THE PASSAGE OF YEARS.
“On! on! our moments hurry by
Like shadows of a passing cloud.”—_Bowring._
Five years have elapsed since the events recorded in our last chapter,
and six since the fatal incident with which this story opened.
Sir Parke and Lady Morelle, after having used every means in their power
for the recovery of their daughter, gave up the search in despair, and
retired to Hyde Hall, where, year after year, they lived in a sort of
hopeless watching for some one circumstance to arise that might guide
them to a knowledge of her home.
Lord Montressor, after long and fruitless efforts to discover the
retreat of his lost love, unable to endure life amid scenes so
associated with vain hopes and memories of Estelle, had accepted service
under the Crown and represented his sovereign at one of the highest
continental courts.
Still young, eminently handsome, accomplished and graceful, endowed with
great wealth, high rank and the distinguished favor of his sovereign, he
moved, “the cynosure of neighboring eyes,” among the youthful,
beautiful, and gifted of his own and other countries. But no second love
displaced his lost Estelle, no transient fancy for a single instant
disputed her home in his heart. Her memory was dearer to his soul, than
the most beautiful woman’s presence; the faint hope of some day finding
her, was sweeter than the highest aspirations of his worldly ambition.
Her idea filled his whole heart, from which it was never for an instant
absent. He loved her above all created beings, with a pure, passionate,
undying love—with a longing, hoping, praying love. He understood and
honored the motives of her self-sacrifice. And be sure, that if ever he
shall find her, he will hasten to lay at her feet an unchanged heart.
A year previous to the time at which we resume the thread of our story,
Lord Montressor, by the death of a distant relative, had succeeded to
the title and estates of the Earldom of Eagletower. And six months after
this new accession of dignity his lordship had been ordered by the
government upon a secret and most important diplomatic mission to the
city of Washington. To vail the political aspect of his voyage, as well
as to form a pleasant party, Lord Eagletower (as we must now call him),
had invited Sir Parke and Lady Morelle and Lord Dazzleright to accompany
him to the United States. The baronet and his lady, weary of Hyde Hall,
needing a change, and vaguely hoping to hear of their daughter in the
country in which she had been last seen, accepted the invitation. Lord
Dazzleright, who had never visited America, was glad to avail himself of
the present opportunity of doing so in the company of his friends. Thus
it was in May, 184-, five years from the time when they had lost sight
of Estelle, that the whole party sailed for the United States, where
they arrived safely in June.
But where meanwhile, was Estelle? The scenes that had known her, now
“knew her no more.” Save in the hearts of the few who loved her, her
memory seemed to have perished from the face of the earth. Yet, in the
far distant, great metropolis of the western world, the poor, the sick,
the imprisoned, the all-suffering, daily invoked blessings on the head
of a dark-robed, lovely lady, whose beautiful pale face was seldom
unvailed, save by the side of the invalid, the destitute, or the
sorrowful, and whom those who gratefully remembered her in their
prayers, called by the name of “Estel.” How or where this angel visitant
lived, not one among her proteges knew. But, day after day, and week
after week, this child of wealth, luxury and refinement might have been
seen in the squalid haunts of poverty, disease and ignorance, sitting
beside the fetid bed, breathing the sickening air, waiting upon the
often repulsive objects of illness. And this not for one month, or two,
but month after month, and year after year, for the whole lustrum during
which her friends had lost sight of her. And not in vain, for, with her,
into miserable dwellings came light, knowledge, and purity; and before
her fled ignorance, prejudice, and disease. The close room would be
thrown open to the reviving air of heaven; the heated clothing renewed;
the parched lips and burning skin of fever refreshed with coldest water;
and, above all, the fainting and despairing spirit raised and guided to
the feet of the all-merciful Physician of souls, who never yet sent a
suppliant away unhealed. And oh, how often her slender hand has been
clasped in tearful gratitude, and prayers and blessings have greeted her
coming, and followed her departure? And those who prayed for the lovely
minister of mercy, besought the compassionate Father of love to look
down in pity upon her who pitied all other sufferers, and to lift from
her palest brow that heavy cloud of strange sorrow that overshadowed it.
Such, for five years, had been the life, labors, and consolations of
Estelle.
And our favorite, Barbara Brande, the handsome Amazon, the brave
girl-captain, what of her and her boy brothers, who must have almost
reached the bourne of manhood?
Barbara was now twenty-seven years of age. Under favorable
circumstances, woman should continue to grow handsomer until her
thirtieth year. Whether the beautiful Amazon was under such auspices or
not, it is certain that at twenty-seven she was a much finer-looking
woman than she had been at twenty-two. She had continued her sea life,
and had prospered therein. The little brigantine, the Petrel, had been
exchanged for the “Ocean Queen.” Her crew was quadrupled, and each hand
had been selected with the greatest care and caution. Her brothers had
nearly reached man’s estate, and were now able to sustain her authority
in cases of exigency. Her trade had greatly increased.
In a word, Barbara Brande had but one living regret.
This was caused by the conduct of her eldest and favorite brother,
Willful. Now, do not hasten to conclude that young Willful Brande
contracted evil habits, for such a judgment would be the very antipodes
of justice.
A nobler-hearted, or more upright youth than Willful Brande never lived.
He comprehended and appreciated his brave and beautiful sister, and
thence he loved and honored her above all creatures on earth; and also,
thence he was her greatest comfort and her best beloved; her “right-hand
man,” her “gallant mate,” her “beau,” were some of the playful pet names
she had bestowed on him. Her “rudder,” her “sheet-anchor,” her
“storm-staysail,” were other earnest synonyms for her brother, Willful
Brande.
He resembled his sister. In the tall, lithe, strong and graceful figure,
in the well-turned neck and stately head, in the clean cut, noble
features; in the jet-black curling hair, and the full commanding eyes,
he seemed the very counterpart of Barbara. Had they exchanged dresses,
the one might have been taken for the other. And as this grand style of
beauty was rather masculine than feminine, it proved even more
attractive in Willful than in Barbara. Willful Brande had continued to
be his sister’s greatest pride and joy, until he approached his
sixteenth year. Then the youth conceived the ambitious idea of entering
the United States Navy, and gave his sister no peace until she had,
through an influential friend of her family—General ——, one of the
senators from her State, procured for him a midshipman’s warrant. And
Willful Brande now rejoiced in a naval uniform, and looked forward to
the time when he should wear the epaulets.
And Barbara, with Edwy for mate, still commanded the Ocean Queen.