"Will this honour do that for you which my father--which I--will do?
What has this honour done for him?--tell me, father. Has it put that
gay blue jacket on him, or that small sword by his side? Show him, my
dear father, the rich dresses that we have, and the beautiful arms.
Will honour watch you in your hours of sickness, take you out in the
noonday heats, and show you the cool shady places, and the refreshing
rippling springs? What is this honour, that seems to bid you to break
my heart, and make me die of very grief?"
"Monsieur Manuel," said I, extremely confused, "have the kindness to
explain to dear Josephine what honour is."
"A rule of conduct," he replied, with severity, "that was never
recorded, never understood, and which men construe just as suits their
convenience. One honest impulse of the heart is worth all the honour I
ever heard of."
This was a delicate helping of a friend in a dilemma. I turned for
relief from the sarcastic father to the beautiful countenance of the
daughter, and I there beheld an expression of intense sorrow that
agonised me. Her sudden, and, to me, totally unexpected animation, had
disappeared. Melancholy seemed to have drooped her darkest wings over
her. I thought that she must soon die under their noxious shadow. For
one instant my eyes caught hers: I could not stand the appeal.
"I will stay," said I, gently, "until the ship sails."
I had then, for the first time, to witness the enthusiasm of the
melancholy temperament--the eloquence of unschooled nature. The bending
figure that seemed to collapse in weakness upon my supporting arm,
suddenly flung herself from me; her rounded and delicate figure swelled
at once into sudden dignity; her muscles assumed the rigidity, yet all
the softness of a highly-polished Grecian statue; and stood before me,
as if by enchantment, half woman, half marble, beautiful inexpressibly.
I was sorely tried. There was no action, no waving of the arms, as she
spoke. Her voice came forth musically, as if from sacred oracle, that
oracle having life only in words. Monsieur Manuel had very wisely
departed.
"Not an hour--not a minute--not an instant, or--_for ever_! Young sir,
you have already stayed too long, if you stay not always. Leave me to
dream of you, and to die. The thorn is in my heart; it may kill me
gradually. Go. Why, sir, have you looked upon me as man never before
looked? Why, why have you mingled your false tears with mine, that were
so true--and, oh, so loving! But what am I, who thus speak so proudly
to a being whom, if I did not know he was treacherous, I should think an
angel? (_Un des bons esprits_.) I, a poor, weak, ignorant girl of
colour--born of a slave, to a slavery--whose only ambition was to have
been loved, loved for a short, short while--for know, that I am to die
early--I should not have troubled you long. But you are too good for
me--I was a presumptuous fool. Go, and at once, and take with you all
that I have to give--the blessing of a young-born bonds-woman."
All this time she had stood firmly and nearly motionless, with her hands
folded beneath her heaving bosom, at some distance from me. I
approached her with extended arms, and had some such foolish rhapsody on
my tongue as "Beautiful daughter of the sun," for I had already
contemplated her under a new character, when, retreating and waving me
from her, she continued:
"Already too much of this--let me die by cruelty rather than by
caresses, which are the worst of cruelty. I feel a new spirit living
within me. I am a child no more. Yesterday I should have crouched
before you, as one degraded, as I ought to do. You have pressed me to
your bosom--you have spoken to me as your equal--even your tears have
bathed my brow. You have ennobled me. Oh! it is a happiness and a
great glory. I, formerly so humble, command you to go--go, dear, dear,
Ralph. You will not kill me quite by going _now_, therefore, be
generous, and go."
I was already sufficiently in love, and began to feel ashamed of myself;
for not having as yet caught a little of her enthusiasm.
"Josephine," said I, in a quiet, serious tone, "give me your hand." I
took it--it was deadly cold. At that moment all her best blood was
rallying round her young heart. I led her to the open window, and
showed her the noble frigate so hateful to her sight, and said, "Dear
Josephine, in that ship there are more than three hundred gallant
fellows, all of whom are my countrymen, and some of them my familiar
friends. I have often shared with them danger, under the very jaws of
death. I have broken my bread with some of them, constantly, for nearly
three years. These are all claims on me: you see that I am speaking to
you calmly. I had no idea what a little impassioned orator you were--do
not look so dejected and so humble. I love you for it the more. I only
made the remark to convince you that what I now say is not the mere
prompting of a transient impulse. But, Josephine, in my own far-away
land, I have also a few friends; nor am I wholly a castaway; there is a
mystery about my origin, which I wish to dissipate, yet that I cherish.
If I conduct myself as I have hitherto done, in time I shall have the
sole control and government of a vessel, as proud as the one before you,
and of all the noble spirits it will contain. The mystery of which I
have spoken I am most sanguine will be cleared up; and I may,
peradventure, one day take my place among the nobles of my land, as it
now is among the nobles of the sea. Weep not thus, my love, or you will
infect me with emotions too painful to be borne. Let us be calm for a
little space. The reign of passion will commence soon enough. Mark me,
Josephine. For you--God forgive me if I commit sin!--for you, I cast
off my associates, sever all my ties of friendship, let the mystery of
my origin remain unravelled, renounce the land of my birth--for you, I
encounter the peril of being hung for desertion. Josephine, you will
incur a great debt--a heavy responsibility. My heart, my happiness, is
in your hands. Josephine, I stay."
"For ever?"
"For ever!" A wild shriek of joy burst from her delighted lips, as she
leaped to my bosom; and, for the first time, our lips sealed the
mysterious compact of love. After a moment, I gently released myself
from the sweet bondage of her embrace, and said, "Dear Josephine, this
cannot be to me a moment of unalloyed joy. You see the sun is half
below the horizon; give me one moment of natural grief; for, so surely
as I stay here, so surely, like that orb, are all my hopes of glory
setting, and for ever." And the tears came into my eyes as I exclaimed,
"Farewell, my country--farewell, honour--_Eos_, my gallant frigate, fare
thee well!"
As if instinct with life, the beautiful vessel answered my apostrophe.
The majestic thunder of her main-deck gun boomed awfully, and methought
sorrowfully, over the waters, and then bounded among the echoes of the
distant hills around and above me, slowly dying away in the distant
mountains. It was the gun which, as commodore, was fired at sunset.
"It is all over," I exclaimed. "I have made my election--leave me for a
little while alone."