Flora's mind was filled with interest in the young lady of whom Madame
Hird had spoken. On the morning after their visit to the Villa Ianthe
she read all the papers which Madame Hird had given them about their
little _protégée_. They consisted, first, of a letter from Madame de
St. Severan; next, of the manuscript containing Marie's history. They
were as follows:--
"Although, dear Madame Hird, we have lost sight of each other for many
years, and you would not recognise, under my present name, the Caroline
Murray of our merry school days, yet I am sure that you, like myself,
remember those days. I venture, therefore, to ask you to interest
yourself in a young lady who will soon be an inmate of your convent,
and who is dear to me because she is so to my husband.
"For some time I have been in correspondence with your superioress,
and have obtained permission for our little friend to be received at
the Villa Ianthe, and placed especially under your care. We are very
anxious that she should spend a few months in a convent in Europe
before making her _entrée_ into the _beau monde_ of Paris, and knowing
that you are in Rome, I have made every exertion to have her confided
to your care; and in this I have fortunately succeeded. Will you, then,
dear friend, kindly undertake this charge, and direct her studies?
"A good priest will protect her from Algiers to Rome. As I am writing
to you I know that I need not say, be very kind to her. She is, by all
accounts, a most affectionate little creature, and is now in great
grief at being separated from the guardians of her childhood.
"I have compiled a little sketch of her history, which I now send you.
The first part of it is drawn from my husband's account of his African
experience; the rest from the joint accounts of Marie and the good nuns
who had charge of her...."
Here the remainder of the letter was torn off, not relating, as Flora
supposed, to the little Arab girl. She next took up the manuscript,
which ran thus:--
"After the battle in the plain of Cheliff, where the Duc d'Aumale and
his little army so bravely captured Abd-el-Kader's encampment, many
of the officers left their tents in the evening and wandered over the
scene of their late conflict. Among them was Colonel, then Captain de
St. Severan. He had strayed to some distance beyond the rest, following
the direction which the fugitives had taken, and was about to return,
when, standing for a moment gazing back upon the battle-field, he was
startled by the sound of a half-smothered cry. A few paces before him
lay the body of an Arab; he approached it, and as he shook the cloak
which nearly covered it, the cry was repeated. Within the folds of
the _bernous_ there was a little child, whose large black eyes were
wide open with fright, and little hands stretched out, as if to ward
off some coming danger. With no slight effort he drew the child from
the dead Arab, and tried to quiet its cries by caresses and marks of
endearment. After taking it up in his arms he returned to his tent,
and sent for one of the camp women, to whom he related his adventures,
adding that he had determined to adopt the child as his own, and
confiding it to her care.
"Having been wounded in one of the later skirmishes, Captain de St.
Severan was sent back to Algiers with a detachment of troops, when he
took care that the woman to whom he had entrusted the little foundling
was to accompany them. The child was a little girl of about two or
three years old, and was christened Marie. Day by day she became a
greater darling--the pet, indeed, of the whole brigade--and was in
danger of being completely spoiled, when her protector was ordered
again on active service. Of course, he could not take little Marie with
him, so he yielded to the advice of his lady friends, and, stipulating
that she should learn her father's language, placed her under the good
guardianship of the French nuns at Algiers.
"It so happened that he never returned to Algiers, save to pass through
it almost in a dying state on his way home. After a long and tedious
illness in Paris, which left great depression of spirits upon him,
a friend, Mr. Molyneux, induced him to accept an invitation to the
family seat of Mr. Molyneux's father in England, and try there the
invigorating tonic of English country life. At this house I met him,
and the sequel of that meeting was, that a few months afterwards I
became Madame de St. Severan.
"I need scarcely say that I heard many stories of Algiers, and of
Marie. We had agreed to send for her as soon as we should get to
France, but, on our arrival in Paris, my husband was offered an
important post in one of the colonies, and thought he could not well
refuse it without retiring from the army, which he did not wish to
do, therefore he consented to go; in consequence, Marie was left at
the convent in Algiers. We remained away nearly ten years, and only
returned to Paris last winter, when we wrote at once to request that
Marie should be sent to us; being doubly anxious to have her, as we
had, alas! lost our own dear ones. But the answer received from the
superioress caused us the greatest pain and anxiety. She said, that
shortly before our last letter arrived Marie had been missed one
evening from prayers at church, when it was found that she had obtained
permission to walk in the grounds, as she was suffering from headache,
and that, on search being made for her, a door in the garden was
discovered to have been forced open from without, and a scarf, which
had been worn by Marie, found on the ground there. These, with other
facts, left no doubt that she had been carried off by some Arabs, who
had before been seen about the place.
"Three months passed without any tidings of poor Marie. At length
a letter came containing the joyful news that she had been safely
restored to the convent, and was suffering only from weakness and
exhaustion.
"Marie's account of what occurred tells us that, having obtained
permission, she went out alone and sought shade and repose in a
summer-house at the far end of the grounds--a favourite retreat of
hers. She supposes that she had been asleep, when she was roused by
feeling something thrown over her head and twisted tightly across her
mouth, so that she could not speak or scream. She was then carried for
a short distance, placed upon a horse by some one, who got up behind
her and galloped away. Save the rapid movement through the air, Marie
remembers nothing until she found herself lying on a bed of moss in
what appeared to her to be a rocky cavern. As she awoke the bright rays
of the sun were pouring in upon her, and for a moment she thought she
must have dreamed some fearful dream. An old man in a white _bernous_
then entered the cavern, and all the terrible reality was revealed to
her. He came and bent over her, when she exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, take me
back! What injury have I ever done you that you should steal me away
from all those whom I love? Only take me back and you shall have as
much money as you like.'
"'Money!' he sorrowfully repeated. 'Can money buy me back my beautiful,
my brave children whom the hateful Roumi killed? Can money make the old
man young again, and give him new sons to perpetuate his race?'
"'I pity you very much, sir; but what have I to do with your
misfortunes? Why revenge upon a poor weak girl like me the death of
those who were dear to you?'
"'What have you to do with my misfortunes? Are you not the child of
my firstborn, his only one? Did they not tear you from his dead body,
to which you clung with all your baby strength? Did I not see it all?
Yes; lying wounded at some distance from my brave boy, your cries
roused me from the almost death swoon into which I had fallen, and I
saw you taken away from him. I vowed then to the Prophet, that if I
recovered from my wounds, my life should be spent in trying to rescue
you from our enemies, that you might become the mother of a race of
strong warriors to struggle against those hated usurpers. During all
those weary years I never flagged for an hour, and repeated failures
did but urge me to new exertions. At last the great Prophet rewarded my
fidelity by giving you up to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken
back to your father's murderers, and ask what you have to do with my
misfortunes? Child, I have told you.'
"He stopped as if exhausted by his own vehemence, and gazed at her in
seeming anger. Poor Marie could not repress the shudder which crept
over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire. Visions of what her fate
would be with him, and still worse as the slave--for what else is an
Arab's wife?--of an infidel husband, rose up vividly before her eyes
and filled her with horror.
"At length the old man went out, and Marie, being left alone, rose from
her rude couch, and kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix--it
was Colonel de St. Severan's parting gift--and prayed earnestly to Him
who had died for her, that He would save her now from worse than death,
and restore her to the care of His true followers. Hearing a step she
rose, and carefully hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to
see what would happen next. She had come to the conclusion that the
best chance of escape was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and,
as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had brought for her on the
previous night, she thanked him and began to eat. This seemed to please
him greatly.
"As soon as she had finished he said, 'Now we must start again, for we
have a long ride to take before we reach the tribe.' He gave her an old
cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her head; then he desired her
to wait for a few moments in the cavern while he got the horse ready.
Again he went away and left poor Marie alone. Her heart began to sink.
That night they were to reach the tribe. What hope was there now for
her.
"Journeying on, the old man tried to amuse her by talking of the
handsome young chief whom he wished her to marry. Then he related
stories of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her father
especially. He told her that her mother was a Frenchwoman whom the
Arabs had taken captive, and whom his son fell in love with and
married. He spoke much, too, about the great honour which his son had
done her in making her his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and
said that she fretted and pined until she lost all her beauty, got ill,
and died shortly before the battle on the river Tanguin.
"At last, after a long and, to Marie, a terrible day's ride, they came
to the encampment. As soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of
tents they were surrounded by the men of the tribe; the women stared,
but remained at their occupations. Many questions were asked of the
old man, but, before he answered any of them, he lifted Marie almost
tenderly from the horse; she could scarcely stand, and terrified by
all those strange faces which crowded round her, she clung to him for
support and protection. At this moment a witch-like looking woman came
and asked, 'Is this the lost child of thy brave son, Ben Arbi?'
"'It is, Masaouda,' he replied; 'help her to my tent and take care of
her; she is weary, and, as I fear, ill?'
"The old woman obeyed, and as soon as they got into the tent Marie
saw a seat, and fell upon it with a moan of pain. Masaouda knelt down
beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and cheeks, and then left her
to repose.
"Marie was alone, but she could not rest; all that Ben Arbi had said to
her about the chief whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and when
at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and horrible forms seemed to
crowd around, driving her to despair. This, she says, is the last thing
that she remembers of that night.
"When next she awoke to consciousness it was broad day-light, and she
saw Ben Arbi and Masaouda sitting at the door of the tent. She felt
strangely weak, and closed her eyes almost as soon as she opened them,
yet not before Ben Arbi had seen that one returning ray. Approaching
her, he asked in a low anxious tone--
"'Does my child know me?'
"Again she looked up for a moment; he saw that she had recognised him,
and exclaimed--
"'Allah be praised! She may live now!'
"By degrees Ben Arbi's presence and Masaouda's recalled her sad history
to her. Soon she was able to connect all the links of that chain
so coiled around her. One day as she lay with closed eyes thinking
over her forlorn condition she heard Masaouda and Ben Arbi talking
together. From their conversation she learned that she had been more
than three weeks ill, and that at one time they had almost despaired
of her recovery. He spoke much of his anxiety that she should get well
quickly, as war was menacing, and he wished her to be married before it
broke out, otherwise it might be impossible for some time.
"How Marie's heart bounded as she heard these words! And how she prayed
that God would not permit her to get well until this, for her, blessed
war should have begun! She determined to speak as little as possible
and to avoid giving any signs of returning strength. Accordingly, day
after day she resisted all the efforts made to rouse her, and refused
much of the nourishing things which they constantly brought to her, and
thus she endeavoured to retard this dreaded recovery. Nevertheless, she
felt that she _was_ rapidly improving, and every day it became more
difficult to repress the natural restlessness of convalescence.
"Time passed on slowly, and nothing more was said of the war; she was
beginning to lose hope, when one evening she heard Masaouda come into
the tent with Ben Arbi, who was questioning her eagerly about his
child's health; he asked if it would be possible for her to be married
in a week from that time, as the war had been determined upon, and the
chiefs would depart. 'It is impossible,' the old woman answered; 'the
child is too ill, and a relapse would probably cause her death.' Ben
Arbi sighed deeply, but made no reply; while Marie felt that she could
have fallen at Masaouda's feet and have blessed her for speaking these
words. She knew, however, that she must remain silent, and from the
depths of her heart she sent up a fervent thanksgiving to God. She was
not yet saved, but this was a respite, and whilst it lasted might not
her friends find and rescue her? It was a renewal of hope, and that is
almost a renewal of life.
"At length the happy day arrived when the greater portion of the tribe
set out for the scene of war, and from that day forward Marie improved
rapidly. She devoted herself completely to Ben Arbi, vaguely hoping
that if she could make him very fond of her she might perhaps be able
to induce him to take her back to Algiers. She succeeded to her heart's
content in exciting his tender affection for her, but he would not hear
a word about taking her back, and appeared to be as intent as ever upon
her marrying.
"Marie observed that his strength seemed to decline, and he himself
said frequently that the old man's course was nearly run, and that if
he could live to see his child married the object of his life would be
gained, and he would be glad to sleep in peace with his brave sons.
"About two months from the time when the chiefs set out for the war,
the survivors returned in triumph, and, with pride and joy lighting up
his countenance, Ben Arbi told Marie that her husband elect was waiting
to see her. She fell upon her knees, and clinging to him, besought him
not to force her to marry, if he would not see her die of grief, as
her poor mother had died. He sternly repulsed her, and left the tent
in anger. It was a rude shock to Marie's hopes, and now, for the first
time, she felt despair.
"Passively she submitted; she heard them agree that her marriage should
take place in a few days, and even this did not rouse her. Ben Arbi
tried to caress her and win her from this deep sadness, but she shook
off his hand roughly, as she exclaimed, 'Do not touch me,--do not
add hypocrisy to your cruelty. Is it not enough for you to force me
to do that which will be to me a living death, without making false
professions of affection for me? As you killed my mother, so will you
kill me!' She stopped her ears and would not listen to a word from him.
"A few days before the fatal one named for Marie's wedding, Ben Arbi
said that he must go to visit some holy shrine, to which there was
then a great pilgrimage, but that he would be back on the day of the
wedding. They were to be married, as is the Arab custom, in the evening.
"Early on the morning of this eventful day an old man tottered across
the encampment and entered Ben Arbi's tent. Marie was already out, and
was sitting at a little distance from it in a state of mute despair,
yet she recognised her grandfather's form, and followed him into the
tent. He had fallen upon the ground, and was lying there moaning as if
in mortal agony. A feeling of sickness came over Marie as she looked at
him, and she leaned against the side of the tent for support.
"At this moment the whole camp seemed roused, and were gathering round
the tent, and he to whom she was betrothed implored her to come to him,
saying that they must lose no time in departing from a place which was
cursed by the plague.
"'What!' she cried; 'you would leave the old man here to die alone? Go;
I will remain with him!'
"'Are you mad, girl!' exclaimed her betrothed. 'Come before you are
yourself infected--before you have touched him!'
"He advanced a little way into the tent and took hold of her arm, but
she shook him off, and springing to her grandfather's side, she laid
her hand upon him and said--
"'Now come and take me away if you will, but with me take this fell
disease!'
"One and all they stood as if spell-bound, gazing at her; then slowly
and silently they withdrew.
"At last, Marie, and the sufferer by whose side she knelt, heard the
heavy tramping of men and flocks, as the caravan moved away from the
presence of the plague-stricken. Marie turned and kissed the old man's
forehead.
"That kiss seemed to thrill through him. He raised himself up, and
looking intently at her, he exclaimed--
"'My child!--I have never wrought thee aught but evil. I stole thee
from those who were dear and kind to thee. I spurned thy prayers and
tears, entreating to be taken back to them; and even this very day
I was about to force thee into a marriage against thy inclinations.
Nevertheless, in my hour of need and misery thou remainest with me,
whom all others have abandoned! Child, who taught thee to act thus?'
"'Grandfather, it was the lesson which our God came down from heaven
to teach us. He died to save those who most cruelly injured him. His
doctrine and example are summed up in this one sentence--"Love thy
God above all things, and thy neighbour as thyself!" And it was He
who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my
brethren, ye have done it unto me!" And I have only done to you as I
would that you should have done to me were I struck with this terrible
disease, whilst I know that in thus attending to you I am ministering
to Him.'
"The old man bowed his head, and said, 'Thy God shall be my God! The
religion that could make thee act as thou hast done must be divine.
Child, make me what thou art.'
"Marie clasped her hands together in deep but silent thankfulness; then
she exclaimed, 'Would that some one were here to teach you; yet I can
baptize you and make you a Christian. Oh, how happy you have made me! I
can even thank you now for having stolen me from my dear convent!'
"'Do not say thou canst not teach me, child; for thou hast taught me so
great a lesson that nothing could surpass it. Make me what thou art,
and I shall die in peace. But what is to become of thee, my poor child!
If thou shouldst survive this danger they will claim thee, and thou
wilt not escape them. Would that thou wert in safety with thy Christian
friends!'
"Marie trembled; yet a moment after she smiled brightly, and said,
'Fear not for me, grandfather; God is with us, and He will protect me.
I no longer fear for myself; but say, are we far from Algiers?'
"'Not more than a good day's journey on foot. I brought thee by a
longer route, in order to elude pursuit. But what does that avail;
there is no one to send thither!'
"'It is all in the hands of God, and all will be well; do not let us
think any more about me, but about yourself.' And when she had done
all she could to soothe him, she sat down beside him and talked to
him about the loving Saviour, whose follower he wished to become; and
related to him as much as she could remember of the touching Gospel
histories.
"Towards evening he fell into a light sleep, then Marie went out to
breathe the fresh air, and was thinking of the happiness it would be
to her if she could send for the dear old chaplain of the convent, who
would baptize her grandfather, and, if he lived, find means to have
him as well as herself removed to Algiers. Whilst she was musing, a
sound of footsteps fell upon her ear, and looking up, she saw coming
towards her a poor, half-witted boy, to whom she had been kind, and who
seemed to have taken an ardent fancy for her. He was leading a goat;
and, as soon as he saw her, he hastened to her, and said he had brought
the goat for her that she might have some milk to drink.
"Marie took his hand, and pressing it within her own, thanked him
warmly for thus thinking of her. The boy blushed, and laughed sillily;
then he asked if he could do anything for her.
"'Yes,' she answered quickly; 'if you would go to Algiers, and bring
back something--some medicine--for my grandfather, I shall love you so
much.' The boy assented gladly; and then she asked him to wait until
she had obtained the necessary instructions.
"Finding Ben Arbi asleep, Marie had to wait some time before she could
speak to him; then she told him that God had sent them in the poor boy
a messenger to Algiers, and asked him if he knew any Arab there to whom
she could entrust a message to the convent. The old man thought for a
few moments, and said he knew one who was under great obligations to
him, and in whom he could trust. 'Then all is well,' she answered;
'only tell me how I am to describe the place where we are?' She had her
little pocket-book still with her; and what a treasure it proved to her
now, since it gave her the means of communicating with her friends!
"The old man having given her the necessary directions, dictated a
few lines to the Arab, to desire him to give the messenger a little
phial containing a certain cordial, and above all to lose no time in
conveying Marie's packet to its destination.
"When all this was done, and the messenger had departed, Ben Arbi
seemed inclined to sleep again, and she began her night-watch; a lonely
one indeed would it have been had not the bright star of hope shone
through all its gloom.
"Slowly passed the hours until the next day, when, about noon, the
faithful messenger appeared again. He gave her the phial, and told
her that the Arab desired him to say that Ben Arbi's wishes should be
executed. Marie could have cried for joy, and her gratitude to the poor
boy was far greater than she could express. It was necessary, however,
to send him away; and this cost her a severe pang, as she thought of
when he would return and find the place deserted by them.
"Every feeling was, however, soon merged in an intense longing for the
arrival of the good chaplain. Her grandfather was sinking rapidly,
and she began to think that Père de la Roche would not be there in
time to baptize him; and how she shuddered at the thought of being
left there alone with the dead. Evening came, and twilight waned into
night, but no Père de la Roche; and poor Marie's heart began to droop
again. Perhaps he had not received the note, and, if so, what was she
to do? She almost shrieked aloud as she thought of her probably forlorn
condition, for she felt sure that her grandfather had not long to
live,--he had said so more than once; and during the whole day he had
been tormenting himself about what was to become of her if no one came
from Algiers.
"The old man had fallen asleep; the bright light of the moon showed
Marie that his eyes were closed. In her anxious hope she went out of
the tent and climbed up a tree which stood near, to gaze across that
vast plain; but nothing appeared. She then determined to descend, and
baptize her grandfather herself as soon as he awoke. One last yearning
look, however, brought before her something which made her heart
throb almost aloud. It was but a small spot; but it seemed to move,
and to draw nearer to her. At last she could see that it was a man
on horseback. There was no Arab dress; it must be, it was Père de la
Roche! She almost sprang from the tree, and ran towards him.
"Père de la Roche and Marie hastened to the tent, and Marie went in to
announce the glad tidings. The old man was lying with his eyes wide
open, and looked at Marie fondly and sadly as she entered; but when she
told him that Père de la Roche had arrived, his countenance lit up, and
he exclaimed, 'Then thou art happy. I can now die in peace, and thou
wilt go back to those whom thou lovest! But go, child, and send him to
me quickly, for my course is nearly run.' Marie went out and led Père
de la Roche into the tent. She left him there, and waited without for
him.
"She was roused by the good father, whose hand lightly shook her.
'Come, my child,' said he; 'thy grandfather would see thee again before
he dies. He is now a Christian, and will be with his God before many
minutes have passed. Ah! what a great work thy faith has wrought!'
"Hardly were Ben Arbi's eyes closed in his happy death, when the
sound of horses caused Marie once more to tremble. Père de la Roche
reassured her by saying that it was probably a detachment of cavalry
from Algiers, sent to guard their safe return. Taking her by the hand,
he led her out of the tent, and there she saw again the beloved French
uniforms. This second shock of joy, and the death scene she had just
witnessed, were too much for her. She sank down quite overcome; and
they laid her upon the long grass, where they left her to slumber,
whilst they hurriedly performed the last rites to Ben Arbi.
"When all was done, they gently awoke her; and placing her on
horseback, they returned to Algiers. Poor Marie was carried exhausted
into the convent just as the bell was tolling for matins. The nuns came
gathering round their lost child, now restored to them, to their great
joy."