THE ESCAPE OF ETHELSTON FROM GUADALOUPE, AND THE CONSEQUENCES WHICH
ENSUED FROM THAT EXPEDITION.
We left Ethelston on the deck of the little schooner, which was bearing
him rapidly from the shores of Guadaloupe, under the influence of an
easterly wind, so strong that all his attention was absorbed in the
management of the vessel. During the night the gale increased, and blew
with unabated violence for forty–eight hours. The Seagull, for so she
was called, scudded lightly before it; and on the third day, Ethelston
had made by his log upwards of five hundred miles of westerly course.
Having only two hands on board, and the weather being so uncommonly
boisterous, he had been kept in constant employment, and had only been
able to snatch a few brief intervals for sleep and refreshment: he
found Jacques the coxswain an active able seaman, but extremely silent
and reserved, obeying exactly the orders he received, but scarcely
uttering a word, even to Cupid; it was he alone who attended upon the
invalid and the nurse in the after–cabin; and the weather having now
moderated, Ethelston asked how the youth had borne the pitching and
tossing of the vessel during the late gale. Jacques replied, that he
was not worse, and seemed not to suffer from the sea. The captain was
satisfied, and retired to his cabin; he had not been there long before
Cupid entered; and carefully shutting the door behind him, stood before
his master, with a peculiar expression of countenance, which the
latter well knew to intimate some unexpected intelligence.
“Well, Cupid, what is it?” said Ethelston, “is there a suspicious sail
in sight?”
“Very suspicious, Massa Ethelston,” replied the black, grinning and
lowering his voice to a whisper, “and suspicious goods aboard the
schooner.”
“What mean you, Cupid?”
“There is some trick aboard. I not like that Jacques that never speak,
and I not like that sick boy and his nurse, that nobody never see.”
“But why should you be angry, Cupid, with the poor boy because he
is sick? I have promised to deliver him safe to his friends at New
Orleans, and I hope soon, with this breeze, to perform my promise.”
“Massa Ethelston, I believe it all one damn trick—I not believe there
is one sick boy: when Jacques come in and go out of that cabin he
creep, and look, and listen, and watch like the Colonel’s grey cat at
the cheese cupboard. Cupid no pretend to much learnin’, but he no be
made fool of by damn French nigger, and he no tell Massa Ethelston a
lie.” So saying, the African withdrew as quietly as he had entered.
After musing some time on his follower’s communication and suspicions,
he resolved to unravel whatever mystery might be attached to the
matter, by visiting the invalid immediately. On his knocking gently at
the door for admission, he was answered from within by the nurse that
her patient was asleep, and ought not now to be disturbed; but being
determined not to allow another day to pass in uncertainty, he went on
deck, and summoning Jacques, told him to go down presently and inform
the nurse that in the evening, as soon as her patient was awake, he
should pay him a visit.
Jacques received this mandate with some confusion, and began to stammer
something about the “poor boy not being disturbed.”
“Harkee, sir,” said Ethelston sternly; “I am captain on board this
craft, and will be obeyed: as you go into that cabin three or four
times a day to attend upon the invalid, methinks my presence cannot be
so dangerous. I will take the risk upon myself: you hear my orders,
sir, and they are not to be trifled with!”
Jacques disappeared, and Ethelston remained pacing the deck. In about
half an hour the latter came up to him and said, “The young gentleman
will receive the captain at sundown.”
“Very well,” replied Ethelston, and continued to pace the deck,
revolving in his mind all the strange events of the last month,—his
illness, the unfortunate passion of Nina, and her strange behaviour
when he bid her farewell.
At the appointed time he went down, and again knocked at the side cabin
door for admission: it was opened by the nurse, apparently a young
woman of colour, who whispered to him in French, “Go in, sir, and speak
gently to him, for he is very delicate.” So saying, she left the cabin,
and closed the door behind her.
Ethelston approached the sofa, on which the grey evening light
permitted him to see a slight figure, covered with a mantle; and
addressing the invalid kindly, he said, “I fear, young sir, you must
have suffered much during the gale.”
“No, I thank you,” was the reply, but so faintly uttered as to be
scarcely audible.
“Can I do anything to make your stay on board more comfortable?”
“Yes,” was the whispered answer.
“Then tell me what, or how; as I have promised to do all in my power to
make the voyage agreeable to you.”
After a pause of a minute, during which the invalid seemed struggling
with repressed emotion, the mantle was suddenly thrown aside,
the recumbent figure sprang from the sofa, and Nina stood before
him! “Yes,” she said; “you _have_ promised—and my ears drank in
the promise: for it, and for you, I have abandoned home, country,
kindred,—what do I say,—I have abandoned nothing; for you are to me
home, kindred, country, every thing! Dear, dear Ethelston! this moment
repays me for all I have suffered.” As she spoke thus, she threw her
arms round his neck, and hid her blushing face upon his breast.
Ethelston was so completely taken by surprise, that for a moment
he could not utter a syllable. Mistaking his silence for a full
participation in her own impassioned feelings, and looking up in her
face, her eyes beaming with undisguised affection, and her dark tresses
falling carelessly over her beautiful neck, she continued, “Oh,
speak—speak one gentle word,—nay, rather break not this delicious
silence, and let me dream here for ever.”
If Ethelston was for a moment stupified, partly by surprise, and partly
by the effect of her surpassing loveliness, it was _but_ for a moment.
His virtue, pride, and honour were aroused, and the suggestions of
passion found no entrance to his heart. Firmly, but quietly replacing
her on the sofa she had quitted, he said, in a voice more stern than
he had ever before used when addressing her. “Nina, you have grieved
me more than I can express; you have persisted in seeking a heart
which I frankly told you was not mine to give. I see no longer in
you the Nina whom I first knew in Guadaloupe,—gentle, affectionate,
and docile,—but a wild, headstrong girl, pursuing a wayward fancy,
regardless of truth, and of that maidenly reserve which is woman’s
sweetest charm. Not only have you thus hurt my feelings, but you have
brought a stain upon my honour,—nay, interrupt me not,” he added,
seeing that she was about to speak; “for I must tell you the truth, and
you must learn to bear it, even though it may sound harsh to your ears.
I repeat, you have brought a stain upon my honour,—for what will your
respected father think of the man whom he received wounded, suffering,
and a prisoner—whom he cherished with hospitable kindness, and who now
requites all his benefits by stealing from his roof the daughter of
his love, the ornament and blessing of his home? Nina, I did not think
that you would have brought this disgrace and humiliation upon my name!
I have now a sacred and a painful duty before me, and I will see you
no more until I have restored you to the arms of an offended father.
I hope he will forgive you, as I do, for the wrong that you have done
to both of us. Farewell, Nina.” With these words, spoken in a voice
trembling with contending emotions, he turned and left the cabin.
Reader! have you ever dwelt in Sicily, or in any other southern island
of volcanic formation? If so, you may have seen a verdant spot near
the base of the mountain, where the flowers and the herbage were
smiling in the fresh beauty of summer,—where the luxuriant vine
mingled her tendrils with the spreading branches of the elm,—where
the air was loaded with fragrance, and the ear was refreshed by the
hum of bees and the murmur of a rippling stream: on a sudden, the
slumbering mountain–furnace is aroused—the sulphurous crater pours
forth its fiery deluge, and in a moment the spot so lately teeming
with life, fertility, and fragrance is become the arid, barren abode
of desolation. If, reader, you have seen this fearful change on the
face of nature, or if you can place it vividly before your imagination,
then may you conceive the state of Nina’s mind, when her long–cherished
love was thus abruptly and finally rejected by the man for whom she had
sacrificed her home, her parents, and her pride! It is impossible for
language to portray an agony such as that by which all the faculties of
her soul and body seemed absorbed and benumbed. She neither spoke nor
wept, nor gave any outward sign of suffering, but, with bloodless and
silent lips, sat gazing on vacancy.
Fanchette returned, and looked on her young mistress with fear and
dread. She could neither elicit a word in reply, nor the slightest
indication of her repeated entreaties being understood. Nina suffered
her hands to be chafed, her temples to be bathed, and at length broke
into a loud hysteric laugh, that rang through the adjoining cabin, and
sent a thrill to the heart of Ethelston. Springing on deck, he ordered
Jacques to go below, and aid Fanchette in attending on her young lady;
and then, with folded arms, he leaned over the low bulwark, and sat
meditating in deep silence on the events of the day.
The moon had risen, and her beams silvered the waves through which the
schooner was cutting her way; scarcely a fleeting cloud obscured the
brightness of the sky, and all nature seemed hushed in the calm and
peaceful repose of night. How different from the fearful storm now
raging in the bosom of the young girl from whom he was divided only by
a few inches of plank! He shuddered when that thought arose, but his
conscience told him that he was acting aright, and, indulging in the
reverie that possessed him, he saw a distant figure in the glimmering
moonlight, which, as it drew near, grew more and more distinct, till
it wore the form, the features, and the approving smile of his Lucy!
Confirmed and strengthened in his resolutions, he started from his
seat, and bid the astonished Cupid, who was now at the helm, to prepare
to go about, and stand to the eastward. Jacques was called from below,
the order was repeated in a sterner voice, the sails were trimmed, and
in a few minutes the schooner was close–hauled and laying her course,
as near as the wind would permit, for Guadaloupe.
While these events were passing on board The Seagull, Captain
L’Estrange had returned in the frigate to Point à Pitre. His grief and
anger may be better imagined than described, when he learnt the flight
of his daughter and of his prisoner, together with the loss of his
yacht and two of his slaves.
Concluding that the fugitives would make for New Orleans, he dispatched
The Hirondelle immediately in pursuit, with orders to discover them if
possible, and to bring them back by stratagem or force. He also wrote
to Colonel Brandon, painting in the blackest colours the treachery and
ingratitude of Ethelston, and calling upon him, as a man of honour, to
disown and punish the perpetrator of such an outrage on the laws of
hospitality.
Meanwhile the latter was straining every nerve to reach again the
island from which he had so lately escaped. In this object he was
hindered, not only by baffling winds, but by the obstinacy of Jacques,
who, justly fearing the wrath of his late master, practised every
manœuvre to frustrate Ethelston’s design. But the latter was on his
guard; and unless he was himself on deck, never trusted the helm in the
coxswain’s hands.
He learnt from Fanchette that Nina was in a high fever, and quite
delirious; but though he inquired constantly after her, and ordered
every attention to be paid to her that was within his power, he adhered
firmly to the resolution that he had formed of never entering her cabin.
After a few days’ sailing to the eastward, when Ethelston calculated
that he should not now be at a great distance from Guadaloupe, he fell
in with a vessel which proved to be The Hirondelle. The Seagull was
immediately recognised; and the weather being fair, the lieutenant, and
eight men, came on board. The French officer was no sooner on the deck
than he ordered his men to seize and secure Ethelston, and to place the
two blacks in irons.
It was in vain that Ethelston indignantly remonstrated against such
harsh and undeserved treatment. The officer would listen to no
explanation; and without deigning a reply, ordered his men to carry
their prisoners on board The Hirondelle.
On reaching Point à Pitre, they were all placed in separate places
of confinement; and Nina was, not without much risk and difficulty,
conveyed to her former apartment in her father’s house. The delirium of
fever seemed to have permanently affected the poor girl’s brain. She
sang wild snatches of songs, and told those about her that her lover
was often with her, but that he was invisible. Sometimes she fancied
herself on board a ship, and asked them which way the wind blew, and
whether they were near the shore. Then she would ask for a guitar, and
tell them that she was a mermaid, and would sing them songs that the
fishes loved to hear.
The distracted father often sat and listened to these incoherent
ravings, until he left the room in an agony not to be described; and
when alone, vented the most fearful imprecations on the supposed
treachery and ingratitude of Ethelston. He could not bring himself to
see the latter; “for,” said he, “I must kill him, if I set eyes on his
hateful person:” but he one day wrote the following lines, which he
desired to be delivered to his prisoner:—
“A father, whose indignation is yet greater than his agony, desires to
know what plea you can urge in extenuation of the odious crimes laid
to your charge:—the deliberate theft of his slaves and yacht, and the
abduction and ruin of his child, in recompense for misplaced trust,
kindness, and hospitality?”
Poor Ethelston, in the gloomy solitude of the narrow chamber where
he was confined, read and re–read the above lines many times before
he would trust himself to reply to them. He felt for the misery of
L’Estrange, and he was too proud and too generous to exculpate himself
by the narration of Nina’s conduct: nay, although he knew that by
desiring L’Estrange to examine separately Fanchette and Jacques, his
own innocence, and the deceit practised upon him, would be brought to
light, he could not bring himself to forget that delicacy which Nina
had herself forgotten; nor add, to clear himself, one mite to the heavy
weight of visitation that had already fallen upon her. He contented
himself with sending the following answer:—
“Sir,
“Your words, though harsh, would be more than merited by the crimes
of which you believe me guilty. There is a Being above, who reads the
heart, and will judge the conduct of us all. If I am guilty of the
crimes imputed to me, His vengeance will inflict on me, through the
stings of conscience, punishment more terrible even than the wrath of a
justly offended father could desire for the destroyer of his child. If
I am not guilty, He, in His own good time, will make it known, and will
add to your other heavy sorrows regret for having unjustly charged with
such base ingratitude
“Your servant and prisoner,
“E. ETHELSTON.”
On receiving the above letter, which seemed dictated by a calm
consciousness of rectitude, L’Estrange’s belief of his prisoner’s
guilt was for a moment staggered; and had he bethought himself of
cross–examining the other partners in the escape, he would doubtless
have arrived at the truth; but his feelings were too violently excited
to permit the exercise of his reason; and tearing the note to pieces,
he stamped upon it, exclaiming in a paroxysm of rage, “Dissembling
hypocrite! does he think to cozen me with words, as he has poisoned
poor Nina’s peace?”
Her disorder now assumed a different character. The excitement of
delirium ceased, and was succeeded by a feebleness and gradual wasting,
which baffled all the resources of medicine; and such was the apathy
and stupor that clouded her faculties, that even her father could
scarcely tell whether she knew him or not. In this state she continued
for several days; and the physician at length informed L’Estrange that
he must prepare himself for the worst, and that all hope of recovery
was gone.
Madame L’Estrange had, under the pressure of anxiety, forgotten her
habitual listlessness, and watched by her daughter’s couch with a
mother’s unwearied solicitude. On the night succeeding the above sad
announcement, Nina sunk into a quiet sleep, which gave some hope to
her sanguine parents, and induced them also to permit themselves a few
hours’ repose.
In the morning she awoke: her eye no longer dwelt on vacancy: a slight
flush was visible on her transparent cheek, and she called her father,
in a voice feeble indeed, but clear and distinct. Who shall paint the
rapture with which he hailed the returning dawn of reason and of hope?
But his joy was of brief duration; for Nina, beckoning him to approach
yet nearer, said “God be thanked that I may yet beg your blessing and
forgiveness, dearest father!” then pressing her wasted hand upon her
brow, she continued, after a short pause, “Yes, I remember it all
now—all; the orange–grove—the flight—the ship—the last meeting! Oh;
tell me, where is he?—where is Ethelston?”
“He is safe confined,” answered L’Estrange, scarcely repressing his
rage; “he shall not escape punishment. The villain shall yet know the
weight of an injured father’s—“ Ere he could conclude the sentence,
Nina, by a sudden exertion, half rose in her bed, and grasping his arm
convulsively, said, “Father, curse him not—you know not what you say;
it is on me, on me alone, that all your anger should fall: listen, and
speak not, for my hours are numbered, and my strength nearly spent.”
She then proceeded to tell him in a faint but distinct voice, all the
particulars already known to the reader, keeping back nothing in her
own defence, and confessing how Ethelston had been deceived, and how
she had madly persisted in her endeavours to win his love, after he
had explicitly owned to her that his heart and hand were promised to
another.
“I solemnly assure you,” she said in conclusion, “that he never spoke
to me of love, that he warned me as a brother, and reproved me as a
father; but I would not be counselled. His image filled my thoughts,
my senses, my whole soul—it fills them yet; and if you wish your poor
Nina to die in peace, let her see you embrace him as a friend and son.”
So saying she sunk exhausted on her pillow.
L’Estrange could scarcely master the agitation excited by this
narration. After a short pause he replied, “My poor child! I fear you
dream again. I wrote only a few days ago to Ethelston, charging him
with his villany, and asking what he could say in his defence? His
reply was nothing but a canting subterfuge.”
“What was it?” inquired Nina, faintly.
L’Estrange repeated the words of the note. As he did so a sweet smile
stole over her countenance; and clasping her hands together, she
exclaimed, “Like himself—noble, generous Ethelston! Father, you are
blind; he would not exculpate himself by proclaiming your daughter’s
shame! If you doubt me, question Fanchette—Jacques—who know it all
too well; but you will not doubt me, dear—dear father! By that Being
to whose presence I am fast hastening, I tell you only the truth; by
His name I conjure you to comfort my last moments, by granting my last
request!”
L’Estrange averted his face: and rising almost immediately, desired an
attendant to summon Ethelston without delay.
A long pause ensued: Nina’s lips moved as if in silent prayer; and
her father, covering his face with his hands, struggled to control
the anguish by which his firmness was all but overpowered. At length
Ethelston entered the room; he had been informed that Nina was very
ill, but was by no means aware of the extremity of her danger.
Naturally indignant at the treatment he had lately received, knowing
it to be undeserved, and ignorant of the purpose for which he was now
called, his manner was cold, and somewhat haughty, as he inquired the
commands which Captain L’Estrange might have for his prisoner.
The agonised father sought in vain for utterance: his only reply was to
point to the almost lifeless form of his child.
One glance from the bed to the countenance of L’Estrange was sufficient
to explain all to Ethelston, who sprang forward, and, wringing the old
captain’s hand, faltered in a voice of deep emotion, “Oh! forgive me
for so speaking,—I knew nothing—nothing of this dreadful scene!” then
turning from him, he fixed his eyes upon Nina, while the convulsive
working of his features showed that his habitual self–command was
scarcely equal to support the present unexpected trial.
The deadly paleness of her brow contrasted with the disordered tresses
of her dark hair, the long eyelashes, reposing upon the transparent
cheek, which wore a momentary hectic glow, the colourless lip, and the
thin wan fingers, crossed meekly upon her breast,—all gave to her form
and features an air of such unearthly beauty, that Ethelston almost
doubted whether the spirit still lingered in its lovely mansion: but
his doubts were soon resolved; for having finished the unuttered but
fervent prayer which she had been addressing to the Throne of Grace,
she again unclosed her eyes; and when they rested upon his countenance,
a sweet smile played round her lip, and a warmer flush came over her
cheek. Extending her hand to him, she said, “Can you forgive me for all
the wrong I have done you?”
In reply, he pressed her fingers to his lips, for he could not speak.
She continued: “I know that I grievously wronged my parents; but the
wrong which I did to you was yet more cruel. God be thanked for giving
me this brief but precious hour for atonement. You more than once
called me your sister and your friend!—be a brother to me now. And
you, dearest father, if your love outweighs my fault,—if you wish your
child to die happy, embrace him for my sake, and repair the injustice
that you have done to his generous nature!”
The two men looked at each other; their hearts were melted, and their
cordial embrace brought a ray of gladness to Nina’s eyes. “God be
thanked!” she murmured faintly. “Let my mother now come, that I may
receive her blessing too.”
While L’Estrange went to summon his wife to a scene which the weakness
of her mind and nerves rendered her unequal to support, Nina continued:
“Dear, dear Ethelston, let me hear your voice; the madness, the
passion, the jealousy, that filled my bosom are all past; but the love
is there, imperishable: tell me, my friend, counsellor, brother, that
you are not angry with me for saying so now.”
Again the wasted fingers were pressed to his burning lip; his tongue
could not yet find utterance, but a tear which fell upon them told to
the sufferer that there was no indifference in that silence.
Captain L’Estrange now entered, accompanied by his wife. Although
a weak and foolish woman, her heart was not dead to those natural
affections of a mother which the present scene might be expected to
call forth; she wept long and violently over her dying child, and
perhaps her grief might be embittered by a whisper of conscience
that her sufferings were more or less attributable to neglected
education. Fearing that her mother’s excessive agitation might exhaust
Nina’s scanty store of remaining strength, Ethelston suggested to
Captain L’Estrange to withdraw her into the adjoining apartment; and
approaching the sufferer, he whispered a few words in her ear. A sweet
smile played upon her countenance as she answered, “Yes, and without
delay.”
Following her retiring parents from the room, he motioned to the
priest, who was waiting at the door, to enter; and the sad party
remained together while the confessor performed the rites of his sacred
office. Madame L’Estrange was so overpowered by her grief, that she was
removed, almost insensible, to her own apartment; while, upon a signal
from the holy man, Ethelston and the father re–entered that of Nina.
Addressing the latter, she said, in a faint voice, “Dearest father, I
have made my peace with Heaven; let me add one more prayer to you for
peace and forgiveness on earth!”
“Speak it, my child; it is already granted,” said the softened veteran.
“Pardon, for my sake, Fanchette and Jacques: they have committed a
great offence; but it was I who urged them to it.”
“It is forgiven; and they shall not be punished,” replied L’Estrange:
while Ethelston, deeply touched by this amiable remembrance of the
offending slaves at such a moment, whispered to her in a low voice—
“‘Blessed are the peace–makers; for they shall be called the children
of God!’”
A grateful pressure of the hand which he had placed in hers was the
only reply, as she continued, addressing L’Estrange, “And let them
marry, father; I know they love each other; and those who love should
marry.” Here her voice became feebler and feebler, as, once more
opening her dark eyes, which shone with preternatural lustre upon
Ethelston, she added, “You, too, will marry; but none will ever love
you like your ... sister!—closer—closer yet! let me feel your breath.
Father, join your hand to his—so! This death is—Par——“
The closing word died upon her lips; but the angelic smile that
lingered there seemed to emanate from that Paradise which their last
moments strove in vain to name. Her earthly sorrows were at rest, and
the bereaved father fell exhausted into Ethelston’s arms.