Left again alone, Juan's weary limbs sank once more beneath the power of
sleep; but though the frame was still, the mind refused to be at rest.
He dreamed that he was again a boy, young, innocent, and happy; but yet
all the time a consciousness of the bitter truth mocked the vain
illusion, like some dark phantom hovering over him; he felt and knew
that the dream was false, still it seemed vivid and clear like the
reality.
He thought that he lay at the feet of his fond and gentle mother, while
his proud father smiled at his youthful gambols. It was in a princely
hall, decked with all the luxury wealth can supply; other children were
there, but he was the eldest and best beloved, the inheritor of almost
boundless riches--of title and power. He had early learned his own
importance; foolish nurses had not been slow to give him the baneful
lesson; and while his parents believed him to be all their hearts could
wish, the noxious seeds were already taking root. Years rolled on; he
had gained knowledge at school, and beneath the care of his tutor, but,
as regards self-government or religious feelings, he was still less
educated than the poorest peasant on his father's broad domains. At
last the truth had burst on his father's mind. His son was passionate,
headstrong, self-willed, and, worse, deceitful. Every means of
reclaiming him had been tried in vain, and he had determined to send him
to sea under a strict captain, who promised to curb, if not to break,
his spirit, if severity could influence him.
Young Hernan stood before his father, while his mother sat overpowered
with grief. The carriage was waiting which was to convey him to
Portsmouth. He was unmoved, for filial affection had been swallowed up
by selfishness, and he fancied that he was about to lead a life of
freedom and independence. He had yet to learn what a man-of-war was
like. His mother pressed him to her heart, and his father strove to
bless him as he turned to quit the room, for he was still his son.
The carriage rolled off, and in a few hours he was on board the ship
which was to be his home and school for three long years. He learned
many a lesson, it is true, but the great one came too late for him to
profit by it. The first three years of his naval career passed by, and
many a wild act had he committed, such as had often brought him under
the censure of his superiors. That he was unreformed his father felt
too surely convinced, and he was accordingly again sent to sea.
He was no longer a boy, and the irregularities of that age had grown
into the vices of manhood. Yet among his equals he had friends, and,
knowing their value, he took care to cultivate them. The most intimate
was Edward Staunton, his superior in age by two years--one whose
generous spirit, believing that he had discovered noble qualities in his
companion, longed to win him back to virtue. Together they paced the
deck in the midnight watch, and spoke of their future prospects, till
even Hernan believed that he had resolved to amend. There are calm and
often happy moments in a sailor's life, when all the dangers of their
floating home, except the watch on deck, are wrapped in sleep; and then
many a youth pours into his attentive shipmate's ears the tale of his
love, his hopes and fears, and pictures the beauty of the girl he has
left behind--the lady of his heart, with whom he fondly fancies he shall
some day wed. Such a tale did Staunton tell; and Hernan listened
carelessly at first, but afterwards with interest, as the ardent lover,
delighting in the picture he was conjuring up, described the surpassing
beauty of his mistress.
"Then you must introduce me to your lovely Blanche, and let me judge
whether she is as fair as you paint her," said Hernan to his companion;
and Staunton, guileless himself, promised to gratify his wish.
"I shall not allow you to break your word, remember," added Hernan.
"Never fear," answered Staunton, laughing. "But see what a sudden
change has come over the sky while we have been speaking! We shall have
a reef in the topsails before many minutes are out."
It was true. When they began their watch the sky was studded with a
million stars, the dark sea was calm, and a gentle breeze filled the
sails of the noble frigate. Now wild clouds were coursing each other
across the arch of heaven, the light foam flew over the ocean, and the
ship heeled over to the rising blast.
Scarcely had he spoken, when the voice of the officer of the watch
roused his sleeping men with the order to furl the topgallant-sails
quickly, followed by that to take a reef in the topsails. Hernan's duty
had led him aloft. He was careless in keeping a firm hold. The ship
gave a sudden lurch, and he found himself struggling in the wild waters.
He could swim, but the fall had numbed his limbs, and the ship flew
past him. Despair was seizing him, when he heard the cry which arose
from the deck of "a man overboard?" echoed by a hundred voices. He was
sinking beneath the waves, when he felt a friendly hand grasping his
arm, and once more he rose to the surface of the water, and the voice of
Edward Staunton cheered him to fresh exertions. He saw, too, the bright
light of the life-buoy, which floated at a short distance only from
them. It was a fearful thing, though, to be left thus alone on that
stormy sea, for the dim outline of the frigate was scarcely visible, and
she might be unable to fetch again, while the light continued burning,
the spot where they were. For his sake, Staunton had thus risked his
life. With great exertions Staunton dragged him to the life-buoy, and
hanging on to it, they anxiously watched the approach of the frigate.
"The boat has been swamped, and we shall be left to perish miserably
here," exclaimed Hernan. "Curses on my fate!"
"No," cried Staunton; "hark, I hear the shouts of the people in the boat
pulling towards us. The frigate must have gone far to leeward before
she could be hove-to to lower one."
Again the shouts were heard, and a dark object emerged from the
obscurity which surrounded them. In a few minutes they were on board,
and scarcely was the boat hoisted in than down came the tempest with
tenfold fury, and vain would then have been any attempt to save him had
he still been struggling in the waves. He was profuse in his
professions of gratitude to Staunton, and he thought himself sincere.
The frigate returned home, her crew were paid off, and Staunton and his
friend received their promotion.
"And now, Staunton, you must keep to your word, and introduce me to your
beautiful friend, Miss Blanche D'Aubigne," said Hernan, after they had
been some time on shore, and had met by chance in London.
"Gladly," answered Edward; "I have told her all about you, and she will
be most glad to see you."
So they went together to the village where the fair girl resided; it was
at no great distance from the country-seat of Sir Hernan Daggerfeldt,
the father of Edward's friend. Staunton had won his promotion by his
own exertions; and another step, his commander's rank, was to be gained
before he could hope to make Blanche his bride. Such was the decree of
her father, who had given an unwilling consent to their union, and he
felt that he had no right to murmur at the decision. A short stay on
shore was all he could hope to enjoy, before he must again go afloat for
two or three more weary years; but she was still very young, and he
confided in her truth and love.
This Hernan knew; he was surprised and delighted when first introduced
to Miss D'Aubigne, for her beauty far surpassed his expectations. He
thought her far more lovely than any one he had ever met, when, with
artless simplicity, she received him as the friend of her betrothed.
Edward went to sea, and Hernan took up his abode at his father's seat.
Every week his visits to the village of Darlington grew more frequent,
and Blanche unsuspectingly received him with pleasure, while her father,
who knew his prospects, welcomed him cordially.
Hernan knew that Blanche looked on him as a friend of her intended
husband, and he at first thought not of inquiring into his own feelings
regarding her. Soon, however, a fierce passion sprang up in addition to
the simple admiration he at first had felt. Indeed, he scarcely
attempted to conceal it; but she was too pure-minded and unsuspecting to
perceive the existence of the feelings she had inspired.
Thus matters went on till even she could no longer deceive herself as to
Hernan's real feelings. Horrified at the discovery, she refused to see
him more, and Hernan saw that he must make a bold stroke or lose her
forever. He called falsehood and treachery to his aid. He went to her
father; he spoke of his own ardent love, of his future wealth, of the
position he could offer; then he continued to express his regret that
Edward, his friend, was unworthy of her, that he had expressed his
anxiety to break off the connection, but was unwilling to wound her
feelings by doing so abruptly, and therefore intended to write, when he
had reached his station, to free her from her engagement. Mr D'Aubigne
listened, and believed what he wished to be true; but Blanche was long
incredulous, and refused to credit the tale of her intended's
disloyalty. At last, however, the cruel letter came; it was enclosed in
one to Hernan. It spoke of the impolicy of early engagements, of the
misery of married poverty, of the difficulty of governing the
affections, and of the danger of wedding when love has begun to decay.
Hernan watched the effect of the letter, and congratulated himself on
its success; still Blanche disbelieved her senses, but dared not utter
her suspicions. Hernan knew, too, that it was so, yet he trusted in the
versatility of his talents to bring his schemes to a successful issue.
Her father's influence was exerted in his favour, and Blanche was told
that she must discard her former lover from her heart. She had loved
too truly, however, to obey the command, and she determined not to wed
another till she had heard from his own lips that he was indeed changed.
Hernan Daggerfeldt knelt at the feet of Blanche D'Aubigne. He had
seized her hand, and was pressing it with rapture to his lips, while she
in vain endeavoured to withdraw it.
"Rise, sir, rise," she said; "you wrong me--you wrong him who is away--
your friend, the preserver of your life. While he lives, I am his, and
his alone!"
"I do not wrong him," he answered. "His nature is fickle, and if he no
longer loves you, will not woman's pride teach you to forget him?"
"I know not that he no longer loves me," she replied.
"Did not his letter convince you?" he asked.
"That letter! No, sir," she replied, rising proudly from her seat, and
a smile of unwonted bitterness curling her lip. "That letter was a
forgery."
"On my sacred word, on my soul, it was not!" he cried, vehemently. "It
is you who wrong me and my devoted love. Be mine, and let me enjoy the
only heaven I seek. If I speak not the truth, may the Powers above
strike me this moment dead at your feet?" Blanche shuddered at his
words. At that instant a dark form seemed to rise up between them, and
to gaze with threatening aspect at Hernan, while it shielded Blanche
from him. Soon it assumed the form of Edward Staunton, and beckoning
Hernan to follow, slowly receded from the room. Even the deceiver
trembled, and daring not to disobey, followed the phantom.
It led him through dark chambers, beneath roaring waterfalls, along
dizzy heights, whence the sea-birds could scarce be seen in the depths
below, on the wild shore, where the fierce waves dashed with terrific
fury, while the tempest raged, and the lightnings flashed around his
head, and then with a derisive shriek which sounded high above the
furious turmoil, disappeared amid the boiling ocean.
"Such, traitor, shall be thy fate!" were the words it spoke.
Again Hernan dreamed that Blanche had promised to be his,--a prize
bought at the cost of further perjury. Edward for long had been unheard
of; he was still a rover in far-off climes. Mr D'Aubigne was satisfied
and rejoiced at the thoughts of finding a wealthy husband for his
daughter. Hernan was with his intended bride when a messenger arrived,
breathless with haste, to summon him to the deathbed of his parent.
He hurried thither to listen to a tale the old man falteringly whispered
into his ear; it was enough to freeze up the current in his veins. A
stigma was on his birth, and instant precautions were necessary, or the
fatal secret would be discovered which would consign him to poverty and
disgrace.
"You are my child," said the proud baronet, "yet for long my wife had
borne me none; at length one came into the world and died. You took its
place, and my wife believed you to be her own offspring. The change was
ill-managed, and the deceit is discovered by one who is my enemy, and
will be yours. I fancied that no one knew it, till some years ago he
came and convinced me that he was aware of the truth. He then told me
that should you be worthy to succeed to my rank and fortune, the secret
should die with him; but if not, my first lawful child, whom he insisted
on educating under his own inspection, should be declared to have his
rights. Though the terms seemed hard, I was obliged to yield to his
demands, and have ever since been his slave. By his orders you were
sent to sea, and will be compelled shortly again to go; and by his
orders I have made you acquainted with the dreadful tale I have now told
you. I know him well, and you too must become his slave. He will
probably insist on your again going to sea, and you must obey him, or
rue the consequences."
Scarcely stopping to close his father's eyes, who died shortly after
this disclosure, Hernan hurried off to endeavour to propitiate the
arbitrator of his destiny. The old man was inflexible. He insisted on
his forthwith returning to sea, and refused to sanction his marriage
with Blanche. Hernan had good cause to suspect that his character was
seen through; he dared not disobey. His appointment to the frigate soon
arrived, and framing an excuse to Blanche, he prepared for his
departure. Blanche received the account without any regret, for though
she was prepared to obey her father, she did not love Hernan, as he well
knew. Her heart was still with one whom she had been told was false to
her. The frigate on board which Hernan Daggerfeldt was the junior
lieutenant sailed for the coast of South America. Hernan felt that he
was no favourite with his brother-officers; his fierce temper and
overbearing manner was one cause, while his constant scoffs at religion
and honour was another. When off Rio, they fell in with a frigate
carrying despatches to England. It was a dead calm, and a boat from her
was sent on board them to learn intelligence from home. Two officers
were in the boat; one was Staunton. Hernan in vain endeavoured to avoid
him. Staunton had a thousand questions to ask, which Hernan might be
able to answer respecting his beloved Blanche. Was she well? Had she
received his letters?--none of hers had reached him. Hernan made the
most plausible answers he could invent. They spoke in the presence of
two of his brother-officers, and one of them, an old friend of
Staunton's, knew the truth. Accordingly, drawing him aside, he told him
at once that he believed Hernan had been speaking falsehoods.
Staunton's indignation knew no bounds, and he taxed Hernan with his
duplicity and falsehood, though the sanctity of the quarter-deck
prevented him from proceeding to extremities. Hernan defended himself
from the accusation, though he felt that he was discovered, and he
determined to revenge himself on the man who had unmasked him to
Staunton. He, however, bided his time; but he suspected that by some
means or other more of his secrets might be known to his shipmate.
The frigate had been for some time on the coast of America, when,
receiving some damage in a heavy gale, she put into the harbour of--to
refit. She lay there for some time, and the officers were constantly,
when duty allowed, on shore. It was a dark night, when Hernan,
accompanied by young Selwyn, the friend of Staunton, was returning,
after an excursion into the country, on board. They had left their
horses at the town, and were walking along the beach on foot; young
Selwyn thoughtlessly alluded to Staunton and Blanche D'Aubigne, and
while he spoke the spirit of a demon entered into Hernan Daggerfeldt's
heart. A sharp cry awoke the stillness of night--a deed had been done
no power on earth could recall. He fled he knew not whither; vipers
seemed twining round his heart; burning coals were raining on his head,
and while heavy weights were clogging his limbs, a thousand fierce
bloodhounds urged him to fly. He awoke, the perspiration standing in
large drops on his brow, while he gasped for breath; yet there he still
lay in the loft where Juanetta had concealed him. Was all that had
occurred an empty dream, or was it the re-acting of a dreadful reality?