ESTELLE’S HOME.
“She dwells amid the city:
The great humanity which beats
Its life, along the stony streets,
Like a strong, unsunned river,
In a self-made course, is ever
Rolling on, rolling on.”—_Mrs. Browning._
The time was the 15th of July. The place to which I will introduce you
was a narrow, two-storied, red brick house, in a humble but decent
alley, in one of the most crowded neighborhoods of New York city.
The street door opened immediately into a tiny parlor, furnished in the
simplest style.
The walls were covered with paper of a light-grey pattern; the floor
laid with a grave Kidderminster carpet; and the single front window
draped with plain white muslin curtains. Over the mantle-piece hung the
portrait of a very handsome man in the early prime of life. Each side of
the chimney the recesses were furnished with book-shelves, filled with
plain looking but standard volumes. On the opposite side of the room sat
a horse-hair sofa, while half a dozen reception chairs of the same
material sat around the walls. A guitar and a music-stand stood in one
corner. A plain mahogany centre-table occupied the middle of the floor.
Beside this was a large horse-hair lounging-chair.
Reclining in the chair, with her elbow resting on the table, and her
head supported by her hand, sat a beautiful woman of perhaps thirty
years of age, clothed in deep mourning. By the elegant form and graceful
attitude; by the clear cut, classic features, the delicate pallor of the
complexion, the slender-arched, jet-black eyebrows, the large, languid
dark eyes, with their sweeping length of lash, the full and
sweetly-curved lips, and the shadowy vail of falling black ringlets, we
might have recognized Estelle. Incurable sorrow was still impressed upon
her brow, occasional sighs escaped her lips. This look of suffering had
become habitual, these frequent sighs were involuntary, unconscious, yet
they helped to relieve her oppressed bosom and keep her heart from
utterly breaking.
On her lap lay a medical book that she had been studying to enable her
better to understand the case of a sick woman whom, in her rounds of
charity, she had lately discovered, and whom she attended.
And now the book lay idly open; with her elbow resting on the table, her
forehead bowed upon her palm, her dark ringlets falling low around her
lovely face, her dark eyes fixed mournfully on the floor, her mind had
gone far back into the past, and was lost in reverie.
The street door opened softly, and Susan Copsewood entered the parlor.
So deep was the reverie of Estelle, that she was unconscious of the
presence of her faithful maid. The lady did not often weep, her grief
was too deep and lasting for such ephemeral relief. Yet now tear after
tear gathered under her drooping lashes, and rolled slowly down her
cheeks.
Susan looked at her mistress, in deep sympathy, but did not immediately
address her. Isolation from all persons of her own rank in life, and
constant companionship with her mistress, had refined and elevated the
character of this faithful girl, until she had become more the friend
than the servant of Estelle. And there seemed a fitness in this
relation.
At length the lady with a deep sigh wiped away her tears, shook off her
depression, and looked up. Her first glance alighted upon Susan.
“Ah, you are come, child?”
“Yes, dear lady,” answered the girl, but her looks and tones were so
full of surprise, uneasiness, and sympathy, which she refrained in
delicacy from otherwise expressing, that her mistress, with a faint
smile, answered her mute appeal.
“It is nothing, Susan; at least, nothing new. This, you know, is the
birthday of my little child—my little child on whom I was permitted to
gaze but once, before my eyes closed in insensibility, and her’s in
death—my little child whom I never saw but once in life, but whom I have
seen a thousand times in dreams! She would have been fifteen years old
to-day, Susan. Ah, if my little child had lived, I should not to-day
have been so desolate. Yet it is a strange, sweet thought that I _have
been_ a mother?”
“Say that you are a mother, dear lady—the mother of an angel who is
fifteen years old to-day, in Heaven. A mother never, never, never can
lose her infant child, unless——”
“Unless?”
”——she loses her own soul, so that she cannot enter the company of those
who ‘are of the Kingdom of Heaven.’”
“True, true!”
“Then grieve no more to-day, dear lady.”
“I will not, Susan. Indeed, I know it is very morbid to do so; and only
on this anniversary do I shed a few tears over her memory.”
“Well, give that habit up, dear lady; and weep no more to-day, because
your child is keeping her birthday in Heaven.”
“Because my Etoile is shining among her kindred stars!”
“Your Etoile, dear madame?”
“Yes, Susan; that was her name. It was a girlish fancy of mine, before
her birth, in case she should prove a daughter, to call her Etoile,
because her family name was L’Orient, and Etoile L’Orient, you know,
Susan, by a free translation means ‘Morning Star.’ She was my
first-born, my only one, my morning star—how quickly lost to mortal eyes
in the light of the eternal day! Enough of my star, now shining among
the celestial constellations! Tell me of my poor patient, Susan, how is
she?”
“Madame, she is restless and moaning. She asks for you continually.”
“Then I must go to her immediately.”
“Do wait until the cool of the evening, dear lady; it is very hot this
afternoon.”
“No, I cannot wait while a sick one is moaning for me. Go up stairs and
bring my things.”
Susan went, and soon returned with the black lace bonnet, thick vail,
silk scarf, parasol, gloves, which was the lady’s out-door dress.
Estelle quickly arrayed herself, and attended by Susan, soon left the
house.
A walk of half a mile through one of the most thronged thoroughfares of
New York, brought them to an ancient street, into which “improvement”
had not even peeped. It was built up on either side with houses that had
once been tall, stately and aristocratic edifices, but were now old,
dilapidated and leaning dwellings, tenanted by the poorest lodgers.
Before one of the most forlorn of these—a dingy tumbling, three-storied
house, the lady and her attendant paused.
They entered the dirty door-way, passed up the hall, ascended the
stairs, turned to the right, and entered a poor but clean, cool and
shady room, where the walls were well whitewashed, and the floor well
sanded, the two front windows darkened with slat blinds, and the air
refreshed with aromatic vinegar.
On a cot near the centre of the room lay the sick woman. A clean, white
counterpane lightly covered her form. A stand, with a pitcher of
ice-water stood by her side.
The woman was a quadroon of about forty-five years of age, who had
evidently once been very handsome, but whose fine face was now worn down
by sickness, want, and care.
In a word, she was our old acquaintance, Madeleine, whom nine months of
city life, inexperience, and ill-luck had reduced to this pass. Months
previous to this, her son, Frivole, had accepted a situation as
traveling valet to a young gentleman going to Europe. And after his
departure, Madeleine, disgusted with her life as chambermaid in a large
hotel, had left her place, taken a room, and commenced business as
laundress. Sickness had overtaken her, in the midst of her labors, and
reduced her to her present condition. As yet, Estelle knew nothing of
her except her name and need. Only a week before, she had been told of
this subject of charity, had sought her out, found her in a wretched bed
in a filthy attic room, in this same house, abandoned by all, and
wasting with want and with a low fever. As her condition would not
permit her to be removed to any distance, Estelle found a vacant room on
the first floor, front, had it thoroughly scoured and whitewashed, hung
those cool, dark green slat blinds to the windows, and put in that cot,
with a spring mattress and fresh, snowy draperies. Then she had her
patient laid in a bath, washed, dressed in clean clothes, and removed to
the apartment.
And for the few days that had elapsed since her improved circumstances,
the woman had visibly amended.
The lady now drew forward a chair and seated herself beside her patient,
took up a palm-leaf fan that lay upon the counterpane, and began to fan
the panting sufferer, while she inquired in a gentle voice—
“How do you find yourself, this evening, Madeleine?”
“More comfortable, but very weak, my lady.”
“It is the very warm weather that enfeebles you, but we shall soon have
a thunder shower that will cool and purify the air, and you will grow
better.”
“On the contrary, my dear lady, I am sinking slowly but surely.”
“You should not despond, Madeleine.”
“I do not, my lady. I am sinking easily, easily, as a tired baby
dropping asleep on its mother’s bosom.”
“I am nearly sure that you will recover, and see happier days,
Madeleine,” replied the lady, hopefully.
“Oh, Madam!” said the quadroon, fixing her glittering eyes upon the face
of her benefactress. “When you look and speak so cheerfully, how the
likeness does beam out!”
“What likeness, my poor Madeleine?”
“Your likeness to my little nursling, dear lady. I never did see such a
strong likeness in all my life, although you are so dark and she was so
fair, and though you are always so grave, and she was so gay. It is as
if the same picture were copied in light upon one plate and in shadow
upon another. And then you both have the same inflexion of voice and
turn of the eyes, though hers were blue as heaven and yours are so dark.
But I grow impertinent, dear lady. Pray, forgive a poor woman’s
garrulity. I make too free, I know.”
“Oh, not so! You loved your little nursling very much then.”
“Oh, I did!—I did, dear lady!” said Madeleine, covering her face with
her hands and beginning to weep.
“Madeleine—I was told that you wished particularly to see me,” said
Estelle, with the view of distracting her grief.
“Oh, yes Madam, it was for her sweet sake I wished to see you this
afternoon. Forgive me, dear lady, for troubling you so much.”
“You do not trouble me the least in the world. You console me when you
let me see that I can do you good. Now tell me how I can serve you or
your little nursling?”
“Dear lady, I wished to pray you to write a letter for me to my
darling.”
“This afternoon, Madeleine?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“But you have too much fever to dictate it, Madeleine.”
“Ah, dear lady, never mind the fever in my veins if you can make it
convenient to write to her to-day.”
“All times are convenient to me, my poor Madeleine; but why press the
matter this afternoon, when you are so feverish? Why not wait until
to-morrow morning, when you will feel more refreshed, Madeleine?”
“Ah! how much you look like her now! But I must write to her to-day, for
this, dear lady, is her birthday.”
“Her birthday?” replied Estelle, feeling some interest but not the
slightest suspicion of the truth hidden in this coincidence.
“Yes, dear lady, it is her birthday. And as she has no mother or father
to remember it for her, I must do so.”
“Poor child, she is an orphan, then?”
“Yes, my lady, or rather worse than orphaned from her birth. But then I
always loved her as my own. She was given into my sole care in her
second summer, and never was separated from me from that time until
about nine months ago. This is the first birthday she ever remembered to
have passed away from her Maman Madeleine.”
“And how old is she now?” inquired the lady taking a kind interest in
her patient’s conversation.
“My little Etoile is fifteen years old to-day.”
“AH!!——”
With this sharp and sudden cry, Estelle sprang forward, her hands
clenched together, the blood rushing in torrents to her heart, her whole
frame shaken by an inward storm;—and then in an instant, she grew livid
and sank back half, fainting in her chair. The sudden revelation—the
shock, the truth, the joy had overwhelmed—had nearly killed her.
Susan had heard and understood—Susan sprang to her assistance, bathed
her face with the ice-water, forced her to swallow some, and held the
sponge of aromatic vinegar to her nostrils.
She said to the sick woman, who had raised up in bed and was gazing in
surprise at this scene:
“It is a sudden pain to which my mistress is subject. Do not be
afraid—it will be over soon.”
And, in fact, just then, Estelle lifting herself, put away the offered
assistance of her attendant, made a supreme effort, and though still
pale as a lily, and tremulous as an aspen, she controlled her voice
sufficiently to say in steady tones:
“That will do, Susan. Sit down.”
And when her attendant withdrew from her side, and took a seat at the
foot of the cot, Estelle turned to the invalid and quietly observed:
“I fear, my poor Madeleine, that in your weak state my sudden
indisposition must have startled your nerves. But you perceive that it
is quite over with me now, so pray be composed.”
“Dear lady, never mind me. I was only pained to see you suffer.”
“’Twas but for a moment; ’tis over now. Come, let us talk of something
else—your nursling——”
“Dear lady, do not trouble yourself about the letter now.”
“Yes, but I _prefer_ to do it,” replied Estelle, and then, anxious to
hear repeated every particular, so as to have confirmed that
intelligence that seemed too joyful to be real, she said:
“You informed me that her name was——”
“Etoile L’Orient, my lady.”
“Yes!—and her age?” demanded the mother breathlessly.
“Fifteen years to-day, Madam.”
“Yes! yes!—and you have had her in charge how long?”
“From the day when, at one year old, she was brought from France to
L’Orient Island, where I lived with my master, her uncle, Monsieur
Henri—I had charge of her until last November.”
“Where is she now?”
“On L’Orient Isle, where she has, since twelve months old, resided.”
“And her parents?”
“I never saw either of them. Her father, Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, was
lost on the Mercury. Her mother, an English lady of rank, lived with her
own family I believe.”
“And the young girl, Etoile,—did she know, had she ever been told any
thing of her parents?”
“Of her father, only that he was lost—of her mother, nothing.”
“‘Of her mother, nothing!’” repeated Estelle, in a tone of anguish.
“Yes! it _was_ bad, was it not, lady? But I was forbidden to sadden her
young heart by speaking of her lost parents. And yet the innocent little
heart was often sad enough, especially for her unknown mother; and she
used sometimes to say to me—‘Ah! Madeleine, it is so sorrowful never to
have known my mother, either living or dead. I should have loved my
mother so much, Madeleine!’ But, my lady you are weeping!”
“Ah! it is because I sympathize with your orphan nursling, Madeleine.
But go on—I think you said she was beautiful?”
“As fair as a lily, as blooming as a rosebud, and as graceful as a vine.
She has heavenly blue eyes, and a halo of golden ringlets around her
lovely face.”
“And good? above all, is she good?”
“As an angel, lady!”
“Beautiful and good! thank Heaven for that!”
“Lady, you weep, you turn pale and red, and tremble and gasp for
breath—what is all this?”
“Susan! Susan! tell her.”
“Must I, lady?” asked the girl, coming up.
“Yes! yes!”
The sick woman raised on her elbow and bent forward eagerly.
Susan took her mistress’s hand with the deepest respect and turning
toward Madeleine, said—
“My lady is the mother of Etoile L’Orient, your nursling.”
“Good Heaven!” exclaimed the quadroon, sinking back upon her pillow.
Then silence fell upon the three for a few minutes.
At length the lady said—
“Madeleine, the letter you spoke of must be written this evening; but
first, do you feel quite equal to giving me a short, succinct history of
all you know, in regard to my child?”
“Quite equal to it, my lady! And not only that, but so anxious to tell
you, that if I did not do it, I should not sleep a wink to-night.”
Estelle arose and arranged the pillows more comfortably under the head
of her patient; ordered Susan to get some jelly from the basket she
brought; fed the sick woman with a few spoonsful; made her swallow a
half glass of lemonade; bathed her face and hands in perfumed ice water;
and when she saw her perfectly refreshed, she sat down beside the bed,
and said—
“Now, if you feel able, Madeleine, commence.”
And the quadroon, beginning with the arrival of Madame L’Orient with the
yearling baby at the Island, related the whole after history of the
child, up to the time of the sudden death of Monsieur Henri De L’Ile,
the guardianship of Mr. Luxmore over the heiress, and the emancipation
and departure of herself—Madeleine and her son Frivole—from the Isle.
“And you have not heard from her since?”
“Oh yes, my lady! After Mr. Luxmore went to France, I received letters
from the sweet creature almost every month. She spoke of having written
two letters previous to that, but I had never received them!”
“And what sort of a man is this Mr. Luxmore, who is left the guardian of
my child?”
“My lady, he is about thirty-five years of age, handsome, fair,
accomplished, and seemingly amiable and upright—but——”
“Well, ‘but’ what?”
“Notwithstanding all that, I have no confidence in Mr. Julius Luxmore!”
“Why?”
“I cannot tell you, indeed, my lady, for I do not know. Yet _he_
perceived it, and for that reason banished me.”
“May not your want of confidence have been unjust?”
“Possibly, my lady; yet a circumstance has come to my knowledge, which
would seem to justify my instincts.”
“And that circumstance?” inquired Estelle, bending eagerly forward.
“In Mademoiselle Etoile’s last letter to me, dated six weeks since, she
tells me that she is to be united in marriage to Mr. Julius Luxmore, her
guardian, for that such is his will.”
“Oh, Heaven of Heavens! No, no! I shall not so lose my child! She is too
young! She is but a babe! She cannot love this man of thirty-five!”
exclaimed the lady, half rising in her strong excitement.
“I never said she loved him, Madame. Oh, in all affairs relating to
love, courtship and marriage, she is as innocent as an infant.”
“Then he _dare_ not coerce her! Isolated and helpless, though she be, he
_dare not_ coerce her!”
“My lady, he not only dare not, but he _will_ not. It is the _fortune_,
and not the hand of this child that is the object of his desire, I feel
sure; therefore, he will use no force that might afterward tend to
invalidate his claim.”
“Then since she loves him not, and since he dare not compel her, I do
not see how a marriage is to be brought about?”
“Ah my lady! I told you she was as innocent as the babe unborn of all
knowledge relating to love and marriage. She does not know that love is
necessary both to the good and happiness of marriage. She is ignorant
but that matrimony is a mere arrangement of convenience. And she
naturally takes her fate from her guardian, who is of course interested
in securing her large fortune and her beautiful person to himself. And
she, poor lamb, is even anxious that this union should take place, that
she may leave the Island and go into the world. She sees the east and
west shores of the main land, only under the strong lights of the rising
and setting sun, and so believes that all glory and delight is in what
she calls ‘the beautiful world beyond!’ It appeals that her guardian has
promised to bring her to this imaginary paradise, immediately after
their marriage.”
“I see! I see the infamous motive under this! He would give her no
freedom of choice, until she is irrevocably his own!”
“That is just what occurred to me, my lady.”
“And when, does she say, that this atrocious marriage is to be
attempted?”
“Soon after her guardian’s return from France, for he has not yet come,
or at least, I have not yet received notice of his arrival. And in fact
I have not received a letter from Etoile for nearly two months!”
“I must save my child! I must go to her immediately.”
“Oh yes, dear lady, _do_! But how will you prove to her your identity as
her mother?”
“By nature first of all! _You_ did not doubt me, although no blood of
mine runs in your veins. Still less will _she_ hesitate, who is
altogether my own.”
“But for the satisfaction of others, dear lady; though you and Etoile
may be perfectly certain of your relationship, how will you prove to
others that you are her mother, she your daughter, and so establish your
right of authority over her?”
“Thus. By documents no doubt to be found in the Island Mansion, which
will prove that Etoile is the child of Victoire L’Orient and his wife,
Estelle Morelle. And by Susan here, and a thousand others, if needful,
that I myself am that very Estelle Morelle.”
“So far, so good.”
“Now, tell me, how am I to reach this Island; for it is my intention to
hire a nurse to take care of you, and to proceed at once in search of my
child.”
“Oh, thank you, my lady, you are all goodness; but do not stop to find
me a nurse.”
“I must do as I see fit in that respect, Madeleine; that is not the
question now; but how I shall reach the Island.”
“My lady, I cannot tell. For years past no one has arrived at the Island
except Mr. Luxmore, and he came in his own schooner.”
“Then tell me at least what is the position of this Island in the Bay?”
“I cannot tell you, exactly; but it is within two or three hours’ sail
of a point called Brande’s Headland.”
“Brande’s Headland!”
“Yes, my lady! You know the place?”
“Somewhat.”
“It was always my late master’s favorite point of communication with the
shore. I believe also that there is always a sail-boat at the place,
under the charge of the negroes. And I think perhaps your quickest and
surest way of reaching the Isle would be to go to the Headland and hire
a boat from there.”
“So I believe. I now know what to do. And now, Madeleine, for the letter
that we must write.”
The requisite materials were found in the drawer of the little stand,
the top of which, when cleared, served as a writing-table.
“Dictate now, Madeleine, as you would have done had my relationship to
your nursling never become known to you.”
The quadroon looked surprised at this order; but with perfect confidence
in her patroness she obeyed.
It was just such an affectionate letter of congratulation as any nurse
might have written to her beloved child on her birthday. And in the
postscript was added, by the lady’s wish, merely these words—
“_I have news of your mother!_”
“That is sufficient; we must not overwhelm the child; we must
communicate only enough to prepare her for my coming,” said Estelle.
After the letter was sealed and duly directed, it was given in charge of
an honest lad, the son of a poor widow, living in the same house, who
was called up to carry it to the post-office.
“And be sure, my boy, to inquire if there is a letter for Madeleine
Rose,” said the sick woman, as the lad left her side.
“It has been so long since I have heard from Etoile, that I think there
_must_ be a letter in the office,” she added.
As there was much to do in a little time, the lady had her attendant
arose to take leave.
“I shall endeavor to send you a nurse this evening, Madeleine. And if
you should get a letter from Etoile, will you send the lad to No. 5 ——
Lane, and let me know?”
“Indeed I will, my lady.”
They now took leave and departed.
On reaching the street door the overcast appearance of the western sky
struck them.
“I am afraid there is going to be a dreadful storm, my lady. Look what a
black cloud!” said Susan.
“Yes! we shall have a tempest. I knew, by the state of the atmosphere,
that we must have one before long. And it is coming. But, Susan, we have
a great deal to do, and storm or calm, we must do it this afternoon; for
I propose to sail in the very first vessel that leaves this port for the
Chesapeake, even though there should be one going to-morrow morning. So,
in order to save time we must take a cab.”
And as an empty carriage was just then passing, Susan stopped, and
engaged it for the remainder of the afternoon.
When mistress and maid were seated within, the first order given was—
“To the Infirmary Intelligence Office.”
A drive of ten minutes brought them to the place, where Estelle was so
fortunate as to engage a well-recommended, middle-aged woman, who, being
paid in advance, agreed to go at once to the sick room of Madeleine.
They next drove to the nearest upholsterer, and sent a new cot,
mattress, and bedding for the accommodation of the nurse.
They then purchased all the day’s newspapers, and gave the order—
“No. 5 —— Lane.”
And in half an hour they were at home.
They were no sooner in the little parlor than Susan struck a light,
relieved her mistress of her outside garments, and carefully ensconced
her in her easy chair. Then placing a lighted lamp and the pile of
newspapers on the table beside her, she said—
“And now, my lady, while you look at the ship news, I will hurry into
the kitchen and have your tea ready in a moment.”
She hastened to the adjoining little back room, leaving her mistress
opening the papers.
Estelle turned at once to the list of vessels “to sail,” ran her eye
eagerly down the column, and then exclaimed, reading aloud—
“For Baltimore, on the 17th of July, the fast-sailing brig Ocean Queen,
Brande Master.”
“It is my old friend Barbara, whom I desire, but dread to meet! Yet she
could serve me in this cause better than another. Shall I go with her?
Let destiny decide! If I can find another vessel going to the Chesapeake
to-morrow, or the next day, that is to say at or before her time of
sailing, I will go by such an one. If I cannot, I will sail with
Barbara; for I have said that I will certainly go by the first craft
that leaves.”
Then addressing herself again to the list, she went carefully down the
column. And afterward she successively consulted the ship news in all
the remaining papers, but without finding any other vessel that was to
sail for the Chesapeake for days to come.
“Indubitably I go with Barbara,” concluded the lady, as she folded up
and put away the last paper.
Susan then opened the door and said—
“Supper is served, my lady.”
Estelle went out into the little back room, and seated herself at the
neat table. But her spirits were too much hurried to permit her to do
justice to the fragrant tea and nicely-browned toast that Susan had
prepared.
Susan scarcely observed that her cookery was slighted. The storm that
had been gathering all the afternoon was now about to burst upon the
earth and sea, to the mortal peril of all, great and small, that floated
upon the one or stood upon the other. And Susan was flying about,
closing shutters, and letting down windows, for the better preservation
of their own tiny homestead. Scarcely was the last fastening secured
before there blazed forth a blinding flash of lightning, followed
instantaneously by a deafening crash of thunder, that seemed to shake
the whole heavens and earth into dissolution.
Susan, arrested half way across the floor, turned deadly pale, and
grasped the nearest chair for support.
“Come into the parlor,” said Estelle, rising from her almost untasted
meal.
They immediately went into the front room; Estelle sat down in her easy
chair; Susan, who was dreadfully afraid in storms, dropped down at her
mistress’s feet, and buried her face in her mistress’s lap.
And then for six hours, there raged one of the most terrific tempests in
the memory of the present generation. From seven, P.M., till one A.M.,
wind, hail, thunder and lightning, made night hideous with their strife.
Unprecedented desolation marked the progress of the storm on shore.
Trees were twisted off at their trunks, or torn up by the roots; groves,
gardens and growing crops were devastated. In the towns and cities, old
buildings that had stood the storms of centuries, as well as new
edifices in process of erection, were alike leveled to the ground.
Creeks and rivers, swollen to enormous size, overran their banks,
flooding the whole shore, and sweeping off vegetation, buildings,
cattle, men, women and children. The sea arose in its awful might, and
advanced upon the land, desolating many towns and villages along the
coast.
Great as was the devastation of the storm upon the land, those who were
competent to judge, prevised a far greater mischief to the ships at sea.
And those who had relatives or friends afloat, waited in extreme anxiety
to hear news of them.
The six dreadful hours were passed by Estelle and her attendant in
prayer to Heaven for all those who were exposed to the horrors of the
storm.
At one o’clock the phrenzy of the tempest began to subside as the
passion of an infuriated madman might, in sullen howls, and sometimes
returns of frantic violence. And by two o’clock, the thunder and
lightning had ceased, the sky was marbled over with troops of black,
dispersing clouds, like a disbanded army of storm fiends, and the moon
shone out, clear, bright and benignant, as some fair angel speaking
peace to the world.
Susan lifted her head from the lap of her mistress, where all this time
it had lain, and arose from her kneeling posture.
Estelle also stood up and bade her attendant prepare for retiring.
Evening prayers were said. And thanks were returned to Heaven for the
calm that had succeeded the storm. Then, unsuspicious of the great
damage that had been done by land and sea, the mistress and the maid
cheerfully sought their beds.
Estelle slept in the front room over the parlor. Susan occupied the back
room over the kitchen. The door of communication was always open between
the chambers Thus Susan, whose mind had been too thoroughly excited by
the events of the day, to admit the possibility of her composing herself
to rest, knew also that her mistress did not sleep for an instant; but
turned, and turned in her bed, and sometimes arose softly and paced the
floor. Hoping that the lady would at length lie down and sleep, and
fearing to confirm her wakefulness by addressing her, Susan refrained
from speaking or moving until some time after daybreak.
Then, seeing that her mistress opened the blinds to admit the daylight,
and proceeded to make her morning toilet, Susan quietly arose and passed
into her room.
“My dear girl, go back to bed. I did not wish to disturb you so soon
after your loss of rest. Go to sleep again,” said Estelle, as soon as
she perceived her attendant.
“As if I _could_ sleep again! Dear lady of mine, _you_ have not slept
all night! no, not for an instant. Why?” inquired the girl, with
affectionate solicitude.
Estelle turned and came up to her humble friend, laid her hand upon the
girl’s shoulder, and with her eyes, her lips, her whole eloquent
countenance beaming with a tender gladness, said—
“My Susan, many, many nights in my life have you known me to lie awake,
from eve to morn, from _sorrow_. But never, in the whole course of my
existence, Susan, have I lost but this one night’s rest from joy! Oh,
Susan, think of my not being able to sleep for joy! My Etoile! my own
child, whom I have mourned for so many years as dead! To think that she
lives! that I shall soon clasp her living form to my bosom! It grows
upon me, this sense of joy, Susan! it overpowers me! Oh, pray Heaven,
that I, who cannot sleep for gladness, may not become unable to reason
because of ecstasy!”
“God bless you and preserve you, in joy as in sorrow my lady!” prayed
her faithful attendant.
Alas! short-lived joy!
Scarcely had the words of self-congratulation left the lips of the
mistress, and been answered by those of fervent sympathy from the maid,
ere the door-bell was rung.
Susan hastened her toilet, and, wondering who it could be who came so
early in the morning, went down to open the door.
It was Jerry, the lad whom they had sent to the post-office on the
preceding evening.
“Please ma’am, will you ask Mrs. Estel to come directly to Madeleine,
who has got a letter to show you.”
“A letter from whom?”
“She told me to say from the young lady on the Island.”
“Good news, or bad?” asked Susan, breathlessly.
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Very well; run home as fast as you can, and tell Madeleine that my
mistress will be with her immediately.”
The lad obeyed, and Susan ran up stairs to inform her mistress.
“You needn’t tell me. I have heard all, Susan! Quick! my bonnet and
gloves!” exclaimed Estelle, who with trembling fingers was fastening her
black silk mantilla.
And in less than five minutes the mistress and maid set out for
Madeleine’s lodgings.
“I should have sent for you last night, but for the dreadful storm,”
said Madeleine, as the lady took a seat beside her bed.
“But the letter, Madeleine? the letter! What news? How is she?”
“Well, Madam, but——”
“But what? Speak!”
“It seems that another letter has miscarried, since she says that she
wrote me about six weeks since, advising me of the fact of her
guardian’s return.”
“He has returned!”
“Yes, Madam—and—lady, it appears from her letter, dated ten days ago,
that her guardian had gone to Baltimore to make preparations for their
marriage, but was expected home yesterday, which was to have been their
wedding-day.”
“Oh, no, no, no! Great Heaven, no! It cannot be that this innocent girl
should be left to fall a sacrifice to that creature’s cupidity! Surely
something has intervened to save her! The steamboats have brought us
news of many vessels becalmed at sea, in the great stillness of the
atmosphere that prevailed until the storm of last night. He may not yet
have been able to reach the Island!” exclaimed Estelle, vehemently,
catching at the merest possibilities, as the drowning catch at sea-weed.
“Or—he may never reach it. He may have been wrecked. Many vessels must
have been lost in the tempest,” suggested Madeleine.
“No, Heaven forbid! But the great calm that preceded the storm must have
stopped him. In the tempest of last night, he had enough to do to save
his vessel: he could have made no progress. This morning something may
have happened to detain him. I shall sail to-morrow in the Ocean Queen,
the first vessel that leaves this port, for the Chesapeake. I may yet be
able to save my child.”
“Heaven grant it, madam!”
“Read the letter now—nay, give it to me, if you have no objection.”
Madeleine took the precious missive from under her pillow, and handed it
to the lady.
Eagerly Estelle opened it.
Artless, affectionate, and full of enthusiasm, was this child’s epistle.
She wrote of her approaching marriage with the most innocent frankness,
treating it as a necessary preliminary to her heart’s greatest
aspiration, to see “the beautiful world beyond.” She continued by saying
that in making the bridal tour, they should come first of all to New
York, where they should take the steamer to Liverpool, and where also
she should be so happy to rejoin her dear Maman Madeleine, whom she
intended to take with her as her attendant to Europe. She concluded with
the fondest expressions of attachment and the tenderest epithets of
endearment.
“The unsophisticated girl! Oh, Heaven grant that I may be in time to
save her!” prayed Estelle, as she folded the letter.
Meantime, Susan had been in consultation with the nurse who quickly
prepared a cup of tea and a slice of toast for the lady, who had not as
yet breakfasted.
The errand-boy, Jerry, was dispatched to call a carriage. While he was
absent, both mistress and maid partook of some slight refreshment, and
soon afterward entered the cab and drove down to the —— street wharf,
off which lay the Ocean Queen at anchor.