THE ISLAND PRINCESS.
“Within the island’s calm retreat
She lived a sort of fairy life.”—_Milnes._
“She was a form of life and light
That seen, became a part of sight
And rose where’er I turned my eye
The Morning Star of memory.”—_Byron._
And so, as the sunny summers slipped away, in this atmosphere of love
and beauty, Etoile, the peerless little “Princess of the Isle,” budded
from infancy into childhood. She was as lovely as the loveliest vision
that ever visited a poet in his most inspired dreams. The inside of a
shell was not more pearly white, or flushed with a more delicate rose
tint, than her fair, transparent complexion; the yellow silk of the
young corn no more golden bright than her shining ringlets; nor the
modest violet of a deeper, purer blue than her heavenly eyes. Yet
blonde, as she was, her fair face was a “softened image” of a _dark
ladye_ whom we have seen before. It was as if a dainty miniature had
been copied in water colors from a fine portrait in India ink. The fair
and roseate face of Etoile was, in fact, a delicate transcript of the
beautiful dark face of her mother, Estelle.
The life of this lovely child on the delightful Island passed like a
heavenly dream. It was even brighter with enchanting illusions than the
usual life of childhood. She was taught to believe that the stately and
benignant old gentleman, her grand-uncle, was indeed a king; that she
herself was in reality a princess, and that the Sunrise Island was her
hereditary kingdom. “Within the Island’s calm retreat she lived a sort
of charmed life,” never leaving her beautiful home, never even desiring
to leave it. In the pleasant mansion her education was conducted by
Monsieur Henri, who instructed her in what are called the solid branches
of education, and by Madame, who gave her lessons in music, dancing, and
embroidery. Out of the mansion, by Monsieur Henri’s express commands,
she was left to herself and to nature. Here she lived at liberty in a
paradise, the influence of whose beneficent beauty must forever have
saved her graceful wildness from breaking into unseemly rudeness. Here
she played and frolicked with the innocent freedom of the squirrel, or
the bird—going up into the tops of the beautiful grove trees if their
umbrageous branches wooed her presence—and learning to climb as the
kitten learns; or in her own retired haunts, bathing in the blue waters
of the sea until her limbs grew familiar with the waves, and she learned
to breast them, as the young swan learns to swim. Thus her physical
organization was in the fairest way of a full and beautiful development.
And if this star-bright Etoile was taught to believe herself a princess,
she was the no less instructed to consider her position a high and holy
trust for the welfare and happiness of those soon to be dependent on
her. Nor were these instructions so very far from the truth as at first
view they might appear. For, if this lovely girl were not indeed the
princess, she was certainly the _heiress_, and would be the _absolute
mistress_ of the Island and of the people upon it, over whom she would
possess more than a queen’s power, and for whom she would also feel more
than a queen’s responsibility. And so the young creature felt it. No
selfish, thoughtless, childish exactions, ever embittered the unvarying
sweetness of her manners to “those who labored in her fields, or waited
in her halls.” No harsh tone ever jarred the harmony of her voice in
speaking to them. No dark frown ever clouded the brightness of her face
in looking upon them. And just as surely nothing but smiles and
blessings and devoted service were hers, from those affectionate
creatures.
Madame was anxious to disabuse the growing girl of her royal
imaginations; but Monsieur was resolved to preserve her proud and
beautiful illusions. And the only occasion upon which Monsieur was ever
known to give way to furious passion, was one morning when he happened
to overhear Madame inform Etoile that, so far from being a princess, she
was only a miserable little beggar, dependent upon the bounty and
caprices of her grandfather, who, far from being a king, was only a
wretched old lunatic.
Upon hearing this, Monsieur Henri burst like a storm into the room, and
striking his heavy cane upon the floor, roared forth in a voice of
thunder:
“WOMAN!! I have borne much from your ingratitude and deception! But dare
again to doubt the royal descent of your princess, and you shall pay for
your treason with your HEAD!!”
There was an awful pause.
“MADAME! do you hear?” thundered the old infuriate.
Madame _did_ hear, and turned whiter than the handkerchief that she
pressed to her bloodless lips, while her eyes dilated with terror until
a white circle flared around their black balls. But she was past the
power of speech, and could only gaze panic-stricken after the old man,
as he haughtily strode from the room.
“Oh-h-h! Mon Dieu, what a situation!” exclaimed Madame, when she had
recovered her breath—“the old beast! the old madman! the horrible old
ogre! Bon Dieu! what bewitched me to come here and put myself in his
power! Grand Dieu! and I am out of the reach of human help! Oh Ciel! if
he should take it into his crazy brain that I am plotting, he would—off
with my head in the twinkling of an eye! Don’t I know he would? And this
yellow demon of a Louis, who never gainsays him, whether he claims to be
king or pope, would do it for him! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! what is to become
of a poor woman, whom her evil fate has committed to the care of a
furious madman!”
And half-crazy with fear, Madame seized the bell-rope, and rang a peal
that presently brought Louis hurrying to the room.
“Did you ring, Madame?”
“Yes! I should think I did. It is you I want! you! Come here! Tell me
now—supposing that old madman were to take it into his precious head to
order an execution, what would you do?”
“Madame, pardon, I do not comprehend. I know no madman.”
“Diable! Suppose, then, that my brother-in-law, your master, his majesty
the King of the Isles, were to order you to cut off the head of a
fellow-servant, what should you do?”
“I should obey him, Madame.”
“You would? Well, suppose he were to command you to decapitate a member
of his own family?”
“I should do it, Madame.”
“Then you would deserve to be hanged,” cried the lady, breaking out into
a cold sweat.
Louis bowed respectfully.
“And—supposing it were even my own head?” she gasped.
“I should have to take it off, honored Madame.”
“Mon Dieu, I shall go crazy! Begone!”
Louis bowed deeply and retired.
Madame sank back in her chair, pressing her handkerchief to her
panic-stricken and ghastly face.
And from that day forth, Madame L’Orient never felt her life, for an
instant, secure from the caprices of a madman. She ceased entirely to
plot “against the peace and dignity of the king,” and only thought of
the best means of securing her personal safety until she could make her
escape from the Isle.
She wished above all things to return to Paris, where she hoped that her
“misfortunes,” as she called her _sins_, were by this time forgotten.
But to go to Paris and reside there comfortably required much money, and
though Monsieur Henri was the soul of generosity, she doubted in this
instance whether he would think proper to advance what she would
consider sufficient funds. However, she broke the matter to him, and
found Monsieur Henri very willing to aid her with money to the full
extent of her desires. But when she mentioned her wish to take her
grandchild Etoile to Paris, Monsieur Henri struck his cane upon the
ground, which was his form of taking an oath, and swore that the
“princess” should never depart from the Island, but should remain to
have her education completed at his court. At length, terrified and worn
out, Madame consented to leave the little girl behind.
A very favorable opportunity offered for her voyage. Captain Brande, in
his fine new clipper, the “Mercury,” was lying off the Headland,
shipping a cargo of tobacco, preparatory to setting sail for Havre. A
passage was engaged for Madame L’Orient.
And accordingly on a fine day in June, Madame bade adieu to her little
granddaughter, and gallantly attended by Monsieur Henri, went on board
the pretty Sylph, and sailed for the Mercury, lying off the headland. A
three hours’ run before the wind carried them alongside the clipper,
where they learned that owing to a delay in the shipment of a portion of
the lading, she would not weigh anchor until the next tide. There was
nothing for Monsieur Henri to do then, but to take Madame to the house
of Barbara Brande, to wait a few hours for the sailing of the clipper.
The old house on the Headland was more ruinous and more clumsily mended
than ever.
The black-haired, bright-eyed, bare-footed boys had grown into fine
lads.
And Barbara had ripened into a buxom brunette, with a finely developed
form, hair like the purple-black sheen of the falcon’s wing, and eyes
like his glance when flying toward his prey. A splendid creature was
this wild sea-coast maiden; and Madame, who appreciated beauty in the
physique, gazed upon her in unqualified admiration as she stood upon the
bluff to welcome them.
“Walk up, Monsieur; walk up, Madame. I am so happy to see you,” she
said, smiling and clapping her hands with all her former childish glee.
“Walk up.”
“Yes, it is all very well for you to keep on repeating ‘walk up,’ and
‘walk up,’ when one had as well attempt to ‘walk up’ the side of a
perpendicular wall,” said the old man, ruefully; and with his right hand
he planted his cane as a sort of grappling hook, and with his left arm
dragged the weight of Madame up the toilsome, steep ascent.
“Give _me_ your hand, madame,” said Barbara, laughingly stooping and
extending hers to the lady, who seized it and nearly pulled her
good-humored assistant down before gaining the top of the ascent. But
Barbara possessed a firm foot and a strong hand, and safely hoisted her
charge.
“Grand Ciel!” exclaimed Madame, panting after the performance of this
feat.
They went on to the house, ascended the rickety stairs of the portico,
and entered the large, cheerful hall. Four spacious rooms, two on each
side, opened into this hall. This story was the only habitable part of
the house. Barbara turned the latch of the first door to the left, and
admitted her guests into a large but scantily-furnished parlor, without
carpet or curtains, with only a dozen black oak chairs, a black oak
table, and an engraved portrait of Paul Jones over the mantle-piece.
This was the most comfortable and best furnished room in the house.
Barbara seated her guests, brought them refreshments, and excused
herself, and went into the adjoining hall to resume her occupation—the
packing of a last trunk for her eldest brother, John, now a fine boy of
sixteen, who was going out in the Mercury to make his first voyage.
While Barbara packed the trunk, the old man watched her through the open
door, launching at her laughing head an occasional jest.
“Well, my pretty Barbara, so John is going to sea?”
“Going to see _what_, Monsieur?” mocked the merry maiden.
“Ah! n’importe! but tell me, pretty Barbara, is the handsome young mate
going on this trip?”
This time the girl was putting forth so much strength to force an
unmanageable package into the trunk, that it threw the blood to her face
in torrents of crimson, and she remained silent. And Monsieur Henri did
not press the question.
Monsieur and Madame stayed and dined with Barbara; and in the afternoon
the old gentleman attended his sister-in-law to the Mercury, saw her
comfortably ensconced in her cabin, took leave of her there, and
returned to his barque. In going home, he touched at the Headland, and
went on shore for a moment to ask Barbara a question alone.
“Now tell me, bright Barbara” he said, “is the handsome mate going this
trip?”
“Well, he is, Monsieur. He is inseparable from my father—he is his
right-hand man, as the saying is.”
“I did not see him aboard ship.”
“He is on the main, hurrying up some hogsheads of tobacco, that are to
go on board.”
“Ah! Well, when is it to be, my pretty Barbara?”
“What, Monsieur?”
“Ah! let us have no secrets between you and me, my girl!”
“Well, Monsieur, I do not mind telling you alone,” said the young girl,
blushing brightly, while she answered frankly—“When he returns from his
present voyage, Monsieur, my father will give up the command of the
Mercury to him.”
“Who will then become his son-in-law.”
Barbara blushed, smiled, and nodded assent.
“And your brother, John?”
“He makes his first voyage now; afterward he will be mate to Julius.”
“Will he? I thought it was John’s _sister_ who was to be mate to
Julius?” said the old man slyly.
Barbara crimsoned, then laughed aloud, and admitted:
“I wish it could be so! I do so _long_ to go to sea; my heart has gone
there often.”
“After Julius?”
“Before I ever saw or heard of Julius,” said the girl, in slight
displeasure.
“Oh! I know it, I know it, my girl! You must pardon the jests of an old
man who takes a father’s interest in you. Good-night, my dear;
good-night,” said Monsieur Henri cordially shaking her hand.
“Good-night, dear Monsieur Henri.”
Monsieur De L’Ile turned to depart. The inquiries he had put to Barbara
Brande were not the idle questions of gossip. He took, as he said, a
father’s interest in the fortunes of this motherless girl, and had a
private plan of his own for forwarding the prosperity of herself and her
betrothed. He re-entered his barque, and sailed home by starlight. And
the next day, with the first tide, the Mercury weighed anchor, and set
sail for Havre.
Madame, after a prosperous voyage of five weeks, arrived at Havre, and
traveled post to Paris. She reached that capital a few weeks previous to
the arrival of her son, Victoire, with whom she thus soon had the
happiness of being reunited.
She accompanied him to England when he proceeded thither to claim his
bride as has been shown.
And when he failed in this enterprise, she recommended him to file a
petition for a hearing before the Spiritual Court of Arches, to place
the affair in the hands of a competent attorney to manage during his
absence, and then to embark for America, and take up his residence with
his uncle, the pleasant old madman, who fancied himself King of the
Isles; but who would nevertheless receive his nephew with open arms.
Madame also resolved to accompany her son and re-establish herself on
the Island, where she felt that with Victoire by her side, she should be
perfectly safe.
Upon inquiring at St. Catherine’s docks she found her old acquaintance,
Captain Brande, with his clipper the Mercury, about to sail for the
Chesapeake, and gladly availed herself of the opportunity afforded to
secure a passage for herself and son.
They embarked the same night and set sail the next morning.
And from the hour of their embarkation, Monsieur Victoire’s spirits had
sunk, as I said, until they had reached the point of despair. A
presentiment of approaching death overshadowed him. A necessity of
putting in order his earthly affairs weighed upon him. And it was under
the influence of this feeling that he pressed his friend Julius Luxmore
to accept the guardianship of his young daughter, and executed a
testament leaving her to his charge, which he placed in Mr. Luxmore’s
keeping.
“If I survive, Luxmore,” he said, “I shall find Estelle, inform her of
the existence of her child, and through that child constrain her to my
will. If I die, Luxmore, you are to take charge of Etoile, advise her
mother of her existence, but make Estelle’s eternal separation from
Montressor the only condition of the restoration of her child.”
“I promise to execute your will, and to do all else that you desire.
Nevertheless, I must assure you that your talk of death is an absurdity
that proves you to be a hypochondriac,” said Julius Luxmore.
Victoire shook his head, and dropped into a mournful silence.
And three weeks after that conversation, the Mercury was wrecked as we
have shown, and all on board were lost except Julius Luxmore, who being
rescued by Lord Montressor, and carried on board the Queen Charlotte,
and finding there no one who knew him, gave his name, for reasons of his
own, as Julius Levering.
In the strong box that had been picked up from the wreck of the Mercury,
he found the will of Victoire L’Orient, and carefully secured it.
When the Queen Charlotte had reached the port of Baltimore, and the
mournful intelligence of the wreck of the Mercury went abroad to spread
grief and terror over the land, it was also said that every soul on
board perished, except one Mr. Levering, whom no one seemed to know, and
who, in fact, had disappeared.
And oh! as the dreadful story of the loss of the Mercury, with all but
one on board, spread over the land, how many homes were darkened, how
many hearts made desolate. The awful intelligence, traveling slowly
through cities, towns, and villages, at length reached Eastville,
reached the Headland and Barbara Brande. And upon that home the news
fell like a thunderbolt, smiting it to ruin! For all was gone!—ship and
cargo and crew!—father, brother, and lover! All gone at a stroke! All
lost, except this Mr. Levering whom no one knew, but whom Lord
Montressor had risked his life to save!