NARRATING THE TRIALS AND DANGERS THAT BESET ETHELSTON; AND HOW HE
ESCAPED FROM THEM, AND FROM THE ISLAND OF GUADALOUPE.
The night succeeding the occurrences related in the last chapter
brought little rest to the pillow either of Nina or of Ethelston; and
on the following day, as if by mutual agreement, they avoided each
other’s presence, until the hour appointed for their meeting again
in the orange–grove. Ethelston was firmly resolved to explain to her
unreservedly his long engagement to Lucy, hoping that the feelings of
Nina would prove, in this instance, rather impetuous than permanent.
The tedious day appeared to her as if it never would draw to a close.
She fled from her mother, and from the screaming parrots; she tried
the guitar, but it seemed tuneless and discordant; her pencil and her
book were by turns taken up, and as soon laid aside; she strolled even
at midday into the orange–grove, to the spot where she had last sat
by him, and a blush stole over her cheek when she remembered that she
had been betrayed into an avowal of her love; and then came the doubt,
the inquiry, whether he felt any love for her? Thus did she muse and
ponder, until the hours, which in the morning had appeared to creep so
slowly over the face of the dial, now glided unconsciously forward. The
dinner–hour had passed unheeded; and before she had summoned any of
the courage and firmness which she meant to call to her aid, Ethelston
stood before her. He was surprised at finding Nina on this spot,
and had approached it long before the appointed time, in order that
he might prepare himself for the difficult and painful task which he
had undertaken. But though unprepared, his mind was of too firm and
regulated a character to be surprised out of a fixed determination;
and he came up and offered his hand to Nina, greeting her in his
accustomed tone of familiar friendship. She received his salutation
with evident embarrassment; her hand and her voice trembled, and her
bosom throbbed in a tumult of anxiety and expectation. Ethelston saw
that he could not defer the promised explanation; and he commenced it
with his usual gentleness of manner, but with a firm resolve that he
would be honest and explicit in his language. He began by referring
to his long illness, and, with gratitude, to her care and attention
during its continuance; he assured her, that having been told both by
Madame L’Estrange and her brother, that she was affianced to Monsieur
Bertrand, he had accustomed himself to look on her as a younger sister;
and, as such, had ventured to offer her advice and instruction in her
studies. He knew not, he dreamt not, that she could ever look upon him
in any other light than that of a Mentor.
Here he paused a moment, and continued in a deeper and more earnest
tone “Nina—dear Nina, we _must_ be as Mentor and his pupil to each
other, or we must part. I will frankly lay my heart open to you. I will
conceal nothing; then you will not blame me, and will, I hope, permit
me to remain your grateful friend and brother. Nina, I am not blind
either to your beauty, or to the many, many graces of your disposition.
I do full justice to the warmth and truth of your affections: you
deserve, when loved, to be loved with a whole heart—“
“O spare this!” interrupted Nina, in a hurried whisper: “Spare this,
speak of yourself!”
“I was even about to do so,” continued Ethelston; “but, Nina, such a
heart I have not to give. For many months and years, before I ever saw
or knew you, I have loved, and still am betrothed to another.”
A cold shudder seemed to pass through Nina’s frame while these few
words were spoken, as if in a moment the health, the hope, the blossom
of her youth were blighted! Not a tear, not even a sob, gave relief
to her agony; her bloodless lip trembled in a vain attempt to speak
she knew not what, and a burning chill sat upon her heart. These words
may appear to some strange and contradictory: happy, thrice happy, ye
to whom they so appear! If you have never known what it is to feel
at once a scorching heat parching the tongue, and drying up all the
well–springs of life within, while a leaden weight of ice seems to
benumb the heart, then have you never known the sharpest, extreme pangs
of disappointed love!
Ethelston was prepared for some sudden and violent expression on
the part of Nina, but this death–like, motionless silence almost
overpowered him. He attempted, by the gentlest and the kindest words,
to arouse her from this stupor of grief. He took her hand; its touch
was cold. Again and again he called her name; but her ear seemed
insensible, even to his voice. At length, unable to bear the sight of
her distress, and fearful that he might no longer restrain his tongue
from uttering words which would be treason to his first and faithful
love, he rushed into the house, and hastily informing Nina’s governess
that her pupil had been suddenly taken ill in the orange–grove, he
locked himself in his room, and gave vent to the contending emotions by
which he was oppressed.
It was in vain that he strove to calm himself by the reflection that
he had intentionally transgressed none of the demands of truth and
honour;—it was in vain that he called up all the long–cherished
recollections of his Lucy and his home;—still the image of Nina would
not be banished; now presenting itself as he had seen her yesterday,
in the full glow of passion, and in the full bloom of youthful
beauty,—and now, as he had just left her, in the deadly paleness and
fixed apathy of despair. The terrible thought that, whether guiltily
or innocently, he had been the cause of all this suffering in one to
whom he owed protection and gratitude, wrung his heart with pain that
he could not repress; and he found relief only in falling on his knees,
and praying to the Almighty that the sin might not be laid to his
charge, and that Nina’s sorrow might be soothed and comforted by Him,
who is the God of consolation.
Meanwhile the governess had, with the assistance of two of the negro
attendants, brought Nina into the house. The poor girl continued in
the same state of insensibility to all that was passing around; her
eyes were open, but she seemed to recognise no one, and a few vague
indistinct words still trembled on her lips.
The doctor was instantly summoned, who pronounced, as soon as he
had seen his patient, that she was in a dangerous fit, using sundry
mysterious expressions about “febrile symptoms,” and “pressure on the
brain,” to which the worthy leech added shakings of the head yet more
mysterious.
For many days her condition continued alarming; the threatened fever
came, and with it a protracted state of delirium. During this period
Ethelston’s anxiety and agitation were extreme; and proportionate was
the relief that he experienced, when he learnt that the crisis was
past, and that the youthful strength of her constitution promised
speedy recovery.
Meanwhile he had to endure the oft–repeated inquiries of the governess,
“How he happened to find Mademoiselle just as the fit came on?” and of
Madame L’Estrange, “How it was possible for Nina to be attacked by so
sudden an illness, while walking in the orange–grove?”
When she was at length pronounced out of danger, Ethelston again began
to consider various projects for his meditated escape from the island.
He had more than once held communication with his faithful Cupid on the
subject, who was ready to brave all risks in the service of his master;
but the distance which must be traversed before they could expect to
find a friendly ship or coast, seemed to exclude all reasonable hope of
success.
It would be impossible to follow and portray the thousand changes
that came over Nina’s spirit during her recovery. She remembered but
too well the words that Ethelston had last spoken: at one moment she
called him perfidious, ungrateful, heartless; then she chid herself
for railing at him, and loaded his name with every blessing, and the
expression of the fondest affection: now she resolved that she would
never see nor speak to him more; then she thought that she must see
him, if it were only to show how she had conquered her weakness. Amidst
all these contending resolutions, she worked herself into the belief
that Ethelston had deceived her; and that, because he thought her a
child, and did not love her, he had invented the tale of his previous
engagement to lessen her mortification. This soon became her settled
conviction; and when it crossed her mind, she would start with passion
and exclaim, “He shall yet love me, and me alone!”
The only confidant of her love was a young negress, who waited upon
her, and who was indeed so devoted to her that she would have braved
the Commodore’s utmost wrath, or perilled her life, to execute her
mistress’ commands.
It happened one evening that this girl, whose name was Fanchette, went
out to gather some fruit in the orange–grove; and while thus employed
she heard the voice of some one speaking. On drawing nearer to the spot
whence the sound proceeded, she saw Ethelston sitting under the deep
shade of a tree, with what appeared a book before him.
Knowing that Nina was still confined to her room, he had resorted
hither to consider his schemes without interruption, and was so busily
employed in comparing distances, and calculating possibilities, on
the map before him, that Fanchette easily crept to a place whence she
could, unperceived, overhear and observe him. “I must and will attempt
it,” he muttered aloud to himself; “we must steal a boat. Cupid and I
can manage it between us; my duty and my love both forbid my staying
longer here: with a fishing–boat we might reach Antigua or Dominica,
or at all events chance to fall in with an American or a neutral
vessel. Poor dear Nina,” he added, in a lower tone. “Would to God I
had never visited this shore! _this_,” he continued, drawing a locket
from his breast, “this treasured remembrance of one far distant has
made me proof against thy charms, cold to thy love, but not, as Heaven
is my witness, unmoved or insensible to thy sufferings.” So saying he
relapsed into silent musing; and as he replaced the locket, Fanchette
crept noiselessly from her concealment, and ran to communicate to
her young mistress her version of what she had seen. Being very
imperfectly skilled in English, she put her own construction upon
those few words which she had caught, and thought to serve Nina best
by telling her what she would most like to hear. Thus she described
to her how Ethelston had spoken to himself over a map; how he had
mentioned islands to which he would sail; how he had named her name
with tenderness, and had taken something from his vest to press it to
his lips.
Poor Nina listened in a tumult of joy; her passionate heart would
admit no doubting suggestion of her reason. She was too happy to bear
even the presence of Fanchette, and rewarding her for her good news by
the present of a beautiful shawl which she wore at the moment, pushed
the delighted little negress out of the room, and threw herself on
her couch, where she repeated a hundred times that _he_ had been to
her orange–grove, where they had last parted, had named her name with
tenderness, had pressed some token to his lips—what could that be?
It might be a flower, a book, any thing—it mattered not—so long as
she only knew he loved her! Having long wept with impassioned joy, she
determined to show herself worthy of his love; and the schemes which
she formed, and resolved to carry into effect, evinced the wild force
and energy of her romantic character. Among her father’s slaves was one
who, being a steady and skilful seaman, had the charge of a schooner
(originally an American prize), which lay in the harbour, and which
the Commodore sometimes used as a pleasure–yacht, or for short trips
to other parts of the island: this man (whose name was Jacques) was
not only a great favourite with the young lady, but was also smitten
with the black eyes and plump charms of M’amselle Fanchette, who thus
exercised over him a sway little short of absolute. Nina having held a
conference with her abigail, sent for Jacques, who was also admitted
to a confidential consultation, the result of which, after–occurrences
will explain to the reader. When this was over, she acquired, rather
than assumed, a sudden composure and cheerfulness: the delights of a
plot seemed at once to restore her to health; and on the following
day she sent to request that Ethelston would come to see her in her
boudoir, where she received him with a calmness and self–possession
for which he was altogether unprepared. “Mr. Ethelston,” said she, as
soon as he was seated, “I believe you still desire to escape from your
prison, and that you are devising various plans for effecting that
object; you will never succeed unless you call me into your counsel.”
Ethelston, though extremely surprised at the composure of her manner
and language, replied with a smile, “M’amselle Nina, I will not deny
that you have rightly guessed my thoughts; but as your father is my
jailor, I did not dare to ask your counsel in this matter.”
“Well, Mr. Mentor,” said the wayward girl, “how does your wisdom
propose to act without my counsel?”
“I confess I am somewhat at a loss,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly;
“I must go either through the air or the water; and the latter, being
my proper element, is the path which I would rather attempt.”
“And what should you think of me, if I were to play the traitoress, and
aid you in eluding the vigilance of my father, and afford the means of
escape to so formidable an enemy?”
Ethelston was completely puzzled by this playful tone of banter, in one
whom he had last seen under a paroxysm of passion, and in whose dark
eye there yet lurked an expression which he could not define; but he
resolved to continue the conversation in the same spirit, and replied,
“I would not blame you for this act of filial disobedience; and though
no longer your father’s prisoner, I would, if I escaped, ever remain
his friend.”
“And would you show no gratitude to the lady who effected your release?”
“I owe her already more—far more, than I can pay; and, for this last
crowning act of her generosity and kindness, I would—“
As he hesitated, she inquired, abruptly, “You would what, Ethelston?”
For a moment she had forgotten the part she was acting; and both the
look that accompanied these words, and the tone in which they were
pronounced, reminded him that he stood on the brink of a volcanic
crater.
“I would give her any proof of my gratitude that she would deign to
accept, yes _any_,” he repeated earnestly, “even to life itself,
knowing that she is too noble and generous to accept aught at my hands
which faith and honour forbid me to offer.”
Nina turned aside for a moment, overcome by her emotion; but recovering
herself quickly, she added, in her former tone of pleasantry, “She will
not impose any hard conditions; but to the purpose; has your sailor–eye
noticed a certain little schooner anchored in the harbour?”
“What!” said Ethelston, eagerly, “a beautiful craft, of about twenty
tons, on the other side of the bay?”
“Even the same.”
“Surely I have! She is American built, and swims like a duck.”
“Well then,” replied Nina, “I think I shall do no great harm in
restoring her to an American! How many men should you require to manage
her?”
“I could sail her easily with one able seaman, besides my black friend
Cupid.”
“Then,” said Nina, “I propose to lend her to you; you may send her back
at your convenience; and I will also provide you an able seaman: write
me a list of the stores and articles which you will require for the
trip, and send it me in an hour’s time: prepare your own baggage, and
be ready upon the shortest notice. It is now my turn to command, and
yours to obey. Good–b’ye, Mr. Mentor.” So saying, she kissed her hand
to him, and withdrew.
Ethelston rubbed his eyes as if he did not believe their evidence.
“Could this merry, ready–witted girl be the same as the Nina whom he
had seen, ten days before, heart–broken, and unable to conceal or
repress the violence of her passion?” The longer he mused, the more
was he puzzled; and he came at length to a conclusion at which many,
more wise and more foolish than himself, had arrived, that a woman’s
mind, when influenced by her affections, is a riddle hard to be solved.
He had not, however, much time for reflection, and being resolved at
all risks to escape from the island, he hastened to his room, and,
within the hour specified by Nina, sent her a list of the stores and
provisions for the voyage.
Meanwhile Fanchette had not been idle: she had painted to Jacques, in
the liveliest colours, the wealth, beauty, and freedom of the distant
land of Ohio, artfully mingling with this description promises and
allurements which operated more directly on the feelings of her black
swain; so that the latter, finding himself entreated by Fanchette, and
commanded by his young mistress, hesitated no longer to betray his
trust, and desert the Commodore.
Ethelston, having communicated the prosperous state of affairs to
Cupid, and desired him to have all ready for immediate escape, hastened
to obey another summons sent to him by Nina. He found her in a mood no
less cheerful than before; and although she purposely averted her face,
a smile, the meaning of which he could not define, played round the
corner of her expressive mouth. Though really glad to escape homeward,
and disposed to be grateful to Nina for her aid, he could not help
feeling angry and vexed at the capricious eagerness with which she
busied herself in contriving the departure of one to whom she had so
lately given the strongest demonstration of tenderness; and although
his heart told him that he could not love her, there was something in
this easy and sudden withdrawal of her affection which wounded that
self–love from which the best of men are not altogether free. These
feelings gave an unusual coldness and constraint to his manner, when he
inquired her further commands.
To this question Nina replied by saying, “Then, Mr. Ethelston, you are
quite resolved to leave us, and to risk all the chances and perils of
this voyage?”
“Quite,” he replied: “it is my wish, my duty, and my firm
determination; and I entered the room,” he added, almost in a tone
of reproof, “desirous of repeating to you my thanks for your kind
assistance.”
Nina’s countenance changed; but, still averting it from Ethelston, she
continued in a lower voice, “And do you leave us without pain—without
regret?”
There was a tremor, a natural feeling in the tone in which she uttered
these few words, that recalled to his mind all that he had seen her
suffer, and drove from it the harsh thoughts which he had begun to
entertain; and he answered, in a voice from which his self–command
could not banish all traces of emotion, “Dear Nina, I shall leave you
with regret that would amount to misery, if I thought that my visit had
brought any permanent unhappiness into this house. I desire to leave
you as a Mentor should leave a beloved pupil—as a brother leaves a
sister; with a full hope, that when I am gone, you will fulfil your
parents’ wishes, your own auspicious destinies, and that, after years
and years of happiness among those whom Fate has decreed to be the
companions of your life, you will look back upon me as upon a faithful
adviser of your youth,—an affectionate friend, who——“
Nina’s nerves were not strung for the part she had undertaken:
gradually her countenance had grown pale as marble; a choking sensation
oppressed her throat; and she sunk in a chair, sobbing, rather than
uttering, the word, “Water.” It was fortunately at hand; and having
placed it in a glass by her side, Ethelston retired to the window to
conceal his own emotion, and to allow time for that of Nina to subside.
After a few minutes she recovered her self–possession; and although
still deadly pale, her voice was distinct and firm, as she said,
“Ethelston, I am ashamed of this weakness; but it is over: we will not
speak of the past, and will leave to Fate the future. Now listen to me:
all the arrangements for your departure will be complete by to–morrow
evening. At an hour before midnight, a small boat, with one man, will
be at the Quai du Marché, below the Place St. Louis. It is far from the
fort, and there is no sentry near the spot: you can then row to the
vessel and depart. But is it not too dangerous?” she added. “Can you
risk it? for the wind whistles terribly, and I fear the approach of a
hurricane!”
Ethelston’s eye brightened as he replied, “A rough night is the fairest
for the purpose, Nina.”
“Be it so,” she replied. “Now, in return for all that I have done for
you, there is only one favour I have to ask at your hands.”
“Name it,” said Ethelston, eagerly.
“There is,” she continued, “a poor sick youth in the town, the child
of respectable parents in New Orleans; he desires to go home, if it be
only to die there: and a nurse will take care of him on the passage, if
you will let him go with you?”
“Assuredly I will,” said Ethelston; “and will take as much care of him
as if he were my brother.”
“Nay,” said Nina, “they tell me he is ordered to be perfectly quiet,
and no one attends him but the nurse; neither will he give any trouble,
as the coxswain says there is a small cabin where he can remain alone
and undisturbed.”
“You may depend,” said Ethelston, “that all your orders about him shall
be faithfully performed; and I will see, if I live, that he reaches his
home in safety.”
“He and his nurse will be on board before you,” said Nina; “and as soon
as you reach the vessel, you have nothing to do but to escape as quick
as you can. Now I must bid you farewell! I may not have spirits to see
you again!” She held out her hand to him; it was cold as ice; her face
was still half–averted, and her whole frame trembled violently.
Ethelston took the offered hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, “A
thousand, thousand thanks for all your kindness! If I reach home alive
I will make your honoured father ample amends for the theft of his
schooner; and if ever you have an opportunity to let me know that you
are well and happy, do not forget that such news will always gladden
my heart.” He turned to look at her as he went; he doubted whether the
cold rigid apathy of her form and countenance was that of despair or of
indifference; but he dared not trust himself longer in her presence;
and as he left the room she sunk on the chair against which she had
been leaning for support.
When Ethelston found himself alone, he collected his thoughts, and
endeavoured in vain to account for the strange deportment of Nina in
bidding him farewell. The coldness of her manner, the abrupt brevity
of her parting address, had surprised him; and yet the tremor, the
emotion, amounting almost to fainting, the forced tone of voice in
which she had spoken, all forbad him to hope that she had overcome her
unhappy passion; he was grieved that he had scarcely parted from her in
kindness; and the pity with which he regarded her was, for the moment,
almost akin to love.
Shaking off this temporary weakness, he employed himself forthwith in
the preparations for his departure: among the first of which was a
letter, which he wrote to Captain L’Estrange, and left upon his table.
On the following day he never once saw Nina; but he heard from one of
the slaves that she was confined to her room by severe headache.
The wind blew with unabated force, the evening was dark and lowering,
as, at the appointed hour, Ethelston, accompanied by his faithful
Cupid, left the house with noiseless step. They reached the boat
without obstruction; pushed off, and in ten minutes were safe on deck:
the coxswain whispered that all was ready; the boat was hoisted up, the
anchor weighed, and the schooner was soon dashing the foam from her
bows on the open sea.