PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS.
“There are swift hours in life—strong rushing hours—
That do the work of tempests in their might!
They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers
Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light
Where it but startles, like a burst of day;
For which the uprooting of an oak makes way;
They touch with fire thought’s graven page—the roll
Stamped with past years—and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!”—_Hemans._
In the meanwhile, Willful Brande walked up and down the front piazza,
musing upon the strange situation of the beautiful and friendless
maiden. The more he reflected upon the character and position of her
guardian, the more strongly he became convinced of the imminent
necessity of her being immediately delivered from his power. That Julius
Luxmore would not scruple to make use of any means for the
accomplishment of his purposes he felt assured. The question with which
his mind labored was, how to effect her escape. While intensely studying
this problem, his eye fell upon old Timon sauntering alone through the
grove. In the time that he had spent on the Island, he had especially
noticed the great devotion of this aged servant to his fair young
mistress. He walked rapidly down the steps, across the lawn, and into
the grove, where the old man lingered.
Timon took off his hat with his usual humble “Sarvint, marster.”
“Timon—come further into the shade. I want to speak to you of your young
mistress. Tell me, now, whom do you love best—Miss L’Orient, or Mr.
Luxmore?”
Timon looked up with a sly, intelligent smile, and said:
“Young marster, I sees how things be gwine on! I done took notice ob Mr.
Julius a-comin’ up from de boat; an’, likewise, ob Miss Etwill. I sees
good how she ain’t got a minit for him now; and as for me, young
marster, I is willin to do any thin’ in dis worl’ to ’mote de happiness
ob Miss Etwill.”
Willful blushed, lest his own motives should be misconstrued, even by
this most humble of judges, and he hastened to say:
“The change in your young lady’s opinion of her guardian is not without
the best reasons. And all that is necessary to promote her happiness is
to get her out of his power, and under the protection of her old friend,
Dr. Crampton and his sisters, from whose house she can appeal to the
Orphans’ Court.”
While making this confidence, Willful Brande had narrowly watched the
countenance of the old man, whose honest gaze did not once flinch, and
who now replied:
“You may trus’ me to de def wid anythin’ as is for Miss Etwill’s good.”
“I do believe you. But is there any among the women for whose fidelity
in such a matter you could answer? because, in her escape, Miss L’Orient
should have a female attendant.”
“Marster, I can be sponsious for my ole ’oman, Moll—dat is all. Not but
what all de oders is hones’ ’nough, an’ love Miss Etwill ’nough; but
den, marster, dey’s ’feared o’ Marse Julius. So, I wouldn’ like to trust
’em.”
“Can you procure a boat—let us see—between midnight and day?”
“Who, me? Better ’lieve so, young marster! I has de s’preme ’trol ob de
boats.”
“Then select a good, sound, safe boat, such as may be managed by me and
you. And, let me see—the most unfrequented part of the Island is the
bathing pool of your young lady, Crystal Creek?”
“True for you, marster; no one ever sets foot there, ’cept Miss Etwill
and her maid.”
“And the quietest time in the twenty-four hours is about two o’clock in
the morning. Now, Timon, can you have the boat in readiness on Crystal
Creek about that hour?”
“Sartain, marster!”
“How will you be able to know the time?”
“Marster, I gwine lay awake till midnight. I allers knows when it is
midnight by de crowin’ o’ de roosters; an’ sure_lie_ I can guess at an
hour or two beyant; anyways, ef I should be a minit _before_ two
o’clock, be sure I won’t be half a second _arter_.”
“Very well. Be vigilant and faithful, and you shall be richly rewarded,
old man,” replied Willful. And, after a little more immaterial
conversation, concerning the details of the plans, these justifiable
conspirators separated—the old man to cautiously commence the
preliminary arrangements of the flight, and the youth to seek the house,
and, if possible, find means to communicate the plan to Etoile. As he
turned to leave the spot, the sound of a quick, retreating step fell on
his ear. He started, listened, and looked about; but neither hearing nor
seeing any one, he concluded that the fugitive steps were those of a
calf that he perceived gamboling at a short distance; and so, with
returning confidence, he hurried onward.
He had scarcely left the grove, when the figure of a man emerged from
the cover of a thicket, and with a gesture of hate and anticipated
triumph, took a nearer path to the house, which, unperceived, he reached
before the arrival thither of the midshipman.
When Willful Brande entered, he was met by a servant, who invited him to
walk into the dining-room, where he found the supper table spread, and
the clergyman and the lawyer, together with Mr. Luxmore, apparently
waiting his arrival.
“Gentlemen, I bear to you the excuses of your fair young hostess, whom a
sudden but temporary indisposition confines to her chamber. Pray be
seated, and ‘good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both,’” said
Mr. Luxmore, as he assumed the head of the table. The board was well
spread with all the substantial delicacies of the season. A footman
served tea and coffee from the sideboard.
“So, Etoile is a prisoner, then,” thought Willful, who was not for an
instant deceived by the pretext advanced by Mr. Luxmore—“but it shall go
hard but that I find means to liberate her before morning.”
The indisposition of the young lady was no doubt afterward offered in
explanation of the delay of the wedding.
When all left the dining-room, Willful Brande went to his chamber, wrote
a few lines on a small piece of paper, rolled it into a minute parcel,
returned to the lower hall, and walked to and fro the passage and the
piazza, until he found an opportunity of slipping the little scroll into
the hands of Moll with the swiftly whispered words:—
“Give this into the hands of your young lady as soon as possible.”
With a nod of intelligence, Moll concealed the scrip.
Meantime Etoile, locked within her two rooms, “possessed her young soul
in patience.” Under Divine Providence her hopes rested upon Willful
Brande. Though no confidential word had, since the interruption of her
flight, passed between herself and the youth, she felt assured that he
would not desert her cause; that he would, upon the first opportunity,
leave the Island and report the case to her old friend Doctor Crampton,
with the request that he would appeal in her behalf to the Orphans’
Court. Meanwhile she knew the danger to which she was constantly exposed
from the unscrupulous character of her guardian. She even wondered
whether he would now permit her own servants to attend her.
Night drew on, she heard from the distance “the tinkling of silver upon
porcelain,” sounds of preparation for the evening meal. After a few
minutes she went to a side window and looked out, and saw her guardian
hurrying, with disordered steps, toward the house. With a growing
aversion to his presence, she recoiled and left her point of view. Soon
after she heard the steps of Willful Brande enter the front door, and
then all proceed to the dining-room. She closed her windows to keep out
the dampness of the evening that was falling humid and heavy. Lights had
not been brought her, and she sat down in darkness to meditate upon her
strange position.
After awhile she heard the guests leave the dining-room and proceed to
the parlor, and Julius Luxmore’s voice in conversation with the two
gentlemen. Next she heard the solitary step of Willful Brande pacing to
and fro in the passage, up and down the piazza; but at last he, too,
seemed to have left the scene, and all was silent. Half an hour passed,
and then the key was turned in the lock, and her guardian, accompanied
by old Moll, bearing a tray of refreshments and a light, entered.
Etoile, on seeing him, turned her back and walked off to the other end
of the room. Old Moll, while busily engaged in arranging refreshments
upon a little stand, cautiously endeavored to catch the eye of her young
mistress, and at last succeeded in exchanging with her a significant
glance.
Mr. Luxmore walked up and down the floor, watching her keenly, but not
attempting to address her.
Etoile bore this with patient dignity for a little while, and then said:
“Since you use your power to confine me here, sir, you should at least
show ordinary delicacy in refraining from intruding upon my privacy, at
this unseemly hour of the night.”
“I exercise the double privilege of your guardian and your betrothed
husband, young lady. And Etoile, I wished again to converse with you
to-night,” he answered, then turning to the old servant, he added:
“Moll, leave the room.”
The old woman bowed obedience, and then making feints to settle the
spoon and fork for her young mistress, as soon as Mr. Luxmore’s back was
turned upon them in his walk, she hastily slipped Willful Brande’s
rolled note into her hand and then withdrew from the room.
Mr. Luxmore now returned on his walk, drew a chair to the side of
Etoile, and then, with all the eloquence he could command, recommenced
his suit. The young girl listened with a curling lip, answered only when
direct questions were put to her, and then in a manner that must have
utterly repulsed any other than the desperate adventurer before her; and
him it nearly maddened.
“Mr. Luxmore, it is ten o’clock—an hour past my usual one of retiring.
You must see the necessity of now leaving me,” at last she said, in a
tone that compelled even the unscrupulous man before her to respect her
words.
“Very well! I have given you this last opportunity. You are obdurate,
and my course is taken!”
When he had left the room, Etoile unrolled her scrip and read:
“MISS L’ORIENT,—I advise you to retire early and try to sleep as much
as possible between this and the hour of two in the morning. At that
hour, one who watches will awaken you, and a boat will wait at the
Crystal Creek to convey you to your friends on the main land.
W. B.”
On reading the note, with its prospect of immediate escape, the heart of
Etoile leaped with gladness.
Meanwhile Willful Brande, loathing the sight of Julius Luxmore, and his
possibly mercenary guests, withdrew to his own chamber, shut the door
and seated himself by the window, to pass the time as he might in
meditation, or in gazing out upon the dark, starlit expanse of waters.
Sometime after ten o’clock, he heard the guests conducted by Mr. Luxmore
come up and enter their sleeping rooms, which were upon the same floor
with his own. He heard their _soi disant_ host, with much courtly
politeness take leave of them and go down stairs. Next he heard the
muffled motions of the guests in their final preparations for bed. Then
all was silent, until the clock struck eleven.
“Twelve—one—two! Three hours yet! how shall I live them through, here in
darkness and solitude!” exclaimed Willful to himself.
He slipped off his shoes and paced softly up and down the room for an
indefinite time. Then growing impatient of that resource, he laid
himself down upon his bed. But finding such absolute physical repose
only the more aggravating to his mental restlessness, he started up
again and resumed his pacing.
How unsupportably weary the time.
Twelve o’clock struck! Two hours yet! When _would_ they come to an end?
Surely the common reckoning of time must be all false! He had passed
years that seemed shorter than these eternities of hours. He threw
himself down once more upon his bed, and compelled himself to lie still
for awhile.
He had been lying thus for a few minutes when, in the profound silence,
he thought he heard the sound of a key turned in a lock, and a footstep
retreating toward the hall staircase. He listened. All was silent.
“It was one of our guests, perhaps,” he said to himself, and he resolved
to remain perfectly quiet, lest his motions might also attract
attention. But his anxiety increased. The clock struck one.
“But one hour more! Yet, oh! these hours! they seem eternities!” he
said, as he softly left his couch and went and sat by the window.
He looked out, but all was so dark that even to his accustomed eyes,
trees and houses, land and water, earth and sky, presented scarcely
perceptible differences in shades of blackness.
Again he threw himself upon his couch; again grew impatient of rest, and
started up to pace the room; and yet again seated himself at the window.
Finally, his guardian angel inspired him with the idea of profitably
employing a portion of the weary time in praying for the success of his
undertaking. He sunk upon his knees and prayed that he might be
delivered from all selfish purposes and serve the friendless orphan with
an eye single to her interest, and that the “Father of the fatherless”
might crown his efforts in her behalf with success. As he arose from his
knees the clock struck TWO!
He took his hat, stole softly to the door and pushed.
The door was fast locked! He was a prisoner.
For a moment the discovery of this fact, with all the consequences to be
deduced from it, almost paralyzed his energies! But the next instant he
had recovered his presence of mind and activity of resources. He
suddenly recollected a chisel that had lain for days upon his
mantle-shelf. It was but the work of a few minutes to take that
instrument, and with it force back the catch of the lock and free
himself.
He then hurried softly through the dark and silent hall and down the
stairs.
All below was mute and black as death and Erebus.
Cautiously unfastening the hall door, he paced slowly around the house
until he found himself below the window of Etoile’s boudoir. Against the
wall leaned a ladder.
“So far—well! Timon has been punctual in placing this means of escape at
hand,” he thought. And ascending a few of the rungs he called, in a soft
tone:—
“Miss L’Orient! Miss L’Orient!”—and listened. But no voice replied.
He went up further and called out louder; but without success.
Growing very anxious, he ascended to the top of the ladder, put his head
in at the window, and called eagerly— “Miss L’Orient!—Miss L’Orient!”
But all was dark, and cold, and still.
“This is no time for false delicacy. She must forgive me, since I mean
well,” said Willful, very much alarmed, as he turned himself in at the
window, and grouped his way through the boudoir, and through the
adjoining chamber, still calling on the name of Etoile. But neither
sound nor motion answered him; all was dark and silent as death and the
grave.
Etoile was gone!
Half frantic with terror, upon her account, Willful Brande hurried
through the window and down the ladder, and ran with phrenzied haste
straight on to the cabin of Timon, at the door of which he knocked,
imperatively, exclaiming:—
“Timon! Timon! are you there? What is the meaning of this?”
“Lor, gor, a-mity, Marse Willful, honey, come in, yerself! I can’t move!
I done tied hand and foot!” answered the voice of the old man.
Willful pushed the door open and entered the cabin, which was as dark as
any other place in that dark night.
“Feel on to de shelf dere for the match and de candle, honey, and light
it, and I done tell you all about it,” said Timon’s voice, from the
obscurity.
Willful found a match, and struck a light, that revealed to him the form
of poor old Timon, bound hand and foot with strong cord and thrown upon
the floor of his cabin. Without an instant’s delay he seized a sharp
knife, cut the cords, and helped the old man to his feet.
“Now then what is the meaning of all this?” inquired Willful.
“Couldn’t tell you, to save my life, Marster, only I reckon how Marse
Julius done found we-dem out, and outwitted us! ’Cause ’bout an hour
ago, he done came here and throw me down, and tie me, and leave me here
without sayin’ of a word.”
A terrible idea occurred to Willful.
“Come! follow me quickly! to the boat!” he said, and rushed forth into
the night.
The old man hurried after as fast as age and infirmity would permit.
They reached Crystal Creek just in time, dimly to discern that a boat
had left the shore, and was now some quarter of a mile out upon the bay.
“He has carried her off! He would not have done it by force, since that
must have created a disturbance which would have reached my ears! He has
carried her off by fraud. He will take her on board his chartered ship!
Quick! prepare a boat, and let us row for life! I will follow her
thither! I will board that ship! I will rescue her or die!” exclaimed
Willful, vehemently.
“It will be _die_, then, Marster; but nobody sha’n’t call old Timon a
coward in his old days,” said the poor creature, who, with the air of a
martyr, went to prepare the boat.
But Willful would not let the old man risk his safety by accompanying
him. Alone he entered the light skiff, and using both oars, propelled it
swiftly over the water. He could no longer see the other boat, but he
rowed directly for the distant ship, seen by the light at her prow, and
which he naturally supposed to be the chartered vessel of Julius
Luxmore.
His light skiff flew like a sea-bird over the surface of the bay, and
quickly touched the side of the vessel.
Without a moment’s hesitation he scaled the ladder, and stood upon the
deck, face to face with his sister, Barbara Brande, whose barque had
anchored there an hour before!
“Willful!”
“Barbara!”
They gazed upon each other in amazement for a moment, and then rushed
together in a hearty embrace.
And while hurried explanations occupy them, we must return to see what
has become of Etoile.
We said that, on reading Willful Brande’s note, with its promise of
speedy release, her heart had leaped with gladness. But to follow its
advice so far as to go to sleep, that was impossible! There was no
repose to her excited nerves that night. However, the maiden was young
and very strong, and the loss of a single night’s rest would scarcely be
felt by her fine organization. So she blew out her light, drew the bolts
across her door, closed the blinds, and sat down by the window to watch
and wait from ten till two o’clock. At eleven every one about the house
had apparently retired. At twelve it was to be supposed that all were
buried in sleep. And yet two hours remained of the very “witching time”
of night—hours, when all nature seemed wrapped in death-like repose.
Then she, every nerve acute with listening, heard her name softly
breathed beneath her window. She silently opened the shutter and
murmured lowly—“Do not speak again. I am here.” And taking her head in,
she quickly put on her bonnet and mantle, and reappeared at the window,
against which a short ladder had been leaned.
A figure muffled in a large cloak, though this was July, waited at the
foot. Lightly Etoile descended the rounds, where she was received by the
man, who bowed, and making a signal of silence, walked before. Etoile,
with a rapidly beating heart, followed. Both took the direction of the
Crystal Creek. The path was narrow, only one little pair of feet having
been accustomed to tread it. It led through the densest portion of the
thicket of woods that girdled the Island.
The guide went on in silence. Etoile followed—the palpitation of her
heart, the agitation of her whole frame, preventing her from wishing to
speak.
It was still very dark, so that even when they emerged from the thicket,
the line of beach and the expanse of water seemed only fainter shadow.
The skiff moored in the little creek looked only a blacker mark upon the
dark water. The boat was alone.
“Where are my servants? Are not Moll and Timon to go with me?” inquired
Etoile, for the first time speaking, in a hushed voice.
But her guide lifted up his finger to enjoin perfect silence, and took
her hand to assist her into the boat. A strange misgiving upon account
of the absence of her attendants seized the heart of Etoile. But as no
suspicion of treachery mingled with her feelings, and as her confidence
in Willful Brande remained unshaken, she firmly stepped into the boat
and took her seat in the stern. Her companion followed, sat down midway,
and taking up the two oars began to ply them. The boat glided swiftly
over the still dark surface of the creek out into the open Bay. The
rower silently directed its course toward the coast of Northumberland,
that lay due west. The guide continued mute, as though he had been born
dumb, and Etoile, now that she was alone upon the waters with this
reserved companion, from a feeling of bashfulness remained quiet. Her
misgivings increased. There seemed to be no necessity now that they were
so far from land for this continued silence. It grew oppressing,
alarming; she became nervous, she could bear the trial no longer, but
spoke out, in a low agitated tone—the very sound of her own voice amid
the stillness frightening her the more—inquiring—
“Mr. Brande, excuse me, please, but where are my servants? Why would
they not come?”
A low derisive laugh answered her!
“My God! I am betrayed!” cried Etoile, with a stifled shriek.
“You are _entrapped_, fair plotter!” answered the voice of Julius
Luxmore.
“Oh, misery, misery! oh, God help me in my bitter extremity!” she cried,
in a voice of thrilling agony, burying her face in her hands and
dropping her head upon her bosom.
Then followed a short pause, during which no sound was heard but the
dipping of the oars; Etoile remained half stunned with sudden despair;
Luxmore, scorned, repulsed and enraged as he had been by her, now, with
the vengeful malignity of a fiend, gloated over the sight of her
sufferings. But already the heroic young spirit was struggling to rally
from the shock and throw off the benumbing weight of despair.
“What is the meaning of this, wretch?” at length she asked, in rising
indignation, as she lifted up her fair head.
“I will tell you, my beauty!” replied Luxmore, in a tone of malignant
triumph. “The meaning of this is, that I suspected and watched your
hopeful young guest, Willful Brande; detected him in consultation with
your other ‘guide, philosopher, and friend,’ old Timon; discovered their
plan to liberate you, and determined not only to _prevent_ it, but to
avail myself of it, to get you more thoroughly into my power. So I had
old Timon quietly put in irons, turned a key privately upon Master
Willful, and offered myself beneath your window as his substitute.”
“Miscreant! why have you done this?” exclaimed the young girl
indignantly.
“Do not call ill names, and I will tell you, my dear,” replied Luxmore,
with a deliberate softness of tone that seemed to taste and chew the
sweetness of revenge,—“I will tell you, my beloved! While you remained
on the Island, you were in some measure out of my power, for there were
present a clergyman and a lawyer, to say nothing of your lover, to
protect you in an emergency. But having detected you in the plot to
leave the Island, I availed myself of the opportunity of entrapping you!
Your life and honor are now absolutely at my mercy.”
Etoile clasped her fingers convulsively and threw her eyes despairingly
over the solitary waste of sky and water, as if in hopeless appeal for
help. In after years she remembered the dark, silent, sombre scene, as
if it had been daguerreotyped forever on her brain. A single ship, dimly
seen, lay at anchor, a short distance off; a lantern burning at her
prow, threw a long line of light a cable’s length ahead, just across
their course.
Withdrawing her eyes from this dreary prospect, she turned them upon the
dark figure of her guide.
“Traitor! whither are you taking me?”
“I will inform you, my sweet! To the Northumberland coast, to a lonely
cabin of which I keep the key; which shall become the bower of my bride;
and from which, when she shall emerge, she will be but too happy to have
the state and church legalize and sanctify our union!” he answered, with
deliberate and demoniac malice.
Etoile, who “understood a _horror_ in his words, but not the words,”
started and recoiled to the furthest limits of her seat. They were now
approaching that long line of light from the lantern in the prow of the
ship at anchor that lay in their way. She cast a startling glance at the
water beneath, and then a despairing gaze at the ship beyond. Oh, that
ship! so near, yet for all purposes of help, so far!
Julius Luxmore saw both look and gesture, and laughed aloud, exclaiming
scornfully—“Ah, pretty one! even you see at length that you cannot
escape me—‘in testimony whereof, behold my hand and seal’”—and drawing
in the oars, regardless of the danger of rocking the boat he darted
toward her, and would have seized and embraced her; but with a terrible
cry, Etoile sprang into the sea, the waves of which immediately closed
over her form.
So sudden, so startling, so appalling had been this act, that Julius
Luxmore for an instant remained panic-stricken, but the next moment, he
quickly threw off his coat, and placed himself on watch for her
reappearance.
She arose above the surface of the water, at some distance from the
boat, nearer the ship, and attempted to strike out bravely for the
latter, but being embarrassed and weighed down by her clothing, she made
no progress, and even strove in vain to keep afloat. Recovering from his
first consternation, and seeing her extremity, Julius Luxmore, with a
shout of vindictive triumph, urged his boat toward her struggling form.
In this unequal race he must soon have reached and recaptured his prize;
but that the next instant a strong swimmer let himself drop from the
bulwarks of the ship, and struck out gallantly for the sinking girl,
whose form he seized, and bore victoriously to the starboard gangway
ladder, and up upon the deck of the—Ocean Queen!—for this was the ship
of Barbara Brande, which had just an hour before dropped anchor here.
Etoile, half suffocated and half exhausted, gave vent to a convulsive
sob, recovered her breath, looked up to thank her brave preserver, and
recognized Willful Brande!
“Oh, may heaven repay you! but how should _you_ be here whom I thought
detained upon the Island?” she exclaimed, in a deeply agitated voice.
“I will inform you presently, young lady; now let me present you to my
sister,” he replied, as Barbara Brande advanced from the stern sheets.
But before they met, at the instant of Willful’s speaking, a boat
touched the side of the vessel, and Julius Luxmore sprung up the ladder,
and stood upon the deck.
“Where is the girl you picked up, fellow? Deliver her to me; she is my
fugitive child!” he exclaimed, advancing toward the group.
“Save me! save me!” cried Etoile, springing for protection to the bosom
of Barbara.
“Be composed, you _are_ saved!” returned the deep, low voice of the
noble girl, as she folded one arm around the shrinking form of the
little maiden, and lifted the other with outstretched hand to bar the
nearer approach of the intruder.
“Give up that child instantly to her natural protector,” he exclaimed,
in a peremptory tone. It was as yet so dark in this quarter of the
vessel that, being still a few paces distant, he had not recognized the
persons to whom he spoke.
“Light the lanterns,” ordered Barbara, in that clear, ringing, resonant
voice that struck him as a sound familiar, yet long unheard.
And in another instant lights blazed from all parts of the vessel,
giving to full view all the persons on the deck.
And Barbara Brande and Julius Luxmore stood face to face! For a second,
the traitor quailed before her calm, clear, commanding gaze; but the
next moment, rallying his courage, with desperate assurance, he said:
“Deliver up my ward! I _insist_ upon it.”
“Insist then, by all means, since it amuses you to do so!” replied
Barbara, with cool contempt.
“_Will_ you give up my ward?” he demanded, with rage.
“Oh, certainly; how can you doubt it!” mocked Barbara.
“Answer seriously, woman!”
“It would be absurd to answer seriously, just as if you had a right to
ask!”
“Release that child, I command you, girl!” he exclaimed, furiously.
“How I should love to obey your command, especially as I _adore_
tyrants!” sneered Barbara.
Maddened with rage, he stole forward to seize the maiden.
“BACK, SIR, AT YOUR PERIL!” thundered Barbara, with eyes blazing with
defiance, and arm extended in command, as she still sustained the maiden
upon her broad bosom.
Luxmore recoiled before the “embodied storm” he had provoked.
Willful had sprung to the side of his sister, to protect both her and
her charge.
“Stand aside, Willful, my son! Edwy, call all hands up!” she ordered, in
her customary, clear, resounding tones.
And in a moment every man was on deck.
“Listen now to me, Julius Luxmore. Regain the custody of this girl
you—can—not! either by law, force, or fraud! You are free to depart in
peace, and if, in two minutes, you do not leave the ship, I will have
you put in irons, and delivered up to the nearest authority.”
“By what right, lawless woman, do you _dare_ do this?” exclaimed
Luxmore, in a voice of concentrated rage.
“That is a question that I shall know how to answer before the proper
tribunal. You have heard the conditions of your being permitted to
depart in peace. One minute has elapsed; with you I talk no more. Edwy,
bring hither the manacles,” she said, with quiet resolution.
“SHE-WOLF! you shall suffer for this!” cried Luxmore, turning white as a
leper, shaking his fist convulsively, and grinding his teeth with fury,
as he retreated down the ladder to regain his boat.
“Wrecked! wrecked! wrecked! worse than from the deck of the Mercury!
Lost! lost! lost! a girl’s dream and a man’s soul!” murmured Barbara,
unconsciously, in a tone of deep anguish, as she watched his receding
skiff. Then, burying her despair deep in her own heart, she looked upon
her trembling charge, who still nestled to her bosom, and said:
“Look up, sweet girl! your tormentor has gone! You are now quite safe.
Come below and change your dress to lie down and rest.”
It was now growing light.
Barbara took her charge down into the cabin; relieved her of her
dripping clothes; supplied their place with loose and comfortable
garments; made her drink a glass of cordial, and led her to her own
state-room to lie down and sleep. But, before seeking repose, Etoile
kneeled beside the berth and silently offered up her thanks to Heaven
for the preservation of her life. Barbara lingered until the little
maiden had laid her head upon the pillow; then kissed her, drew the
cover over her shoulders, closed the blinds, and stole softly out of the
state-room.
She crossed the cabin to an opposite door, and listened to hear if there
were any stirring within. The sound of light footsteps and low voices
met her ear. She rapped softly, and the door was opened by Susan
Copsewood.
“Your lady is awake, Susan?”
“Yes, Miss Brande, come in.”
“Yes, come in, dear girl. I have been awake for hours,” said the sweet
voice of Estelle.
Barbara entered, and sat down beside the berth where the lady reclined.
“The noise on deck, I suppose, awoke you, Madam.”
“Yes.”
“We were dropping the anchor and taking in sail. We are near the
Island,” said Barbara, who wished to prepare her guest for the next good
news.
“Near the Island at last! It is now almost sunrise! How soon shall we be
landed?” inquired Estelle, eagerly rising upon her elbow, and flinging
back the long black ringlets that had escaped her cap and fallen—a
shadowy vail around her eloquent pale face.
“You may see your daughter Etoile within an hour,” answered Barbara.
Estelle’s countenance beamed with joy.
“You may see her even sooner, if you can dress in less time!” continued
Miss Brande.
“Susan, my dressing-gown! hand me my shoes! bind up my hair! Dearest
Barbara, I shall be ready as soon as you can have the boat prepared,”
said Estelle, leaving her berth.
“There is no need to prepare the boat,” said Miss Brande, significantly.
“Oh! Barbara, what mean you?” exclaimed the lady, pausing in the
preparation of her toilet, and gazing in an agony of anxiety upon her
friend.
“Etoile is very near you.”
“Where? where?” cried Estelle, starting up and going toward the door.
“Lady, be calm and I will give you every satisfaction,” replied Barbara,
taking her hand and gently but firmly reseating her.
“One word—is she safe?”
“Safe, unmarried, unharmed, but also unprepared as yet to meet her
mother. Lady, listen. I will tell you every thing, and—within half an
hour, I will bring you to your daughter.”
“Oh, is it possible? Am I awake and in my senses? shall I see Etoile?”
“In less than half an hour! Compose yourself and hear,” said Barbara,
who then commenced and related all the circumstances of the storm; the
shipwreck; the saving of Willful; the subsequent eclaircissement between
Etoile and himself in respect to her guardian; the arrival of Luxmore;
the attempted flight of Etoile; the treachery to which she was
subjected; her abduction by Julius Luxmore; her desperate escape and
effort to swim to the ship; her rescue by Willful Brande; the coming on
board of Luxmore; and, finally, the ignominious dismissal of the latter
from the ship. She concluded by saying—
“And now, as I deemed it necessary that she should rest before having
another subject of excitement, I refrained from speaking of her mother,
and left her to repose.”
“Miss Brande! oh, let me gaze upon her in her sleep!” prayed the lady,
clasping her hands.
“I will first see if she is sleeping, Madam,” replied Barbara, leaving
the state-room. In a few minutes she returned and said—
“She is sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion—you can enter softly,
lady.”
With a wildly beating heart and suspended breath, Estelle passed into
the opposite state-room, sat down beside the berth, and gazed upon her
daughter. Beautiful was that sleeping image. One snowy arm doubled up on
the pillow, supported her blooming face; her white eyelids were lightly
closed over the violet eyes, the lashes lying delicately penciled on her
fresh rose cheeks; her golden hair flowed in glittering disorder down
ever forehead, side-face, and bosom; her other arm drooped gracefully
over the counterpane.
Estelle gazed in a sort of still rapture upon her lovely child, longing,
yet afraid, ever so lightly to touch her. At length the temptation to
lay her lips upon that seraph face grew irresistible, and light as the
fall of a winter rose-leaf on the snow, dropped the mother’s first kiss
upon the maiden’s pure brow. Soft as was the touch, Etoile felt it in
her sleep; her ruby lips parted in a smile; her eyelids half unclosed.
Estelle, fearful of surprising her, arose and quietly withdrew from the
room.
Half an hour after Barbara entered—Etoile was lying wide awake, her rosy
lips half parted, her violet eyes half vailed in a dreamy smile.
“How do you feel, my dear?” inquired Barbara.
“Ah! Miss Brande, I have had such a sweet dream! so seeming real, that I
can scarcely dispel the illusion! I was dreaming of my mother; I thought
that she was living, and that she had found me; I thought that she was
sitting by my bed, and oh! she was so beautiful! so beautiful! just what
I supposed her to be! just like the miniature I painted of her, only so
much more divinely beautiful! I dreamed she stooped and pressed the
softest kiss upon my brow, and while her lips were upon my forehead, and
her soft black ringlets touched my cheeks, I awoke and found it was all
a dream! And yet, withal, it still seems so real, that I can scarcely
believe I dreamed,” said Etoile, closing her eyes and smiling, as if to
charm back the vision.
“But suppose it was no dream, dear girl?” said Barbara, in an agitated
voice.
Etoile’s eyes flared wide open, and her color went and came.
“Suppose it was reality—suppose that your mother really did sit beside
you in your sleep, and withdrew when you awoke?”
A tumultuous rush of emotion crimsoned and paled her face, and took away
her breath as she eagerly listened.
“What if your mother had met with Madeleine in New York, had heard of
your existence and residence, and had embarked on this very vessel to
seek you at the Island?”
“Oh, it is! it is so! I have seen my mother! I have had her kiss!” cried
Etoile, shaken, as a rose-tree is shaken by a storm—“where, where, Miss
Brande, where is she now?”
“Here, my beloved child! here, my long-lost darling, here!” cried the
voice of the lady, as she opened the door and entered.
Etoile sprung up in a sitting position, and threw herself toward the
lady, who opened her arms to receive her, and murmuring—“Mother”—fell
fainting upon her bosom. No possible care could have prepared Etoile for
a meeting like this! It must necessarily have overwhelmed her.
“Joy never kills—be not uneasy,” said Barbara, as she lifted the
fainting girl from the bosom of Estelle, and replaced her on the berth.
And indeed their united efforts soon recalled the absent senses of their
charge. Then Barbara, with her eyes full of tears, withdrew and left the
mother and child together.
Who can describe that first interview, indeed for many reasons
indescribable? But who can _not_ picture to themselves, the first
tumultuous emotion; the strange, dreamy joy; the first incoherent
conversation; the sudden plunge into the past history of each; the
breathless questions and answers; the impulsive embraces; the long,
silent pauses, with the form of the maiden pressed closely within the
arms of the mother; and at last the calmer hour, when this strong
emotion had subsided, and both sat quietly side by side, comparing the
story of their late lives, or rather Etoile giving up the whole of hers
to her mother’s earnest inquiries.
Like two lovely sisters they looked, the one so dark, the other so fair,
yet both alike in features, form and air, and both so surpassingly
beautiful!
The prophecy of both hearts was now fulfilled. The mother had found her
child—the child her mother! And for the time being the whole world was
forgotten.
Barbara long delayed the breakfast; but when the hour of nine arrived,
she thought that even for the good health of those two absorbed
creatures, she should call them. So going to the state-room door, she
rapped, and said—
“Breakfast awaits your leisure, lady.”
“I thank you, Miss Brande,” said the voice of Estelle who immediately
opened the door, and led her daughter to her own state-room, where Susan
Copsewood waited.
“Little shipwrecked maiden, you must wear your mother’s dress,” said the
lady, as she seated the girl on the side of the berth. Then seeing
Susan, she added—
“Etoile, this young woman is the faithful friend of whom I told you,
Susan, speak to my child.”
But poor, good Susan, was too deeply moved to speak, and only took the
hand of the maiden, raised it to her lips and burst into tears. Etoile
pressed _her_ hand and looked gratefully in her face. Then with
affectionate zeal, Susan dressed her “young lady” as she termed her
mistress’s daughter. And soon they passed out to breakfast. The table
was spread in the cabin, Barbara presided over the coffee service.
“I miss some one here—my favorite, Willful, now doubly dear to me as the
preserver of my daughter’s life. Where is he, Miss Brande?” inquired the
lady, as she took her seat at the board.
“Willful refrains from intruding, yet I know he would be happy to pay
his respects to you, Madam,” answered Barbara.
“Then pray have him called.”
Edwy arose from his place and summoned his brother.
Willful entered the cabin, bowing. The lady looked up and held out her
hand.
“Mr. Brande, all human words and thanks are poor and weak to express how
much I owe you for the protection of this child. God grant that in the
future, Willful, I may be able to prove what I now feel!” said the
mother, as her bosom heaved and her eyes overflowed.
Willful, with much grace, lifted the hand of the lady respectfully to
his lips, and said—
“Madam, I am more blessed than I ever deserved to be, in having been, in
ever so humble a degree, able to serve you, and——” he paused suddenly
and sent a swift, shy glance at Etoile. The lady followed that glance
and saw the quick blushes of both youth and maiden as their eyes met.
She saw and understood and thought—
“Is it so? Well, well, he has saved her life and honor! Let him keep the
fair promise of his youth! Let him be worthy of her, and when a proper
time comes he shall have her!”
“Sit down, Willful, and take a cup of coffee,” said his sister, to break
up an embarrassing pause. He seated himself and the breakfast went
forward.
After the morning meal was over, there was a consultation in the cabin.
“It will be necessary for you, lady, to go to the county-town to take
certain legal steps to enable you to assume the guardianship of your
daughter and her patrimony. The county-town is Eastville, which, you
know, lies back of my old home, the Headland. Therefore, if you please,
we will steer directly for the Headland.”
The lady eagerly acquiesced. And in half an hour the anchor was got up
and the ship set sail for her new destination.