THE GIRL-CAPTAIN.
“Let them be sea-captains, if they will.”
_Margaret Fuller on Woman’s Rights_
Susan commenced and related just so much of the particulars of the
shipwreck as had reached her through the public press, and through the
conversation of those persons with whom she had been thrown in company.
One important fact, however, she reserved for a separate recital—that
fact was the discovery and burial of the drowned body of Victoire
L’Orient.
Lady Montressor listened, with her head bowed upon her hand, with her
long, black ringlets falling vail-like around her beautiful pale face,
and with her full, dark eyes lowered mournfully to the ground. But that
consuming grief had long ago dried up the fountain of her tears, they
must have fallen thick and fast over the sad recital. As it was, her
lovely eyes were tearless, and her deep melodious voice calm, as she
commented on what she heard.
“It was indeed a fearful tragedy; but life is full of tragedies that
the eyes of the world see not, or the mind of the world
ignores—heart-tragedies, soul-tragedies—storms in which not ships and
cargoes, but hopes and aspirations are engulfed forever.”
“But Lord Montressor, dear lady! surely his heroism—”
“Was a portion of himself, and does not in the least surprise me, my
girl.”
“Will nothing give her pleasure? not even her lover’s heroism?” inquired
Susan of herself, as she watched the colorless, motionless face of her
mistress.
“Do not confine yourself to this room with me, my girl. Get your bonnet
and take a walk—only be discreet, keep to the back streets, and the
shady side, and do not raise your vail. Go, Susan,” said the lady,
considerate of her attendant’s welfare.
“Thank you, dear madam, but I have no desire to do so. Besides, I have
not told you all.”
“I think you have, my child: pray do not recur to the subject, my
Susan,” said the lady, wearily.
“But, mistress, dear, this event that I have to tell you, so nearly, so
vitally, concerns yourself.”
The lady mournfully, incredulously, shook her head.
“Let me tell you, madam: indeed, I have it upon my conscience to tell
you. I should have told you before, but I was afraid to divulge it
suddenly, lest I should do you an injury; and every time I approached
the subject gradually, you repelled me and repelled me. Oh, it was as if
a drowning lady had waived off, and waived off the life-boat that was
coming to save her. And besides there are some names that you will never
endure to hear uttered in your presence.”
“Susan, memory is a rack; and I—seek forgetfulness—as if that were
possible, great Heaven!”
“Mistress, may I speak?”
“Go on.”
“Monsieur Victoire L’Orient——”
“HOLD!” cried Lady Montressor, starting and then sinking back in the
corner of her chair, collapsed, cowering, shuddering, as if that name
had been a musket-shot sent through her bosom.
“IS NO MORE,” persisted Susan, following up the shrinking form of her
mistress, and speaking close to her ear—“is no more, do you hear, lady?
is dead, drowned, buried in the sea.”
Lady Montressor lifted a pale, wild, incredulous face to the speaker.
“Yes, dead, drowned, buried in the sea,” repeated the girl,
emphatically.
Lady Montressor changed neither attitude nor expression, but remained
gazing almost fiercely upon the speaker.
“In a word, madam, he was lost on the Mercury.”
“Why, so he was on the ‘Duke of Anjou,’” said the lady, in a strange,
ironical tone.
“I know; but this time, lady, he was drowned.”
“So he was before. He does not mind it, Susan: it does not affect him in
the least,” said Estelle, incredulously.
“Madam, drowning certainly disagreed with him this time.”
“I think it will be found that he is well and hearty, Susan.”
“Oh, I see you don’t believe it. But there is a full account of the
whole affair in the Baltimore American.”
“Why, so there was of the other affair in the London Times—a reliable
paper, Susan: yet you know the result.”
“Oh, my lady, but it is true now, beyond all doubt, that the wretched
man is dead. People don’t get over such _attacks_ twice—the second time
it is sure to be fatal—it was so in his case. His body was picked up by
the Queen Charlotte. Lord Montressor and Mr. Levering, the man whom Lord
Montressor saved, swore to the identity, which was also further proved,
if further proof had been necessary, by the papers found on his person,
and by the marks on his clothes. His identity was proved and recorded,
and he received Christian burial, in the presence of the whole ship’s
crew. Lord Montressor and Mr. Levering, among the others, saw his body
committed to the deep.”
While Susan spoke thus earnestly—solemnly—the ironical, insane
incredulity of the listener was lost in conviction and awe. The face of
the beautiful Estelle underwent a great and fearful change. She, so pale
before, grew still paler, grew livid, while a blue circle darkened
around her eyes; she seemed on the verge of swooning, but rallied her
powers, and clinging to the arm of her chair for support, inquired in a
husky, almost sepulchral voice:
“_Is this true?_”
“True as Gospel, dear lady! your mortal foe is dead.”
“Then may the Lord have mercy on his soul! for he greatly needed mercy,”
said Lady Montressor, solemnly.
There was a pause of some half hour, during which Lady Montressor
covered her face, and remained in deep thought and prayer, and then the
lady spoke:
“Susan, you may take the walk I advised, and while you are out go down
to the Ocean House, and see Miss Brande, and let her know that I have
fully decided on taking the lease of the Headland, and that if she will
have the documents drawn up to-day, I will immediately conclude the
business.”
Susan looked disappointed and distressed, and did not move to obey.
“Did you hear my order, Susan?”
“Yes, madam, I heard: pardon me; but, dearest lady, dearest mistress,
will not what I have just told you affect your resolution?”
“In what respect?”
“In respect of your retiring from the world to that lonely sea-coast.”
“Why should it?”
“Dearest lady, pardon me! pardon one who loves you more than her own
life, for speaking upon this subject; but remember now that you are free
forever from all possibility of annoyance from that haunting man;
remember now that happiness is within your grasp.”
“Susan, forbear!”
“Mistress, hear me! have mercy on yourself, and, above all, on _him_. Do
not go to that lone, sea-coast house; stay here and wait for him; he has
followed you across the sea, he will find you in a few days; see him,
lady; listen to him; and then do as you will. Not the most ascetic monk,
or nun, or the most puritanical pietist of any persuasion could venture
to criticise your course, it has been, through all this trying time, so
blameless. Nor could saint nor angel censure you now for receiving him.
See him, hear him, lady! Oh, would to Heaven there were some wiser one
than I am here to talk to you—some great learned divine in whom you
would have confidence. I, alas! I am unlearned in theology, and my
simple wisdom of the heart may be despised,” said Susan, almost weeping.
“You know that is not so, my child. I would trust the ‘simple wisdom’ of
your true heart as soon—aye, sooner than the opinion of the Archbishop
of York. Is not your relation to me more nearly that of friend than of
an attendant, Susan? Are you not in my confidence? Do I not often take
counsel with you, child?”
“Yes, dear lady, but—if you would only this once take the _benefit_ of
my counsel,” replied the girl with a latent dash of humor that respect
for her unhappy mistress kept subdued.
“Susan, my good and loving child,” began the lady in a mournful voice,
“I will tell you, then, why I may not see Lord Montressor. True, the
haunter of my days is dead—but _not_ dead is the dreadful memory that I
had been his—‘victim’—as good Mr. Oldfield mercifully termed it. True,
also, that the law and the church not only acquitted, but vindicated
me—not only pronounced me not guilty but positively INNOCENT; but that
does not free me from the clinging degradation of having been tried upon
a criminal charge! My peace is ruined, my fame blighted, my hopes
blasted—I am a human wreck, a walking shadow, a living death—unfit to
match with the vital glory of Charles Montressor’s future. He is a man
of brilliant genius. He is distinguished, and will be celebrated. Every
successful man has hosts of bitter, carping, envious foes—vigilant,
quick, cruel, in seizing, denouncing, and exposing any possible flaw in
his life, character, or circumstances. Shall _such_ have power to say of
Lord Montressor—‘He married the “victim” of a French conspirator’—‘His
wife was once a prisoner before Exeter Assizes.’ No, no! Oh, no!
Merciful Heaven, no!”
“But, lady! sweet mistress! hear your poor Susan, yet a little while
longer. Suppose you let his lordship have a voice in deciding this
matter, which concerns his happiness quite as much as it does yours.
Suppose you let him say to you what we know he says to himself—‘I prize
this precious hand of yours more highly than all that mankind could
possibly lavish upon me. I should consider the loss of it a heavier
calamity than the loss of the favor of the whole world’—what then?”
“Susan! Susan! sooner than join my dishonored life to his most honored
one, I would fly to the most savage extremities of the earth—yes! but
for the grace of God, sooner than that, I would leave the earth itself!”
she exclaimed with passionate earnestness.
“Lady, lady, I will say no more,” said Susan, beginning to weep—a sure
resort with her when there was nothing else to be done.
Lady Montressor dropped her brow upon her hand again, and fell into deep
thought for a few minutes, at the end of which she lifted her head and
said—
“Susan, my child, you followed a generous but too hasty impulse in
leaving home, and friends, and country, to share the fortunes of a
blighted woman like myself. I was very wrong to permit you to do it. I
should have seen this at the time, but that the very tumult and passion
of my flight swamped every other thought. But it is not yet too late to
repair the injury that has been done you.”
“My lady! good Heaven! what do you mean?” exclaimed Susan, clasping her
hands in deprecation of what she felt was coming next.
“Susan, I can send you back to England.”
“I have offended you! Oh, I have offended you! Forgive me, my lady! my
dear, dearest lady!” cried Susan, wringing her hands.
“No, you have not, my girl! my poor girl. How could you offend me,
Susan? Never did I value you more highly than at this moment, when I
talk of sending you from me, and it is for the very reason that I esteem
you so much, I wish to discharge you. I think of your future, Susan. If
you leave me and return to England, you will probably lead a cheerful,
happy life, and in good time marry happily; while, if you accompany me
to my sad retreat, what is before you but a dreary, solitary life, and
an age of old-maidenhood?”
“My lady, I haven’t seen such joy among the married as ever to envy
them, the dear knows! and, besides, I have always heard it said that a
woman’s life is in her affections, and I believe it. Now your poor
Susan’s affections centre upon you. It would break her heart to leave
you. In a word, dear lady, if you were to order her to depart, she would
for the first time in her life, disobey you, and follow you until you
gave her house-room or—in charge of the police!” said Susan, falling
into that lurking humor, that under happier circumstances would have
developed into wit. “Marry-come-up! I mean Miserabili! Am I not a sort
of protege of your ladyship? Didn’t you take me, a poor little
bare-footed girl, out of a hillside hovel, and didn’t you dress me
neatly and put me into your own Park school? and didn’t you encourage me
week by week, and month by month, and year by year, to learn? And didn’t
you take me thence into your own service, and still stimulate me to
improve my mind, and didn’t you lend me books, and even direct my
reading? And didn’t you month by month, and year by year, absorb more
and more of my life into your own, until now I have no life without you?
And do you now talk of casting me off?——Forgive me, dear lady, I have
spoken freely, I fear, also impertinently, but I have spoken _truly_. I
cannot leave you.”
Lady Montressor turned away her head to conceal the emotion that
disturbed her countenance, and after a little while she said—
“Well! well! we will talk of this another time, Susan! Meanwhile, hurry
down to the Ocean House, and bring that young woman to me; the facts
that you have imparted make it necessary to be expeditious.”
With a deep sigh Susan arose, put on her straw bonnet with the thick
green vail, drew a black silk scarf closely around her sloping
shoulders, and went quietly out upon her errand.
In two hours she returned, accompanied by Barbara Brande, young Willful,
and a lawyer, with the deed of lease.
Lady Montressor sat in her closely curtained parlor, near a corner
table, with her elbow on its top, and her head averted from what little
light there was, and resting upon her hand, her long black ringlets
falling around, and throwing into deeper shadow the features of her
beautiful face. And so she received the party.
Barbara Brande first approached, and saluting her respectfully, said
that she had brought the lawyer with the lease and her elder brother as
a witness.
Lady Montressor slightly lifted her eyelids, acknowledged the presence
of these others with a bow, and addressing Barbara, said—
“Let your attorney read the documents, Miss Brande—he need not come
nearer, I can hear his voice from where he stands. Susan, place a chair
for the gentleman—Miss Brande, sit near him, if you please.”
Barbara retreated, and instructed the lawyer to begin.
The documents were read and approved.
Then Barbara brought the articles and laid them upon the table before
the lady for her signature.
Susan dipped a pen in ink and handed it to her mistress who affixed her
name to both documents, _Le Estel_. Then the pen was passed to Barbara,
who signed hers, and next to Susan Copsewood, who attached her firm
autograph as first witness, and finally to young Willful Brande, who
wrote his name as second witness. The articles were then delivered, Lady
Montressor receiving one copy and Barbara Brande the other. The payment
for the first year was then tendered in advance, but Barbara preferred
that the funds should be devoted to the repairs of the house, and that
matter being amicably arranged, the business was completed. The lawyer
arose to take his leave, and was permitted to do so; but when Barbara
and her brother would have departed, Lady Montressor made a sign
desiring them to remain for a few moments.
Barbara returned and took the chair that had been placed for her
accommodation by Susan.
Willful seated himself modestly at some distance.
“You were a sufferer by the wreck of the unfortunate Mercury?” said Lady
Montressor, in a voice of deep commiseration.
“Madam, she was my father’s vessel; when she went down I lost—my father,
my brother, and my betrothed,—all, all except these two boys, for whom I
live.”
“Brave girl, that you live for them!”
“Ah, Madam, you know then, that sometimes, in this world of ours, it
requires more courage to live than to die.”
Lady Montressor essayed to speak, but only bowed; and after a short
pause, slightly changed the subject, by saying:
“But, Miss Brande, is not the career you have chosen a strange, trying
life for a woman—especially a young and handsome woman?”
“Not when her name is Barbara Brande—not when she has been brought up on
the sea and loves it—not when she is strong and courageous—not when
fate, by striking her one stunning blow, has made her insensible to
personal danger—not when a storm of grief has rendered her, by the
strength of despair, fit to cope with all other storms—not when she has
two brothers to establish in life, who, like all of their race, herself
included, perhaps, are fit for nothing but the sea,” said Barbara,
earnestly.
“Pray, forgive my interference; it is the interest with which you have
inspired me, Miss Brande, that urges me to speak; but would it not be
better to place your brothers, since they must learn navigation and
seamanship, with some merchant captain in whom you have confidence, and
then seek, for yourself, some more feminine occupation or interest on
shore?”
“Madam, _no_, I cannot leave my boys, nor let them leave me—particularly
for the sea. Besides, my life is not the life of other women: calamities
like mine can never be forgotten.”
“Do not say so; you are young yet; at your age, _all_ misfortunes may be
outlived and forgotten—_except guilt or disgrace_,” added the lady, in a
thrilling, passionate, solemn voice.
“Neither the one nor the other has ever approached our poor household,
honored Madam; and never shall, while Barbara Brande holds authority
over it.”
“You speak with great assurance, young woman. Know that it is not
_always_ in human power to ward off those heaviest of human ills.”
“I speak, dear Madam, with a faith in the Divine protection, as far from
presumption, on the one hand, as it is from doubt, on the other. The
Lord prospers faithful endeavor. It is to ward off temptation from them,
that I choose to watch over my brothers. There is no human guardian like
an elder sister, excepting, only, a mother.”
“A mother,” repeated Lady Montressor, sadly and thoughtfully, recurring,
perhaps, to the fine London belle, who had shuffled off her maternal
cares and responsibilities upon a worthless French nurse and an
unprincipled French governess; and whose dereliction from duty had been
the origin of all her daughter’s calamities.
“I lost _mine_ at a very early age, yet, ever since, have I been the
mother of my young brothers; and if ever I grow impatient of their
boyish ways, I have only to remember they are my dear mother’s orphan
children, to bear with them cheerfully. The calling that I have chosen,
for their sakes as well as my own, is not less befitting a woman than
that of the stage, the counter, the bar, or any of the hundred ways by
which poor women earn their bread, or support their families. That it
requires more courage and firmness, surely does not render it more unfit
for woman: no woman will say that.”
“No, no; it surely does not.”
“I would rather,” said Barbara, “work a ship through the fiercest
tempest that ever a ship _survived_, than stand before the footlights of
a stage, face a mixed audience, and act out a part in a play, during a
whole evening—as I find even cultivated women sometimes do in this city
of yours. Why, I hear the old sea-captains, down at the Ocean House,
criticising their personal points. My chosen life may be unfeminine, but
it will not expose me to indignities,” said Barbara.
“I have no more to say. We will rest the argument,” said Lady
Montressor.
Barbara arose to take leave.
“Stay, Miss Brande, if you please. I did not call you back for a
fruitless talk. I understood you to say that your vessel would be your
future home?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Will it be your _only_ one? Forgive the question, and answer it frankly
as it is asked.”
“It will.”
“Then, Miss Brande, permit me—I know how deep the attachment one feels
to her native home; I know how strong yours must be to the Headland.
Myself and maid will take up but little room in that large house;
therefore, when you return from your voyage, come there as heretofore;
your two old servants will still be there to serve you; come with your
brothers, and make it your home as before.”
“Madam, you are very good. Your most generous offer has taken me by
surprise; and well as I should like to accept it, I am not sure that it
would be right for us to profit by your extraordinary kindness,” said
Barbara, with emotion.
“I do beseech you, my dear girl, not to hesitate, not to entertain the
least scruple upon this subject. I assure you that your return to the
Headland will be a personal satisfaction.”
“Again I thank you from the depths of my heart, lady; but I cannot gain
my own consent at once to take advantage of your kind offer. It would
seem too selfish and grasping on my part.”
“Take time, then, my dear girl; but remember this the while, that at
_all_ times the sight of your sail near the Headland, or your face
within its doors, can bring nothing but pleasure to its lessee.”
“I thank you earnestly, dear lady; and I promise you that whenever I
return from a voyage, whether I spend much time with you or not, my sail
shall be seen off the Headland, and my face within your doors,” said
Barbara, gratefully, and once more she had made a move to go.
“Stay yet a moment. I wish to depart immediately for that house.”
“Before it is repaired, Madam?”
“Yes—before it is repaired. If it were barely habitable for you and your
brothers, it is also habitable for me; and I can superintend the repairs
on the spot. I suppose workmen can be found in the neighborhood?”
“There is _no_ neighborhood, dear lady; but workmen can be had from the
village of Eastville.”
“Very well—that will answer my purpose. Now tell me, Miss Brande, do you
know of any vessel about to sail that could take us there?”
“The Sea Mew will sail to-morrow, with the first tide, for Havana. They
have accommodations for passengers, but no passengers, I think. She is a
good ship. If you were ready to sail in her, Captain Brewster could put
you on shore at the Headland.”
“I will go, if I can get a berth. Miss Brande, could you do me the great
favor of letting your brother ascertain whether I can get one?”
“I have not the least doubt that you can secure a berth; but I will
assure myself as to the fact from Captain Brewster himself, who boards
at the Ocean House; and I will send Willful to let you know.”
“I thank you very much.”
“There is one thing I should tell you—two things, indeed: first, it is
necessary that you should take a supply of provisions down with you, as
there is no store nearer to the Headland than Eastville—secondly, that
if you go at all, you should go on board _to-night_.”
“I thank you for your careful instructions, Miss Brande, and shall
endeavor to follow them.”
“I will now take leave of you, lady, as no time should be lost in seeing
Captain Brewster and securing a berth. Good-bye, Madam.”
“Good-bye, for the present. If I go, I shall see you again this evening;
if I do not go, I shall see you frequently during our stay.”
“And if it should so happen that you should not obtain a passage in the
Sea Mew, Madam, the Petrel will sail in a week, and I should be very
glad to have you, and could make you passably comfortable in my cabin.”
“I thank you, Miss Brande; and indeed, but for the great haste I am in,
I should much prefer to go with you. By the way, shall you stop at the
Headland on your way down the Bay?”
“In any case, _yes_, Madam, I shall be obliged to do so.”
“Then if I am there in advance of you, I shall be happy to receive you.”
“I thank you, Madam—now, indeed, I must hasten away. Good-day, Madam.”
“Good-day, Miss Brande.”
And declining Susan’s attendance, Barbara and her brother retired.
“Now, Susan, we must have all things in readiness, in case, as I expect,
we shall be able to obtain a passage on the Sea Mew. Pack up my trunks
at once, girl, and afterward we can attend to those out-door matters.”
Susan obeyed, and the afternoon was so well spent in preparation, that
when at sunset Willful Brande presented himself with the information
that the lady and her attendant could have a berth in the Sea Mew,
coupled with a request that they would come on board that night, because
the vessel was to sail with the first tide in the morning, he found them
in readiness to depart.
Willful Brande, by his sister’s directions, offered his services to
assist, called a carriage, helped the travelers into it, and after
seeing them off, remained behind to load and bring the dray with their
baggage.
Barbara met her new friend on the wharf, and accompanied her on board
the Sea Mew.
They found the skipper, a bluff, hearty, gallant old sailor, waiting on
the deck. He received his lady passenger with studied politeness, and
handed her down into a comfortable cabin. And Barbara having seen the
lady and her attendant fairly installed, took leave of them with the
promise to stop at the Headland on her way down the Bay. In another
hour, Willful Brande arrived with the dray containing the luggage, which
was conveyed on board and stowed away.
And the next morning, at sunrise, the Sea Mew, having on board Lady
Montressor and her maid, sailed for Havana.
The wind was fresh and fair, the weather fine, the water scenery grand,
the whole circumstances animating, as holding out the prospect of a
quick and pleasant voyage.
The lady and her attendant were accommodated with a state-room in the
captain’s cabin; that state-room had, through the care of Barbara, been
neatly arranged—the berths covered with white counterpanes, and the
window hung with a white muslin curtain. The cabin, through the courtesy
of Captain Brewster, was given up almost exclusively to the use of his
passengers.
But the sad Estelle passed the most of her time, both by day and by
night, in sitting by the window of her state-room, looking out upon the
heaving sea.
It was on the ninth day of their passage down the Bay, and just at
sunset, that Captain Brewster came into the cabin and informed the lady
that they were approaching Brande’s Headland.
Estelle put on her bonnet and mantle, and followed by Susan, went up on
deck, and looked out for her future home.
And there, a mile to the right, before them loomed the dark and dreary
Headland, crowned with its ancient trees and half-ruined house.
Their baggage was already in the boat that was waiting to take them to
the shore.
The captain assisted the lady and her maid to descend, and followed them
into it, the oarsmen plied their oars, and in twenty minutes they
reached the shore.
The captain handed his passengers to the beach, ordered the baggage
taken out, and finally came up to the lady, expressed his regret at her
departure, bade her adieu, and re-entered his boat which was rowed
rapidly back to the ship.
And, Estelle, and her maid, were left standing alone in the twilight on
the beach.