handed it +to the lady. + +Eagerly Estelle opened it. + +Artless, affectionate, and full of enthusiasm, was this child’s epistle. +She wrote of her approaching marriage with the most innocent frankness, +treating it as a necessary preliminary to her heart’s greatest +aspiration, to see “the beautiful world beyond.” She continued by saying +that in making the bridal tour, they should come first of all to New +York, where they should take the steamer to Liverpool, and where also +she should be so happy to rejoin her dear Maman Madeleine, whom she +intended to take with her as her attendant to Europe. She concluded with +the fondest expressions of attachment and the tenderest epithets of +endearment. + +“The unsophisticated girl! Oh, Heaven grant that I may be in time to +save her!” prayed Estelle, as she folded the letter. + +Meantime, Susan had been in consultation with the nurse who quickly +prepared a cup of tea and a slice of toast for the lady, who had not as +yet breakfasted. + +The errand-boy, Jerry, was dispatched to call a carriage. While he was +absent, both mistress and maid partook of some slight refreshment, and +soon afterward entered the cab and drove down to the —— street wharf, +off which lay the Ocean Queen at anchor. + + + + + CHAPTER XL. + MEETING WITH AN OLD FRIEND. + + “It gives me wonder great as my content, + To see you here before me.”—_Shakspeare._ + + +The brig lay some quarter of a mile off the shore. Susan hailed a skiff, +which soon put herself and her mistress alongside the vessel. + +Barbara Brande’s deck, as usual, presented an animating scene of orderly +industry. Edwy, as mate, had charge of the forecastle. Several men were +aloft, at work upon the rigging. Others were at the hatches, getting +freight into the hold. Barbara stood upon the quarter-deck, directing +some men, who were lowering the long-boat to go on shore Upon observing +a lady coming over the gangway, she quickly walked forward to welcome +the visitor. Barbara was the same handsome Amazon; with the same erect +and rounded form, the same stately head, firm features, great, strong, +flashing black eyes and brilliant complexion, shaded by crisp, rippled +bands of glittering, jet-black hair. + +“Mrs. Estel! By all that is best, Mrs. Estel! Welcome, welcome, welcome! +I am so overjoyed to see you!” she exclaimed, extending both hands to +her visitor. + +“Am I so little changed, Miss Brande, as to be recognized at once?” +inquired the lady, with a slight smile, as she clasped the offered hands +of the girl. + +“Changed?” repeated Barbara, looking affectionately into her face. “Yes, +my lady, you are changed somewhat—a little paler and thinner, which +makes your eyes look still larger and darker by the contrast; that is +all. I knew you, of course, at a glance. Ah, Susan, is that you? _You_ +are not changed the least in life. How are you? But come into the cabin +where we can talk; for oh, my lady, I think that we must have a great +deal to say to each other,” exclaimed Barbara, addressing sometimes one +and sometimes the other of her visitors, as she led the way into the +cabin. + +“First of all, Miss Brande, I wish to inquire it myself and maid can +have berths here?” asked Estelle. + +“Of course,” replied Barbara, promptly, as she motioned her visitors to +take seats upon the sofa, at the same time placing herself in a chair. + +“Then consider them engaged at once.” + +“You are going to Baltimore or Washington?” + +“To neither. We are going back to the Headland, unless you can engage to +put me on shore upon East Island.” + +“EAST ISLAND!” + +“Yes; why are you astonished, Miss Brande?” + +“Because no one ever lands on East Island. It is, in fact, inaccessible +at all points save one. Besides, the old man who owns it is as jealous +as a Chinaman of the approach of strangers.” + +“But the old man has been dead nearly a twelvemonth.” + +“The old man dead!—and I never knew it!—though, in fact, everybody on +the Island might die, and the rest of the world would know nothing about +it. And so he is gone! Well, ’tis said that + + ‘The angels weep, when a babe is born, + And sing when an old man dies.’ + +But what has become of the pretty heiress, Etoile?” inquired Barbara, at +heart wondering how it was that Mrs. Estel should know any thing of the +Isle and its inhabitants. + +“The young girl remains there under the charge of her guardian, Mr. +Julius Luxmore.” + +Barbara heard! She heard this name pronounced without an exclamation, a +start, or a change of color, betraying how terrible was the shock she +had received—so perfect was the nervous system, and so admirable was the +self-command of this noble girl. + +There was scarcely a perceptible change in her voice, as she repeated— + +“Mr. Julius Luxmore? You said that the young lady’s guardian was Mr. +Julius Luxmore?” + +“Yes, Miss Brande.” + +“May you not be mistaken in the name, madam?” + +“Impossible, Miss Brande. But why do you ask?” + +“Why, I knew Monsieur Henri De L’Ile for many years, and never heard him +mention such a person among his intimate acquaintances. Though it is +true that Monsieur Henri, who never encouraged visitors to approach the +Island, some years ago even discontinued his visits to the mainland; or +else, changed his trade from our shore to the opposite one, so that, for +the last five years, I have lost sight of Monsieur De L’lle.” + +“And it was precisely for that length of time, only, that he had been +acquainted with Mr. Luxmore.” + +“Then it is not strange that I should never have heard of that +friendship,” said Barbara, too calmly to betray how much she was +impressed by this new coincidence. + +“But, Miss Brande, I have made a discovery, which I wish to impart to +you. But first, will you permit Susan to close the cabin?” + +Barbara arose and secured the door, and returning, said: + +“Now I am at your service, dear lady. Go on: I listen.” + +“Miss Brande, this man, this Julius Luxmore, has for five years past, +fixed his avaricious eyes upon the fortune of his ward, and to secure +that, has determined to take advantage of her innocence and +inexperience, and, child as she is, to marry her. But, if it should not +be too late, I have power, through the discovery that I have made, to +prevent this sacrifice.” + +“You, my lady?” replied Barbara, who neither by look, tone, or gesture, +revealed how deeply the iron entered her soul. + +“Yes, I, Miss Brande! And hence my intended voyage to the Island. But I +must tell you the momentous discovery that I have made. You may remember +that, in relating my story, I informed you that after the birth of my +little girl, I just saw her face fade away from my fainting eyes; and +that after recovering from the alternate stupor and delirium of many +weeks, upon inquiring for my child, I was told that she was dead and +buried?” + +“I remember, lady.” + +“_I was deceived._ My child was not dead. She had been secreted by her +grandmother, Madame L’Orient, who after the transportation of Monsieur +Victoire, to make herself acceptable to the childless Monsieur Henri, +conveyed the infant to the Island.” + +“Oh, madam, what a discovery! To what providential circumstance were you +indebted for it?” inquired Barbara, who, through all her own aching +heart, sympathized with this deeply-wronged mother. + +“To a providential meeting and conversation with her nurse, Madeleine, +whom the jealousy and caution of Mr. Luxmore had banished from the +Island,” replied the lady, who thereupon commenced and gave a full and +detailed account of the manner in which she had become acquainted with +Madeleine, and the revelation which had been made her by the latter, +concerning the infancy of Etoile, the death of Monsieur Henri, the +guardianship of Mr. Luxmore, and the appointed marriage between the +guardian and his ward. + +And Barbara listened—no outward emotions revealing the inward storm that +shook her great soul. That her betrothed—whom she had mourned as dead, +these five years past, and to whose memory she had been more faithful +than many widows to that of their husbands—should have been for this +length of time, not dead, but deliberately false—false under +circumstances that increased a thousand-fold the heinous enormity of his +treachery—was a thought that convulsed her soul with anguish. But there +existed a merciful possibility that this might not be _her_ Julius +Luxmore! True, the name was rare, the coincidences striking, the +circumstantial evidence nearly overwhelming; but she had heard of +innocent people being convicted upon much stronger proof; and she would +suspend her judgment until her own eyes should convince her of his +turpitude! But, until then, what a war in her bosom! Happily, with her +regnant self-control, she let no sign of this inward tempest escape. She +answered Estelle very calmly, saying— + +“Yes, lady, you are right. If not too late, this unnatural marriage must +be stopped. And if not too late _now_, lest it should become so by +another day’s delay, we must lose no time. It was my intention to sail +to-morrow morning for the Chesapeake. But if you wish, and if you will +be ready, I will get up anchor and make sail for the Island at moonrise +this evening.” + +“Oh! how generous you are! how heart and soul you enter into my +interests, Miss Brande—dearest Barbara!” + +“Ay, call me by my Christian name, I like that best,” was all the answer +the quiet, but half broken-hearted girl made. + +Estelle and her maid then arose and took leave of Miss Brande, promising +to be on board an hour before the time of sailing, in the evening. + +For some moments after her friends had left the vessel, Barbara Brande +remained standing, like one transfixed by sorrow and dismay. Then, +suddenly starting, she exclaimed— + +“But this is no time to think of my own trouble. I must bring _them_ +together!” + +And she hastened down into her cabin, where she took a seat at her +little table, drew writing materials before her, and indited the +following brief letter— + + + _Brig Ocean Queen_, + _New York Harbor, July, 184—._ + + MY LORD:—We sail for the Chesapeake this evening. If you would hear of + one for whom you have long searched, meet me at the Headland, where I + shall wait for you. + + B. B. + + +She sealed the letter and superscribed it— + + ‘The Right Honorable, the Earl of Eagletower, + Washington, D. C.’ + +Then, calling Edwy, she bade him take the letter, and hasten with it +ashore, to secure the next mail. + +Meanwhile the skiff, still waiting alongside, conveyed Estelle and her +maid to the wharf where they entered the cab and returned home to make +hasty preparations for their voyage. They packed up a few articles of +wearing apparel, closed up the house, called to take a hasty leave of +Madeleine, drove down to the wharf, and by seven o’clock found +themselves in the stern gallery of the Ocean Queen. + +At eight o’clock, the full moon arose, a light breeze from the west +sprang up, and under these favorable auspices the brig made sail. + +“If this weather continues, we shall reach the Island in five days,” +said Barbara. + +“Heaven grant that it may so,” replied Estelle. + +“Unlikely, as under the most favorable circumstances, it seems, I still +have a deep prophetic feeling that I shall yet be able to save my +child!” + +“Heaven grant _that_, also,” said Barbara. + +“Amen,” responded Estelle. + +And then, as the friends sat in the stern gallery, watching the receding +shores, or the moonlit sea, their thoughts reverted to by-gone days. + +Estelle said— + +“I do not see Willful! What have you done with my favorite?” + +“Willful has been midshipman in the navy for three years past, dear +lady; his ship is now daily expected home from the Mediterranean.” + +“I am glad to hear it,” replied Estelle, and then after a short pause, +she said— + +“I am thinking of Joseph in Egypt, when he lifted up his voice, and +said—‘I am Joseph. Doth my father yet live?’ Oh, Barbara, you know what +I would ask! Do _my_ parents yet live?” + +“Lady, when I last heard of Sir Parke and Lady Morelle, some few months +since, they were enjoying their usual health, and living in their +customary state, at Hyde Hall.” + +“Thank heaven!” + +“But, Madam, is there no one else that you care to inquire for?” + +“Yes! Tell me, Miss Brande, if you can, that _he_ is well and happy. +That he has forgotten poor Estelle, and all the sorrows she has +occasioned him, and has found, somewhere, a bride to his mind?” + +“Lady, is it possible that you never look into an English newspaper?” + +“Never. If they fell in my way, I might not be able to refrain from +searching them, any more than I can refrain from questioning you. But +they have _not_ come in my way, and I have abstained from seeking them. +But tell me of _him_.” + +“Lady, he has regularly corresponded with me, for the last five years. +Each month he has written, asking me if I have heard news of _you_. And +when I last heard of _Lord Montressor_,”—she said, laying a strong +emphasis on the name—“he was resident minister at the court of ——. Lady, +both your parents and your lover have sought you over the earth, for +five years past. Immediately after the decision of the Arches Court, +which you might have seen——” + +“Yes, I saw it by chance, in the Court Journal.” + +——“Your father and lover set out for the Headland, where they arrived +just a month after you had left. I cannot describe to you their +disappointment. It was deplorable! Since that they have used every means +to discover your retreat. How vainly, you know.” + +“Miss Brande, I shall trust in you to keep my secret!” + +“Dear lady, I really will not enter into any bonds of that sort. You +must trust solely to Providence for your future. I think if you knew how +rare a thing is constancy, in this world of ours, you would set more +value upon that of the Earl—I mean Lord Montressor.” + +Estelle made no reply to that, but turned the conversation into another +channel. + +They remained talking until ten o’clock, when Estelle retired to her +state-room, and soon after to her berth, where, exhausted by the fatigue +and excitement of the last two days, she soon fell into a deep sleep. + +Alas! for the fair hopes with which this voyage commenced! The next day +the weather changed, the wind shifted, and blew straight ahead for three +days, during which the vessel beat about, making little or no progress +down the Atlantic. And when at last the gale subsided, there ensued a +dead calm, that lasted two weeks, during which the vessel lay like a +log, burning under the fierce heat of the July sun. Barbara and her +passengers were nearly in despair. But we must leave them in their +dilemma, and borrowing the wings of imagination, precede them to the +Island, to ascertain what, in the meantime, has been the fate of +Estelle’s child. + + + + + CHAPTER XLI. + A WAITING BRIDE. + + “Wake, maiden, wake! the moments fly + Which yet that maiden name allow; + Wake, lady, wake! the hour is nigh + When One shall claim thy plighted vow.”—_Scott._ + + +No band of hired minstrels sounding their reveille, aroused Etoile +L’Orient on the morning of her birthday and appointed bridal eve. But +the matin songs of myriad birds that made the fair Isle their home, as +usual awoke the maiden. + +With no understanding of the dreadful, loveless, life-long bond, with +which she was about to fetter her soul—but with an ecstatic recollection +that upon this day, it was appointed she should leave the Isle for the +unknown world beyond, the artless creature sprang from her couch, to +greet the sun upon this her bridal morn. + +She went first and threw open the window-shutters to look out. + +It was a morning without cloud or mist, or breath of stirring air. Far +eastward, across the still gray waters and beyond the silvery sanded +flats of Accomac, the sun—like a king without his court—was rising in +solitary grandeur; not a single courtier cloud attended his levee, or +reflected his splendor. Every aspect of the earth, sea and sky, +foreboded a still, close, hot day, to be followed by a night of storm. + +Every solitary dweller with nature is by habit weatherwise. Etoile, the +young recluse of the Island, could read the signs of the sky, and +looking out, breathed a light sigh. + +“The atmosphere is lifeless, though ’tis early morning; not a leaf stirs +on the trees; scarcely a ripple curls on the waters; even the birds have +already ceased their songs; and I—I can scarcely breathe this motionless +air! But I will ask Moll about the weather, she knows the best.” + +And going to the bell-rope, the young girl rang for her attendant. + +Old Moll and little Peggy entered. + +“What sort of day is this going to be, Aunt Moll?” + +“’Deed, Miss Etty, it gwine be like yisdy and day ’fore yisdy, on’y more +so! ’Deed it’s wonderful hot an’ close; not a bref of air more’n de +whole yeth had de asthmetics! Marster send a little gus’ or somefin to +freshen the air a bit! Is yer gwine down to the crik?” said the old +woman, as she busied herself with getting together her young lady’s +bathing dress, shoes, cap, towels and so forth. + +“Yes,” Etoile said, “of course I am going down to the creek.” + +Old Timon always waited at the little maiden’s solitary breakfast table. +This morning he made his appearance just as his young mistress took her +seat at the board. + +“What sort of weather are we going to have, Timon?” asked the child. + +“Honey, dere’s bound to be a change afore long,” replied this +philosopher, oracularly. + +“What _sort_ of a change, Timon?” inquired Etoile, a little impatiently. + +“A _change_—dat all I kin say,” responded the sable savan, growing more +profoundly mysterious. + +“Do you think that the packet will reach here this morning?” + +“Yes, honey, dat is ef she kin git here! which you see ’pends ’pon +circumferences b’yond our ’trol.” + +Finding that there was no satisfaction to be got from Timon, the young +lady arose and retired to her own parlor and endeavored to settle +herself to her usual avocation. In vain! She could not confine her +attention to the open book before her. She tried her painting, and then +her music, with no better success. Finally, she arose and went to her +aviary. + +“Poor little captives! you are so like myself that I ought not to +neglect you for an hour,” she said, and calling her little hand-maid, +Peggy, to her assistance, she opened all the windows of the aviary to +let in more light if not more air. And then she busied herself until +noon in cleaning out the cages, and supplying them with seed and water +and fresh green boughs. The clock struck twelve while she was still at +work. + +“Noon! and the packet not here yet! Bring me the telescope, Peggy.” + +The little maid obeyed. And Etoile taking the instrument from her hand, +went out upon the piazza, adjusted the glass, and took a sweeping survey +of the Chesapeake. Up the Bay, in the direction whence she expected the +packet with Mr. Luxmore, not a sail was to be seen. Down the Bay—very +far down, midway between the two capes, lay, apparently becalmed, a +vessel. + +With a deep sigh, she lowered the telescope, laid it on the settee, and +returned to her occupation in the aviary. + +At dinner she again spoke to Timon. + +“Two o’clock, uncle, and the packet not here!” + +“How she gwine be here, chile, widout a bref of win’ to blow her along?” + +“Oh, I wish the wind would rise!” + +“Hush, honey! you don’t know what yer asking for!” + +“Ah, but I am _so tired_ of this place.” + +“You wants to leab we-dem mighty bad!” + +“Oh, no! no! no! only for a little while! I could not desert the dear +Isle, and you all who are on it, forever, because, after all, I love my +Island and my people better than all else _living_. But I do not want to +go and see the wonderful world. And even more than that, I want to see +my dear lost mother’s friends and hear about _her_. For you know, no one +would ever tell me about my dear mother—where she lived, or if she lived +at all!—or if she was dead, or where she was buried! So, you see, I am +left altogether in doubt. And Mr. Luxmore has promised to take me, +directly after we are married, back to my mother’s friends. It is that +which makes me so anxious to be gone! Oh, Heaven! that the wind would +rise!” + +Leaving the table, she called Peggy to bring her the telescope, and went +up stairs to the attic, and then up the ladder to the little observatory +terrace upon the apex of the roof between the two central chimneys. +Adjusting the instrument, she looked far up the Bay. There was not a +sail to be seen. She turned the glass down the Bay. There lay the +schooner just within the Capes. + +While watching her still white sails, she observed the ragged end of an +inky cloud just above the horizon. At the same instant, a distant, deep, +and hollow moan sounded over the sea, and like a prophetic sigh from +nature, the first breath of the waking breeze touched her brow. + +“Thank Heaven, the wind is rising,” she said. + +And lowering her telescope, she went below. + +“Timon, the wind is getting up! the packet will be in!” she said +exultingly to the old man, whom she found upon the piazza. + +“Yes, honey; but dis win’ come _up_ de Bay dead ag’in any down packet.” + +“Why, so it is! I never thought of that,” said Etoile, with a look of +disappointment. + +“But don’t you git ’scouraged, honey! Now de win’ up, it may shif’, an’ +any win’ short ob _harrycane_ is better nor a dead calm.” + +Restlessly, impatiently, the girl walked about, looking first from one +window and then from another. At last she said: + +“Bring along the telescope, and go down to the beach with me, Timon. I +want to watch.” + +And taking down her straw hat, she tied it on and led the way to the +extreme south point of the Island, called The Shells. + +This was the most desolate—or rather the _only_ desolate portion of her +insular domain. In low water, it exhibited several acres of rugged +shoal, consisting of reefs beyond reefs of sand, shells, sea ore, and +all the multifarious deposits of the waves. Here, after ebb tide, in the +deep pools left in the hollows between the reefs, shell-fish were caught +in abundance by the Island negroes. Now, the water was very low, and +Etoile could easily step across the little pools in which she observed +the crabs and manenosies struggling to escape. + +“Give me the glass! There! stand and let me rest it upon your shoulder, +good Timon, and I will see what I can see. That schooner is nearer. Her +sails are filling with the breeze. She is bearing up,” said Etoile, +after she had taken sight. Then lowering the glass, and returning it to +the keeping of Timon, she scanned the sky with her naked eye. Detached +and ragged fragments of an inky cloud, sailed like an ill-omened fleet +before the wind up the horizon. + +“There will be a gust! I hope it will not be a serious one. What think +you, father Timon?” + +“’Deed, honey, you may ’pare for any thing, when you sees de debil’s +black rag-bag shook out in the sky dat way!” said Timon, ominously. + +The wind blew higher—the fleet of clouds sailed up faster—the sea took +on a darker shadow. + +“Miss Etty, chile, I think how we done better go into the house,” said +the old negro, uneasily. + +“Perhaps we had,” said Etoile, turning. “But, father Timon, what is the +matter with the birds?” she inquired, calling his attention to the great +flocks of water-fowl screaming, that darted distractedly to and fro +between the darkened heavens and the troubled sea, or dropped in sudden +terror to the covert of some thicket on the Island. “What does ail the +birds, father Timon?” + +“_Dey_ knows,—de dumb creatures do!” replied the old man, mysteriously. + +“What do you mean, father Timon?” + +“Ah! chile, you’s young—you is! You nebber see such a tempes’ in your +life, as we-dem gwine to have to-night!” + +“Oh, I hope not! Dear Heaven, I hope not!” exclaimed Etoile fervently, +and the next moment she took heart of grace, and comforted herself with +the reflection that old Timon was always at best a croaker. + +The gale was now blowing so hard, that it was with difficulty she could +keep her footing, and avoid being thrown forward upon her face. + +As they neared the house, she saw old Moll and Peggy hastily closing +blinds and letting down windows. + +Turning her eyes over the grounds, she noticed the old men hurrying the +frightened cattle into their places of shelter, while crowds of women +and children were running toward the mansion house, as a place of +greater safety from the impending storm. + +Flocks of sea-fowl were seen settling on the Isle. Man and beast, alike, +seemed impressed with the prophetic instinct, that the coming tempest +would be one of unprecedented violence. + +Old Moll opened the front door to admit her young mistress. + +“Come in, chile! Lors a messy ’pon top o’ me! Come in out’n the win’! +It’s enough to blow you ’way!” she said, taking the hand of the young +girl, and drawing her within the door. Then noticing the crowd of women +and children, increased now by the arrival of the old men from putting +the cattle up, she angrily exclaimed: + +“What all you-dem black niggers come a scrowdging in here for? Go ’long +wid yer! You tink how ef de debbil want you to-night, Miss Etwil can +save you? Go ’long wid you!” + +“Oh, let them come in, poor souls! if they think they will feel any +better here! We will all sit together in the large, front room, until +the storm is past,” said the gentle-hearted girl. And, as her sweet will +was law, all her people entered with her, and found shelter in that +spacious apartment opposite Etoile’s parlor, which had once been +Monsieur Henri’s hall of state. + +The negroes withdrew to the walls of the rooms. + +“Find seats—find seats—you must not, after your long day’s labor, remain +standing,” said their kind young mistress. + +The old people sat down in chairs, at a humble distance from their +little lady, and took the children upon their laps. The others seated +themselves upon the carpet. + +Etoile drew a chair to the centre-table, and reclined. + +They were scarcely thus arranged, when a vivid flash of lightning, +followed by a tremendous roll of thunder, startled every one to their +feet. + +“Marster, messy on us!” cried old Moll, crossing herself. “Oh, Miss +Etwil, honey, let me light a bless’ candle!” + +“You must trust in the Lord, mother Moll.” + +“Yes, chile, so I does; but I’d feel heap easier in my mind, if there +was a bless’ candle-light.” + +“Oh, yes, Miss Etwil! please, honey, let the bress candle be lit,” +pleaded the other servants. + +There was no wisdom in arguing with terrified negroes in a storm. + +“Light the candles, if you like,” said the little lady. + +Moll jumped to avail herself of the permission. She went to the +fire-place, where, occupying the centre of the mantelshelf, stood a +plaster image of a saint, with a wax candle in each hand. Moll took one +of these, drew a match and lighted it, and was just about to replace it +in the hand of the image, when— + +There fell—hurled down from heaven—a tremendous thunderbolt, striking +and shattering the chimney, throwing Moll upon her face, extinguishing +the candle, and stunning, into momentary insensibility, every person in +the apartment. + +Total darkness and silence followed the shock. + +Etoile, who, in the swift instant of receiving the electric charge had +believed herself to be annihilated, was the first to recover her senses +and presence of mind. More slowly returned her powers of speech and +motion. But all was total darkness and stillness around her. She +listened. + +Not a motion—not a breath—not a sound—save the falling of the rain, was +heard. + +“My Father! are they all killed?” she exclaimed. “Who is alive? Is there +no one that can answer me?” she inquired and waited for the issue. + +None spoke. + +She arose, still quivering from the shock, and groped her way over +prostrate forms to the mantle-piece, when she felt for the matches, and +lighted the remaining candle. The illumination of the room showed her +the forms of the prostrate negroes, slowly recovering, and amid muttered +prayers and exclamations of dismay, picking themselves up. + +No one was hurt. + +Etoile stooped and took up the extinguished candle, lighted it, and +placed it, with the other, in the hands of the image. The double light +certainly made the large room look more cheerful, and revived the +spirits of the appalled negroes. + +“But see you,” said their young mistress, “you must trust in God alone. +For observe, even though Aunt Moll held the blessed candle in her hand, +she was struck down by the shock of the thunderbolt, and the candle was +extinguished.” + +“Lord forgive you, Miss Etwill, honey,” replied the old woman. “It wur +de bressed an’ holy candle as saved all our lives. An’ ef’ I hadn’d had +de sanctify candle lighted in my han’ when I was struck, I done been +stretch out here, a dead ’oman on de floor.” + +Etoile’s blue eyes dilated at this strange but almost unanswerable +argument, and before she found a reply, another blinding flash of +lightning, followed by an appalling crash of thunder, and a dashing +flood of rain, sent all the negroes upon their knees. + +Etoile grew pale as death, not for herself, but for others. + +“Oh, God have mercy! Oh, God guard the ships at sea!” she prayed, with +clasped hands, and lifted eyes. + +“An on we-dem, too, amen, amen,” responded all around her. + +And now in the intervals between the rolling, crushing, and rending +peals of thunder, and in the pauses of the dashing floods of rain, and +the howling blasts of wind, was heard another dread sound. + +It came not—like the thunder, the rain, and the wind—in fitful and +startling assaults. + +It came at certain intervals—regular, monotonous, and inexorable as +fate. + +It was a slow succession of dull, heavy, tremendous shocks, at each of +which the solid earth seemed to quake and shudder. + +Each shock was nearer, harder, heavier than the last. + +The negroes heard it in appalled silence. + +Our young heroine listened to the unknown sound, and looked upon the +panic-stricken faces of her people. Then she inquired with forced +calmness— + +“What is that noise, Timon?” + +“Oh, Miss Etwill, honey, don’t ax me! Say your prayers, chile, an’ let’s +die like Christians.” + +“Oh, God, it is the SEA! The SEA is advancing upon the Island!” +exclaimed Etoile, as the awful truth broke upon her consciousness. + +Then followed weeping and wailing, and wild wringing of the hands among +her servants. + +Etoile, heroic by nature, and self-controlled by education, after her +first exclamation, became composed. Her clear, strong, active intellect +at once comprehended the circumstances. + +“The house stands high, the walls are of solid masonry. The sea may +enter and flood the lower chambers, but will not be likely to rise to +the upper ones, and cannot sweep away the building,” she said to +herself. + +But, meanwhile, the wild tumultuous waters thundered onward like a vast +besieging army. Soon the strong walls shook under the cannonading of the +waves. + +The negroes howled in the very agony of terror. + +“Silence, and listen to me!” exclaimed the young heroine rising and +lifting her hand to attract attention. + +In an instant the lamentations ceased, and all looked up to her +beautiful inspired face, as though it had been the face of an angel. + +“To the attic chambers! Every one of you to the attic! There you will be +quite safe.” + +But so benumbed were their faculties by fright, and so confused their +senses—with the mingled, deafening, chaotic noises of rolling thunder, +and howling wind, and falling trees, and, above all, of the dreadful +roar of the waters that broke against the trembling walls and creaking +doors and windows of the house—that they seemed to have lost the power +of motion. + +“To the attic! to the attic, for your lives! Snatch up the children and +fly!” exclaimed Etoile, just as a great sea, thundering, broke upon the +walls, and bearing down the doors and windows, rushed roaring into the +house. + +They had had barely time to seize the children and run through the back +door to the back staircase, up which they fled before the pursuing +waves. + +Etoile, who had lingered behind to see that none were left, must have +been whelmed in the black rush of waters that soon filled the first +floor, but for her power of swimming. So she reached the staircase, and +clambered up. + +Three flights of stairs brought her to the attic, where she found her +terrified people gathered. + +“We are safe! we are safe! Return thanks to God and set yourselves at +rest,” exclaimed their mistress, as she joined them. + +“Oh, young missus, is you sure?” inquired one of the old women. + +“Yes, the water has risen only to the fifth step on the first +staircase—it is wonderful that it could rise so high, and nearly +impossible that it should rise higher. Be all composed. Give thanks to +God, who holds the sea in the hollow of his hands. Who says unto the +wild waters, ‘Thus far, no further shalt thou go; and here let thy proud +waves be stayed.’ The storm must be nearly expended. It is almost +midnight. And midnight and noonday, like sunset and sunrise, are always +crises in weather,” said the young girl. + +But nothing seemed to corroborate her comforting testimony. For in this +lofty, bleak, exposed attic, the violence of the storm was fearfully +apparent. Through the uncovered glass windows, the lightning blazed in a +continuous and blinding glare. Over the near roof, the thunder broke in +deafening crashes. Around the peaked gables, the wind raved, rifting off +and rattling down the shingles. And through every chink and crevice the +rain poured; while up from below, rose the roar of the multitudinous +devouring waters. + +It was a night of such fear, horror, and desolation, as the oldest negro +on that Island had never seen before. + +At one o’clock, while the storm was still raging, Etoile crept down in +the dark, to take observation of how high the waters might have risen in +the house. Down two flights she went, and paused at the head of the +third. It was pitch dark. She stopped and listened, and heard the +muffled motion of the waters within the walls, but was unable, from the +sound, to judge how near they might be to her feet. + +“Never mind. I will hold by the bannisters and step cautiously, and when +I wet my shoes, it will be time enough to stop,” said the heroic girl, +as she went down on her dark and dangerous exploration. She had +descended to the turn in the staircase, and had not yet wet her feet, +when by the red gleam of the wax-lights left burning high in the hands +of the image on the marble shelf of the large room, she saw the dark +pool of waters below. Now, it may be strange, but it is true, that this +still, black, confined abyss of water in an unwonted place, filled her +soul with more fear than the great waves of the open sea could have +inspired, because mingling with this fear was a disgust and loathing +which could make no part of the terrors of the great ocean. +Nevertheless, she went down nearly to the dark water’s edge, and by the +red gleam of the candle-light upon the surface, she noticed that it had +fallen to the third step and was steadily subsiding. Having ascertained +this fact, she hastened back up stairs to rejoice the hearts of her +people with these glad tidings. + +“The sea is receding. In an hour it will have retired from the house. +_Now_ will you return thanks to the Lord who has stayed the waves?” she +exclaimed, as she joined her people. + +“Oh! we do, we do, Miss Etwill, but hear to the thunder still!” +responded old Moll on the part of the negroes. + +The storm, however, had spent its worst fury. + +The wind, like the waves, was subsiding. + +The flashes of lightning were less vivid, and less frequent. The peals +of thunder rolled off faint and far. + +The rain fell softer. + +After two o’clock the clouds began to break away, dispersed. And at +three o’clock the same placid morn that had shone upon Estelle, lying +awake in her small dwelling in the distant city, looked in now through +the attic window, upon her fair child, Etoile, seated among her sable +attendants. + +As soon as the thunder and lightning had ceased, the negroes, a +heavy-headed race, had one by one dropped asleep on the attic floor. + +But not so could Etoile compose herself to slumber. The novelty and +excitement of her position, suspense and anxiety concerning the fate of +the vessels at sea, combined to banish sleep from her eyelids. + +Near morning she went to one of the front dormer windows, opened it and +looked out. + +The far-spent night was now almost as light as day. The full moon rode +in the mid heavens. The first faint dawn of morning paled the east. A +few rent and ragged black clouds hung about the horizon, only serving to +make the gray sky look lighter by the contrast. The sea had receded from +the centre of the Island, but still raged and boiled over two thirds of +the lower portion. Many fragments of broken timber were tossed hither +and thither upon the crests of the waves. At first Etoile naturally +supposed these to be portions of the Island cabins carried away by the +flood. + +But the next instant, raising her eyes and looking out at sea, she saw, +oh horror! what? + +The bare hulk of a vessel, the masts and shrouds all gone, tossed about, +the sport of the maddened sea! + +And while her eyes were still spell-bound to the awful spectacle—the +wreck shuddered through all her frame, settled, and went down, and the +waves closed over the spot where she had sunk! + +With a terrible cry, Etoile fell upon her face. Neither her cry nor fall +aroused any of the heavy-headed negroes, sleeping the deep sleep of +exhaustion. + +Not long the poor girl lay in her swoon; for when she recovered her +senses it was early morning. At first stupefied, bewildered and +confused, with a dull, aching, undefined consciousness of something +painful lying heavy at her heart, she strove in vain for recollection. +And then suddenly flashed back upon her mind the perfect memory of the +night of storm, and the ship that sank in her sight. + +She hastened to arouse her servants. + +“Awake! awake! up! up! a ship has been cast away on our shoal! I saw her +go down before my eyes!” she cried, shaking one and then another. In a +few minutes all were on their feet, and eagerly questioning each other +as to what has happened. + +But Etoile rushed to the window and looked out. The sun was just rising. + + + + + CHAPTER XLII. + WHAT THE SEA GAVE TO ETOILE. + + “A ruddy tinge of glowing bronze + Upon his face is set, + Closely around his temples cling + Thick locks of shining jet; + He loves to climb the tall mast-head + Or plunge in the rapid stream; + He dares to look on the thunder cloud + And laugh at the lightning’s gleam.”—_Eliza Cook._ + + +The sun arose over a scene of wild devastation. The green and blooming +Isle was laid waste. Rose trellises, fences, arbors, and even the +cottage homes of the negroes had been swept off by the flood. Groves of +old forest trees had been torn up or broken down. Orchards of young +fruit-trees were uprooted and swept away. Growing crops were +annihilated. The sea that had receded from the Isle, surged, boiled and +plunged madly upon the beach. A wild, sullen, and chaotic sky overhung +the scene. Black, torn and jagged clouds, looking as though by some +violent concussion of the elements they had been shivered into +fragments, still hung about the horizon. The receding winds and waves +still moaned in fitful gusts. “‘Our house is left unto us desolate,’” +said old Moll, speaking in the solemn words of Scripture, as she looked +forth upon this scene. + +“But indeed I do not mind that! for a few months of patient labor and +another spring will repair all the damage done to the Island. But for +the lives lost! Oh, friends, for the lives lost upon that doomed vessel, +and upon how many more—good Heaven!—that may have gone down in the storm +of last night!” said Etoile, mournfully. + +“Our cabins are all carried away,” muttered one old woman +disconsolately. + +“Your cabins shall be rebuilt and refurnished. All your losses shall be +repaired. But alas! for those who have perished. Who shall rebuild their +house of life?” she added sorrowfully. Then solemnly replying to her own +question, she said: “Even the Lord of life! He shall rebuild their house +of life! He shall give them mansions in the sky.” + +Then, after a little pause, she suddenly exclaimed: “Come, friends, let +us go down and learn the worst.” And she led the way, followed by the +whole troop. + +The third and the second floor of the house were found uninjured. But +the first floor that had been swept by the flood, was thoroughly +saturated with wet, and covered with a thick deposit of sand. The +water-mark upon the walls showed that the sea had risen to the height of +four feet in the rooms. All the lighter articles of furniture, such as +chairs, footstools, etc., had been floated off. Other things remained +uninjured. + +They quickly opened all the doors and windows, to let the drying air +pass through, and then they went forth from the house. + +So rapidly had the sea advanced and receded, that the ground was not wet +many inches deep. And they were enabled to pass, if not dry-shod, yet +without wading, down to the beach, called The Shells. + +Here was a wild scene! The higher sites of the shoals were littered with +fragments of the wreck—broken spars, planks, casks, coops, etc. Further +down the stormy sea still leaped, plunged, and broke upon the shore. +While carefully picking her way among the multifarious fragments of the +wreck, and springing over the surging pools, from rift to rift, Etoile +suddenly paused and shrieked. + +At her feet, among broken boxes, staved barrels, and tangled +ropes,—bound with sea-weed, and half buried in sand, lay the body of a +young man! + +In an instant, Etoile was kneeling by his side, sweeping the sand and +sea-weed from his face and form, and eagerly searching for some sign of +life. + +“Oh, come Moll! come Timon! come all of you and tell me! Is he dead? Is +he dead?” + +With an interest almost as intense as though the stranger had been some +near friend or relative, she cleared his face from obstruction, loosened +his cravat, and sought to raise his head. + +But at that moment a spasm of pain convulsed his face and a tremulous +moan escaped his lips. “Oh! he lives! the poor youth lives!” she +exclaimed, rising and addressing the old negroes, whose slow steps had +now brought them to the spot. + +“Peggy! you and Chloe run, and bring down hither the light wicker settee +from the hall, and spread two soft quilts upon it, girls. He must be +laid upon that and carried up to the house. Timon! as soon as ever the +sea subsides sufficiently to permit it, you must take the cutter, and +run across to Heathville, to bring Doctor Crampton here. He is very much +hurt, I fear! Oh girls, make haste! It is so dreadful for a bruised or +wounded man to lie here on these rugged rifts!” she exclaimed, giving +all her orders with a clearness and promptitude worthy of an older head. + +As soon as it was possible to accomplish the task, the young negro maids +returned, bringing the settee and soft quilts, which were folded and +laid upon it. + +“Now raise him tenderly, tenderly. Timon, help them. Softly—do not jar +his form. Ah! he moans! you hurt his shoulders, Timon! Be very careful. +Now ease him down on the settee—so—there,” she said, hovering with +compassionate interest around the wounded man, while her troop of +attendants looked on stupidly, or lent their aid only at her command. In +truth, the poor creatures had not yet recovered from the panic of the +storm. + +“Now, Peggy and Chloe, take the head, and, Anne and Jane, go to the +feet, and so go on, slowly to the house. Be careful! do not stumble! The +least roughness of motion must be so painful to a wounded man. Aunt +Moll, you and Aunt Patsy, hurry on to the house, and prepare your old +master’s chamber and bed for this youth,” said Etoile, anxiously heedful +of the welfare of the human waif thus cast upon her care. + +She was promptly obeyed in every particular. And while the old negro men +remained upon the shoals, searching with the instinct of natural +wreckers, for spoils among the fragments, the old women, with a kinder +impulse, hastened as fast as age and the rough way would allow, to +prepare for the comfort of this survivor of the wreck. The young maids +bore their burden gently on; and Etoile walked by the side of the +settee, anxiously watching the pale, haggard, but handsome face of the +sufferer. + +Very carefully he was carried into the house, and up into the chamber of +the late Monsieur Henri. + +Very tenderly, then, the two old women changed his clothes, and laid him +on the bed, covering him with a light, soft, white counterpane. When +this was done, they called their young mistress, who came in with a +small crystal flask of brandy, and a little glass. + +“I have been looking in a medical book. It says that brandy must be +given. Lift his head gently, Moll, while I pour a little into his lips,” +she said, approaching the bed. + +The woman complied; but the lips, or rather the teeth of the patient +were so firmly closed, that she could not force a drop through. + +“Moll, I shall have to bleed him!” she said, almost in tears. + +“Bleed! you! Miss Etoile? You do such a thing?” exclaimed old Moll in +dismay. + +“Yes! the book says in such a case as this, it must be done. There is no +one here to do it but me. I know how it should be done, for I have often +seen my dear uncle do it, in cases of necessity. Oh, I feel it is +dreadful. It makes my blood run cold to think of it; but sooner than see +a fellow-creature die, you know, why, even I must nerve myself to use a +lancet.” + +And, without further ado, the young heroine prepared bandages and bowl, +selected from her late uncle’s case of instruments a proper lancet; and +then, having stripped the arm to the shoulder, and tied a handkerchief +tightly around it above the elbow, until the vein was erected, she took +the blade between her finger and thumb, and with a firm hand proceeded +to make the incision. It is true, that her sweet young face was pale as +marble, and her lips firmly compressed, as she watched the thick and +crimson stream of life curl slowly over the white arm; but her courage +was repaid when, presently, she saw the rigor of the patient’s form and +face relax, and his bosom rise and fall in a long, deep, soft breath. + +“Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven!” she said, as she unbound the tight +ligature to let the tide of life flow back, and carefully bandaged the +arm. + +“I thank you, fair and gentle lady,” she heard a faint voice murmur, and +looking up, as she replaced the arm, she saw the dark eyes of her +patient opened, and regarding her with an expression of mingled +astonishment and gratitude. + +She beckoned her old servant to take away the sanguinary evidences of +her late work, and then stooping, inquired softly— + +“Are you hurt much?” + +“I think not, young lady.” + +“Try to make a very deep breath,—so, there,—does it hurt you to breathe +thus?” + +“Not in the least, my kind nurse.” + +“Then that proves that you have received no injury!” + +“Ay! thank Heaven, I have received no inward hurt.” + +“Now move your limbs. Can you move them freely and without pain?” + +“Yes, young lady.” + +“It is certain, then, that they are not broken nor strained.” + +“Ay! thank Heaven for that, also,” said the patient smiling. + +“Forgive me, if I seem intrusive; but I am the only doctor that is at +hand, just now. So, for your own sake, young gentleman, you will be so +good as not to mock when I question you,” said the young girl, with the +mild majesty that, on occasions, she could assume. + +“I am most indebted to your compassion, my fair physician. I am blessed +beyond my merits in falling into your hands. Did my smile offend you? +Ah, young lady! it was the smile of one not fully come to his senses! +Did you know how little cause I have to smile, you would pity, even more +than you condemn.” + +“I condemn not! I pity from my deepest heart. But think of yourself, and +of getting better. You have friends who love you, and for whose sake you +must strive quickly to recover. Now then! move your arms, please.” + +The patient obeyed, but groaned deeply with the effort. + +“One of your arms is hurt?” + +“I think it is broken above the elbow.” + +“Oh!” + +It was a sudden catching of the breath, so full of acute, sympathetic +pain, that the sufferer looked up in the pale face of his young nurse, +wondering that this sensitive creature could be the same girl who, ten +minutes before, had nerved her gentle heart to use the lancet. + +But even while he wondered, she was gone from the room. + +In two minutes she was back again, with Moll bringing a little pail and +some napkins. + +“My name, lady, is Willful Brande, midshipman in the United States’ +service,” said the youth, who thought the time had come when politeness +required him to announce himself. + +“Oh! you are the Brande of the Headland. And, indeed, I saw a +resemblance to Miss Barbara Brande,” said Etoile smiling. + +“She is my only sister.” + +“I saw her only once; but I liked her very much; I am glad if I can be +of service to her brother, for her sake,” said the young girl. + +“And not for his own?” was upon the lips of the youth to ask; but +respect and delicacy restrained the question. + +“I thank you on the part of my sister as well as of myself, young lady,” +he answered. + +“_My_ name is Etoile L’Orient,” replied the maiden, blushing, she knew +not why, under the eloquent look of gratitude he had raised to her face. + +“I shall never forget that name in my prayers, sweet lady,” said the +youth. + +And now with slightly tremulous fingers, having confined the last +bandage around the wounded arm, she directed Moll to take her place +beside the sick bed, and went out to prepare, with her own careful +little hands, a delicate repast for the invalid. + +It was noon before the sea had sufficiently subsided to make it safe for +a boat to be sent to the mainland. And thus it was night before old Dr. +Crampton arrived. He was shown immediately to the room of the patient. +Willful’s hurt was a simple fracture, and the bone was easily set. The +old physician praised the skill of the young nurse, but bade her go now +and take care of herself. + +As it was so late the doctor remained through the night, and until after +breakfast the next morning. Then, while the boat was being prepared to +take him to the main land, he paid, in company with his young hostess, a +final visit to his patient, whom he found clear of febrile symptoms, and +getting on very well. + +And it was now that, with the physician seated on one side of the bed, +and the young mistress of the house on the other, Willful Brande spoke +of the circumstances of his shipwreck. + +He informed his hearers that he had lately returned from the +Mediterranean in the United States sloop-of-war Yorktown, now lying at +the Norfolk Navy-yard; that he had left his ship and taken passage on +board the schooner Nautilus from Norfolk for Baltimore, where he was +going to join his sister, who expected to sail from New York to meet him +there by a certain date; but that in the storm of the preceding evening +the doomed vessel had been, as they knew, wrecked. + +“Were none but yourself saved?” inquired Etoile, mournfully. + +“Young lady, I think it likely _all_ were saved! I will tell you. As +soon as it was seen that the vessel must go down, when it was known that +the water was rushing into the hold faster than two men at the pumps +could pump it out, the crew took to the boats. The captain, the mate, +and myself remained the last upon the wreck. When we saw every one else +in safety we prepared to follow them. But the boats were already full, +and when those on board saw us about to enter, a question arose among +them, as to whether they could bear the additional burden. It was +decided that they should not risk the trial. And so they cut the ropes +and deserted us. We were not willing, you may judge, to be thus left to +death. We threw off our coats in an instant, and plunged into the sea to +swim to the boats. It seemed our only chance. The captain and the mate, +I hope, reached them in safety. For myself, I must have been struck by a +portion of the wreck and stunned, for from the instant of my plunge I +remember nothing more until I found myself on your hospitable Island, +where I suppose a friendly wave, immediately after my fall, cast me.” + +“Ah! it was base in the crew and passengers to desert you and the brave +officers. Still, I feel very much relieved to hear that the shipwreck +was not near so disastrous as I had feared,” said Etoile, with a sigh of +satisfaction. + +The boat was now reported ready, and the physician arose to take his +leave. He declared his patient doing very well, left a few simple +directions for his treatment, promised to call the next day, and so +departed. + +Willful Brande was ordered to lie quietly in bed for another day and +night, to partake of only light food and cooling drinks, but was +permitted to read or converse for pastime. + +Now that it was ascertained that the patient was entirely free from +danger of death, Etoile appointed Moll and Timon to wait upon him, while +she, with an instinct of delicacy, absented herself from the sick room, +or visited it only at stated times. But though absent, she occupied +herself diligently in the service of the invalid, and provided for all +his wants. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIII. + LOVE. + + “Love is the gift which God hath given + To man alone beneath the heaven; + It is not fantasy’s wild fire, + Whose wishes, granted, soon expire: + It is the secret sympathy, + The silver link, the silken tie, + Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, + For heaven, as for earth, can bind.”—_Scott._ + + +The house was restored to its usual condition, and the grounds, as +nearly as possible, cleared from the vestiges of the late devastation; +so that the surroundings of the young heiress were once more, upon the +whole, orderly and pleasant. She returned to her usual employments, or +occupied herself with the care of her invalid guest. And with hope mixed +with fear, she hourly expected the arrival of her guardian’s packet. + +Willful Brande, lying on his sick couch and missing his beautiful +hostess from the room, gave himself up to wonder and speculation. His +position seemed to him like that of one in a dream or in a fairy +tale—cast away on a charming island, and cared for by a lovely maiden, +who seemed its only white inhabitant, and, youthful as she was, “Monarch +of all ‘she’ surveyed.” + +He had certainly heard of L’Orient Isle, and of the good old man who +ruled it; though it was as a memory of his childhood that the story now +recurred. But who, then, was this angelic girl, who seemed its queen? +She knew the Headland, and had once seen his sister! Willful at last +remembered! She must be the child of whom he had once heard Barbara +speak, and who was now grown to womanhood. But how was it that she was +left alone? Had she neither parent nor guardian, or had her guardian +deserted his post? What _was_ the meaning of her extraordinary position? +However Willful might speculate upon these questions, one thing was +certain, that the bright and beautiful young face that, like an angel of +healing, had beamed over his couch of pain, charming away the fever and +distress, had left an impression on his youthful heart, never to be +erased. + +“I have saved my life, but I have lost my peace,” said the poor youth, +tossing about on his couch of uneasiness. “Yes, life is saved, but peace +is lost; for whatever she be, this rare beauty, this young queen, is not +for Willful Brande, the poor midshipman! I must get up and get away from +the domains of this maiden Dido.” + +To get up was possible; but to get away at will was quite another +matter. Vessels came not every day to the Isle, at the bidding of those +who longed to get off. + +While Willful was wondering, speculating, and planning in his room +above, his young hostess was hospitably engaged in preparing for his +reception below. She had her own charming boudoir set in festive order; +fresh flowers put in all the vases; the windows opening upon the +flower-garden hoisted; the communicating doors between the boudoir and +the conservatory on the right, and the aviary on the left, opened, so +that the songs of birds and the fragrance of flowers were wafted +through; and lastly, a luxurious chair wheeled beside a table, upon +which stood a vase of rich exotics and a selection of attractive books. +She sat in the pleasant window seat, with her embroidery-frame in her +hand, and attended by her woman Moll and her maid Peggy, upon the +morning when Willful Brande, still very pale, and wearing his arm in a +sling, was shown in by old Timon. + +Etoile at once arose, held out her hand to welcome him, and begged him +to take the chair by the table. + +Timon immediately brought him a glass of wine and a cracker, which his +young hostess, in her character of deputy doctor, commanded him to +swallow. + +Willful Brande felt at once flattered and embarrassed by these friendly +attentions, which, by the way, the high-toned and fine-spirited young +islander would have lavished upon any venerable cripple with as much +pleasure as upon this handsome youth. + +When he had obeyed her, and swallowed the wine, and the little cut-glass +service had been taken away, Etoile resumed her pleasant seat in the +window, her two maids, Moll and Peggy, stood dutifully near her, engaged +in knitting, and her old footman Timon waited in the hall without. More +and more did the position and circumstances of this young creature +impress Willful Brande as resembling the state of some petty old world +princess—even in the dignified ease and self-possession with which she +did the honors of her house. + +An hour passed in pleasant conversation, during which Willful Brande +incidentally learned that the young heiress had a guardian who was now +temporarily absent. But he did not learn that guardian’s name, far less +the cause of his voyage from home, or his contemplated marriage with his +ward. + +Willful Brande felt that the more he saw of the beautiful Etoile, the +more irrecoverably his heart became involved, and that the longer he +should remain by her side, the more terrible would be the wrench by +which he should have to tear himself away. And his resolution to escape +became confirmed. Turning to his young hostess with a smile, he +deferentially inquired what might be the means of leaving the Island for +the nearest port. + +“We have nothing but little sail-boats that take our messengers to and +fro, between the main land and the Isle. Any one here who wishes to go +further, is obliged to hail some passing packet to take them off,” +replied the young girl. + +“But these packets pass frequently?” + +“No, sir, not very frequently within hailing distance; not more than +once a week.” + +The look of disappointment on the face of Willful appealed to the +maiden’s sympathies. + +“I am truly sorry, Mr. Brande,” she said, “that you should be detained +here against your pleasure and convenience; but we will do all that we +can to make your sojourn with us as little tedious to yourself as the +circumstances will permit. The house and servants are quite at your +disposal. So, also, are the horses and the boats, when you can avail +yourself of them. Here are books and musical instruments, pray consider +them your own.” + +“I am grateful from the depths of my soul for your kindness, young lady; +but—I ought to be away,” said Willful, with a profound sigh, which she +understood to be one of regret at his own enforced stay. Believing this, +she replied— + +“I know, of course, how tedious to one accustomed to the world, must be +life on this lonely Island.” + +“Tedious! good heaven! yes, it is as tedious as sipping, drop by drop, +some exquisite draught that one knows must finally deprive him of +reason!” thought Willful, bitterly. + +But she was regarding him compassionately with her clear blue eyes, and, +seeing him still overcast, she added— + +“You will not have to remain long in this solitude. Every day, indeed, +every hour, I expect my guardian’s vessel. He will bring friends with +him, and then you will have company and merry-making, which will help to +enliven the scene for you. And as my guardian’s packet is a chartered +one, she will remain over night to take us to Baltimore, whence we +travel by land to New York. And as your bourne is also Baltimore, we +shall be happy to have you along with us. So cheer up, wayfarer, for you +shall soon be with your own.” + +“You are kinder than the kindest, as well as fairer than the fairest, +young lady, and it is not anxiety to get away, so much as it is the +necessity of going that so disturbs me.” + +“Is the necessity so imminent?” + +“Yes!” exclaimed Willful, in a deep, agitated voice, that caused her to +look up in surprise to his face to find his eyes fixed upon her with an +expression of warm admiration. But with the air of a detected culprit +Willful hastily dropped his glance and blushed to the very edges of his +hair. + +Etoile compassionated without understanding the occasion of his +disturbance, and addressed herself more zealously to the hospitable task +of entertaining her guest. + +“Do you like music, Mr. Brande?” + +“Excessively, if one can be said to like any good thing excessively.” + +“What instrument do you prefer? Look around, here is a pianoforte, a +harp, guitar and lute. Name your choice.” + +“I like the instrument of God’s workmanship, ‘the human _voice_ +divine,’” said Willful significantly. + +“Then the guitar is the best accompaniment for that,” she replied, and +taking the instrument from the ready hands of her maid, who had hastened +to present it, she tuned the strings and commenced—no silly love ditty +such as make up nine-tenths of the sum of current musical literature—but +Samuel Lever’s beautiful song, “My Mother Dear”—then first published. +Etoile sung with a self-forgetfulness, a passion, and a pathos seldom +equaled. As the last words died on the ear, and the tones of the +singer’s voice trembled into silence, Willful dashed a tear from his +fine, dark eye, and said— + +“It is a beautiful song.” + +“No—I don’t know that it is beautiful; but it is my favorite,” replied +Etoile, in a tone of voice that still quivered with emotion. + +“You loved your mother very much,” said Willful, gently. + +“Say—I _love_ her ‘very much’—above all human creatures, and only less +than the Creator. And yet I never set my orphaned eyes upon my mother’s +face; but that is no reason why I may not remember her in my song and in +my prayers.” + +“You never saw your mother, and yet you love her so!” exclaimed Willful +in a thrilling voice. + +“Ah, Mr. Brande! The sweet poet who wrote the sweetest song of home was +all his life a homeless wayfarer throughout the world! So I, who never +saw the face of my mother, love best the songs that speak of a mother’s +love. In all my life I heard but two or three words about her. It was in +my childhood, and by chance, that I heard my grandmother speak of her to +my uncle. Then I only learned that she was a young thing, scarcely so +old as I am now, when her proud English relations carried her off, and I +was left. Then, I do not know when I received the impression, but I +always had the idea that my mother had very dark eyes and black hair, +and that with all perhaps _I_ resembled her. And so what do you think I +did this summer?” + +Willful smiled and shook his head; he could not answer. + +“Why, out of her supposed likeness to myself, and out of her fancied +dark hair and eyes, I painted an imaginary picture of my mother. See!” +said Etoile, drawing the locket from her bosom and revealing the +miniature to her companion. + +Willful took it, looked upon it, and started,—a tide of emotion swept +through his frame. + +It was the counterfeit resemblance of Estelle herself. He knew the +history of the beautiful English lady who had been his sister’s tenant. +A crowd of coincidences rushed upon his memory and confirmed the +suspicions that had flashed into his mind. But discretion held him, as +yet, silent upon the subject of this possible discovery. + +He raised his eyes to the face of the young girl. + +“You say, Miss L’Orient, that this is only a fancy sketch?” + +“Oh, no! not exactly so. It is painted from a strong impression on my +mind. The outward expression of an inward belief.” + +“You _must_, in your unconscious infancy, have seen some face or +portrait that made this impression upon your mind, even though you may +have forgotten the circumstance.” + +“No! I think not—one cannot be sure; but why do you imagine such a +thing?” + +“Why,” said Willful, evasively, “such _impressions_ are usually +unconscious recollections.” + +Feeling now that she had said perhaps too much of her own affairs, +Etoile became silent. And Willful formed the secret determination to say +nothing of the discovery he had made, until he should first consult his +sister Barbara. + +Three more days passed, and yet no news of the expected packet. And now +to the stormy weather had succeeded a calm so profound as to leave no +reasonable hope of soon seeing a sail. + +Etoile exerted herself, all but too successfully, to console her guest +for his “unwilling” detention. She introduced him to her birds, to her +exotics, to all her best books,—she rambled with him over the Island, +showing him all her favorite haunts; she sailed with him around the +shore, and challenged him, as soon as his arm should get well, to a +gallop around the race-course. And despite her anxiety to hear of or see +her guardian, never had Etoile been so gay, so buoyant and so happy, as +now that she enjoyed for the first time the society of a companion near +her own age. + +Day by day the acquaintance between the youth and maiden thus strangely +thrown together, thus isolated from all the world and dependent solely +upon each other for conversation and amusement, progressed toward +friendship on one side, and passionate love on the other. + +Day by day, when walking by her side; glancing stealthily at her +beautiful face; listening to her sweet voice; feeling the fascination of +her gentle manners—Willful Brande felt his honorable resolution of +silence giving way. Still, as yet, he steadfastly restrained himself. + +“I am not her equal in wealth and station. I will not take advantage of +my present position to breathe one word of love in her defenseless young +ear—no, not if my heart were to break!” said Willful to himself. But +each succeeding day he found it harder to keep this resolution. + +As for Etoile, she felt her innocent affections so drawn out by the +youth who had been cast upon her Isle, and who was now her daily +associate, that she began to dread the coming of the hour that should +take him from her sight. And this was all natural, probable, inevitable! +Besides her old uncle and her middle-aged guardian, Willful Brande was +the only white man she had ever seen. Willful was young, amiable and +eminently handsome, his manly beauty of form and features were enhanced +by a frank, ardent and intellectual expression of countenance that ever +won the confidence, esteem and friendship of all appreciating persons +among whom he might be thrown. + +And Etoile’s innocent regard for her guest was testified in a thousand +graceful kindnesses, each of which nearly threw her young lover off his +guard and cast him at her feet. + +But Willful Brande was the very soul of honor. + +“I must govern my feelings! I must not abuse hospitality! I must wait +until her guardian shall return and she shall be fully under his +protection, and then, perhaps!”—he exclaimed, giving wings to his +youthful imagination. Meanwhile he no longer desired to escape from the +Island; and for Etoile, as I said, she dreaded the hour of his +departure. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIV. + THE ATTEMPTED FLIGHT OF ETOILE. + + “——Quick, boatman, do not tarry, + And I’ll give you a silver pound + To row us o’er the ferry.”—_Campbell._ + + +One afternoon the youth and maiden were seated on the rude bench down on +the beach, near the usual landing, watching the almost motionless +surface of the water. + +“Do you think that this calm can continue long, Mr. Brande?” inquired +Etoile. + +“I suppose not—though it may break up in another storm,” replied +Willful, gravely. + +“Now, may the Lord in his mercy forbid!” exclaimed Etoile, fervently +clasping her hands. + +“So pray I! I never see a storm arise, without a sickening of the +soul,—not for dread of what is coming, but in memory of what has gone! +The sea has been very fatal to my race, Miss L’Orient!” + +“Ah! has it been so?”—murmured the maiden, raising her eyes, full of +sympathy, to his face. “I hope it was only vessels and cargoes, and not +any near relative or dear friend that you lost?” + +“My father, my two elder brothers, and my brother-in-law, all went down +together in their lost vessels,” said the young man, sorrowfully. + +“Ah, what a calamity! I can deeply feel for you, Mr. Brande,” she said +in a voice tremulous with emotion, as she lifted her tearful, blue eyes +again to his troubled face—“I can deeply feel with you, for I, too, have +been a sufferer by the sea!” + +“You are all sympathy and benevolence, dear young lady! And _you_ a +sufferer by the sea? I grieve to hear that. But I hope you have not +suffered so deeply as myself?” + +“I lost my father and my grandmother. But it is true that I did not feel +the loss so deeply as I ought to have done, perhaps, for I had never +seen my father, and had lost sight of my grandmother for years before +they died.” + +Willful recollected now, that Monsieur and Madame L’Orient had been lost +on the Mercury. He scarcely knew what reply to make to the +earnest-hearted girl beside him. He knew perfectly well that the loss of +her father was anything but a misfortune to her, still it would never do +to tell her so, nor yet would it be honest to express a condolence, not +felt, upon this subject. He contented himself with respectfully pressing +her hand, and saying— + +“Yes—I remember now—they were passengers on the same vessel, the +Mercury, in which my father, my brothers, and my poor sister’s +betrothed, Julius Luxmore, went down.” + +“JULIUS LUXMORE!” exclaimed the maiden, in amazement. + +“Yes, young lady! Why should that name cast you in such a state of +consternation? I beg your pardon.” + +“Why Julius Luxmore was not lost! he was saved!” + +“Good heaven! I had even heard such a rumor; but never believed it! And +never breathed it to Barbara!” thought Willful to himself. Then aloud he +inquired— + +“Will you forgive the question and tell me—are you certain of the truth +of that which you have just announced, young lady?” + +“Assuredly! Mr. Luxmore was saved from the wreck of the Mercury. He +brought us the news of the death of my father and grandmother. He +brought us also such of my father’s effects as were picked up on the +sand-bank. And above all, he brought a will which constituted him +guardian of my father’s heiress.” + +“Yourself?” + +“Certainly! And from that time to this, excepting the three winter +months of last year, Mr. Luxmore has lived exclusively with us.” + +“Great Heaven! what perfidy!” exclaimed Willful Brande, in his heart; +but from respect to his young hostess, his lips were silent. + +She continued— + +“Since the decease of my dear uncle, Mr. Luxmore has been my sole +guardian and protector, as he will soon be my——” She started, blushed, +reflected an instant and then in a low and thrilling voice inquired— + +“What was that you said about Mr. Luxmore being the betrothed husband of +your sister?” + +“My honored young hostess, I spoke indiscreetly; pray pardon me,” said +Willful, in a troubled tone. + +“Mr. Brande, do _you_ pardon my persistence and tell me, in plain terms, +whether or not, Julius Luxmore was affianced to your sister.” + +“My dearest Miss L’Orient, Mr. Luxmore is your legal guardian. Let us +talk no more of him.” + +“Mr. Brande! I have the most important, the most vital interest in the +question that I have put to you—I do beseech you answer it.” + +“Young lady,——” began Willful, in a voice of distress that was quickly +interrupted by Etoile, who clasping her hands and raising her eyes in +the earnestness of her entreaty, said— + +“Mr. Brande, I must tell you all! Mr. Luxmore, my guardian, has taught +me to believe that I am his destined bride; and he has promised me that +when we are married, and not until then, he will take me into the world +and present me to my dear mother’s relations. Now, not to see that +world—nor even to possess ten thousand such worlds, would I marry a man +who has broken faith with another woman, for it would be a fearful sin, +invoking the judgment of God upon my head! Therefore, if this man, who +seeks my hand, was the betrothed of Barbara Brande, tell me and save me +from the sin and sorrow of wedding him?” + +Willful Brande was agitated. His strong impulse was to say to her at +once— + +“Yes—the base traitor! he broke faith with Barbara! he deceived and +deserted her at her utmost need;” but a high, chivalrous magnanimity +held him silent. He said to himself—“It may be that she loves him; and +that he may yet grow worthy of such love—if so, though my heart should +burst, I will refrain from saying any thing to destroy her confidence in +him.” + +“You do not speak, Mr. Brande! Oh, answer me!” + +“Miss L’Orient!” exclaimed the young man taking her hand, and speaking +with the deepest respect—“forgive the question that I am about to ask +you and answer it, as true soul to soul: you say that you are contracted +in marriage to your guardian—do you love him?” + +“Indeed, I do not know! I _tried_ to like him, because I always thought +it was my duty to do so; but if I find he has been a recreant to another +love, I am sure I shall utterly cease to esteem him. Therefore—I adjure +you by your honor to inform me—was Julius Luxmore the betrothed husband +of Barbara Brande?” + +“Miss L’Orient, thus adjured, I have no choice but to reply—Yes! Julius +Luxmore _was_ the betrothed husband of Barbara Brande, with whom, +without just cause, he broke faith!” + +Etoile was gazing intently into his face as though she would read his +soul. She saw in his frank, serious, earnest countenance, his perfect +truthfulness. She felt and knew what he said to be a fact; many little +circumstances, heretofore inexplicable, now easily to be understood, +recurred to her memory in corroboration of his statement; her instinct, +hitherto repressed as injustice, was now explained and justified. But +the young Etoile possessed the excellent faculty of self-control. No +exclamation of astonishment or loathing escaped her lips. Only with her +serious eyes still questioning Willful’s countenance, in a low voice, +she further inquired— + +“But why should he have abandoned his betrothed? She was such a noble +girl! one of nature’s queens! I saw her once, you know, before ever +trouble came to her, a Boadicea she looked! a royally beautiful Amazon! +Why should he have abandoned her?” + +“For the prospect of a higher prize, no doubt, young lady.” + +“Tell me all you know of this man, Mr. Brande.” + +“Miss L’Orient, I will. And do you pardon me for the pain I may give you +in the recital.” + +Etoile folded her hands together and listened intently, while Willful +Brande related the story to Julius, from the time of his adoption by +Captain Brande, to that of his betrothal to Barbara. He concluded by +exposing the evident fraud, by which Luxmore had succeeded in creating +the false impression of his own death. + +Etoile listened, struggling to remain calm and self-possessed; but the +trouble of her heart revealed itself in the disturbance of her +countenance. True, as the reader knows, Etoile had never truly loved and +never thoroughly esteemed Julius Luxmore, still it was terrible to +discover in one who had so long been her companion, teacher, and +confidant, such utter unworthiness. + +“Oh! it was base, it was wicked, it was atrocious, to have abandoned his +betrothed, the orphan daughter of his friend, in the hour of her +bitterest need, even augmenting her anguish by laying upon her heart the +grief of his supposed death! Oh, it was heinous! There can scarcely be +pardon or redemption for a soul like that—God have mercy on him!” cried +Etoile, bursting into tears and dropping her face upon her hands. + +“I said that I should pain you—pray forgive me!” pleaded Willful. + +“There is nothing to forgive; but much to thank you for,” said Etoile, +wiping her eyes, and holding out her hand. + +The youth respectfully pressed the little hand and resigned it. And both +were silent for some minutes, during which Etoile looked deeply +thoughtful. At last the maiden spoke:— + +“Mr. Brande, you are older than I am, and you know so much more of the +world, that you can counsel me in this strait.” + +“Young hostess, I would to heaven I had the experience and wisdom to +advise you, since you have no wiser friend. But it may be, God will +bless an honest intention, and put good counsel into my mouth. Say on, +Miss L’Orient.” + +“I will tell you, first of all, what I know of my own story, which may +aid you in judging what is best to be done.” + +“Speak, young lady; I listen.” + +Etoile, after a pause of thoughtful self-recollection, commenced and +related, with conscientious exactness, the short story of her young +life. + +Willful listened with the profoundest interest, and, during the progress +of her narrative, became fully confirmed in his impression that the +Island maiden was really the lost child of the beautiful Estelle. Still, +discretion held him silent upon this point; because, for all that he +knew to the contrary, that lovely lady might now be numbered with the +dead; and not for the world would he raise hopes in the breast of her +daughter, that might end in disappointment. He resolved, that before +hinting to Etoile the discovery he had made, he would consult Barbara. + +“You do not speak, Mr. Brande,” she said. + +“It is because your story has so deeply interested me. But name the +point upon which you wished my humble counsel, Miss L’Orient.” + +“It is this—and oh, even while I speak, my heart shudders with the fear +that there may not be time to carry out my plan! I shall not marry Mr. +Luxmore—will not! cannot! Do you hear? Nevertheless, see! a wind has +sprung up from the north, and every hour from this time we may look to +see his sail bearing down upon the Island. He will come with the lawyer, +the clergyman, and the license, to claim my hand and carry me away.” + +“Miss L’Orient, fear nothing. No power on earth can compel you to give +him your hand.” + +“Oh, I know that!” replied Etoile, proudly; “simply because, though all +the forces of earth were brought to bear upon me, I would refuse, and +meet the consequences.” + +“There shall no evil happen to you so help me Heaven! I am by your +side,” exclaimed Willful, in a rush of enthusiasm, that seemed to give +him the strength of a lion, or rather of a host. + +“You are brave and faithful, I do not doubt. But my guardian is armed +with legal powers over my person and my fate that, believe me, I feel +sure he would not scruple to use to the utmost, to gain his purposes.” + +“True—good Heaven!” + +“Therefore, you see, I must escape from the Island. My resolution is +formed,” said the maiden, who, woman-like, had first made up her mind, +and then asked advice. Willful saw that she had unconsciously taken this +initiative course, and before offering any advice, he wished to know her +own thoughts. + +“Escape! but how, whither, under what protection? Speak, Miss L’Orient, +for I am at your utmost disposal.” + +“I have money, boats, and servants. I propose to lade a boat, and go to +Heathville, attended by two servants, and escorted by yourself, if you +are so good. At Heathville, we can get some conveyance to New York, +where you can put me in the care of my faithful Maman, Madeleine.” + +Her plan betrayed such simple ignorance of life, that Willful Brande +listened in amazement. + +Nothing now could be easier than to run away with and marry this +beautiful and wealthy heiress, whom, besides, he worshiped with all the +ardor of a young heart’s first and passionate love. And nine out of ten, +placed in such circumstances, would have yielded to the temptation of +which he certainly felt the force. + +But Willful Brande was, as I have said, the soul of honor; not for a +kingdom—not even for his loved one—would he stain his manhood with a +single unworthy act. He remained silent and thoughtful, not knowing how, +with sufficient delicacy, to convey to her the knowledge that her plan +was inadmissible. + +“You do not answer me, Mr. Brande,” she said. + +“Young lady, because I do not know how to explain to one so +inexperienced, that the proposed plan, if carried out, would expose you +to much censure.” + +“But why?” inquired the maiden, in much amazement. + +“Because a young man, unless he is a near relative, is not considered a +proper escort in a long journey for a young lady. Besides, it would be +almost impossible in the wilderness of New York city to find your nurse +Madeleine, nor even if found would she, only a mulatto servant, however +good and faithful, be considered a proper protector for a young lady,” +replied Willful, with a deep sigh, for the temptation was overcome, but +the prize was lost. + +“Then what _shall_ I do to escape this impending danger? You see, now, +how necessary your counsel is to me.” + +“Heaven save the poor maiden who has no wiser counselor than the youth +who loves her,” thought Willful to himself. + +“Well, Mr. Brande, well, can you advise me what to do?” + +“Have you no friends or acquaintance upon the main land in whom you +could place confidence?” + +“Oh, no! none but old Doctor Crampton, who lives at Heathville, with his +two old maiden sisters.” + +“The very man, if he would only be friendly to you. He looks honest and +courageous.” + +“Oh, he _is_ honest and brave! I have known him a long time—I never had +a doubt of him,” said Etoile, warmly. + +“And do you think he would befriend you against your guardian?” + +“Yes, if his conscience were satisfied, for he loves me as his own +child.” + +“And how far is Heathville from this place?” + +“Before this wind, about two hours’ sail.” + +“Then your course is clear, Miss L’Orient. Order your boat to be +prepared. While it is being got ready, pack up such necessary articles, +or such valuables, as you may wish to carry with you; take your +servants, Moll and Timon, to attend you; and I will myself escort you in +safety and honor to the house of your old friend the physician, to whom +you will tell your story, and under whose protection you can appeal from +your guardian’s authority to the Orphans’ Court.” + +“There will be no impropriety in that, of course?” + +“Not the slightest—else I had not proposed it.” + +“And you, what will you do?” inquired the maiden, with interest. + +“After having seen you in honor and safety under the protection of +friends, I shall go on my way to Baltimore,” replied the young man, +smothering the sigh that arose in his bosom. + +“And—when shall I see you again?” inquired the young girl, in a +tremulous tone. + +“Would you care ever to see me more?” asked Willful, in a voice full of +deep emotion. + +“Indeed I should! And I wish to know before we separate when I shall see +you again, so that I may have the joy of looking forward to that time.” + +“When the Lord and yourself wills,” replied Willful, earnestly. + +“If it depended upon my will it should be very soon,” she said, gently. + +“But in the meantime, if your friends approve, I would like to write to +you, Miss L’Orient.” + +“Why, of course my friends will approve, why should they not?” she +artlessly inquired. + +Willful smiled sadly, shook his head, and instead of replying directly +to the question, said:— + +“Delays are dangerous, Miss L’Orient.” + +“Oh! I know they are! especially in this instance, when any hour may +bring my guardian’s sail in sight. I will go now and pack up. Will you +do me the favor to order the boat?” + +Willful nodded in obedience, and Etoile hurried away. + +Great was the astonishment of the Island servants when they learned that +their young lady, who had never before left her insular home, was now +about to take a trip to Heathville, to see old Doctor Crampton and his +maiden sisters. For the latent object of the visit was of course +withheld from their knowledge. They settled it among themselves that the +old physician, when last at the Island, must have given the invitation; +and after their first surprise was over, they declared that it was +natural and right for their young lady to have this recreation. + +“But what shall we say to Marse Julius, if he should come ’fore you get +back, Miss Etwill?” inquired one of the old men. + +“Tell him where I have gone—that is all,” answered the maiden. “Once in +sanctuary there, I have no cause to fear him,” she mentally added. + +It was with a deeply agitated mind and a wildly beating heart that +Etoile, attended by Willful Brande, and followed by her two faithful +servants, took her way down to the boat that waited to bear her from the +only home she had ever known, to those untrodden shores she had so +ardently desired to reach. + +When about half way down the lowest avenue leading from the house to the +landing, she met a little negro boy running toward her with the joyful +countenance of one who thinks he brings glad tidings. + +“Oh! Miss Etwill,” said the lad, “the packet has just come to anchor out +there, an’ Marse Julius an’ some gemmen are in the long-boat, rowin’ to +the shore.” + +“Oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Etoile, clasping her hands. + +“Fear nothing, young lady,” said Wilfull. + + + + + CHAPTER XLV. + THE RIVALS. + + “The hand of Douglass is his own! + And never shall in friendly grasp, + The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”—_Scott._ + + +A boat was pushed up on the sands, and a party consisting of Julius +Luxmore and two gentlemen landed, and advanced up the avenue toward the +spot where Etoile and Willful remained awaiting them. Mr. Luxmore +started and frowned at beholding a strange youth standing by the side of +his jealously-guarded ward; but in a moment he regained his composure +and concealed his annoyance. Meeting the young pair, he bowed to both at +once; then greeted his young charge by name and presented to her, in +turn, the Reverend Doctor Goode and Mr. Attorney Bonde. + +The maiden, who had remained standing pale and firm, awaiting this +rencounter, responded to these introductions only by cold bows. + +Then Mr. Luxmore said, in a low and courteous voice, free from any sign +of the vexation he really felt, and speaking as though recalling his +ward to a sense of propriety— + +“Present your guest, my dear Etoile.” + +But before the young lady could comply, Willful Brande stepped forward +somewhat boldly, and said— + +“It appears that you have forgotten your old captain’s son, Mr. +Luxmore?” + +Luxmore started and changed color; but instantaneously recovering his +presence of mind, he exclaimed— + +“Truly, my young friend, I had not at first recognized you; but, then, +so many years have elapsed since we met. How are you, Mr. Brande?” and +offered his hand. + +But Willful drew his tall form up to its fullest height, folded his +arms, and fixed a glance full of scorn steadily upon the face of the +recreant. + +“Why will you not take my offered hand, Willful?” inquired Luxmore, +forcing a smile. + +“NO, SIR! I take the hand of no traitor.” + +“What do you mean by that, sir?” exclaimed Luxmore, growing white about +the lips. + +“Shall I explain, sir? I am quite ready to do so,” retorted Willful, +scornfully. + +“Oh, I do not doubt that you would force a quarrel upon me here, in the +presence of a lady and a clergyman; but _I_ have more respect for such +company; another time, sir! another time!” replied the detected villain, +seizing the sole pretext that presented itself for the postponement of +the exposure. + +“As you will,” said Willful Brande, his lip curling. + +“Gentlemen, move forward to the house, if you please. Etoile, my dear, +take my arm. Good-afternoon, Mr. Brande,” said Luxmore, with the air of +dismissing Willful. + +But Etoile shrank from the traitor’s offered arm, and merging the +bashfulness of the girl in the dignity of the lady hostess, she went +around to her guest, and with a stately courtesy said— + +“Mr. Brande, will it please you to return to the house?” + +Willful started, bowed, and smiled acceptance of her invitation. He +then, with an air of deep respect, offered his arm. But Etoile, with her +nice sense of propriety, with a gracious smile and shake of the head, +declined the proffered assistance, and walked on singly. + +Mr. Luxmore came to her side, and in a low, stern voice, inaudible to +other ears, inquired: + +“Miss L’Orient, what is the meaning of this conduct?” + +“It means, Mr. Luxmore, that before this affair proceeds further, you +and myself must have a serious conversation,” replied the young girl, in +no degree daunted by the frowns of the unmasked perjurer, but solicitous +to preserve, before strangers, the proprieties of peace. + +“Ah, I see how it is; but do not think to escape me. An hour hence +decides our destiny!” muttered Luxmore, as he left her side and drew +near to his guests, the clergyman and the lawyer. + +They soon now reached the house. Mr. Luxmore and his friends passed into +the drawing-room. + +Willful Brande, feeling the awkwardness of his position, yet determined +not to desert the cause of the friendless girl, threw himself on the +wicker settee in the hall. + +Etoile went into her own boudoir, and sat down to collect her thoughts, +and nerve herself for the coming altercation with her guardian. She had +not long remained alone before the door opened, and old Moll entered, +bearing a large but light bandbox, which she set upon the table and +opened, and from which she drew forth a splendid bridal dress and vail. + +“Come, Miss Etwill, honey, better make haste an’ ’ray yourself ’cause +Marse Julius whispered to me, how de passon and the lawyer were a +waitin’, an’ how he hiss’f wanted to get off from here ’fore night wid +de tide.” + +“Go and tell Mr. Luxmore that I wish to see him here immediately, and do +you also return and remain within the sound of my voice.” + +The old woman obeyed, and almost immediately afterward, Mr. Luxmore +entered—his fair face pallid, his hazel eyes glittering with excitement. +He saw at a glance—by the compressed lips, steady eyes and stern brow of +Etoile that his power over her was in a great measure gone—that he would +never more influence her through her love, however he might through her +_fears_. He did not understand that the only manner in which that young +creature could be governed was through her affections or through her +conscience. + +Burying all these misgivings in the depths of his secretive and guileful +heart, however, he resolved to take a daring course, ignoring any +change, and addressing her, as though nothing had happened to peril +their friendship. He advanced, holding out his hand, and saying with an +affectation of joyous confidence— + +“Well, my fair bride, what is your sweet capricious will with me?” + +“Stand back, sir!” exclaimed Etoile, recoiling and holding up her hand +in deprecation of his further advance. + +“What the demon do you mean by this, Miss L’Orient?” he exclaimed, +simulating astonishment and honest indignation. + +“I wonder, sir, that the presence of Willful Brande on this Island does +not of itself explain my meaning!” said Etoile, with dignity. + +“True, by all the Cupids!” cried Luxmore, with a sardonic laugh; “during +my absence to arrange the preliminaries of our marriage, a beardless boy +gets himself shipwrecked on the Island, and that circumstance suffices +to cause you to meet with scorn one who comes by agreement to claim your +promised hand.” + +“Yes, Mr. Luxmore, and why?—Because it falls out in conversation that +ere you offered to my acceptance a perjured heart, you basely broke +faith with one of the noblest creatures that ever trod the earth—one to +whom not only the ties of affection but of plighted faith, and of +gratitude, should have bound you through life and unto death—your +patron’s daughter, Barbara Brande. You broke faith with her under +circumstances that so deepen and darken the heinousness of your perjury, +as to render it unparalleled in the annals of treachery. And, in one +word, Mr. Luxmore, before I would give my hand in marriage to such a +traitor, I would thrust it into the fire and hold it there until it +should be consumed to ashes!” said the maiden, with the unflinching +firmness of a Mucius Scævola. + +The suddenness and the severity of this retort so astounded Julius +Luxmore that for a moment he stood staring the image of consternation. +When volition returned, it came borne on a tide of diabolical fury. He +grew livid in the face, his eyes started, his lips foamed, his form was +convulsed; he strode toward her with his arm outstretched, and his fist +clenched, exclaiming in the low, deep muttering, murderous tone of +indomitable will and remorseless wickedness— + +“Young woman! do you know that soul, body, and estate, you are mine, +mine only, mine utterly—my slave, my property, my chattel; do you know, +that as your sole guardian, and the disposer of your person and +property, I have the power to imprison, chastise, or otherwise coerce +you to my will? Answer me, minion, do you know this?” + +The young creature drew her slight form up with queenly dignity and +regarded the man before her with a look of such ineffable scorn, that, +infuriate as he was, he blenched beneath her gaze. Then—when he had +quailed, she answered, slowly— + +“Mr. Luxmore, I know not how far your powers as legal guardian may +permit you to go, nor how remorselessly you may use them, nor how much +beyond their rightful limit you may stretch them. BUT THIS I DO KNOW,” +she said, and her slight form arose and dilated and her eyes +blazed—“that neither man on earth, nor demon in Hades, has power to +compel me to become your wife! And why? Because sooner would I give my +body to be burned!” + +“Ho! my girl! I can reduce your pride!” he exclaimed, striding toward +her, with uplifted hands, as though to clutch her. + +“Hold off! My attendants wait within call!” she said, recoiling and +holding up her hand. + +“Ho, ho! verily my little girl must think herself a princess!” exclaimed +Julius Luxmore, with sarcastic malignity. + +“Truly, I have so long lived under that illusion, that I cannot all at +once dispel its influence! And thus much of queenship remains to me at +least, sir, that in a strait my servants would support their legitimate +mistress against her false and grasping guardian!” said Etoile, in calm +dignity. + +“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the traitor in malicious derision. “I would have +you to know, young Madame, that my position is a legal one, and that any +resistance on the part of yourself or your servants would expose you to +the punishment I should deem it proper to inflict, and them to the +utmost penalties of the law—even to death!” + +Etoile, at this threat of ruin to her people, changed color, but after a +moment answered calmly— + +“I will not then expose my devoted servants to your remorseless +vengeance, Julius Luxmore; but as regards myself, your threats are +unavailing; do your utmost will, you will find me immovable. No, sir! +the prize that you have perjured your soul and broken a heart to gain, +has escaped you!” + +With a face that had not yet regained its natural color, a face of white +death, but for the ferocity of those burning, brown eyes, he glared upon +her a moment, and then turning, walked with rapid strides up and down +the floor. He could have cursed the sudden passion that had deprived him +of his presence of mind, and betrayed him to the exhibition of the very +worst phase of his very bad nature. “Why the fiend! could I not have +controlled my temper! I might have wrought upon her feelings, through +habit, through affection, through gratitude, through pity. I might even +have beaten down this young man’s testimony, and secured her to myself! +and then! and then! But now——” he thought, grinding his teeth in +rage——“And yet it may not be too late! I may yet impress her with the +belief that all my rage arose from baffled _love of her_, and if she is +woman, she will forgive it!” he reflected. All at once, with his great +power of simulation, he changed his expression of countenance, from rage +and hatred to passionate love and despair, and burying his face in his +hands, walked up and down, groaning in heart-broken tones—“Etoile! oh, +Etoile!” + +But the young lady paid no attention to his change of mood. Mindful, +amid all her distress, of her duties as hostess, she touched her bell, +and when her aged attendant opened the door, she said— + +“Aunt Moll, go and give orders in the kitchen, that supper be prepared +for these strangers, and afterward do you see to the guest chambers in +case they should remain all night.” + +And when the old dame withdrew to obey, Etoile took her needle-work, and +went and sat in her favorite shaded window seat, to pursue her work. + +“Oh, Etoile! my Etoile!” moaned Luxmore, with his face buried in his +hands, as he strode to and fro. + +She bestowed not the slightest notice upon his raving, but quietly +continued her sewing. Suddenly he broke off from his walk, and threw +himself down beside her, and attempted to seize her hand. She shrank in +abhorrence from him. He did not pursue the point, but, breaking forth in +a simulation of vehement passion, exclaimed— + +“Oh, Etoile, Etoile, you are angry, outraged, and it is natural that you +should feel thus toward me! I was mad, phrenzied, to have used such +language toward you, my love, my bride, my queen! But oh, child! child! +you do not understand the impassioned heart of man! how his love +betrayed, wounded and repulsed, turns to madness, instigating him to say +and do things at other times abhorrent to his soul! He may become a +brute, and rage as I have raged to you, or a fool, to fill some +lunatic’s cell, or a homicide, and slay his false love! I would not hurt +one golden ringlet of your beautiful head—and yet see how you have +maddened me.” + +Etoile threaded her needle afresh, and quietly pursued her work. + +“Oh, Etoile! Etoile! how can you go on calmly with such trifles, when +you behold my agony?” + +“How could _you_ go on calmly with your lustrum of falsehood, and leave +that bereaved and broken-hearted girl to struggle through her hard life +alone?” retorted the maiden, with the color flushing for an instant to +her cheek. + +“Oh, Etoile, my child! be not so cruel! Look in my face!” + +“I cannot see it for the face of Barbara Brande, that is ever before me +in her long years of faithful maiden widowhood!” + +“Etoile! Etoile! you will drive me mad! pursue me to desperation! arm my +hand against—not you, beloved and beautiful one; forgive me, that in my +extremity of phrenzy, I ever said a thing so atrocious—but against my +own wretched life!” + +Even this raving failed to produce the least effect upon the young lady, +who went on composedly with her work. + +“Behold how you treat me! I who have loved you above all earthly things, +from your infancy up! I who watched over your culture——” + +“My _intellectual_ culture only. The Lord pity me if you had the +direction of my _moral_ training. For all this, Mr. Luxmore, I am just +as grateful as I should be to a guardian who educated his ward, an +heiress, for his own pride, pleasure, and benefit, and with the view of +her eventually becoming his own wife!” said the maiden with cool +contempt. + +“But it was because I loved you! I loved you, my Etoile, above all +created beings!” + +“Aye! you loved me so well that you confined me closely to this Island, +where I panted like a caged bird for freedom, and where you made my +marriage with yourself the only condition of my liberation!” + +“Well! yes! little as you understand it, child, that which you have +spoken in irony was indeed true! I love you, my inestimable treasure, so +exclusively, that I cannot endure that the covetous eyes of another +should rest upon you. Yet, once mine irrevocably, I shall take you all +over the world—I shall devote my life to the sweet task of making you +happy! But, how do you repay my love? Oh, Etoile, how do you repay it? I +go away to prepare for our marriage; I make all proper arrangements; I +lay the whole city under contribution for your pleasure; I fill my +vessel with its costliest treasures for my Etoile; I set sail for home; +storms endanger my vessel, and calms delay her; yet, at last, I reach +the house of my love; ‘all on fire with joy’ I rush to meet you; and how +am I received? With coldness, frowns, and scorn! And all because a +stranger youth is wrecked upon your shoals, and fills your ear with a +tale of scandal, to which you give a ready credulity, and upon which, +without proof on his side or defense on mine, you condemn me!” + +“I must answer that! He filled my ear with no tale of scandal! Even +could he have done so, I would not have believed it! The truth came out +too naturally, too providentially, to have it mistaken for falsehood! We +both happened to speak of you—he as his dear brother-in-law, wrecked in +the Mercury. I, as my esteemed guardian, saved from the Mercury. But +when we approached the subject—like two clouds charged with +electricity—the truth, as lightning, flashed forth broad and bright! +There was no mistaking it. Nor was that truth unsupported by proof—a +score of circumstances, trifling singly, overwhelming in the +mass—started up in my memory to corroborate the testimony! and my own +purest and profoundest instincts—long felt and long repressed—arose to +confirm it? For yourself, though your case appears to me to be +indefensible, yet I am ready to hear what you have to say in its +defense!” + +Julius Luxmore was specious and plausible; he raised his eyes to her +face and said with an unctuous earnestness: + +“My Etoile, the subject of my defense is scarcely fit for your delicate +hearing. My passion for the beautiful Barbara was a mere boyish flame +that must soon have vainly burned out. But there existed certain +imminent reasons why the family of Miss Brande should earnestly desire +her early marriage; thence they took advantage of my childish +predilection; they imposed upon my inexperience; in a word, they +entrapped me into an engagement with this fallen goddess; and +doubtlessly I should have suffered myself to be finally and fatally +victimized, had I not been so _fortunate_ as to be wrecked from her +father’s vessel, the Mercury, and to find myself rescued and invested +with the sole guardianship of an orphan heiress whom it was my bounden +duty to seek and cherish. Etoile, I sought and found you, the one angel +of my life whom I have loved with a constantly increasing strength from +the first moment of our meeting to the present day. Etoile, this is my +defense!” + +To all this Etoile replied— + +“Were it possible, Mr. Luxmore, for me to think worse of you than I +thought an hour ago, your defense must have produced the effect of +making me do so. When I listen to you, I am led to believe that an evil +heart must cloud a man’s brain, so that he has not intellectual power +sufficient to deceive any save those whose perceptive faculties may be +also obscured from the same cause. Besides, Mr. Luxmore, your mask fell +quite off during the ‘short madness’ to which you so lately succumbed!” + +The simplicity of her character, upon which Julius Luxmore had so long +practiced, upon which he had so long relied for the accomplishment of +his ends, was now turned against him; and the honest verdict of her +upright mind was delivered with a freedom, plainness and directness, +that none but a creature so unconventional might have had, under such +circumstances, the courage to exercise. + +Julius Luxmore, more self-controlled than at first, paused some time to +reflect upon the manner in which he should proceed. Then he renewed the +attack. Persuasion, arguments, threats were used in turn, and used in +vain. Her affections, her reason, and her fears were successively and +fruitlessly appealed to. Two hours were spent in a discussion that it +would be tedious here to repeat, as, after all, it embodied what had +been said before. + +At last, finding all his efforts to move her to his purposes unavailing, +Julius Luxmore once more lost his presence of mind, and approaching her, +exclaimed, in the deep tone of concentrated rage— + +“Very well, minion! You who despise my love shall feel my power!” + +“Mr. Luxmore, I almost pity you, that you should be so weak as to +suppose that you can intimidate me!” replied the brave girl, calmly. + +“Do you deny my authority?” he demanded, in a voice of fury. + +“I intend to appeal from you, who have abused your sacred trust, to the +Orphans’ Court for protection!” she answered, quietly. + +“You do! ha, ha, ha! Why, minion, you are a prisoner. You shall not stir +beyond this room until you cross its threshold as my wife.” + +“In that case I should remain here until my mortal frame returned to +dust. But you are mistaken, Mr. Luxmore; I shall appeal for a hearing +before the Orphans’ Court through a friend who has been made acquainted +with all my wrongs!” + +“Aye! that—that—_miscreant_, Willful Brande!” exclaimed Luxmore, in a +voice interrupted and almost inarticulate with rage. + +“No, sir; but through an aged gentleman to whom Mr. Brande shall go,” +replied Etoile, clipping her thread, and quietly folding up her finished +work. + +“He shall! but in the meantime there will be delay, during which you +will be in my power—and then! then in the meantime!——” + +——“I will trust in God, desperate sinner! and no evil shall befall me!” +said Etoile, rising to leave the room. But quick as lightning, Julius +Luxmore intercepted and passed her, went out and turned the key upon his +prisoner. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVI. + PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS. + + “There are swift hours in life—strong rushing hours— + That do the work of tempests in their might! + They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers + Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light + Where it but startles, like a burst of day; + For which the uprooting of an oak makes way; + They touch with fire thought’s graven page—the roll + Stamped with past years—and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!”—_Hemans._ + + +In the meanwhile, Willful Brande walked up and down the front piazza, +musing upon the strange situation of the beautiful and friendless +maiden. The more he reflected upon the character and position of her +guardian, the more strongly he became convinced of the imminent +necessity of her being immediately delivered from his power. That Julius +Luxmore would not scruple to make use of any means for the +accomplishment of his purposes he felt assured. The question with which +his mind labored was, how to effect her escape. While intensely studying +this problem, his eye fell upon old Timon sauntering alone through the +grove. In the time that he had spent on the Island, he had especially +noticed the great devotion of this aged servant to his fair young +mistress. He walked rapidly down the steps, across the lawn, and into +the grove, where the old man lingered. + +Timon took off his hat with his usual humble “Sarvint, marster.” + +“Timon—come further into the shade. I want to speak to you of your young +mistress. Tell me, now, whom do you love best—Miss L’Orient, or Mr. +Luxmore?” + +Timon looked up with a sly, intelligent smile, and said: + +“Young marster, I sees how things be gwine on! I done took notice ob Mr. +Julius a-comin’ up from de boat; an’, likewise, ob Miss Etwill. I sees +good how she ain’t got a minit for him now; and as for me, young +marster, I is willin to do any thin’ in dis worl’ to ’mote de happiness +ob Miss Etwill.” + +Willful blushed, lest his own motives should be misconstrued, even by +this most humble of judges, and he hastened to say: + +“The change in your young lady’s opinion of her guardian is not without +the best reasons. And all that is necessary to promote her happiness is +to get her out of his power, and under the protection of her old friend, +Dr. Crampton and his sisters, from whose house she can appeal to the +Orphans’ Court.” + +While making this confidence, Willful Brande had narrowly watched the +countenance of the old man, whose honest gaze did not once flinch, and +who now replied: + +“You may trus’ me to de def wid anythin’ as is for Miss Etwill’s good.” + +“I do believe you. But is there any among the women for whose fidelity +in such a matter you could answer? because, in her escape, Miss L’Orient +should have a female attendant.” + +“Marster, I can be sponsious for my ole ’oman, Moll—dat is all. Not but +what all de oders is hones’ ’nough, an’ love Miss Etwill ’nough; but +den, marster, dey’s ’feared o’ Marse Julius. So, I wouldn’ like to trust +’em.” + +“Can you procure a boat—let us see—between midnight and day?” + +“Who, me? Better ’lieve so, young marster! I has de s’preme ’trol ob de +boats.” + +“Then select a good, sound, safe boat, such as may be managed by me and +you. And, let me see—the most unfrequented part of the Island is the +bathing pool of your young lady, Crystal Creek?” + +“True for you, marster; no one ever sets foot there, ’cept Miss Etwill +and her maid.” + +“And the quietest time in the twenty-four hours is about two o’clock in +the morning. Now, Timon, can you have the boat in readiness on Crystal +Creek about that hour?” + +“Sartain, marster!” + +“How will you be able to know the time?” + +“Marster, I gwine lay awake till midnight. I allers knows when it is +midnight by de crowin’ o’ de roosters; an’ sure_lie_ I can guess at an +hour or two beyant; anyways, ef I should be a minit _before_ two +o’clock, be sure I won’t be half a second _arter_.” + +“Very well. Be vigilant and faithful, and you shall be richly rewarded, +old man,” replied Willful. And, after a little more immaterial +conversation, concerning the details of the plans, these justifiable +conspirators separated—the old man to cautiously commence the +preliminary arrangements of the flight, and the youth to seek the house, +and, if possible, find means to communicate the plan to Etoile. As he +turned to leave the spot, the sound of a quick, retreating step fell on +his ear. He started, listened, and looked about; but neither hearing nor +seeing any one, he concluded that the fugitive steps were those of a +calf that he perceived gamboling at a short distance; and so, with +returning confidence, he hurried onward. + +He had scarcely left the grove, when the figure of a man emerged from +the cover of a thicket, and with a gesture of hate and anticipated +triumph, took a nearer path to the house, which, unperceived, he reached +before the arrival thither of the midshipman. + +When Willful Brande entered, he was met by a servant, who invited him to +walk into the dining-room, where he found the supper table spread, and +the clergyman and the lawyer, together with Mr. Luxmore, apparently +waiting his arrival. + +“Gentlemen, I bear to you the excuses of your fair young hostess, whom a +sudden but temporary indisposition confines to her chamber. Pray be +seated, and ‘good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both,’” said +Mr. Luxmore, as he assumed the head of the table. The board was well +spread with all the substantial delicacies of the season. A footman +served tea and coffee from the sideboard. + +“So, Etoile is a prisoner, then,” thought Willful, who was not for an +instant deceived by the pretext advanced by Mr. Luxmore—“but it shall go +hard but that I find means to liberate her before morning.” + +The indisposition of the young lady was no doubt afterward offered in +explanation of the delay of the wedding. + +When all left the dining-room, Willful Brande went to his chamber, wrote +a few lines on a small piece of paper, rolled it into a minute parcel, +returned to the lower hall, and walked to and fro the passage and the +piazza, until he found an opportunity of slipping the little scroll into +the hands of Moll with the swiftly whispered words:— + +“Give this into the hands of your young lady as soon as possible.” + +With a nod of intelligence, Moll concealed the scrip. + +Meantime Etoile, locked within her two rooms, “possessed her young soul +in patience.” Under Divine Providence her hopes rested upon Willful +Brande. Though no confidential word had, since the interruption of her +flight, passed between herself and the youth, she felt assured that he +would not desert her cause; that he would, upon the first opportunity, +leave the Island and report the case to her old friend Doctor Crampton, +with the request that he would appeal in her behalf to the Orphans’ +Court. Meanwhile she knew the danger to which she was constantly exposed +from the unscrupulous character of her guardian. She even wondered +whether he would now permit her own servants to attend her. + +Night drew on, she heard from the distance “the tinkling of silver upon +porcelain,” sounds of preparation for the evening meal. After a few +minutes she went to a side window and looked out, and saw her guardian +hurrying, with disordered steps, toward the house. With a growing +aversion to his presence, she recoiled and left her point of view. Soon +after she heard the steps of Willful Brande enter the front door, and +then all proceed to the dining-room. She closed her windows to keep out +the dampness of the evening that was falling humid and heavy. Lights had +not been brought her, and she sat down in darkness to meditate upon her +strange position. + +After awhile she heard the guests leave the dining-room and proceed to +the parlor, and Julius Luxmore’s voice in conversation with the two +gentlemen. Next she heard the solitary step of Willful Brande pacing to +and fro in the passage, up and down the piazza; but at last he, too, +seemed to have left the scene, and all was silent. Half an hour passed, +and then the key was turned in the lock, and her guardian, accompanied +by old Moll, bearing a tray of refreshments and a light, entered. + +Etoile, on seeing him, turned her back and walked off to the other end +of the room. Old Moll, while busily engaged in arranging refreshments +upon a little stand, cautiously endeavored to catch the eye of her young +mistress, and at last succeeded in exchanging with her a significant +glance. + +Mr. Luxmore walked up and down the floor, watching her keenly, but not +attempting to address her. + +Etoile bore this with patient dignity for a little while, and then said: + +“Since you use your power to confine me here, sir, you should at least +show ordinary delicacy in refraining from intruding upon my privacy, at +this unseemly hour of the night.” + +“I exercise the double privilege of your guardian and your betrothed +husband, young lady. And Etoile, I wished again to converse with you +to-night,” he answered, then turning to the old servant, he added: +“Moll, leave the room.” + +The old woman bowed obedience, and then making feints to settle the +spoon and fork for her young mistress, as soon as Mr. Luxmore’s back was +turned upon them in his walk, she hastily slipped Willful Brande’s +rolled note into her hand and then withdrew from the room. + +Mr. Luxmore now returned on his walk, drew a chair to the side of +Etoile, and then, with all the eloquence he could command, recommenced +his suit. The young girl listened with a curling lip, answered only when +direct questions were put to her, and then in a manner that must have +utterly repulsed any other than the desperate adventurer before her; and +him it nearly maddened. + +“Mr. Luxmore, it is ten o’clock—an hour past my usual one of retiring. +You must see the necessity of now leaving me,” at last she said, in a +tone that compelled even the unscrupulous man before her to respect her +words. + +“Very well! I have given you this last opportunity. You are obdurate, +and my course is taken!” + +When he had left the room, Etoile unrolled her scrip and read: + + + “MISS L’ORIENT,—I advise you to retire early and try to sleep as much + as possible between this and the hour of two in the morning. At that + hour, one who watches will awaken you, and a boat will wait at the + Crystal Creek to convey you to your friends on the main land. + + W. B.” + + +On reading the note, with its prospect of immediate escape, the heart of +Etoile leaped with gladness. + +Meanwhile Willful Brande, loathing the sight of Julius Luxmore, and his +possibly mercenary guests, withdrew to his own chamber, shut the door +and seated himself by the window, to pass the time as he might in +meditation, or in gazing out upon the dark, starlit expanse of waters. + +Sometime after ten o’clock, he heard the guests conducted by Mr. Luxmore +come up and enter their sleeping rooms, which were upon the same floor +with his own. He heard their _soi disant_ host, with much courtly +politeness take leave of them and go down stairs. Next he heard the +muffled motions of the guests in their final preparations for bed. Then +all was silent, until the clock struck eleven. + +“Twelve—one—two! Three hours yet! how shall I live them through, here in +darkness and solitude!” exclaimed Willful to himself. + +He slipped off his shoes and paced softly up and down the room for an +indefinite time. Then growing impatient of that resource, he laid +himself down upon his bed. But finding such absolute physical repose +only the more aggravating to his mental restlessness, he started up +again and resumed his pacing. + +How unsupportably weary the time. + +Twelve o’clock struck! Two hours yet! When _would_ they come to an end? +Surely the common reckoning of time must be all false! He had passed +years that seemed shorter than these eternities of hours. He threw +himself down once more upon his bed, and compelled himself to lie still +for awhile. + +He had been lying thus for a few minutes when, in the profound silence, +he thought he heard the sound of a key turned in a lock, and a footstep +retreating toward the hall staircase. He listened. All was silent. + +“It was one of our guests, perhaps,” he said to himself, and he resolved +to remain perfectly quiet, lest his motions might also attract +attention. But his anxiety increased. The clock struck one. + +“But one hour more! Yet, oh! these hours! they seem eternities!” he +said, as he softly left his couch and went and sat by the window. + +He looked out, but all was so dark that even to his accustomed eyes, +trees and houses, land and water, earth and sky, presented scarcely +perceptible differences in shades of blackness. + +Again he threw himself upon his couch; again grew impatient of rest, and +started up to pace the room; and yet again seated himself at the window. + +Finally, his guardian angel inspired him with the idea of profitably +employing a portion of the weary time in praying for the success of his +undertaking. He sunk upon his knees and prayed that he might be +delivered from all selfish purposes and serve the friendless orphan with +an eye single to her interest, and that the “Father of the fatherless” +might crown his efforts in her behalf with success. As he arose from his +knees the clock struck TWO! + +He took his hat, stole softly to the door and pushed. + +The door was fast locked! He was a prisoner. + +For a moment the discovery of this fact, with all the consequences to be +deduced from it, almost paralyzed his energies! But the next instant he +had recovered his presence of mind and activity of resources. He +suddenly recollected a chisel that had lain for days upon his +mantle-shelf. It was but the work of a few minutes to take that +instrument, and with it force back the catch of the lock and free +himself. + +He then hurried softly through the dark and silent hall and down the +stairs. + +All below was mute and black as death and Erebus. + +Cautiously unfastening the hall door, he paced slowly around the house +until he found himself below the window of Etoile’s boudoir. Against the +wall leaned a ladder. + +“So far—well! Timon has been punctual in placing this means of escape at +hand,” he thought. And ascending a few of the rungs he called, in a soft +tone:— + +“Miss L’Orient! Miss L’Orient!”—and listened. But no voice replied. + +He went up further and called out louder; but without success. + +Growing very anxious, he ascended to the top of the ladder, put his head +in at the window, and called eagerly— “Miss L’Orient!—Miss L’Orient!” +But all was dark, and cold, and still. + +“This is no time for false delicacy. She must forgive me, since I mean +well,” said Willful, very much alarmed, as he turned himself in at the +window, and grouped his way through the boudoir, and through the +adjoining chamber, still calling on the name of Etoile. But neither +sound nor motion answered him; all was dark and silent as death and the +grave. + +Etoile was gone! + +Half frantic with terror, upon her account, Willful Brande hurried +through the window and down the ladder, and ran with phrenzied haste +straight on to the cabin of Timon, at the door of which he knocked, +imperatively, exclaiming:— + +“Timon! Timon! are you there? What is the meaning of this?” + +“Lor, gor, a-mity, Marse Willful, honey, come in, yerself! I can’t move! +I done tied hand and foot!” answered the voice of the old man. + +Willful pushed the door open and entered the cabin, which was as dark as +any other place in that dark night. + +“Feel on to de shelf dere for the match and de candle, honey, and light +it, and I done tell you all about it,” said Timon’s voice, from the +obscurity. + +Willful found a match, and struck a light, that revealed to him the form +of poor old Timon, bound hand and foot with strong cord and thrown upon +the floor of his cabin. Without an instant’s delay he seized a sharp +knife, cut the cords, and helped the old man to his feet. + +“Now then what is the meaning of all this?” inquired Willful. + +“Couldn’t tell you, to save my life, Marster, only I reckon how Marse +Julius done found we-dem out, and outwitted us! ’Cause ’bout an hour +ago, he done came here and throw me down, and tie me, and leave me here +without sayin’ of a word.” + +A terrible idea occurred to Willful. + +“Come! follow me quickly! to the boat!” he said, and rushed forth into +the night. + +The old man hurried after as fast as age and infirmity would permit. + +They reached Crystal Creek just in time, dimly to discern that a boat +had left the shore, and was now some quarter of a mile out upon the bay. + +“He has carried her off! He would not have done it by force, since that +must have created a disturbance which would have reached my ears! He has +carried her off by fraud. He will take her on board his chartered ship! +Quick! prepare a boat, and let us row for life! I will follow her +thither! I will board that ship! I will rescue her or die!” exclaimed +Willful, vehemently. + +“It will be _die_, then, Marster; but nobody sha’n’t call old Timon a +coward in his old days,” said the poor creature, who, with the air of a +martyr, went to prepare the boat. + +But Willful would not let the old man risk his safety by accompanying +him. Alone he entered the light skiff, and using both oars, propelled it +swiftly over the water. He could no longer see the other boat, but he +rowed directly for the distant ship, seen by the light at her prow, and +which he naturally supposed to be the chartered vessel of Julius +Luxmore. + +His light skiff flew like a sea-bird over the surface of the bay, and +quickly touched the side of the vessel. + +Without a moment’s hesitation he scaled the ladder, and stood upon the +deck, face to face with his sister, Barbara Brande, whose barque had +anchored there an hour before! + +“Willful!” + +“Barbara!” + +They gazed upon each other in amazement for a moment, and then rushed +together in a hearty embrace. + +And while hurried explanations occupy them, we must return to see what +has become of Etoile. + +We said that, on reading Willful Brande’s note, with its promise of +speedy release, her heart had leaped with gladness. But to follow its +advice so far as to go to sleep, that was impossible! There was no +repose to her excited nerves that night. However, the maiden was young +and very strong, and the loss of a single night’s rest would scarcely be +felt by her fine organization. So she blew out her light, drew the bolts +across her door, closed the blinds, and sat down by the window to watch +and wait from ten till two o’clock. At eleven every one about the house +had apparently retired. At twelve it was to be supposed that all were +buried in sleep. And yet two hours remained of the very “witching time” +of night—hours, when all nature seemed wrapped in death-like repose. +Then she, every nerve acute with listening, heard her name softly +breathed beneath her window. She silently opened the shutter and +murmured lowly—“Do not speak again. I am here.” And taking her head in, +she quickly put on her bonnet and mantle, and reappeared at the window, +against which a short ladder had been leaned. + +A figure muffled in a large cloak, though this was July, waited at the +foot. Lightly Etoile descended the rounds, where she was received by the +man, who bowed, and making a signal of silence, walked before. Etoile, +with a rapidly beating heart, followed. Both took the direction of the +Crystal Creek. The path was narrow, only one little pair of feet having +been accustomed to tread it. It led through the densest portion of the +thicket of woods that girdled the Island. + +The guide went on in silence. Etoile followed—the palpitation of her +heart, the agitation of her whole frame, preventing her from wishing to +speak. + +It was still very dark, so that even when they emerged from the thicket, +the line of beach and the expanse of water seemed only fainter shadow. +The skiff moored in the little creek looked only a blacker mark upon the +dark water. The boat was alone. + +“Where are my servants? Are not Moll and Timon to go with me?” inquired +Etoile, for the first time speaking, in a hushed voice. + +But her guide lifted up his finger to enjoin perfect silence, and took +her hand to assist her into the boat. A strange misgiving upon account +of the absence of her attendants seized the heart of Etoile. But as no +suspicion of treachery mingled with her feelings, and as her confidence +in Willful Brande remained unshaken, she firmly stepped into the boat +and took her seat in the stern. Her companion followed, sat down midway, +and taking up the two oars began to ply them. The boat glided swiftly +over the still dark surface of the creek out into the open Bay. The +rower silently directed its course toward the coast of Northumberland, +that lay due west. The guide continued mute, as though he had been born +dumb, and Etoile, now that she was alone upon the waters with this +reserved companion, from a feeling of bashfulness remained quiet. Her +misgivings increased. There seemed to be no necessity now that they were +so far from land for this continued silence. It grew oppressing, +alarming; she became nervous, she could bear the trial no longer, but +spoke out, in a low agitated tone—the very sound of her own voice amid +the stillness frightening her the more—inquiring— + +“Mr. Brande, excuse me, please, but where are my servants? Why would +they not come?” + +A low derisive laugh answered her! + +“My God! I am betrayed!” cried Etoile, with a stifled shriek. + +“You are _entrapped_, fair plotter!” answered the voice of Julius +Luxmore. + +“Oh, misery, misery! oh, God help me in my bitter extremity!” she cried, +in a voice of thrilling agony, burying her face in her hands and +dropping her head upon her bosom. + +Then followed a short pause, during which no sound was heard but the +dipping of the oars; Etoile remained half stunned with sudden despair; +Luxmore, scorned, repulsed and enraged as he had been by her, now, with +the vengeful malignity of a fiend, gloated over the sight of her +sufferings. But already the heroic young spirit was struggling to rally +from the shock and throw off the benumbing weight of despair. + +“What is the meaning of this, wretch?” at length she asked, in rising +indignation, as she lifted up her fair head. + +“I will tell you, my beauty!” replied Luxmore, in a tone of malignant +triumph. “The meaning of this is, that I suspected and watched your +hopeful young guest, Willful Brande; detected him in consultation with +your other ‘guide, philosopher, and friend,’ old Timon; discovered their +plan to liberate you, and determined not only to _prevent_ it, but to +avail myself of it, to get you more thoroughly into my power. So I had +old Timon quietly put in irons, turned a key privately upon Master +Willful, and offered myself beneath your window as his substitute.” + +“Miscreant! why have you done this?” exclaimed the young girl +indignantly. + +“Do not call ill names, and I will tell you, my dear,” replied Luxmore, +with a deliberate softness of tone that seemed to taste and chew the +sweetness of revenge,—“I will tell you, my beloved! While you remained +on the Island, you were in some measure out of my power, for there were +present a clergyman and a lawyer, to say nothing of your lover, to +protect you in an emergency. But having detected you in the plot to +leave the Island, I availed myself of the opportunity of entrapping you! +Your life and honor are now absolutely at my mercy.” + +Etoile clasped her fingers convulsively and threw her eyes despairingly +over the solitary waste of sky and water, as if in hopeless appeal for +help. In after years she remembered the dark, silent, sombre scene, as +if it had been daguerreotyped forever on her brain. A single ship, dimly +seen, lay at anchor, a short distance off; a lantern burning at her +prow, threw a long line of light a cable’s length ahead, just across +their course. + +Withdrawing her eyes from this dreary prospect, she turned them upon the +dark figure of her guide. + +“Traitor! whither are you taking me?” + +“I will inform you, my sweet! To the Northumberland coast, to a lonely +cabin of which I keep the key; which shall become the bower of my bride; +and from which, when she shall emerge, she will be but too happy to have +the state and church legalize and sanctify our union!” he answered, with +deliberate and demoniac malice. + +Etoile, who “understood a _horror_ in his words, but not the words,” +started and recoiled to the furthest limits of her seat. They were now +approaching that long line of light from the lantern in the prow of the +ship at anchor that lay in their way. She cast a startling glance at the +water beneath, and then a despairing gaze at the ship beyond. Oh, that +ship! so near, yet for all purposes of help, so far! + +Julius Luxmore saw both look and gesture, and laughed aloud, exclaiming +scornfully—“Ah, pretty one! even you see at length that you cannot +escape me—‘in testimony whereof, behold my hand and seal’”—and drawing +in the oars, regardless of the danger of rocking the boat he darted +toward her, and would have seized and embraced her; but with a terrible +cry, Etoile sprang into the sea, the waves of which immediately closed +over her form. + +So sudden, so startling, so appalling had been this act, that Julius +Luxmore for an instant remained panic-stricken, but the next moment, he +quickly threw off his coat, and placed himself on watch for her +reappearance. + +She arose above the surface of the water, at some distance from the +boat, nearer the ship, and attempted to strike out bravely for the +latter, but being embarrassed and weighed down by her clothing, she made +no progress, and even strove in vain to keep afloat. Recovering from his +first consternation, and seeing her extremity, Julius Luxmore, with a +shout of vindictive triumph, urged his boat toward her struggling form. +In this unequal race he must soon have reached and recaptured his prize; +but that the next instant a strong swimmer let himself drop from the +bulwarks of the ship, and struck out gallantly for the sinking girl, +whose form he seized, and bore victoriously to the starboard gangway +ladder, and up upon the deck of the—Ocean Queen!—for this was the ship +of Barbara Brande, which had just an hour before dropped anchor here. + +Etoile, half suffocated and half exhausted, gave vent to a convulsive +sob, recovered her breath, looked up to thank her brave preserver, and +recognized Willful Brande! + +“Oh, may heaven repay you! but how should _you_ be here whom I thought +detained upon the Island?” she exclaimed, in a deeply agitated voice. + +“I will inform you presently, young lady; now let me present you to my +sister,” he replied, as Barbara Brande advanced from the stern sheets. + +But before they met, at the instant of Willful’s speaking, a boat +touched the side of the vessel, and Julius Luxmore sprung up the ladder, +and stood upon the deck. + +“Where is the girl you picked up, fellow? Deliver her to me; she is my +fugitive child!” he exclaimed, advancing toward the group. + +“Save me! save me!” cried Etoile, springing for protection to the bosom +of Barbara. + +“Be composed, you _are_ saved!” returned the deep, low voice of the +noble girl, as she folded one arm around the shrinking form of the +little maiden, and lifted the other with outstretched hand to bar the +nearer approach of the intruder. + +“Give up that child instantly to her natural protector,” he exclaimed, +in a peremptory tone. It was as yet so dark in this quarter of the +vessel that, being still a few paces distant, he had not recognized the +persons to whom he spoke. + +“Light the lanterns,” ordered Barbara, in that clear, ringing, resonant +voice that struck him as a sound familiar, yet long unheard. + +And in another instant lights blazed from all parts of the vessel, +giving to full view all the persons on the deck. + +And Barbara Brande and Julius Luxmore stood face to face! For a second, +the traitor quailed before her calm, clear, commanding gaze; but the +next moment, rallying his courage, with desperate assurance, he said: + +“Deliver up my ward! I _insist_ upon it.” + +“Insist then, by all means, since it amuses you to do so!” replied +Barbara, with cool contempt. + +“_Will_ you give up my ward?” he demanded, with rage. + +“Oh, certainly; how can you doubt it!” mocked Barbara. + +“Answer seriously, woman!” + +“It would be absurd to answer seriously, just as if you had a right to +ask!” + +“Release that child, I command you, girl!” he exclaimed, furiously. + +“How I should love to obey your command, especially as I _adore_ +tyrants!” sneered Barbara. + +Maddened with rage, he stole forward to seize the maiden. + +“BACK, SIR, AT YOUR PERIL!” thundered Barbara, with eyes blazing with +defiance, and arm extended in command, as she still sustained the maiden +upon her broad bosom. + +Luxmore recoiled before the “embodied storm” he had provoked. + +Willful had sprung to the side of his sister, to protect both her and +her charge. + +“Stand aside, Willful, my son! Edwy, call all hands up!” she ordered, in +her customary, clear, resounding tones. + +And in a moment every man was on deck. + +“Listen now to me, Julius Luxmore. Regain the custody of this girl +you—can—not! either by law, force, or fraud! You are free to depart in +peace, and if, in two minutes, you do not leave the ship, I will have +you put in irons, and delivered up to the nearest authority.” + +“By what right, lawless woman, do you _dare_ do this?” exclaimed +Luxmore, in a voice of concentrated rage. + +“That is a question that I shall know how to answer before the proper +tribunal. You have heard the conditions of your being permitted to +depart in peace. One minute has elapsed; with you I talk no more. Edwy, +bring hither the manacles,” she said, with quiet resolution. + +“SHE-WOLF! you shall suffer for this!” cried Luxmore, turning white as a +leper, shaking his fist convulsively, and grinding his teeth with fury, +as he retreated down the ladder to regain his boat. + +“Wrecked! wrecked! wrecked! worse than from the deck of the Mercury! +Lost! lost! lost! a girl’s dream and a man’s soul!” murmured Barbara, +unconsciously, in a tone of deep anguish, as she watched his receding +skiff. Then, burying her despair deep in her own heart, she looked upon +her trembling charge, who still nestled to her bosom, and said: + +“Look up, sweet girl! your tormentor has gone! You are now quite safe. +Come below and change your dress to lie down and rest.” + +It was now growing light. + +Barbara took her charge down into the cabin; relieved her of her +dripping clothes; supplied their place with loose and comfortable +garments; made her drink a glass of cordial, and led her to her own +state-room to lie down and sleep. But, before seeking repose, Etoile +kneeled beside the berth and silently offered up her thanks to Heaven +for the preservation of her life. Barbara lingered until the little +maiden had laid her head upon the pillow; then kissed her, drew the +cover over her shoulders, closed the blinds, and stole softly out of the +state-room. + +She crossed the cabin to an opposite door, and listened to hear if there +were any stirring within. The sound of light footsteps and low voices +met her ear. She rapped softly, and the door was opened by Susan +Copsewood. + +“Your lady is awake, Susan?” + +“Yes, Miss Brande, come in.” + +“Yes, come in, dear girl. I have been awake for hours,” said the sweet +voice of Estelle. + +Barbara entered, and sat down beside the berth where the lady reclined. + +“The noise on deck, I suppose, awoke you, Madam.” + +“Yes.” + +“We were dropping the anchor and taking in sail. We are near the +Island,” said Barbara, who wished to prepare her guest for the next good +news. + +“Near the Island at last! It is now almost sunrise! How soon shall we be +landed?” inquired Estelle, eagerly rising upon her elbow, and flinging +back the long black ringlets that had escaped her cap and fallen—a +shadowy vail around her eloquent pale face. + +“You may see your daughter Etoile within an hour,” answered Barbara. + +Estelle’s countenance beamed with joy. + +“You may see her even sooner, if you can dress in less time!” continued +Miss Brande. + +“Susan, my dressing-gown! hand me my shoes! bind up my hair! Dearest +Barbara, I shall be ready as soon as you can have the boat prepared,” +said Estelle, leaving her berth. + +“There is no need to prepare the boat,” said Miss Brande, significantly. + +“Oh! Barbara, what mean you?” exclaimed the lady, pausing in the +preparation of her toilet, and gazing in an agony of anxiety upon her +friend. + +“Etoile is very near you.” + +“Where? where?” cried Estelle, starting up and going toward the door. + +“Lady, be calm and I will give you every satisfaction,” replied Barbara, +taking her hand and gently but firmly reseating her. + +“One word—is she safe?” + +“Safe, unmarried, unharmed, but also unprepared as yet to meet her +mother. Lady, listen. I will tell you every thing, and—within half an +hour, I will bring you to your daughter.” + +“Oh, is it possible? Am I awake and in my senses? shall I see Etoile?” + +“In less than half an hour! Compose yourself and hear,” said Barbara, +who then commenced and related all the circumstances of the storm; the +shipwreck; the saving of Willful; the subsequent eclaircissement between +Etoile and himself in respect to her guardian; the arrival of Luxmore; +the attempted flight of Etoile; the treachery to which she was +subjected; her abduction by Julius Luxmore; her desperate escape and +effort to swim to the ship; her rescue by Willful Brande; the coming on +board of Luxmore; and, finally, the ignominious dismissal of the latter +from the ship. She concluded by saying— + +“And now, as I deemed it necessary that she should rest before having +another subject of excitement, I refrained from speaking of her mother, +and left her to repose.” + +“Miss Brande! oh, let me gaze upon her in her sleep!” prayed the lady, +clasping her hands. + +“I will first see if she is sleeping, Madam,” replied Barbara, leaving +the state-room. In a few minutes she returned and said— + +“She is sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion—you can enter softly, +lady.” + +With a wildly beating heart and suspended breath, Estelle passed into +the opposite state-room, sat down beside the berth, and gazed upon her +daughter. Beautiful was that sleeping image. One snowy arm doubled up on +the pillow, supported her blooming face; her white eyelids were lightly +closed over the violet eyes, the lashes lying delicately penciled on her +fresh rose cheeks; her golden hair flowed in glittering disorder down +ever forehead, side-face, and bosom; her other arm drooped gracefully +over the counterpane. + +Estelle gazed in a sort of still rapture upon her lovely child, longing, +yet afraid, ever so lightly to touch her. At length the temptation to +lay her lips upon that seraph face grew irresistible, and light as the +fall of a winter rose-leaf on the snow, dropped the mother’s first kiss +upon the maiden’s pure brow. Soft as was the touch, Etoile felt it in +her sleep; her ruby lips parted in a smile; her eyelids half unclosed. + +Estelle, fearful of surprising her, arose and quietly withdrew from the +room. + +Half an hour after Barbara entered—Etoile was lying wide awake, her rosy +lips half parted, her violet eyes half vailed in a dreamy smile. + +“How do you feel, my dear?” inquired Barbara. + +“Ah! Miss Brande, I have had such a sweet dream! so seeming real, that I +can scarcely dispel the illusion! I was dreaming of my mother; I thought +that she was living, and that she had found me; I thought that she was +sitting by my bed, and oh! she was so beautiful! so beautiful! just what +I supposed her to be! just like the miniature I painted of her, only so +much more divinely beautiful! I dreamed she stooped and pressed the +softest kiss upon my brow, and while her lips were upon my forehead, and +her soft black ringlets touched my cheeks, I awoke and found it was all +a dream! And yet, withal, it still seems so real, that I can scarcely +believe I dreamed,” said Etoile, closing her eyes and smiling, as if to +charm back the vision. + +“But suppose it was no dream, dear girl?” said Barbara, in an agitated +voice. + +Etoile’s eyes flared wide open, and her color went and came. + +“Suppose it was reality—suppose that your mother really did sit beside +you in your sleep, and withdrew when you awoke?” + +A tumultuous rush of emotion crimsoned and paled her face, and took away +her breath as she eagerly listened. + +“What if your mother had met with Madeleine in New York, had heard of +your existence and residence, and had embarked on this very vessel to +seek you at the Island?” + +“Oh, it is! it is so! I have seen my mother! I have had her kiss!” cried +Etoile, shaken, as a rose-tree is shaken by a storm—“where, where, Miss +Brande, where is she now?” + +“Here, my beloved child! here, my long-lost darling, here!” cried the +voice of the lady, as she opened the door and entered. + +Etoile sprung up in a sitting position, and threw herself toward the +lady, who opened her arms to receive her, and murmuring—“Mother”—fell +fainting upon her bosom. No possible care could have prepared Etoile for +a meeting like this! It must necessarily have overwhelmed her. + +“Joy never kills—be not uneasy,” said Barbara, as she lifted the +fainting girl from the bosom of Estelle, and replaced her on the berth. +And indeed their united efforts soon recalled the absent senses of their +charge. Then Barbara, with her eyes full of tears, withdrew and left the +mother and child together. + +Who can describe that first interview, indeed for many reasons +indescribable? But who can _not_ picture to themselves, the first +tumultuous emotion; the strange, dreamy joy; the first incoherent +conversation; the sudden plunge into the past history of each; the +breathless questions and answers; the impulsive embraces; the long, +silent pauses, with the form of the maiden pressed closely within the +arms of the mother; and at last the calmer hour, when this strong +emotion had subsided, and both sat quietly side by side, comparing the +story of their late lives, or rather Etoile giving up the whole of hers +to her mother’s earnest inquiries. + +Like two lovely sisters they looked, the one so dark, the other so fair, +yet both alike in features, form and air, and both so surpassingly +beautiful! + +The prophecy of both hearts was now fulfilled. The mother had found her +child—the child her mother! And for the time being the whole world was +forgotten. + +Barbara long delayed the breakfast; but when the hour of nine arrived, +she thought that even for the good health of those two absorbed +creatures, she should call them. So going to the state-room door, she +rapped, and said— + +“Breakfast awaits your leisure, lady.” + +“I thank you, Miss Brande,” said the voice of Estelle who immediately +opened the door, and led her daughter to her own state-room, where Susan +Copsewood waited. + +“Little shipwrecked maiden, you must wear your mother’s dress,” said the +lady, as she seated the girl on the side of the berth. Then seeing +Susan, she added— + +“Etoile, this young woman is the faithful friend of whom I told you, +Susan, speak to my child.” + +But poor, good Susan, was too deeply moved to speak, and only took the +hand of the maiden, raised it to her lips and burst into tears. Etoile +pressed _her_ hand and looked gratefully in her face. Then with +affectionate zeal, Susan dressed her “young lady” as she termed her +mistress’s daughter. And soon they passed out to breakfast. The table +was spread in the cabin, Barbara presided over the coffee service. + +“I miss some one here—my favorite, Willful, now doubly dear to me as the +preserver of my daughter’s life. Where is he, Miss Brande?” inquired the +lady, as she took her seat at the board. + +“Willful refrains from intruding, yet I know he would be happy to pay +his respects to you, Madam,” answered Barbara. + +“Then pray have him called.” + +Edwy arose from his place and summoned his brother. + +Willful entered the cabin, bowing. The lady looked up and held out her +hand. + +“Mr. Brande, all human words and thanks are poor and weak to express how +much I owe you for the protection of this child. God grant that in the +future, Willful, I may be able to prove what I now feel!” said the +mother, as her bosom heaved and her eyes overflowed. + +Willful, with much grace, lifted the hand of the lady respectfully to +his lips, and said— + +“Madam, I am more blessed than I ever deserved to be, in having been, in +ever so humble a degree, able to serve you, and——” he paused suddenly +and sent a swift, shy glance at Etoile. The lady followed that glance +and saw the quick blushes of both youth and maiden as their eyes met. +She saw and understood and thought— + +“Is it so? Well, well, he has saved her life and honor! Let him keep the +fair promise of his youth! Let him be worthy of her, and when a proper +time comes he shall have her!” + +“Sit down, Willful, and take a cup of coffee,” said his sister, to break +up an embarrassing pause. He seated himself and the breakfast went +forward. + +After the morning meal was over, there was a consultation in the cabin. + +“It will be necessary for you, lady, to go to the county-town to take +certain legal steps to enable you to assume the guardianship of your +daughter and her patrimony. The county-town is Eastville, which, you +know, lies back of my old home, the Headland. Therefore, if you please, +we will steer directly for the Headland.” + +The lady eagerly acquiesced. And in half an hour the anchor was got up +and the ship set sail for her new destination. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVII. + THE RE-UNION. + + “’Twas his own voice, she could not err + Throughout the breathing world’s extent, + There was but one such voice for her, + So kind, so soft, so eloquent!—_Moore._ + + There’s not a look, a word of thine, + My soul hath e’er forgot! + Thou ne’er didst bid a ringlet shine, + Nor give thy locks one graceful twine, + Which I remember not!”—_Ibid._ + + +At eleven o’clock the Ocean Queen cast anchor off the Headland. The +long-boat was lowered, and the mother and daughter, with Barbara and her +two brothers, entered it and were rowed across to the beach. They +landed, and began to ascend the bank. At the top they overtook old +Neptune, with a basket of soft crabs in his hand. His mistress took him +aside and spoke to him. + +“Has any one come, Neptune?” + +“Lors yes, chile, come dis mornin’—four, five, ever so fine folks, an’ +the fine English lords as was here some years back. Amphy, she done gone +up to get dinner. I gwine carry up de fish now.” + +“Very well, go on,” said Barbara, who then returned to the side of +Estelle. They were approaching the house. + +“It appears to me that the place is occupied,” said Estelle. + +“Madam—yes, it is occupied temporarily.” + +They ascended the steps, and paused a moment at the door. + +“Lady,” said Barbara, “you have fine nerves, and the great self-control +that they give—exert it now.” + +“Miss Brande, what mean you?” inquired Estelle, in some alarm. + +“I told you that your parents were seeking you!” + +“Yes—well?” + +“They are not far off. Come into your old bed-chamber and lay off your +bonnet, and compose yourself for a few minutes,” said Miss Brande, +opening the door, and conducting Estelle and her daughter into a back +room. Then, while they arranged their dress, she passed into the parlor +and closed the door after her. And though a lady of distinguished +presence and three gentlemen occupied the room, she lifted her finger to +her lip as a sign of silence, and advanced straight up to the youngest +of those gentlemen. He arose to receive her, saying, in a low voice:— + +“Miss Brande, your letter has brought not only myself but, as you see, +our whole party—Sir Parke, Lady Morelle, and Dazzleright. Oh, Barbara, +surely you could not hold out any but a certain hope.” + +“Speak softly, Lord Eagle Tower. She is not far off. She does not know +your presence here.” + +Sir Parke, who had also approached the spot where she stood, heard this +piece of news, and reeled as if he would have fallen. Lady Morelle +hastened to his side, and led him to the nearest seat, wiped the beaded +drops from his brow, and held her vinaigrette to his nostrils. Her +ladyship had, certainly, the most self-command of the whole party. As +soon as the enfeebled old father recovered his composure, Barbara took +Lord Eagle Tower aside and said— + +“I will bring her in now. You and Lord Dazzleright had best retire for a +few minutes.” + +He nodded—he could scarcely speak—for he too was very much shaken. + +Barbara slipped through the door, and met face to face with Estelle, who +was standing there as rigid and as white as marble, with her eyes turned +toward the parlor. + +Barbara closed the door, took her hand, and led her a little way back +into the chamber. + +“Lady—dear Madam, what is the matter?” + +“Montressor! Montressor!—If ever I heard Montressor’s voice, I heard it +just now! Oh, it was so low, yet I heard it!” + +“Yes, you heard it. Compose yourself, dear lady. Summon your great +strength, and go in! Leave Miss L’Orient here with me a moment;” and she +opened the door. + +Estelle passed through, and entered the shadowy parlor—the tumult of her +mind causing the scene to swim before her—so that at first she could not +distinguish persons. + +But an aged form tottered toward her, and fell upon her neck, saying: + +“Oh, Estelle, my child! my child! can you pardon your old father?” + +She sank at his feet, and kissed his hands, and said: + +“Forgive and bless _me_, my father.” + +But Sir Parke, the subdued and broken old aristocrat, could only weep +and lift her up, and hand her over to her mother, who, with a burst of +tears, received her in her arms. Estelle sat down between them both, +upon the sofa, and wept while she pressed her mother’s hand, or stroked +her father’s cheek, and told them of the long-lost child that she too +had recovered. Then Etoile was brought in, and presented to her +grandparents, who contemplated her beauty with pride and pleasure. + +But at last Lady Morelle said: + +“There is another who is waiting to see our Estelle. Come, Sir Parke, +take your grandchild in your hand and let us pass into the adjoining +room, and give this faithful friend an opportunity to plead his cause.” + +The baronet arose, and leading Etoile and accompanied by his wife, +passed into the back chamber. + +Estelle sank upon the sofa—the beating of her heart was almost audible. + +A moment passed and Lord Eagle Tower was in the room and at her side. + +What was first said on either side, they could not have told!—how should +another? It was a most agitated, tumultuous interview, in which all that +either learned at first was, that neither heart was changed toward the +other. Lord Eagle Tower learned the meaning of the sacrifice that she +had made. And she discovered the supererogatory nature of her long +self-immolation. + +And finally he said— + +“My Estelle! my love! my wife! deemed you that ever _I_ could forget +_you_ and marry? I! Oh, my own! all these years of absence have you only +taken root deeper and deeper into my heart! become more and more knitted +to my soul! My wife! my innermost self, not now, not to-day only, but +always and forever, from eternity to eternity, my own! Oh, suffering +one! and did you think that time or absence had power to steal _you_ +from my heart, or that another could ever fill your place there? +Impossible in fact! sacrilegious in theory! No, Estelle; no, dearest +wife! my heart’s innermost treasury! no. I lived amid a pageantry of +beautiful and attractive women, as lovely, perhaps, as my Estelle. But +not one among them was mine, or ever could be mine, because my heart was +abundantly filled. I moved among them, my eyes enjoying, in common with +others, the sight of their beauty and grace, but without the slightest +wish to appropriate any among them. I moved amid the beautiful, even as +though I had been a happy husband, with his whole heart filled, his +whole nature abundantly satisfied with the wife of his choice. For my +heart was full of the love of my only possible wife, though her presence +lighted another hemisphere.” + +Draw the vail. The full interview between such hearts so deeply tried, +so long severed, so unexpectedly reunited, is almost too sacred for +description. + +But little more remains to be told. + +That same afternoon, a messenger, sent to Heathville, brought back the +worthy Doctor Goodloe with a special license, and before the set of sun +Estelle became Lady Eagle Tower. + +They remained a few days at the Headland, during which Lady Eagle Tower +applied for, and received, full powers of guardianship over the person +and property of her child. It is needless to say that that child was +received with paternal affection by Lord Eagle Tower. + +In a few days they set sail for Washington, where Lord Eagle Tower +received dispatches appointing him to proceed at once to the Court of —— +upon certain diplomatic business. He immediately obeyed the order and +departed, accompanied by his lady and her whole family. Willful Brande +was to visit them there, whenever his professional duties would permit +him to do so. Lord Dazzleright renewed his proposition to the beautiful +Amazon, but Barbara gratefully and firmly declined the man and the +coronet. + + * * * * * + +Susan Copsewood married Mr. Gridley, Lord Eagle Tower’s “gentleman,” and +both continue in the service of their former master and mistress. Susan +has entirely recovered from her transient fear of ghosts, and is even +more incredulous than ever upon the subject of the reappearance or +departed spirits; for, in several confidential conversations with her +mistress, she discovered that the supposed apparition of the spirit of +Blanche Brande, that haunted the old family burial-ground, and peeped in +at her window, was no other than her own dear lady, Estelle, who, +restless from grief, had nightly left her sleepless couch to spend an +hour or two in wandering through the solitary groves. + +Years have flown. Lord and Lady Eagle Tower reside in great splendor, +surrounded by their interesting family, at the Eastern Court, where he +is resident minister. The fate of Luxmore is unknown. + +Barbara Brande still sails upon the sea, and promises to leave it only +when her brother Willful, who is now a commander in the navy, shall be +united to his promised bride—Etoile L’Orient, the lovely Lady of the +Isle. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + Copyright:—1886. + + T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS. + + + MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S COMPLETE WORKS + + EACH WORK IS COMPLETE IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME. + + _SELF-RAISED; or, FROM THE DEPTHS._ _Sequel to Ishmael._ + _ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS._ (_Being Self-Made._) + _THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE._ + _THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, Fall of House of Flint._ + _THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER._ + _A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE._ + _VICTOR’S TRIUMPH._ _A Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”_ + _THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, Orville Deville._ + _FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER._ + _HOW HE WON HER._ _A Sequel to “Fair Play.”_ + _THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way._ + _THE BRIDE’S FATE._ _Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”_ + _CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow-Eve Mystery._ + _TRIED FOR HER LIFE._ _A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”_ + _THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse._ + _THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess._ + _THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers._ + _A NOBLE LORD._ _Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”_ + _THE FAMILY DOOM; or, the SIN OF A COUNTESS._ + _THE MAIDEN WIDOW._ _Sequel to “The Family Doom.”_ + _THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening._ + _THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day._ + _THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, Shannondale._ + _ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora._ + _FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._ + _INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._ + _VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER._ + _THE WIDOW’S SON; or, Left Alone._ + _THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle._ + _BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN._ _Sequel to “The Widow’s Son.”_ + _THE BRIDAL EVE; or, Rose Elmer._ + _THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, Hickory Hall._ + _THE DESERTED WIFE._ + _HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._ + _THE LOST HEIRESS._ + _THE SPECTRE LOVER._ + _THE WIFE’S VICTORY._ + _THE FATAL SECRET._ + _THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._ + _THE TWO SISTERS._ + _THE ARTIST’S LOVE._ + _LOVE’S LABOR WON._ + _MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW._ + _RETRIBUTION._ + + Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each. + +☞ _Mrs. Southworth’s works are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of +any one, or more of them, will be sent to any one, postage prepaid, or +free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the +publishers,_ + + _T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa._ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75497 *** |