CONSTANTINOPLE.
“Once more upon the waters! yet once more,
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows its rider.”
CHILDE HAROLD.
The good ship Rainbow weighed anchor on the 1st of January, and bore
away from Boston harbor before a fair wind. The voyage across the
Atlantic ocean was rather tempestuous, but in due time the vessel passed
through the Straits of Gibraltar, and entered the Mediterranean, where
she continued to cruise for some months, stopping at almost every other
port but that Gusty May was so anxious to enter, namely, Genoa. Gusty
had deluded himself with the fond idea that once in the Mediterranean he
must come upon Rosalia Aguilar _somewhere_. He had written to Captain
Wilde, and had also swallowed his rage and compelled himself to write to
Raymond Withers. He had not received a line in reply from either of them
up to the 1st of April, at which time his ship was ordered to
Constantinople. On the 15th of April they entered the Archipelago, on
the 25th passed through the straits of the Dardanelles, and on the 1st
of May entered the straits of Constantinople, and anchored among a
thousand other ships of all nations before the City of Mosques and of
the Sultan.
He inquired and found that Captain Wilde’s ship, the Cornucopia, was
still there, though expected to sail in a few weeks.
As soon as he could obtain leave of absence, he hastened in search of
it. The ship lay opposite the lower part of the city. He found it and
hurried on board. Captain Wilde was on deck, and hastened to receive his
nephew—they met—clasped each other in a warm, fraternal embrace, and
_both_ exclaimed, in _one voice_,
“Rosalia! have you heard from Rosalia?” and each looked blankly and
sadly at the other, as he murmured,
“No—I was in hopes that _you_ could have given me news of her,” and then
the final answer was simultaneously spoken by both,
“Ah, _no_! all inquiries have been fruitless.”
“How is my sister Emily?” asked Captain Wilde.
“Well in health; but dreadfully anxious about Rosalia, of course, as we
all are,” replied Gusty, with a deep sigh, “and Sophie—how is Sophie?”
“Not well—indeed very far from it; the sudden news of Rosalia’s flight,
or abduction, for we do not know which to suppose it, threw her into a
fit of illness, from which she has never fully recovered?”
“Poor, dear Sophie—where is she now?”
“Here on board the ship with me.”
“HERE! has she lived here all the time?”
“Certainly.”
“And through her long illness?”
“Yes—do you not know that the Turkish Government will not permit a
foreigner to reside in the city?”
“And is there no exception to this rigid exclusion?”
“None, even in favor of ministers of friendly nations; _they_ are not
permitted to reside within the walls of the city.”
“And Sophie is here—introduce me to her.”
“Wait, my dear Gusty, a few minutes; I must prepare her for your visit,”
and so saying, Captain Wilde went down into the cabin, whence he
returned in a few minutes, saying,
“Come, Gusty! Sophie expects you, and she has a strange story for your
ear also.”
Gusty followed his uncle down the gangway into a large cabin, fitted up
in the most luxurious style. The berth or sleeping apartment, at the
upper end, opposite the entrance or gangway, was concealed by curtains
of purple velvet, fringed with gold, and festooned with golden cord. The
side walls were wainscoted with mahogany, and the floor covered with a
Turkey carpet, of colors so brilliant and life-like, and texture so
yielding, that you seemed to be stepping upon flowers. In the centre of
the cabin stood a rose-wood table made fast to its place, and above it
hung a splendid chandelier of cut glass and gold. Ottomans covered with
purple velvet and fringed with gold, like the curtains, were ranged
around the walls upon the carpet.
A beautiful spring-bottomed sofa, whose upper cushions were of down,
covered also with purple velvet to match the other hangings, was placed
against the walls on the left hand as you entered, and facing it upon
the opposite side, hung a large cheval mirror. About upon the walls hung
several rare oil paintings in rich frames, and the rose-wood table was
littered with books.
“This is Sophie’s own particular retreat,” said Captain Wilde, as he
introduced Gusty, and pointed him to a seat on the sofa. In a few
seconds the purple velvet curtains opened, and Sophie entered. The very
same Sophie, whom time seemed to forget to mar. The same little round
looking figure, in its sober dress of brown satin, the same little
sedate head with its simply braided, glossy brown hair, the same soft,
pale face with its large, tender brown eyes, the same pensive
countenance, and gentle manners, the same low sweet voice, the same
every way except—yes! there _is_ a tone of deep, deep sorrow in her
whole bearing as she approaches to greet Gusty, who rises and meets her
more than half way. She offers her cheek to Gusty, who kisses it as he
embraces her, and they look in each other’s face with a heart-broken
expression of countenance, and sit down without a word spoken on either
side! At last, trying to utter the name of Rosalia, Sophie chokes and
bursts into tears, and weeps convulsively.
“Ah! well—yes—this is it!” exclaimed Captain Wilde, sitting down and
taking her in his arms, forgetting or disregarding the presence of
Gusty, and muttering _sotto voce_ as he soothed her, “I sometimes wish
we could hear that this poor girl was dead, for then Sophie would know
that she was in Heaven, and cease to break her heart about it.”
Sophie wept abundantly, and, as a fit of free weeping always acts, it
subsided and left her heart clear, her mind refreshed, and her nerves
calm—_temporarily_—just as an April shower leaves, _for the time_, the
sky bright, and the earth refreshed. Then as she recovered, she
recounted all the little she knew from Raymond Withers of Rosalia’s
flight, and ended by reiterating that no news had been heard of her; nor
the slightest clue had been found to her fate or her retreat.
Gusty saw that neither Captain Wilde nor Sophie had the slightest
suspicion of the elopement, well veiled as it had been; and he, on his
part, determined not to enlighten them. On his inquiring when they had
last heard from Raymond, he was informed that they had received but one
letter from him, namely, the letter announcing Rosalia’s flight, but
that they had lately heard, by a vessel direct from Genoa, that the
American Consul was lying extremely ill of a brain fever, and that his
life was despaired of.
“Of course that is the reason he has not written to us,” said Sophie.
“And I suppose that is why he has not replied to my letter, either,”
observed Gusty.
Then Sophie asked her thousand and one questions about Emily and her
family, about Heath Hall and its inmates, and about Hagar and her
children. To all these questions Gusty gave satisfactory replies. When
she inquired about Hagar he merely told her that she was in high health
and beauty, and the mother of a fine boy, thus revealing only what was
agreeable in the truth, without afflicting Sophie by saying one word of
the sorrow of which it was evident that she had not the slightest idea.
If this partial concealment was not in_genu_ous, it was at least
in_geni_ous; but I am not defending Gusty.
“I have something strange to tell you about our poor dear Rosalia, but I
am not able to tell you to-day, Gusty,” said Sophie.
“Is it about anything that has occurred since you parted with her?”
“Yes—and—no,” said Sophie,” but I am not strong enough for the task now.
Come to-morrow, Gusty, and I will tell you—I must lie down now.”
And indeed she looked so languid, so much as if about to faint, that
Gusty, mentally reproaching himself for having stayed so long, arose to
take leave.
“Come and dine with us to-morrow at five, if you can leave the ship,”
said Captain Wilde.
“Yes, do Gusty,” added Sophie.
“I will, certainly, with great pleasure, if I can get off,” replied
Gusty; and raising Sophie’s pale and languid hand to his lips he turned
and left the cabin, accompanied by Captain Wilde.
“Come in the morning for the story, however, Gusty, for Sophie is too
feeble to be worried later in the day.”
The next morning as soon as he was off duty, Gusty hastened on board the
Cornucopia. Captain Wilde met him as before, and telling him that Sophie
was ready to receive him, conducted him into the cabin. Sophie reclined
upon the sofa, but arose, and greeting Gusty, pointed him to the seat by
her side. He took it, and after making several kind inquiries about her
health, he awaited the revelation she had to make him—his interest and
his curiosity whetted up to the keenest edge. At length she said—
“I suppose, Gusty, you are waiting for this story?”
“Yes, dear Sophie, with as much _im_patience as I dare to feel, seeing
you so feeble.”
“I am much stronger in the morning—well—dear knows, I hardly know where
to commence, for I am no narrator. I suppose, Gusty, you always thought
that Rosalia—poor Rose!—was my niece, did you not?”
“Of course—_yes_!
“My sister, Rosalia Churchill’s child?”
“Certainly!”
“Well, she is not either the one or the other!”
“How?”
“She is no kin to me.”
“SOPHIE!”
“It is true.”
“You astound me!”
“So was I astounded when the fact was revealed to me.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“Certain of it.”
“Beyond a doubt?”
“‘There is not a peg to hang a doubt upon.’”
“Who is she then, in the name of Heaven?”
“The daughter of my late husband, Mr. Withers, by his first wife—Fanny
Raymond, and the sister of Raymond Withers!”
Gusty turned all colors, and lost his voice for a time; at last seeing
that Sophie remained silent, he exclaimed—
“Great God! this cannot be true!”
“I _know_ it to be true. I have incontestable proof that it is true.”
“And does _he_—Raymond Withers, know this?”
“Yes, I presume so.”
“And how long has he known it?” asked Gusty, with a strange joy breaking
over his face.
“Only since her flight.”
Gusty’s countenance fell suddenly.
“Does _she_ know or suspect it?”
“I presume not—poor child!”
“How long have _you_ known it?”
“About eight months.”
“And how did you discover it?—who told you?—and why has the fact been
kept concealed so long?”
“Stay, Gusty, it was to tell you the whole story that I requested your
visit this morning. I am about to do so.”
“I am all attention—begin.”
“In the first place, I do not wish to enter further upon the details of
the early life of Mr. Withers than is absolutely necessary to make this
story clear.”
“Of course not,” winced Gusty, with a countenance expressive of having
bitten an unripe persimmon.
“You have sometimes heard the name of Fanny Raymond?”
“Yes—though long
“‘Banished from each lip and ear,
Like words of wantonness or fear;’
—I _have_ heard it—and I remember her sad fate.”
“You will understand, then, why it is unpleasant to me to allude to her
dark story.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Further than is positively unavoidable?”
“I know! I know!”
“Then these are the facts lately revealed to me by my deceased
brother-in-law’s attorney—and this was the manner of it. We had been out
here something like four or five months, when I received a packet of
letters and papers from Mr. Linton, my late brother-in-law’s attorney,
and my colleague in the guardianship of Rosalia and her little property.
With this packet of letters came _one_ letter, sealed and superscribed
in a hand-writing, the sight of which made my heart leap to my
throat—the hand-writing, in fine, of my only sister—my dead sister,
Rosalia. In truth, it seemed like a missive from the grave. It was
directed ‘To Sophie Withers—care of T. Linton, attorney at law—to be
delivered according to its address, on the 1st June, 182-.’ _That was
Rosalia’s eighteenth birthday._”
Sophie paused. Gusty waited in breathless impatience. She seemed
strongly disinclined to recommence the recital that she had abandoned at
the very outset.
“Well?” at last ventured Gusty—“Well, Sophie?”
“Alas! why have I to tell this story—I do so revolt from it, Gusty! I
walk around and around it, fearing to approach it!”
“Don’t then, Sophie,” said Gusty, with an effort at magnanimity, but
looking very anxious.
“Yes, I shall have to tell it—and may as well brace myself to the task
now as at any other time. Listen then, Gusty, and I will endeavor to
condense the story that was revealed to me through some half-a-dozen
long letters, and proved by some half a score of tedious documents. You
remember my sister Rosalia, Gusty?”
“Like one of the glorious visions of my morning of life—_yes_.”
“Yes, she _was_ gloriously beautiful—of your Rosalia’s complexion and
style of beauty, but with a sparkling vivacity, flashing like sunlight
through every look, and tone, and gesture—Rosalia Churchill’s first
effect upon a stranger was electrical. Well! soon after we were left
alone by the death of our brother, Mr. Aguilar, a young merchant of
Baltimore, came down to make or finish a large contract for tobacco,
from Mr. Gardiner Green—he saw Rosalia at church on Sunday; on Monday
got himself presented to her by Mr. Green, who brought him to the Hall.
He came every day to see us. At the end of a week he returned to
Baltimore, but came back in a few days. At last he proposed for Rosalia,
married her, and carried her off to his city home. Rosalia was very
young and very thoughtless, and perhaps her husband was a little
selfish, and did not wish to be troubled by the poor country relations
of his beautiful but penniless young wife—at least that is the only way
in which I can account for the estrangement between us that followed her
marriage. I wrote to my sister frequently, and at first her replies were
copious, her letters filled with vivacious descriptions of gay city
life—of dress, visiting and receiving company—of balls, plays, and
concerts, &c., &c., &c. This continued a few months, and then our
correspondence began to die out. Her letters were short and few, and
filled with apologies. I never remonstrated against this, because, you
know, that is not my disposition. At last—and this was near the close of
the second year—a longer interval of silence than usual followed my
letter to her. I felt a _diffidence_ in troubling her with two letters
at a time, for I felt that she was a fine, fashionable lady, and just
then I was almost a pauper.”
“I guess it was your quiet _pride_, Sophie.”
“I am no moral philosopher, and I do not know whether it was pride or
humility that prevented me for some time from writing a second letter to
her; but at last I grew so restless about her—I felt so interested in
her domestic affairs—she had been married more than a year, and I was
anxious to know whether she had a baby. Sometimes I thought she _had_,
and that the care of it prevented her writing to me, so I wrote and
asked her in so many words. Her reply came, after a long time. She told
me she had a little snowy-skinned, golden-haired, sapphire-eyed girl,
who was said to be the picture of herself. Of course I thought,
naturally enough, that the child was her own. I could think nothing
else. She had not _said_ so, but could I infer anything else, Gusty?”
“Certainly not.”
“You see she entered into no details except very minute ones about the
baby’s beauty, dresses, habits, and christening. This revived our
correspondence for a little while—only for a little while—it died out,
and finally ceased altogether. It was a year from this that I was
married to Mr. Withers; and it was in the second year of my marriage
that I was so unfortunate as to lose my only sister and her husband by
the then prevailing epidemic. I was appointed by will, guardian, in
conjunction with Mr. Linton, of the infant orphan, Rosalia, and was
summoned to Baltimore, to receive her into my care. I went, and brought
home the baby, Rosalia, without a single suspicion of who she really
was. I was attracted to the child; I loved her, but not for anything of
my sister that I saw in her, for there was really nothing. Superficial
observers might fancy a likeness, because they both had the same snowy
skin, tinged with a faint rose-color on the cheeks; the same glittering
gold hair, and the same azure eyes; but to my searching eyes there was
not a single look of my sister about her. There was a startling likeness
to another—an unfortunate, whose strange sad fate was as
incomprehensible to me as this child’s alarming resemblance of her.
Still—so far was I from suspicion—so little given, as you know, Gusty,
to marvellousness or romancery, that I considered this extraordinary
likeness as mere fancy in me, until Mr. Withers also remarked it, in
great agitation, and even _then_, I set it down as accidental. Mr.
Withers grew very fond of her, and she of him. She was the only one who
could subdue the tiger in his heart during his fits of phrensy. You know
we brought her up as our niece, and loved her so much that had we heard
that she was the child of the bitterest enemy in the world, we could not
have loved her less. The panic caused by the extraordinary likeness
passed away with years, because, in fact, as she grew up this
resemblance declined, and her air and manner became assimilated to mine,
so much so that people saw, even through the marked difference of
complexion—what they called ‘a family likeness’ between two of no kin.
Children _do_ thus grow to resemble those who bring them up—in case they
love them. I believed her to be my niece, and only regretted that she
had not been my daughter. You may judge, then, with what surprise I
received this packet of papers from my coadjutor, Mr. Linton,
accompanied by his own letter—shall I read it to you, or tell you of its
contents?”
“Is it long?”
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me.”
“Well then, listen; it appears that a few days before the death of Mr.
Aguilar, he sent for his lawyer, T. Linton, and requested him to draw up
a will, in which he left the remnant of his wrecked property to his wife
Rosalia. Within a fortnight after the funeral of her husband, my sister
was struck down by the epidemic to which he had fallen a victim. On the
day previous to her decease she requested an interview with Mr. Linton.
He obeyed her summons, and at her desire, drew up a second will, by
which she bequeathed to _her daughter, Rosalia Aguilar_, all the
property so lately devised to herself. She signed this will, and
returning it to him, requested him to keep it _for exhibition to her
relatives_, and to draw her up a copy, substituting the name of _Rosalia
Aguilar Withers_, and to keep this in reserve, for, said she,
“‘The _first_ will, will not give her any right to the bequest, because
she is not my daughter.’
“‘Then why say so in the first will?’ inquired the lawyer.
“‘Because I do not wish to send the orphan, _orphaned_ into the world.
As my own child, my relatives will naturally receive Rosalia with
affection—the _prestige_ of family will be about her. As my adopted
daughter, they may possibly look upon her with aversion as an
interloper, who has deprived them of an inheritance. I do not say that
it _will_ be so, but I _do_ say that this is so natural, so human a
possibility, that I do not wish to risk it. I wish to cover my baby, my
child; she _is_ my child in affection, if not in love—I wish, I say, to
shelter her with _love_ during the years of her infancy and childhood,
and during these years you must only produce the _first_ will, unless
the discovery of her real parentage makes it necessary to produce the
second, which will secure to her the property under _all_ circumstances.
I have prepared a letter, in which I have given the history of my
adoption of Rosalia Withers, and which I shall confide to you, to be
delivered to my sister on Rosalia’s eighteenth birth day, or before, if
unexpected circumstances should make it proper to do so.’ Well, she
intrusted him with both wills, the real and ostensible one, and with the
letter explanatory of the whole matter. Gusty, I am exhausted; shall I
give you the letter to read, while I take a little repose?”
Gusty looked at Sophie—she was pale and trembling with nervous
exhaustion.
“Oh! I am a brute! a brute! not to have noticed your fatigue; but I was
so interested in Rosalia—give me the letter, Sophie, and lie down.”
“It will tell you all that you wish to know, Gusty,” said she, rising,
and handing him the letter.
He received it, and left the cabin, saying to himself, “Sophie is not so
strong to endure as she was—her heart is breaking under reiterated
blows.” Passing Captain Wilde, and promising to be back to dinner, Gusty
hastened to his own ship, and retired to read his letter, which, with
its revelations, reader, shall be reserved for the next chapter.