The Lady of the Isle

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 90rising 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 91well-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]

“Noo they wull not, nuther. It’s boogmy wot they zent Tom Sawyers acroos the water for. And they wull zend 92un 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 93who 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.

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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.

94“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 95really 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 96an 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 97protection 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.

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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 98library 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 99daughter, 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.”

100Leaning 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 101no 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, 102who 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.

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 103high 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.

104The 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, 105filled 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 106completed 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 107Morelle, 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?”

108“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 109expression 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 110front 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 111binding 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—

112“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.

113Should 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?”

114“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?”

115“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 116Susan, 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. 117There 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 118whom 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 119will 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 120her 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 121this 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 122greeting 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.

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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.

180At 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 181her 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 182lessened 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 183crew 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 184elements 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.

185Not 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 186I 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.

187The 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 188presence 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 189could 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, 190drove 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.

191But 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 192also 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 193to 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 194opinion; 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.

195“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!”

196

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:—

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 204possession 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.

205He 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.

206Fortunately 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 207every 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!”

208“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!”

209And 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.

210We 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 211take 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—

For as his monomania grew, he imagined that his sovereign sway extended over all the Islands of the Bay. At 212first, 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 213he 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 214comical 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, 215with 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.

216“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 217ushering 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.

218“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 219of 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 220the 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.”

221“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!”

222“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.

223Madame 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.

224At 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 225the 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 226admiration 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.

227“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 228would 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.

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 229chamber 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 230and 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 231point 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 232is 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 233custom-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 234desolate 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 235not 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?”

236“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.

237And 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 238shores, 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.

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.

239The 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 240she 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! 241the 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.”

242“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 243hours’ 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.

244They 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?”

245“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 246of 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 247Luxmore 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 248Headland 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!

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!

249I 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!

250So 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 251death 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, 252shaking 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 253resolution 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?”

254“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 255such 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 256and 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.

257Barbara 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 258by 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 259it,—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—

260“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! 261that 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 262hearing, 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——”

263“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 264girl; 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.

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 265which 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 266back 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 267clothes. 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?”

268“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, 269but 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—

270“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 271sort 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.

272Lady 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.”

273“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.”

274“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 275unfeminine, 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.”

276“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.”

277“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.

278Willful 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.

279Estelle 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.

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 280no 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?”

281“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 282culpably 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.”

283“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 284sunrise 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:

285“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.”

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.

286“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 287Lord 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.”

288Here 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.”

289“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 290father, 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 291family 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.

292Was 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 293alongside 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.

294The 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 295round—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 296from 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 downrightness 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 297shall 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.

298

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 315no 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 316a 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 317bed 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 318doubt,” 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 319ringlets, 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 320of 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.”

321Lady 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 322deficiency 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 323get 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 324was! 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 325world 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 326angel, 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.

327

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 335for 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 336Brande, 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?”

337“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 338that 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.”

339“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.

340“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 341the 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.

342Feeling 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 343through 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 344before 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 345board 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 346that 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.

347But 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!

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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.

429The 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 430hands 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 431captain 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 432neither 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.”

433Barbara’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 434inside 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.

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.

435But 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 436gazed 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 437he 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 438bowed 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 439waters 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.

“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.

440“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.”

441“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 442and 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.

443“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.

444Willful 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 445Brande, 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?”

446“’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.

447“’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.

448The 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 449my 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:—

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.

450“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.

451

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 457of 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 458hearts 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.

459And 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 460of 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.

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.

461Her 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 462life. 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 463the 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 464and 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.

465It 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.

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 466much 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 467emancipated 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 468the 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.

469

474

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 480permit 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, 481to 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 482miles 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 483all 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—

484“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.

485“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.

486And 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.

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 487reception 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 488not 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 489do 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 490tumbling, 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.

491And 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.”

492“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.”

493“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——”

494“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 495never 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 496under 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.

497“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.”

498“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 499arrived 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, 500living 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, 501agreed 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.

502“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 503that 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 504Thus 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.

505Alas! 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!”

506“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 507making 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.

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 508the 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?”

509“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

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 510one, 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 511acceptable 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 512marriage 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—

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.

She sealed the letter and superscribed it—

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 513Estelle 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.”

514“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.”

515Estelle 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.

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 516an 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 517breakfast 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 518with 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 519the 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 520see. 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.

521As 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 522from 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 523is 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, 524and 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.

525“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. 526Give 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 527in 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.

528Near 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 529were 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.

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 530done 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 531carefully 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 532shoulders, 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 533the 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 534evidences 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!”

535It 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 536make 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 537saw 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.

538

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, 547all 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—

548“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 549hands 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 550reply—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 551Julius 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 552the 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.”

553“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 554lady. 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.”

555“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 556sisters. 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.

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