IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND THAT THE COUCH OF AN INVALID HAS PERILS
NOT LESS FORMIDABLE THAN THOSE WHICH ARE TO BE ENCOUNTERED AT SEA.
We left Ethelston stretched on a sick couch in Guadaloupe, in the house
of Captain L’Estrange, and tended by his daughter Nina, and by her
brother, the young lieutenant. The latter grew daily more attached to
the patient, who had been his captor, and was now his prisoner; but
he was obliged, as soon as Ethelston was pronounced out of danger,
to sail for Europe, as he was anxious to obtain that professional
distinction which his parole prevented his gaining in service against
the United States. And in France there seemed a promising harvest of
combat and of glory, sufficient to satisfy the martial enthusiasm even
of the most adventurous of her sons. When he sailed, he again and again
pressed upon his sister to bestow every attention upon Ethelston;
and as the Captain was much busied with his command, and as Madame
L’Estrange was entirely devoted to her boudoir,—where, with two
chattering parrots to amuse her, and a little black girl to fan her
while listlessly poring over the pages of Florian in a fauteuil,—the
whole charge devolved upon the willing and kind–hearted Nina. She was
the third and youngest daughter of Monsieur and Madame L’Estrange; but
(her two elder sisters being married) she was the only one resident
with her parents.
Sixteen summers had now passed over her, and her disposition was like
that of her brother,—frank, impetuous, and warm–hearted. Her feelings
had never been guided or regulated by her handsome but indolent mother;
her mind had been allowed to seek its food at hap–hazard among the
romances, poems, and plays upon the shelves in the drawing–room. Her
father spoilt and her brother petted her. A governess also she had,
whom she governed, and to whose instructions she owed little, except
a moderate proficiency in music. Her countenance was a very beautiful
mirror, reflecting the warm and impassioned features of her character.
Her complexion was dark, though clear, and her hair black and glossy.
The pencilling of her eyebrows was exceedingly delicate; and the eyes
themselves were large, speaking, and glowing with that humid lustre
which distinguishes creole beauty. Nothing could exceed the rosy
fulness of her lip, and the even whiteness of the teeth which her
joyous smile disclosed. Her figure was exquisitely proportioned; and
her every movement a very model of natural grace. She seemed, indeed,
impregnated with the fervour of the sunny climate in which she had been
reared; and her temper, her imagination, her passions, all glowed with
its ardent but dangerous warmth. According to the usage of her country,
she had been betrothed, when a child, to a neighbouring planter, one of
the richest in the island; but as he was absent in Europe, and there
remained yet two years before the time fixed for the fulfilment of the
contract, she rarely troubled her head about the marriage or her future
destiny.
Such was the girl who now officiated as nurse to Ethelston, and who,
before she had seen him, had gathered from her brother such traits of
his character as had called forth all the interest and sympathy of her
romantic disposition. Although not eminently handsome, we have before
noted that his countenance was manly and expressive, and his manners
courteous and engaging. Perhaps also the weakness, remaining after the
crisis of his fever, imparted to the usually gentle expression of his
features that touching attraction which is called by a modern poet “a
loving languor.” At all events, certain it is, that ere poor Nina had
administered the third saline draughd to her grateful patient, her
little heart beat vehemently; and when she had attended his feverish
couch one short week, she was desperately in love!
How fared it in the meantime with Ethelston? Did his heart run any risk
from the dark eloquent eyes, and the gracefully rounded form of the
ministering angel who hovered about his sick–room? At present none,
for Lucy was shrined there; and he had been taught by young L’Estrange
to consider his sister in the light of a nursery–girl, still under the
dominion of the governess.
Days and weeks elapsed, Ethelston’s recovery progressed, and he was
able to stroll in the shade of the orange and citron groves which
sheltered Captain L’Estrange’s villa to the northward. Here, with his
eyes fixed on the sea, would he sometimes sit for hours, and devise
schemes for returning to his home. On these occasions he was frequently
accompanied by Nina, who walked by his side with her guitar in her
hand; and under the pretence of receiving instructions from him in
music, she would listen with delight, and hang with rapture on every
syllable that he uttered. Though he could not avoid being sensible of
her ripening beauty, his heart was protected by the seven–fold shield
of a deep and abiding attachment; and as he still looked upon Nina as
a lovely girl, completing her education in the nursery, he gladly gave
her all the assistance that she asked under her musical difficulties;
and this he was able to do, from having made no small proficiency in
the science during his long residence in Germany.
Sometimes he paid his respects to Madame L’Estrange; but that lady was
so indolent, and so exclusively devoted to her parrots and her lap–dog,
that his visits to her were neither frequent nor of long duration. The
Captain was very seldom ashore; and thus Ethelston was obliged to spend
his time alone, or in the society of the young girl who had nursed him
so kindly during his illness. Her character seemed to have undergone a
sudden and complete change. The conquering god, who had at first only
taken possession of the outworks of her fancy, had now made himself
master of the citadel of her heart. She loved with all the intense
absorbing passion of a nature that had never known control. The gaiety
and buoyancy of her spirits had given place to a still, deep flood of
feeling, which her reason never attempted to restrain. Even when with
_him_ she spoke little. Her happiness was too intense to find a vent in
words; and thus she nursed and fed a flame, that needed only the breath
of accident to make it burst forth with a violence that should burn up
or overleap all the barriers of self–control.
Nor must the reader imagine that Ethelston was dull or blind, because
he observed not the state of Nina’s affections. His own were firmly
rooted elsewhere; he was neither of a vain nor a romantic disposition;
and he had been duly informed by Monsieur L’Estrange, that in the
course of two years Nina was to be married to Monsieur Bertrand, the
young planter, to whom, as we have before mentioned, she had been
betrothed by her parents since her thirteenth year. He could not help
seeing that, although her intellect was quick, and her character
enthusiastic, her education had been shamefully neglected both by
Madame L’Estrange and the governess. Hence he spoke, counselled, and
sometimes chid her, in the tone of an elder brother, heedless of the
almost imperceptible line that separates friendship from love in the
bosom of a girl nurtured under a West Indian sun.
In this state were matters, when, on a fine evening, Ethelston strolled
alone into his favourite orange–grove, to look out upon the ocean, and,
in the enjoyment of its refreshing breeze, to ruminate on his strange
captivity, and revolve various plans of escape.
Captain L’Estrange had paid a visit to his home on the preceding day,
and finding his prisoner so completely restored to health and strength,
had said to him, jokingly, “Indeed, fair sir, I think I must put you
on your parole, or in chains; for, after the character given of you by
my son, I cannot allow so dangerous a person to be at large during the
continuance of hostilities between our respective nations.”
Ethelston answered, half in earnest, and half in jest, “Nay, sir, then
I must wear the chains, for assuredly I cannot give my parole; if an
American vessel were to come in sight, or any other means of flight to
offer itself, depend upon it, in spite of the kindness and hospitality
I have met with here, I should weigh anchor in a moment.”
“Well, that is a fair warning,” said the old Commodore; “nevertheless I
will not lock you up just yet, for I do not think it very likely that
any strange sail will come under the guns of our fort; and I will run
the risk of your flying away on the back of a sea–gull.” Thus had they
parted; and the old gentleman was again absent on a cruise.
Ethelston was, as we have said, reclining listlessly under an
orange–tree, inhaling the cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of its
blossoms, now devising impossible plans of escape, and now musing on a
vision of Lucy’s graceful figure, gliding among the deep woods around
Mooshanne. As these thoughts passed through his mind, they imparted a
melancholy shade to his brow, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips.
It was echoed by one yet deeper, close to his ear; and starting from
his reverie, he beheld Nina, who had approached him unawares, and who,
leaning on her guitar, had been for the last few minutes gazing on his
countenance with an absorbed intensity, more fond and riveted than that
with which the miser regards his treasure, or the widowed mother her
only child.
When she found herself perceived, she came forward, and covering her
emotion under an assumed gaiety, she said, “What is my kind instructor
thinking of? He seems more grave and sad than usual.”
“He is thinking,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly, “that he ought to
scold a certain young lady very severely for coming upon him slily, and
witnessing that gravity and sadness in which a captive must sometimes
indulge, but which her presence has already dissipated.”
“Nay,” said Nina, still holding her guitar, and sitting down on the
bank near him; “you know that I am only obeying papa’s orders in
watching you; for he says you would not give your parole, and I am sure
you were thinking of your escape from Guadaloupe.”
“Perhaps you might have guessed more wide of the mark, Mademoiselle
Nina,” said Ethelston.
“And are you then so very anxious to—to—see your home again?”
inquired Nina, hesitating.
“Judge for yourself, Nina,” he replied, “when I remind you that for
many months I have heard nothing of those who have been my nearest
and dearest friends from childhood; nothing of the brave men who were
captured with me when our poor brig was lost!”
“Tell me about your friends and your home. Is it very beautiful? Have
you the warm sun, and the fresh sea–breeze, and the orange–flowers,
that we have here?”
“Scarcely,” replied Ethelston, smiling at the earnest rapidity with
which the beautiful girl based her inquiries on the scene before her;
“but we have in their place rivers, on the bosom of which your father’s
frigate might sail; groves and woods of deep shade, impenetrable to the
rays of the hottest sun; and prairies smiling with the most brilliant
and variegated flowers.”
“Oh! how I should love to see that land!” exclaimed Nina, her fervid
imagination instantly grasping and heightening its beauties. “How I
should love to dwell there!”
“Nay, it appears to me not unlikely that you should at some time visit
it,” replied Ethelston. “This foolish war between our countries will
soon be over, and your father may wish to see a region the scenery of
which is so magnificent, and which is not difficult of access from
here.”
“Papa will never leave these islands, unless he goes to France, and
that he hates,” said Nina.
“Well then,” continued Ethelston, smiling, as he alluded for the first
time to her marriage, “you must defer your American trip a year or two
longer; then, doubtless, Monsieur Bertrand will gladly gratify your
desire to see the Mississippi.”
Nina started as if stung by an adder; the blood rushed and mantled over
her face and neck; her eyes glowed with indignation, as she exclaimed,
“I abhor and detest Monsieur Bertrand. I would die before I would marry
him!” Then adding in a low voice, the sadness of which went to his
heart, “and this from you too!” She covered her face with her hands and
wept.
Never was man more astonished than Ethelston at the sudden storm which
he had inadvertently raised. Remembering that Madame L’Estrange had
told him of the engagement as being known to Nina, he had been led to
suppose from her usual flow of spirits, that the prospect was far from
being disagreeable to her. Young L’Estrange had also told him that
Bertrand was a good looking man, of high character, and considered,
from his wealth, as the best match in the French islands; so that
Ethelston was altogether unprepared for the violent aversion which Nina
now avowed for the marriage, and for the grief by which she seemed so
deeply agitated. Still he was as far as ever from divining the true
cause of her emotion, and conjectured that she had probably formed an
attachment to one of the young officers on board her father’s ship.
Under this impression he took her hand, and sympathising with the
grief of one so fair and so young, he said to her kindly, “Forgive me,
Nina, if I have said any thing to hurt your feelings; indeed I always
have believed that your engagement to Monsieur Bertrand was an affair
settled by your parents entirely with your consent. I am sure Monsieur
L’Estrange loves his favourite child too well to compel her to a
marriage against her inclination. Will you permit your Mentor (as you
have more than once allowed me to call myself) to speak with him on the
subject?”
Nina made no reply, and the tears coursed each other yet faster down
her cheek.
“Your brother is absent,” continued Ethelston; “you seem not to confide
your little secrets to your mother—will you not let me aid you by my
advice? I am many years older than you.—I am deeply grateful for all
your kindness during my tedious illness; believe me, I will, if you
will only trust me, advise you with the affectionate interest of a
parent, or an elder brother.”
The little hand trembled violently in his, but still no reply escaped
from Nina’s lips.
“If you will not tell me your secret,” pursued Ethelston, “I must
guess it. Your aversion to the engagement arises not so much from your
dislike to Monsieur Bertrand, as from your preference of some other,
whom perhaps your parents would not approve?”
The hand was withdrawn, being employed in an ineffectual attempt to
check her tears. The slight fillet which bound her black tresses had
given way, and they now fell in disorder, veiling the deep crimson glow
which again mantled over the neck of the weeping girl.
Ethelston gazed on her with emotions of deep sympathy. There was a
reality, a dignity about her speechless grief, that must have moved
a sterner heart than his; and as he looked upon the heaving of her
bosom, and upon the exquisite proportions unconsciously developed in
her attitude, he suddenly felt that he was speaking, not to a child in
the nursery, but to a girl in whose form and heart the bud and blossom
of womanhood were thus early ripened. It was, therefore, in a tone,
not less kind, but more respectful than he had hitherto used, that he
said, “Nay, Nina, I desire not to pry into your secrets—I only wish to
assure you of the deep sympathy which I feel with your sorrow, and of
my desire to aid or comfort you by any means within my power; but if my
curiosity offends you, I will retire, in the hope that your own gentle
thoughts may soon afford you relief.”
Again the little hand was laid upon his arm, as Nina, still weeping,
whispered, “No, no,—you do not offend me.—Do not leave me, I entreat
you!”
A painful silence ensued; and Ethelston, more than ever confirmed in
the belief that she had bestowed her affections on some young middy,
or lieutenant, under her father’s command, continued, in a tone which
he attempted to render gay: “Well then, Nina, since you will not give
your confidence to Mentor, he must appoint himself your confessor; and
to commence, is he right in believing that your dislike to Monsieur
Bertrand arises from your having given your heart elsewhere?”
There was no reply; but her head was bowed in token of acquiescence!
“I need not inquire,” pursued he, “whether the object of your choice
is, in rank and character, worthy of your affection?”
In an instant the drooping head was raised, and the dark tresses thrown
back from her brow, as, with her eyes flashing through the moisture
by which they were still bedewed, Nina replied, “Worthy!—worthy the
affection of a queen!”
Ethelston, startled by her energy, was about to resume his inquiries,
when Nina, whose excited spirit triumphed for the moment over all
restraint, stopped him, saying, “I will spare you the trouble of
further questions. I will tell you freely, that till lately, very
lately, I cared for none.—Monsieur Bertrand and all others were
alike to me; but fate threw a stranger in my path.—He was a friend
of my brother;—he was wounded.—For hours and hours I watched by his
couch;—he revived;—his looks were gentle; his voice was music.—I
drew counsel from his lips;—he filled my thoughts, my dreams, my
heart, my being! But he—he considered me only as a silly child;—he
understood not my heart;—he mocked my agony;—he saved my brother’s
life,—and is now accomplishing the sister’s death!”
The excitement which supported Nina during the commencement of
this speech gradually died away. Towards its close, her voice grew
tremulous, and as the last words escaped her quivering lips, exhausted
nature gave way under the burden of her emotion, and she fainted!
The feelings of Ethelston may be better imagined than described. As
the dreadful import of the poor girl’s words gradually broke upon him,
his cheeks grew paler and paler; and when, at their conclusion, her
senseless form lay extended at his feet, the cold dew of agony stood
in drops upon his forehead! But Nina’s condition demanded immediate
aid and attention. Mastering himself by a powerful effort, he snatched
a lemon from a neighbouring tree; he cut it in half, and sustaining
the still insensible girl, he chafed her hands, and rubbed her temples
with the cool refreshing juice of the fruit. After a time, he had the
consolation of seeing her restored gradually to her senses; and a faint
smile came over her countenance as she found herself supported by his
arm. Still she closed her eyes, as if in a happy dream, which Ethelston
could not bring himself to disturb; and, as the luxuriant black tresses
only half veiled the touching beauty of her countenance, he groaned at
the reflection that he had inadvertently been the means of shedding
the blight of unrequited love on a budding flower of such exquisite
loveliness. A long silence ensued, softened, rather than interrupted,
by the low wind as it whispered through the leaves of the orange–grove;
while the surrounding landscape, and the wide expanse of ocean, glowed
with the red golden tints of the parting sun. No _unplighted_ heart
could have resisted all the assailing temptations of that hour. But
Ethelston’s heart was not unplighted; and the high principle and
generous warmth of his nature served only to deepen the pain and
sadness of the present moment. He formed, however, his resolution; and
as soon as he found that Nina was restored to consciousness, and to
a certain degree of composure, he gently withdrew the arm which had
supported her, and said, in a voice of most melancholy earnestness,
“Dear Nina! I will not pretend to misunderstand what you have said. I
have much to tell you; but I have not now enough command over myself
to speak, while you are still too agitated to listen. Meet me here
to–morrow at this same hour; meanwhile, I entreat you, recall those
harsh and unkind thoughts which you entertained of me; and believe me,
dear, dear sister, that I would, rather than have mocked your feelings,
have died on that feverish couch, from which your care revived me.” So
saying, he hastened from her presence in a tumult of agitation scarcely
less than her own.
For a long time she sat motionless, in a kind of waking dream; his
parting words yet dwelt in her ear, and her passionate heart construed
them now according to its own wild throbbings, now according to its
gloomiest fears. “He has much to tell me,” mused she; “he called me
dear Nina; he spoke not in a voice of indifference; his eye was full
of a troubled expression that I could not read. Alas! alas, ‘twas only
pity! He called me ‘dear sister!’—what can he mean?—Oh that to–morrow
were come! I shall not outlive the night unless I can believe that he
loves me!” And then she fell again into a reverie; during which all
the looks and tones that her partial fancy had interpreted, and her
too faithful memory had treasured, were recalled, and repeated in a
thousand shapes; until, exhausted by her agitation, and warned by the
darkness of the hour, Nina retired to her sleepless couch.
Meanwhile Ethelston, when he found himself alone in his room,
scrutinised with the most unsparing severity his past conduct,
endeavouring to remember every careless or unheeded word by which he
could have awakened or encouraged her unsuspected affection. He could
only blame himself that he had not been more observant; that he had
considered Nina too much in the light of a child; and had habitually
spoken to her in a tone of playful and confidential familiarity. Thus,
though his conscience acquitted him of the most remote intention of
trifling with her feelings, he accused himself of having neglected to
keep a watchful guard over his language and behaviour, and resolved,
at the risk of incurring her anger or her hatred, to tell her firmly
and explicitly on the morrow, that he could not requite her attachment
as it deserved, his heart having been long and faithfully devoted to
another.