c112CHAPTER XII.VISIT OF WINGENUND TO MOOSHANNE.—HE REJOINS WAR–EAGLE, AND THEY RETURN TO THEIR BAND IN THE FAR WEST.—M. PERROT MAKES AN UNSUCCESSFUL ATTACK ON THE HEART OF A YOUNG LADY.We must now return to Mooshanne, where Colonel Brandon received Wingenund very kindly; and within half an hour of the arrival of the party, they were all seated at his hospitable board, whereon smoked venison steaks, various kinds of fowls, a substantial ham, cakes of rice, and Indian maize. On the side–table were cream, wild honey, cheese, and preserved fruits, all these delicacies being admirably served under the superintendence of Aunt Mary, who was delighted with Wingenund, praised the extreme beauty of his eyes and features, telling the Colonel, in a whisper, that if she had been thirty–five years younger, she should have been afraid of losing her heart! The youth was indeed the hero of the day: all were grateful to him for his gallant preservation of Reginald’s life, and all strove with equal anxiety to make him forget that he was among strangers. Nor was the task difficult; for though he had only the use of one hand, it was surprising to see the tact and self–possession with which he conducted himself, the temperate quietness with which he ate and drank, and the ease with which he handled some of the implements at table, which he probably saw for the first time. Baptiste was a privileged person in the Colonel’s house, and was allowed to dine as he pleased, either with its master, or with Perrot and the other servants. On this occasion, he was present in the dining–room, and seemed to take a pleasure in drawing out the young Delaware, and in making him talk on subjects which he knew would be interesting to the rest of the party.Wingenund was quiet and reserved in his replies, except when a question was put to him by Lucy, to whom he gave his answers with the greatestnaïveté, telling her more than once, that she reminded him of his sister Prairie–bird, but that the latter was taller, and had darker hair. Whilst addressing her, he kept his large speaking eyes so riveted upon Lucy’s countenance, that she cast her own to the ground, almost blushing at the boy’s earnest and admiring gaze. To relieve herself from embarrassment, she again inquired about this mysterious sister, saying, “Tell me, Wingenund, has she taught you to read, as well as to speak our tongue?”“No,” said the youth; “Prairie–bird talks with the Great Spirit, and with paper books, and so does the Black Father; but Wingenund cannot understand them,—he is only a poor Indian.”Here Reginald, whose curiosity was much excited, inquired, “Does the Prairie–bird look kindly on the young chiefs of the tribe?—Will she be the wife of a chief?”There was something both of surprise and scorn in Wingenund’s countenance, as he replied, “Prairie–bird is kind to all—the young chiefs find wives among the daughters of the Delawares;—but the antelope mates not with the moose, though they feed on the same Prairie. The Great Spirit knows where the Prairie–bird was born! but her race is unknown to the wise men among the Tortoises.”Reginald and his sister were equally at a loss to understand his meaning; both looked inquiringly at the guide, who was rubbing his ear, as if rather puzzled by the young Delaware’s answer. At length he said, “Why, Miss Lucy, you see, much of what the lad says is as plain to me as the sight on my rifle: for the tribes of the Lenapé are as well known to me as thetotemsof the Oggibeways. The Great nation is divided into three tribes:—the Minsi, or the Wolf–tribe (sometimes called also Puncsit, or round–foot); the Unalacticos, or the Turkey–tribe; and theUnamis, or the Tortoise–tribe. The last are considered the principal and most ancient; and as Wingenund’s family are of this band, he spoke just now of their wise men. But who, or what kin’ o’ crittur this Prairie–bird can be, would puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to tell, let alone a poor hunter who knows little out of the line of his trade.”“Then, Baptiste,” said Lucy, smiling; “your trade is a pretty extensive one, for I think you have more knowledge in your head on most subjects than half the lawyers and clerks in the territory.”“There it is, Miss Lucy; you’re always a givin’ me a little dose of flattery, just as I give my patches a bit of grease to make the Doctor swallow his lead pills. You ladies think we’re all alike,—young sparks, and tough old chaps like me,—if you do but dip your fingers into the honey–pot, you know we shall lick them as soon as your backs are turned! But it is getting late,” he added, rising from his seat; “and I have much to say to this youth, who is already tired; with your leave, Miss, I will retire with him, and see that he has a comfortable sleeping quarter, and that he wants for nothing.”“Pray do so,” said Lucy; “let him be treated as if he were one of our own family. I am sure, dear papa, such would be your wish,” she added, turning to her father.“It is indeed, my child,” said the Colonel. “Wingenund, again I beg you to receive a father’s best thanks for your brave defence of his son.”“It was nothing,” replied the boy modestly. “You are all good, too good to Wingenund; when he gets to the Far Prairie, he will tell the Prairie–bird and the Black Father to speak to the Great Spirit, that He may smile on my white father and on my brother; and,” he added, slowly raising his dark eloquent eyes to Lucy’s face, “that he may send down pleasant sunshine and refreshing dew on the Lily of Mooshanne.” So saying, he turned and left the room, accompanied by the guide.“Well,” exclaimed the Colonel, as the youth disappeared, “they may call that lad a savage; but his feelings, ay, and his manners too, would put to shame those of many who think themselves fine gentlemen.”“He is, indeed, a noble young fellow,” said Reginald, “and worthy to be the relative and pupil of my Indian brother. I would that you had seenhim, father: you are in general rather sceptical as to the qualities of the red–skins. I think the War–Eagle would surprise you!”“Indeed, Reginald,” said the Colonel, “I have seen among them so much cruelty, cunning, and drunkenness, that the romantic notions which I once entertained respecting them arecompletely dissipated. Nevertheless, I confess that many of their worst faults have arisen from their commerce with the whites; and they still retain some virtues which are extremely rare among us.”“To which do you allude?” inquired Reginald.“More especially, to patience under suffering, a padlocked mouth when entrusted with a secret, and unshaken fidelity in friendship.”“These are indeed high and valuable qualities,” replied Reginald. “Moreover, it strikes me that in one principal feature of character the Indian is superior to us; he acts up to his creed. That creed may be entirely based on error; it may teach him to prefer revenge to mercy, theft to industry, violence to right; but such as he has learnt it from his fathers, he acts up to it more firmly and consistently than we do, ‘who know the right and still the wrong pursue.’”“Your observation is just,” replied his father; “they are benighted, and do many of the deeds of darkness. What shall we say of those who do them under the light of a noonday sun?”“And yet,” said Lucy, “this Wingenund seems half a Christian, and more than half a gentleman, either by nature, or by the instructions of the strange being he calls the Prairie–bird!”“Upon my word, Lucy,” said her brother, with a malicious smile, “I thought, while the lad was speaking of his sister on the Prairie, his eyes were strangely fixed upon the white lady in the wigwam. It is fortunate he is going soon; and still more fortunate that a certain cruising captain is not returned from the West Indies.” As this impertinent speech was made in a whisper, it did not reach Aunt Mary or the Colonel; and the only reply it drew from Lucy, was a blushing threat of a repetition of the same punishment which she had inflicted in the morning for a similar offence. He begged pardon, and was forgiven; soon after which the little party broke up and retired to rest.Meantime Baptiste, who knew that the well–intentioned offer of a bed–room and its comforts would be a great annoyance to Wingenund, took the lad out with him to a dry barn behind the house, where there was an abundant supply of clean straw, and where he intended to lodge him for thenight. “Wingenund,” said he, “you will rest here for some hours; but we must go long before daylight to meet War–Eagle, according to my promise.”“I will be ready,” replied the youth; and casting himself down on a bundle of straw, in five minutes his wounds and fatigues were forgotten in a refreshing sleep, over which hovered the bright dreams of youth, wherein the sweet tones of his sister’s voice were confused with the blue eyes of Lucy; and yet withal, a sleep such as guilt can never know, and the wealth of the Indies cannot purchase.Before three o’clock on the following morning, the guide re–entered the barn with a light step; not so light, however, as to escape the quick ear of the young Indian, who leapt from his straw couch, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, stood before the hunter. “I hope you slept well,” said the latter, “and that your arm gives you less pain?”“I slept till you came,” said the boy, “and the pain sleeps still. I feel nothing of it.”“Wingenund will be like his father,” said the guide; “he will laugh at pain and fatigue and danger; and his war–path will be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies.”The youth drew himself proudly up; and though gratified by the guide’s observation, merely replied, “The Great Spirit knows.—I am ready; let us go.”Baptiste had provided a couple of horses, and they started at a brisk pace, as he wished to reach the spot where he had appointed to meet War–Eagle soon after daylight. To one less familiar with the woods, the tangled and winding path through which he led the way would have offered many impediments; but Baptiste went rapidly forward without hesitation or difficulty, Wingenund following in silence; and after a brisk ride of three hours they came to an opening in the forest, where a log–hut was visible, and beyond it the broad expanse of Ohio’s stream.The guide here whispered to Wingenund to remain concealed in the thicket with the horses, whilst he reconnoitred the hut; because he knew that it was sometimes used as a shelter and a rendezvous by some of the lawless and desperate characters on the borders of the settlements.Having finished his examination, and ascertained that the hut was empty, he returned to Wingenund, and desired himto come down to the water’s edge, where he was to make a signal for War–Eagle, who ought to be now at no great distance. The youth accordingly went to the river’s bank, and understanding from the guide that there was no occasion for further concealment, he gave three whistles in a peculiar tone, but exceedingly loud and shrill. For some time they listened for a reply. Nothing was heard, except the beak of the woodpecker upon the bark of the elm, and the notes of the various feathered choristers chirping their matin song.After a pause of several minutes, the guide said, “Surely some accident has detained War–Eagle! Perhaps he has failed in getting the canoe. Repeat the signal, Wingenund.”“War–Eagle is here,” replied the youth, who was quietly leaning on his rifle, with an abstracted air.Again, the guide listened attentively; and as he was unable to distinguish the slightest sound indicative of the chief’s approach, he was rather vexed at the superior quickness implied in Wingenund’s reply, and said somewhat testily, “A moose might hear something of him, or a bloodhound might find the wind of him, but I can make out nothing, and my ears an’t used to be stuffed with cotton, neither!”“Grande–Hâche is a great warrior, and Wingenund would be proud to follow in his war–path; eyes and ears are the gift of the Great Spirit.”“How know you that War–Eagle is here?” inquired the guide impatiently.“By that,” replied the boy, pointing to a scarcely perceptible mark on the bank a few yards from his feet, “that is the mocassin of the War–Eagle; he has been to the hut this morning; below that foot–print you will see on the sand the mark of where his canoe has touched the ground.”“The boy is right,” muttered Baptiste, examining the marks carefully. “I believe I am no hunter, but an ass after all, with no better ears and eyes than Master Perrot, or any other parlour–boarder.”In a very few minutes the sound of the paddle was heard, and War–Eagle brought his canoe to the bank; a brief conversation now took place between him and Baptiste, in which some particulars were arranged for Reginald’s visit to the Western Prairie. The guide then taking from his wallet several pounds of bread and beef, and a large parcel of tobacco, addedthese to the stores in the bottom of the canoe, and having shaken hands heartily with the chief and Wingenund, returned leisurely on his homeward way; but he still muttered to himself as he went; and it was evident that he could not shake off the annoyance which he felt at being “out–crafted,” as he called it, “by a boy!”We will not follow the tedious and toilsome voyage of War–Eagle and his young friend in the canoe, a voyage in which, after descending the Ohio, they had to make their way up the Mississippi to its junction with the Missouri, and thence up the latter river to the mouth of the Osage river, which they also ascended between two and three hundred miles before they rejoined their band. It is sufficient for the purposes of our tale to inform the reader that they reached their destination in safety, and that Wingenund recovered from the effects of his severe wound.When Baptiste returned to Mooshanne, he found the family surprised and annoyed at the sudden disappearance of their young Indian guest; but when he explained to Reginald that he had gone to rejoin his chief by War–Eagle’s desire, Reginald felt that the best course had been adopted, as the boy might, if he had remained, have fallen in the way of the exasperated party who were seeking to revenge Hervey’s death.It was about noon when Mike Smith, and several of those who accompanied him the preceding day, arrived at Mooshanne, and insisted upon Baptiste showing them the spot where he had told them that an Indian had been recently buried, Reginald declined being of the party, which set forth under the conduct of the guide, to explore the scene of the occurrences mentioned in a former chapter.During their absence, Reginald was lounging in his sister’s boudoir, talking with her over the events of the preceding days, when they heard the sound of a vehicle driven up to the door, and the blood rushed into Lucy’s face as the thought occurred to her that it might be Ethelston; the delusion was very brief, for a moment afterwards the broad accent of David Muir was clearly distinguishable, as he said to his daughter, “Noo, Jessie, haud a grip o’ Smiler, whilst I gie a pull at the door–bell.”Much to the surprise of the worthy “merchaunt” (by which appellation David delighted to be designated), the door was opened by no less a personage than Monsieur GustavePerrot himself, who seeing the pretty Jessie in her father’s spring–cart, hastened with characteristic gallantry to assist her to descend; in the performance of which operation he extended both his hands to support her waist, saying, in his most tender tone, “Take care, Miss Jessie; now shump, and trust all your leetle weight with me.”But while he was speaking, the active girl, putting one foot on the step, and touching him lightly on the arm, stood on the ground beside him.“Weel, Mr. Parrot, and how’s a’ wi’ ye the day?” said David, who was busily employed in extracting various packages and parcels from the cart.“All ver’ well, thank you, Mr. Muir; wonderful things happen, though. My young Mr. Reginald he be drowned and stabbed, and quite well!”“Gude save us!” said David in horror; “drowned and stabbed, and quite well! Ye’re surely no in earnest, Mr. Parrot!”“I speak only the truth always,—Miss Jessie, the fresh air and the ride make your cheek beautiful rosy.”“Mr. Perrot,” replied Jessie, smiling, “that is a poor compliment! You are so gallant a gentleman, you should praise the roses in a lady’s cheek without mentioning that she owes them to a rough road and a fresh breeze!”This dialogue on roses was here interrupted by David, who said, “May be, Mr. Parrot, ye’ll just let Smiler be ta’en round to the stable, and desire ane o’ the lads to help us in with these twa parcels; yon muckle basket, there, is brimfull of all the newest kick–shaws, and modes, as they call ‘em, frae Philadelphy; so Jessie’s just come wi’ me to gie Miss Lucy the first choice; and she’s a right to hae it too, for she’s the bonniest and the best young lady in the territory.”Mr. Perrot, having given these necessary orders, David, with his papers, was soon closeted with the Colonel in his business room; and Jessie was ushered into the young lady’s boudoir, where her brother still sat, with the intention of giving his sister the benefit of his advice in the selection of what David called kick–shaws and modes for her toilet. Meanwhile Perrot was preparing a formidable attack upon Jessie’s heart, through the medium of some venison steaks, a delicate ragout of squirrel, and sundry other tit–bits, with whichhe hoped to propitiate the village beauty. As Jessie entered the room, her salutation of Lucy was modestly respectful; and she returned Reginald’s bow with an unembarrassed and not ungraceful courtesy. While she was drawing out and placing on a table the silken contents of her basket, Reginald inquired of her whether any news was stirring in Marietta.“None,” replied she, “except the killing of Hervey. All the town is speaking of it, and they say it will cause more bloodshed; for Mike Smith vows, if he cannot find the real offender, he’ll shoot down the first Indian he finds in the woods.”“Mike Smith is a hot–headed fool,” replied Reginald; but remembering sundry reports which had reached his ear, he added, “I beg your pardon, Miss Jessie, if the words give you offence.”“Indeed you have given none, Master Reginald,” said Jessie, colouring a little at the implied meaning of his words; “Mike comes very often to our store, but I believe it is more for whiskey than any thing else.”“Nay,” said Reginald; “I doubt you do him injustice. They say he prefers the end of the store which is the furthest from the bar.”“Perhaps he may,” replied Jessie; “I am always better pleased when he stays away, for he is very ill–tempered and quarrelsome! Well, Miss,” continued she, “are not these pink ribbons beautiful, and these two light shawls,—they come from the British East India House?”“They are indeed the prettiest and most delicate that I ever saw,” replied Lucy; “and see here, Reginald,” said she, drawing him aside, “these French bead necklaces will do famously for some of your Delaware friends.” She added in a whisper, “Ask her if there is no other news at the town?”“What about?” inquired her brother. A silent look of reproach was her only reply, as she turned away, and again busied herself with the silks. He was instantly conscious and ashamed of his thoughtlessness, which, after a few moments’ silence, he proceeded to repair, saying, “Pray tell me, Miss Jessie, has your father received no intelligence of The Pride of the Ohio?”“Alas! not a word,” replied the girl, in a tone of voice so melancholy, that it startled them both.“But why speak you in so sad a voice about the vessel, Jessie, if you have heard no bad news regarding her?” said Reginald, quickly.“Because, sir, she has been very long over–due, and there are many reports of French ships of war; and we, that is, my father, is much interested about her.”Poor Lucy’s colour came and went; but she had not the courage to say a word. After a short pause, Reginald inquired, “Have any boats come up lately from New Orleans?”“Yes, sir, Henderson’s came up only a few days ago, and Henry Gregson, who had been down on some business for my father, returned in her.”“That is the young man who assists your father in the store? I believe he is a son of the mate on board The Pride. I have remarked that he is a very fine–looking young fellow!”“He is the son of Captain Ethelston’s mate,” said Jessie, casting down her eyes, and busying herself with some of her ribbons and silks. “But I hope,” continued she, “that you, Mr. Reginald, are not seriously hurt. Mr. Perrot told me you had been drowned and stabbed!”“Not quite so bad as that,” said Reginald, laughing; “I had, indeed, a swim in the Muskingum, and a blow from a horse’s hoof, but am none the worse for either. Do not forget, Miss Jessie, to send off a messenger immediately that any news arrive of The Pride. You know what a favourite she is, and how anxious we are here about her!”“Indeed I will not forget,” replied Jessie.Lucy sighed audibly; and after purchasing a few ribbons and shawls, as well as a stock of beads for her brother, she allowed Jessie to retire, begging, at the same time, her acceptance of one of the prettiest shawls in her basket. As the latter hesitated about receiving it, Lucy threw it over the girl’s shoulder, saying playfully, “Nay, Jessie, no refusal; I am mistress here; and nobody, not even Mr. Reginald, disputes my will in this room.”Jessie thanked the young lady, and saluting her brother, withdrew to a back parlour, where Monsieur Perrot had already prepared his good things, and where her father only waited her coming to commence a dinner which his drive had made desirable, and which his olfactory nerves told him was more savoury than the viands set before him at Marietta by Mrs. Christie.“Call ye this a squirrel ragoo?” said the worthy merchaunt; “weel now it’s an awfu’ thing to think how the Lord’s gifts are abused in the auld country! I hae seen dizens o’ they wee devils lilting and looping amaing the woods in the Lothians; and yet the hungry chaps wha can scarce earn a basin o’ porritch, or a pot o’ kail to their dinner, would as soon think o’ eatin’ a stoat or a foumart!”While making this observation, Davie was despatching the “ragoo” with a satisfaction which showed how completely he had overcome his insular prejudices. Nor were Perrot’s culinary attentions altogether lost upon Miss Jessie; for although she might not repay them entirely according to the wishes of the gallant Maître d’Hôtel, she could not help acknowledging that he was a pleasant good–humoured fellow, and that his abilities as a cook were of the highest order. Accordingly, when he offered her a foaming glass of cider, she drank it to his health, with a glance of her merry eye sufficient to have turned the head of a man less vain and amorous than Monsieur Perrot.The dinner passed pleasantly enough; and as David Muir drove his daughter back to Marietta, his heart being warmed and expanded by the generous cider (which, for the good of his health, he had crowned with a glass of old rum), he said, “Jessie, I’m thinking, that Maister Parrot is a douce and clever man; a lassie might do waur than tak’ up wi’ the like o’ him! I’se warrant his nest will no be ill feathered!”“Perhaps not,” replied Jessie; and turning her head away, she sighed, and thought of Henry Gregson.c113CHAPTER XIII.IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND THAT THE COUCH OF AN INVALID HAS PERILS NOT LESS FORMIDABLE THAN THOSE WHICH ARE TO BE ENCOUNTERED AT SEA.We left Ethelston stretched on a sick couch in Guadaloupe, in the house of Captain L’Estrange, and tended by his daughter Nina, and by her brother, the young lieutenant. The latter grew daily more attached to the patient, who had been his captor, and was now his prisoner; but he was obliged, as soonas Ethelston was pronounced out of danger, to sail for Europe, as he was anxious to obtain that professional distinction which his parole prevented his gaining in service against the United States. And in France there seemed a promising harvest of combat and of glory, sufficient to satisfy the martial enthusiasm even of the most adventurous of her sons. When he sailed, he again and again pressed upon his sister to bestow every attention upon Ethelston; and as the Captain was much busied with his command, and as Madame L’Estrange was entirely devoted to her boudoir,—where, with two chattering parrots to amuse her, and a little black girl to fan her while listlessly poring over the pages of Florian in a fauteuil,—the whole charge devolved upon the willing and kind–hearted Nina. She was the third and youngest daughter of Monsieur and Madame L’Estrange; but (her two elder sisters being married) she was the only one resident with her parents.Sixteen summers had now passed over her, and her disposition was like that of her brother,—frank, impetuous, and warm–hearted. Her feelings had never been guided or regulated by her handsome but indolent mother; her mind had been allowed to seek its food at hap–hazard among the romances, poems, and plays upon the shelves in the drawing–room. Her father spoilt and her brother petted her. A governess also she had, whom she governed, and to whose instructions she owed little, except a moderate proficiency in music. Her countenance was a very beautiful mirror, reflecting the warm and impassioned features of her character. Her complexion was dark, though clear, and her hair black and glossy. The pencilling of her eyebrows was exceedingly delicate; and the eyes themselves were large, speaking, and glowing with that humid lustre which distinguishes creole beauty. Nothing could exceed the rosy fulness of her lip, and the even whiteness of the teeth which her joyous smile disclosed. Her figure was exquisitely proportioned; and her every movement a very model of natural grace. She seemed, indeed, impregnated with the fervour of the sunny climate in which she had been reared; and her temper, her imagination, her passions, all glowed with its ardent but dangerous warmth. According to the usage of her country, she had been betrothed, when a child, to a neighbouring planter, one of the richest in the island; but as he was absent in Europe, and there remained yet two years before the time fixed for the fulfilmentof the contract, she rarely troubled her head about the marriage or her future destiny.Such was the girl who now officiated as nurse to Ethelston, and who, before she had seen him, had gathered from her brother such traits of his character as had called forth all the interest and sympathy of her romantic disposition. Although not eminently handsome, we have before noted that his countenance was manly and expressive, and his manners courteous and engaging. Perhaps also the weakness, remaining after the crisis of his fever, imparted to the usually gentle expression of his features that touching attraction which is called by a modern poet “a loving languor.” At all events, certain it is, that ere poor Nina had administered the third saline draughd to her grateful patient, her little heart beat vehemently; and when she had attended his feverish couch one short week, she was desperately in love!How fared it in the meantime with Ethelston? Did his heart run any risk from the dark eloquent eyes, and the gracefully rounded form of the ministering angel who hovered about his sick–room? At present none, for Lucy was shrined there; and he had been taught by young L’Estrange to consider his sister in the light of a nursery–girl, still under the dominion of the governess.Days and weeks elapsed, Ethelston’s recovery progressed, and he was able to stroll in the shade of the orange and citron groves which sheltered Captain L’Estrange’s villa to the northward. Here, with his eyes fixed on the sea, would he sometimes sit for hours, and devise schemes for returning to his home. On these occasions he was frequently accompanied by Nina, who walked by his side with her guitar in her hand; and under the pretence of receiving instructions from him in music, she would listen with delight, and hang with rapture on every syllable that he uttered. Though he could not avoid being sensible of her ripening beauty, his heart was protected by the seven–fold shield of a deep and abiding attachment; and as he still looked upon Nina as a lovely girl, completing her education in the nursery, he gladly gave her all the assistance that she asked under her musical difficulties; and this he was able to do, from having made no small proficiency in the science during his long residence in Germany.Sometimes he paid his respects to Madame L’Estrange; butthat lady was so indolent, and so exclusively devoted to her parrots and her lap–dog, that his visits to her were neither frequent nor of long duration. The Captain was very seldom ashore; and thus Ethelston was obliged to spend his time alone, or in the society of the young girl who had nursed him so kindly during his illness. Her character seemed to have undergone a sudden and complete change. The conquering god, who had at first only taken possession of the outworks of her fancy, had now made himself master of the citadel of her heart. She loved with all the intense absorbing passion of a nature that had never known control. The gaiety and buoyancy of her spirits had given place to a still, deep flood of feeling, which her reason never attempted to restrain. Even when withhimshe spoke little. Her happiness was too intense to find a vent in words; and thus she nursed and fed a flame, that needed only the breath of accident to make it burst forth with a violence that should burn up or overleap all the barriers of self–control.Nor must the reader imagine that Ethelston was dull or blind, because he observed not the state of Nina’s affections. His own were firmly rooted elsewhere; he was neither of a vain nor a romantic disposition; and he had been duly informed by Monsieur L’Estrange, that in the course of two years Nina was to be married to Monsieur Bertrand, the young planter, to whom, as we have before mentioned, she had been betrothed by her parents since her thirteenth year. He could not help seeing that, although her intellect was quick, and her character enthusiastic, her education had been shamefully neglected both by Madame L’Estrange and the governess. Hence he spoke, counselled, and sometimes chid her, in the tone of an elder brother, heedless of the almost imperceptible line that separates friendship from love in the bosom of a girl nurtured under a West Indian sun.In this state were matters, when, on a fine evening, Ethelston strolled alone into his favourite orange–grove, to look out upon the ocean, and, in the enjoyment of its refreshing breeze, to ruminate on his strange captivity, and revolve various plans of escape.Captain L’Estrange had paid a visit to his home on the preceding day, and finding his prisoner so completely restored to health and strength, had said to him, jokingly, “Indeed,fair sir, I think I must put you on your parole, or in chains; for, after the character given of you by my son, I cannot allow so dangerous a person to be at large during the continuance of hostilities between our respective nations.”Ethelston answered, half in earnest, and half in jest, “Nay, sir, then I must wear the chains, for assuredly I cannot give my parole; if an American vessel were to come in sight, or any other means of flight to offer itself, depend upon it, in spite of the kindness and hospitality I have met with here, I should weigh anchor in a moment.”“Well, that is a fair warning,” said the old Commodore; “nevertheless I will not lock you up just yet, for I do not think it very likely that any strange sail will come under the guns of our fort; and I will run the risk of your flying away on the back of a sea–gull.” Thus had they parted; and the old gentleman was again absent on a cruise.Ethelston was, as we have said, reclining listlessly under an orange–tree, inhaling the cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of its blossoms, now devising impossible plans of escape, and now musing on a vision of Lucy’s graceful figure, gliding among the deep woods around Mooshanne. As these thoughts passed through his mind, they imparted a melancholy shade to his brow, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips.It was echoed by one yet deeper, close to his ear; and starting from his reverie, he beheld Nina, who had approached him unawares, and who, leaning on her guitar, had been for the last few minutes gazing on his countenance with an absorbed intensity, more fond and riveted than that with which the miser regards his treasure, or the widowed mother her only child.When she found herself perceived, she came forward, and covering her emotion under an assumed gaiety, she said, “What is my kind instructor thinking of? He seems more grave and sad than usual.”“He is thinking,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly, “that he ought to scold a certain young lady very severely for coming upon him slily, and witnessing that gravity and sadness in which a captive must sometimes indulge, but which her presence has already dissipated.”“Nay,” said Nina, still holding her guitar, and sitting down on the bank near him; “you know that I am onlyobeying papa’s orders in watching you; for he says you would not give your parole, and I am sure you were thinking of your escape from Guadaloupe.”“Perhaps you might have guessed more wide of the mark, Mademoiselle Nina,” said Ethelston.“And are you then so very anxious to—to—see your home again?” inquired Nina, hesitating.“Judge for yourself, Nina,” he replied, “when I remind you that for many months I have heard nothing of those who have been my nearest and dearest friends from childhood; nothing of the brave men who were captured with me when our poor brig was lost!”“Tell me about your friends and your home. Is it very beautiful? Have you the warm sun, and the fresh sea–breeze, and the orange–flowers, that we have here?”“Scarcely,” replied Ethelston, smiling at the earnest rapidity with which the beautiful girl based her inquiries on the scene before her; “but we have in their place rivers, on the bosom of which your father’s frigate might sail; groves and woods of deep shade, impenetrable to the rays of the hottest sun; and prairies smiling with the most brilliant and variegated flowers.”“Oh! how I should love to see that land!” exclaimed Nina, her fervid imagination instantly grasping and heightening its beauties. “How I should love to dwell there!”“Nay, it appears to me not unlikely that you should at some time visit it,” replied Ethelston. “This foolish war between our countries will soon be over, and your father may wish to see a region the scenery of which is so magnificent, and which is not difficult of access from here.”“Papa will never leave these islands, unless he goes to France, and that he hates,” said Nina.“Well then,” continued Ethelston, smiling, as he alluded for the first time to her marriage, “you must defer your American trip a year or two longer; then, doubtless, Monsieur Bertrand will gladly gratify your desire to see the Mississippi.”Nina started as if stung by an adder; the blood rushed and mantled over her face and neck; her eyes glowed with indignation, as she exclaimed, “I abhor and detest Monsieur Bertrand. I would die before I would marry him!” Thenadding in a low voice, the sadness of which went to his heart, “and this from you too!” She covered her face with her hands and wept.Never was man more astonished than Ethelston at the sudden storm which he had inadvertently raised. Remembering that Madame L’Estrange had told him of the engagement as being known to Nina, he had been led to suppose from her usual flow of spirits, that the prospect was far from being disagreeable to her. Young L’Estrange had also told him that Bertrand was a good looking man, of high character, and considered, from his wealth, as the best match in the French islands; so that Ethelston was altogether unprepared for the violent aversion which Nina now avowed for the marriage, and for the grief by which she seemed so deeply agitated. Still he was as far as ever from divining the true cause of her emotion, and conjectured that she had probably formed an attachment to one of the young officers on board her father’s ship. Under this impression he took her hand, and sympathising with the grief of one so fair and so young, he said to her kindly, “Forgive me, Nina, if I have said any thing to hurt your feelings; indeed I always have believed that your engagement to Monsieur Bertrand was an affair settled by your parents entirely with your consent. I am sure Monsieur L’Estrange loves his favourite child too well to compel her to a marriage against her inclination. Will you permit your Mentor (as you have more than once allowed me to call myself) to speak with him on the subject?”Nina made no reply, and the tears coursed each other yet faster down her cheek.“Your brother is absent,” continued Ethelston; “you seem not to confide your little secrets to your mother—will you not let me aid you by my advice? I am many years older than you.—I am deeply grateful for all your kindness during my tedious illness; believe me, I will, if you will only trust me, advise you with the affectionate interest of a parent, or an elder brother.”The little hand trembled violently in his, but still no reply escaped from Nina’s lips.“If you will not tell me your secret,” pursued Ethelston, “I must guess it. Your aversion to the engagement arises not so much from your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand, as from yourpreference of some other, whom perhaps your parents would not approve?”The hand was withdrawn, being employed in an ineffectual attempt to check her tears. The slight fillet which bound her black tresses had given way, and they now fell in disorder, veiling the deep crimson glow which again mantled over the neck of the weeping girl.Ethelston gazed on her with emotions of deep sympathy. There was a reality, a dignity about her speechless grief, that must have moved a sterner heart than his; and as he looked upon the heaving of her bosom, and upon the exquisite proportions unconsciously developed in her attitude, he suddenly felt that he was speaking, not to a child in the nursery, but to a girl in whose form and heart the bud and blossom of womanhood were thus early ripened. It was, therefore, in a tone, not less kind, but more respectful than he had hitherto used, that he said, “Nay, Nina, I desire not to pry into your secrets—I only wish to assure you of the deep sympathy which I feel with your sorrow, and of my desire to aid or comfort you by any means within my power; but if my curiosity offends you, I will retire, in the hope that your own gentle thoughts may soon afford you relief.”Again the little hand was laid upon his arm, as Nina, still weeping, whispered, “No, no,—you do not offend me.—Do not leave me, I entreat you!”A painful silence ensued; and Ethelston, more than ever confirmed in the belief that she had bestowed her affections on some young middy, or lieutenant, under her father’s command, continued, in a tone which he attempted to render gay: “Well then, Nina, since you will not give your confidence to Mentor, he must appoint himself your confessor; and to commence, is he right in believing that your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand arises from your having given your heart elsewhere?”There was no reply; but her head was bowed in token of acquiescence!“I need not inquire,” pursued he, “whether the object of your choice is, in rank and character, worthy of your affection?”In an instant the drooping head was raised, and the dark tresses thrown back from her brow, as, with her eyes flashing through the moisture by which they were still bedewed, Nina replied, “Worthy!—worthy the affection of a queen!”Ethelston, startled by her energy, was about to resume his inquiries, when Nina, whose excited spirit triumphed for the moment over all restraint, stopped him, saying, “I will spare you the trouble of further questions. I will tell you freely, that till lately, very lately, I cared for none.—Monsieur Bertrand and all others were alike to me; but fate threw a stranger in my path.—He was a friend of my brother;—he was wounded.—For hours and hours I watched by his couch;—he revived;—his looks were gentle; his voice was music.—I drew counsel from his lips;—he filled my thoughts, my dreams, my heart, my being! But he—he considered me only as a silly child;—he understood not my heart;—he mocked my agony;—he saved my brother’s life,—and is now accomplishing the sister’s death!”The excitement which supported Nina during the commencement of this speech gradually died away. Towards its close, her voice grew tremulous, and as the last words escaped her quivering lips, exhausted nature gave way under the burden of her emotion, and she fainted!The feelings of Ethelston may be better imagined than described. As the dreadful import of the poor girl’s words gradually broke upon him, his cheeks grew paler and paler; and when, at their conclusion, her senseless form lay extended at his feet, the cold dew of agony stood in drops upon his forehead! But Nina’s condition demanded immediate aid and attention. Mastering himself by a powerful effort, he snatched a lemon from a neighbouring tree; he cut it in half, and sustaining the still insensible girl, he chafed her hands, and rubbed her temples with the cool refreshing juice of the fruit. After a time, he had the consolation of seeing her restored gradually to her senses; and a faint smile came over her countenance as she found herself supported by his arm. Still she closed her eyes, as if in a happy dream, which Ethelston could not bring himself to disturb; and, as the luxuriant black tresses only half veiled the touching beauty of her countenance, he groaned at the reflection that he had inadvertently been the means of shedding the blight of unrequited love on a budding flower of such exquisite loveliness. A long silence ensued, softened, rather than interrupted, by the low wind as it whispered through the leaves of the orange–grove; while the surrounding landscape, and the wide expanse of ocean, glowedwith the red golden tints of the parting sun. Nounplightedheart could have resisted all the assailing temptations of that hour. But Ethelston’s heart was not unplighted; and the high principle and generous warmth of his nature served only to deepen the pain and sadness of the present moment. He formed, however, his resolution; and as soon as he found that Nina was restored to consciousness, and to a certain degree of composure, he gently withdrew the arm which had supported her, and said, in a voice of most melancholy earnestness, “Dear Nina! I will not pretend to misunderstand what you have said. I have much to tell you; but I have not now enough command over myself to speak, while you are still too agitated to listen. Meet me here to–morrow at this same hour; meanwhile, I entreat you, recall those harsh and unkind thoughts which you entertained of me; and believe me, dear, dear sister, that I would, rather than have mocked your feelings, have died on that feverish couch, from which your care revived me.” So saying, he hastened from her presence in a tumult of agitation scarcely less than her own.For a long time she sat motionless, in a kind of waking dream; his parting words yet dwelt in her ear, and her passionate heart construed them now according to its own wild throbbings, now according to its gloomiest fears. “He has much to tell me,” mused she; “he called me dear Nina; he spoke not in a voice of indifference; his eye was full of a troubled expression that I could not read. Alas! alas, ‘twas only pity! He called me ‘dear sister!’—what can he mean?—Oh that to–morrow were come! I shall not outlive the night unless I can believe that he loves me!” And then she fell again into a reverie; during which all the looks and tones that her partial fancy had interpreted, and her too faithful memory had treasured, were recalled, and repeated in a thousand shapes; until, exhausted by her agitation, and warned by the darkness of the hour, Nina retired to her sleepless couch.Meanwhile Ethelston, when he found himself alone in his room, scrutinised with the most unsparing severity his past conduct, endeavouring to remember every careless or unheeded word by which he could have awakened or encouraged her unsuspected affection. He could only blame himself that he had not been more observant; that he had considered Ninatoo much in the light of a child; and had habitually spoken to her in a tone of playful and confidential familiarity. Thus, though his conscience acquitted him of the most remote intention of trifling with her feelings, he accused himself of having neglected to keep a watchful guard over his language and behaviour, and resolved, at the risk of incurring her anger or her hatred, to tell her firmly and explicitly on the morrow, that he could not requite her attachment as it deserved, his heart having been long and faithfully devoted to another.c114CHAPTER XIV.NARRATING THE TRIALS AND DANGERS THAT BESET ETHELSTON; AND HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THEM, AND FROM THE ISLAND OF GUADALOUPE.The night succeeding the occurrences related in the last chapter brought little rest to the pillow either of Nina or of Ethelston; and on the following day, as if by mutual agreement, they avoided each other’s presence, until the hour appointed for their meeting again in the orange–grove. Ethelston was firmly resolved to explain to her unreservedly his long engagement to Lucy, hoping that the feelings of Nina would prove, in this instance, rather impetuous than permanent. The tedious day appeared to her as if it never would draw to a close. She fled from her mother, and from the screaming parrots; she tried the guitar, but it seemed tuneless and discordant; her pencil and her book were by turns taken up, and as soon laid aside; she strolled even at midday into the orange–grove, to the spot where she had last sat by him, and a blush stole over her cheek when she remembered that she had been betrayed into an avowal of her love; and then came the doubt, the inquiry, whether he felt any love for her? Thus did she muse and ponder, until the hours, which in the morning had appeared to creep so slowly over the face of the dial, now glided unconsciously forward. The dinner–hour had passed unheeded; and before she had summoned any of the courage and firmness which she meant to call to her aid, Ethelston stood before her. He was surprisedat finding Nina on this spot, and had approached it long before the appointed time, in order that he might prepare himself for the difficult and painful task which he had undertaken. But though unprepared, his mind was of too firm and regulated a character to be surprised out of a fixed determination; and he came up and offered his hand to Nina, greeting her in his accustomed tone of familiar friendship. She received his salutation with evident embarrassment; her hand and her voice trembled, and her bosom throbbed in a tumult of anxiety and expectation. Ethelston saw that he could not defer the promised explanation; and he commenced it with his usual gentleness of manner, but with a firm resolve that he would be honest and explicit in his language. He began by referring to his long illness, and, with gratitude, to her care and attention during its continuance; he assured her, that having been told both by Madame L’Estrange and her brother, that she was affianced to Monsieur Bertrand, he had accustomed himself to look on her as a younger sister; and, as such, had ventured to offer her advice and instruction in her studies. He knew not, he dreamt not, that she could ever look upon him in any other light than that of a Mentor.Here he paused a moment, and continued in a deeper and more earnest tone “Nina—dear Nina, wemustbe as Mentor and his pupil to each other, or we must part. I will frankly lay my heart open to you. I will conceal nothing; then you will not blame me, and will, I hope, permit me to remain your grateful friend and brother. Nina, I am not blind either to your beauty, or to the many, many graces of your disposition. I do full justice to the warmth and truth of your affections: you deserve, when loved, to be loved with a whole heart—““O spare this!” interrupted Nina, in a hurried whisper: “Spare this, speak of yourself!”“I was even about to do so,” continued Ethelston; “but, Nina, such a heart I have not to give. For many months and years, before I ever saw or knew you, I have loved, and still am betrothed to another.”A cold shudder seemed to pass through Nina’s frame while these few words were spoken, as if in a moment the health, the hope, the blossom of her youth were blighted! Not a tear, not even a sob, gave relief to her agony; herbloodless lip trembled in a vain attempt to speak she knew not what, and a burning chill sat upon her heart. These words may appear to some strange and contradictory: happy, thrice happy, ye to whom they so appear! If you have never known what it is to feel at once a scorching heat parching the tongue, and drying up all the well–springs of life within, while a leaden weight of ice seems to benumb the heart, then have you never known the sharpest, extreme pangs of disappointed love!Ethelston was prepared for some sudden and violent expression on the part of Nina, but this death–like, motionless silence almost overpowered him. He attempted, by the gentlest and the kindest words, to arouse her from this stupor of grief. He took her hand; its touch was cold. Again and again he called her name; but her ear seemed insensible, even to his voice. At length, unable to bear the sight of her distress, and fearful that he might no longer restrain his tongue from uttering words which would be treason to his first and faithful love, he rushed into the house, and hastily informing Nina’s governess that her pupil had been suddenly taken ill in the orange–grove, he locked himself in his room, and gave vent to the contending emotions by which he was oppressed.It was in vain that he strove to calm himself by the reflection that he had intentionally transgressed none of the demands of truth and honour;—it was in vain that he called up all the long–cherished recollections of his Lucy and his home;—still the image of Nina would not be banished; now presenting itself as he had seen her yesterday, in the full glow of passion, and in the full bloom of youthful beauty,—and now, as he had just left her, in the deadly paleness and fixed apathy of despair. The terrible thought that, whether guiltily or innocently, he had been the cause of all this suffering in one to whom he owed protection and gratitude, wrung his heart with pain that he could not repress; and he found relief only in falling on his knees, and praying to the Almighty that the sin might not be laid to his charge, and that Nina’s sorrow might be soothed and comforted by Him, who is the God of consolation.Meanwhile the governess had, with the assistance of two of the negro attendants, brought Nina into the house. The poorgirl continued in the same state of insensibility to all that was passing around; her eyes were open, but she seemed to recognise no one, and a few vague indistinct words still trembled on her lips.The doctor was instantly summoned, who pronounced, as soon as he had seen his patient, that she was in a dangerous fit, using sundry mysterious expressions about “febrile symptoms,” and “pressure on the brain,” to which the worthy leech added shakings of the head yet more mysterious.For many days her condition continued alarming; the threatened fever came, and with it a protracted state of delirium. During this period Ethelston’s anxiety and agitation were extreme; and proportionate was the relief that he experienced, when he learnt that the crisis was past, and that the youthful strength of her constitution promised speedy recovery.Meanwhile he had to endure the oft–repeated inquiries of the governess, “How he happened to find Mademoiselle just as the fit came on?” and of Madame L’Estrange, “How it was possible for Nina to be attacked by so sudden an illness, while walking in the orange–grove?”When she was at length pronounced out of danger, Ethelston again began to consider various projects for his meditated escape from the island. He had more than once held communication with his faithful Cupid on the subject, who was ready to brave all risks in the service of his master; but the distance which must be traversed before they could expect to find a friendly ship or coast, seemed to exclude all reasonable hope of success.It would be impossible to follow and portray the thousand changes that came over Nina’s spirit during her recovery. She remembered but too well the words that Ethelston had last spoken: at one moment she called him perfidious, ungrateful, heartless; then she chid herself for railing at him, and loaded his name with every blessing, and the expression of the fondest affection: now she resolved that she would never see nor speak to him more; then she thought that she must see him, if it were only to show how she had conquered her weakness. Amidst all these contending resolutions, she worked herself into the belief that Ethelston had deceived her; and that, because he thought her a child, and did not love her, hehad invented the tale of his previous engagement to lessen her mortification. This soon became her settled conviction; and when it crossed her mind, she would start with passion and exclaim, “He shall yet love me, and me alone!”The only confidant of her love was a young negress, who waited upon her, and who was indeed so devoted to her that she would have braved the Commodore’s utmost wrath, or perilled her life, to execute her mistress’ commands.It happened one evening that this girl, whose name was Fanchette, went out to gather some fruit in the orange–grove; and while thus employed she heard the voice of some one speaking. On drawing nearer to the spot whence the sound proceeded, she saw Ethelston sitting under the deep shade of a tree, with what appeared a book before him.Knowing that Nina was still confined to her room, he had resorted hither to consider his schemes without interruption, and was so busily employed in comparing distances, and calculating possibilities, on the map before him, that Fanchette easily crept to a place whence she could, unperceived, overhear and observe him. “I must and will attempt it,” he muttered aloud to himself; “we must steal a boat. Cupid and I can manage it between us; my duty and my love both forbid my staying longer here: with a fishing–boat we might reach Antigua or Dominica, or at all events chance to fall in with an American or a neutral vessel. Poor dear Nina,” he added, in a lower tone. “Would to God I had never visited this shore!this,” he continued, drawing a locket from his breast, “this treasured remembrance of one far distant has made me proof against thy charms, cold to thy love, but not, as Heaven is my witness, unmoved or insensible to thy sufferings.” So saying he relapsed into silent musing; and as he replaced the locket, Fanchette crept noiselessly from her concealment, and ran to communicate to her young mistress her version of what she had seen. Being very imperfectly skilled in English, she put her own construction upon those few words which she had caught, and thought to serve Nina best by telling her what she would most like to hear. Thus she described to her how Ethelston had spoken to himself over a map; how he had mentioned islands to which he would sail; how he had named her name with tenderness, and had taken something from his vest to press it to his lips.Poor Nina listened in a tumult of joy; her passionate heart would admit no doubting suggestion of her reason. She was too happy to bear even the presence of Fanchette, and rewarding her for her good news by the present of a beautiful shawl which she wore at the moment, pushed the delighted little negress out of the room, and threw herself on her couch, where she repeated a hundred times thathehad been to her orange–grove, where they had last parted, had named her name with tenderness, had pressed some token to his lips—what could that be? It might be a flower, a book, any thing—it mattered not—so long as she only knew he loved her! Having long wept with impassioned joy, she determined to show herself worthy of his love; and the schemes which she formed, and resolved to carry into effect, evinced the wild force and energy of her romantic character. Among her father’s slaves was one who, being a steady and skilful seaman, had the charge of a schooner (originally an American prize), which lay in the harbour, and which the Commodore sometimes used as a pleasure–yacht, or for short trips to other parts of the island: this man (whose name was Jacques) was not only a great favourite with the young lady, but was also smitten with the black eyes and plump charms of M’amselle Fanchette, who thus exercised over him a sway little short of absolute. Nina having held a conference with her abigail, sent for Jacques, who was also admitted to a confidential consultation, the result of which, after–occurrences will explain to the reader. When this was over, she acquired, rather than assumed, a sudden composure and cheerfulness: the delights of a plot seemed at once to restore her to health; and on the following day she sent to request that Ethelston would come to see her in her boudoir, where she received him with a calmness and self–possession for which he was altogether unprepared. “Mr. Ethelston,” said she, as soon as he was seated, “I believe you still desire to escape from your prison, and that you are devising various plans for effecting that object; you will never succeed unless you call me into your counsel.”Ethelston, though extremely surprised at the composure of her manner and language, replied with a smile, “M’amselle Nina, I will not deny that you have rightly guessed mythoughts; but as your father is my jailor, I did not dare to ask your counsel in this matter.”“Well, Mr. Mentor,” said the wayward girl, “how does your wisdom propose to act without my counsel?”“I confess I am somewhat at a loss,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly; “I must go either through the air or the water; and the latter, being my proper element, is the path which I would rather attempt.”“And what should you think of me, if I were to play the traitoress, and aid you in eluding the vigilance of my father, and afford the means of escape to so formidable an enemy?”Ethelston was completely puzzled by this playful tone of banter, in one whom he had last seen under a paroxysm of passion, and in whose dark eye there yet lurked an expression which he could not define; but he resolved to continue the conversation in the same spirit, and replied, “I would not blame you for this act of filial disobedience; and though no longer your father’s prisoner, I would, if I escaped, ever remain his friend.”“And would you show no gratitude to the lady who effected your release?”“I owe her already more—far more, than I can pay; and, for this last crowning act of her generosity and kindness, I would—“As he hesitated, she inquired, abruptly, “You would what, Ethelston?” For a moment she had forgotten the part she was acting; and both the look that accompanied these words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, reminded him that he stood on the brink of a volcanic crater.“I would give her any proof of my gratitude that she would deign to accept, yesany,” he repeated earnestly, “even to life itself, knowing that she is too noble and generous to accept aught at my hands which faith and honour forbid me to offer.”Nina turned aside for a moment, overcome by her emotion; but recovering herself quickly, she added, in her former tone of pleasantry, “She will not impose any hard conditions; but to the purpose; has your sailor–eye noticed a certain little schooner anchored in the harbour?”“What!” said Ethelston, eagerly, “a beautiful craft, of about twenty tons, on the other side of the bay?”“Even the same.”“Surely I have! She is American built, and swims like a duck.”“Well then,” replied Nina, “I think I shall do no great harm in restoring her to an American! How many men should you require to manage her?”“I could sail her easily with one able seaman, besides my black friend Cupid.”“Then,” said Nina, “I propose to lend her to you; you may send her back at your convenience; and I will also provide you an able seaman: write me a list of the stores and articles which you will require for the trip, and send it me in an hour’s time: prepare your own baggage, and be ready upon the shortest notice. It is now my turn to command, and yours to obey. Good–b’ye, Mr. Mentor.” So saying, she kissed her hand to him, and withdrew.Ethelston rubbed his eyes as if he did not believe their evidence. “Could this merry, ready–witted girl be the same as the Nina whom he had seen, ten days before, heart–broken, and unable to conceal or repress the violence of her passion?” The longer he mused, the more was he puzzled; and he came at length to a conclusion at which many, more wise and more foolish than himself, had arrived, that a woman’s mind, when influenced by her affections, is a riddle hard to be solved. He had not, however, much time for reflection, and being resolved at all risks to escape from the island, he hastened to his room, and, within the hour specified by Nina, sent her a list of the stores and provisions for the voyage.Meanwhile Fanchette had not been idle: she had painted to Jacques, in the liveliest colours, the wealth, beauty, and freedom of the distant land of Ohio, artfully mingling with this description promises and allurements which operated more directly on the feelings of her black swain; so that the latter, finding himself entreated by Fanchette, and commanded by his young mistress, hesitated no longer to betray his trust, and desert the Commodore.Ethelston, having communicated the prosperous state of affairs to Cupid, and desired him to have all ready for immediate escape, hastened to obey another summons sent to him by Nina. He found her in a mood no less cheerful than before; and although she purposely averted her face, a smile, themeaning of which he could not define, played round the corner of her expressive mouth. Though really glad to escape homeward, and disposed to be grateful to Nina for her aid, he could not help feeling angry and vexed at the capricious eagerness with which she busied herself in contriving the departure of one to whom she had so lately given the strongest demonstration of tenderness; and although his heart told him that he could not love her, there was something in this easy and sudden withdrawal of her affection which wounded that self–love from which the best of men are not altogether free. These feelings gave an unusual coldness and constraint to his manner, when he inquired her further commands.To this question Nina replied by saying, “Then, Mr. Ethelston, you are quite resolved to leave us, and to risk all the chances and perils of this voyage?”“Quite,” he replied: “it is my wish, my duty, and my firm determination; and I entered the room,” he added, almost in a tone of reproof, “desirous of repeating to you my thanks for your kind assistance.”Nina’s countenance changed; but, still averting it from Ethelston, she continued in a lower voice, “And do you leave us without pain—without regret?”There was a tremor, a natural feeling in the tone in which she uttered these few words, that recalled to his mind all that he had seen her suffer, and drove from it the harsh thoughts which he had begun to entertain; and he answered, in a voice from which his self–command could not banish all traces of emotion, “Dear Nina, I shall leave you with regret that would amount to misery, if I thought that my visit had brought any permanent unhappiness into this house. I desire to leave you as a Mentor should leave a beloved pupil—as a brother leaves a sister; with a full hope, that when I am gone, you will fulfil your parents’ wishes, your own auspicious destinies, and that, after years and years of happiness among those whom Fate has decreed to be the companions of your life, you will look back upon me as upon a faithful adviser of your youth,—an affectionate friend, who——“Nina’s nerves were not strung for the part she had undertaken: gradually her countenance had grown pale as marble; a choking sensation oppressed her throat; and she sunk in a chair, sobbing, rather than uttering, the word, “Water.”It was fortunately at hand; and having placed it in a glass by her side, Ethelston retired to the window to conceal his own emotion, and to allow time for that of Nina to subside.After a few minutes she recovered her self–possession; and although still deadly pale, her voice was distinct and firm, as she said, “Ethelston, I am ashamed of this weakness; but it is over: we will not speak of the past, and will leave to Fate the future. Now listen to me: all the arrangements for your departure will be complete by to–morrow evening. At an hour before midnight, a small boat, with one man, will be at the Quai du Marché, below the Place St. Louis. It is far from the fort, and there is no sentry near the spot: you can then row to the vessel and depart. But is it not too dangerous?” she added. “Can you risk it? for the wind whistles terribly, and I fear the approach of a hurricane!”Ethelston’s eye brightened as he replied, “A rough night is the fairest for the purpose, Nina.”“Be it so,” she replied. “Now, in return for all that I have done for you, there is only one favour I have to ask at your hands.”“Name it,” said Ethelston, eagerly.“There is,” she continued, “a poor sick youth in the town, the child of respectable parents in New Orleans; he desires to go home, if it be only to die there: and a nurse will take care of him on the passage, if you will let him go with you?”“Assuredly I will,” said Ethelston; “and will take as much care of him as if he were my brother.”“Nay,” said Nina, “they tell me he is ordered to be perfectly quiet, and no one attends him but the nurse; neither will he give any trouble, as the coxswain says there is a small cabin where he can remain alone and undisturbed.”“You may depend,” said Ethelston, “that all your orders about him shall be faithfully performed; and I will see, if I live, that he reaches his home in safety.”“He and his nurse will be on board before you,” said Nina; “and as soon as you reach the vessel, you have nothing to do but to escape as quick as you can. Now I must bid you farewell! I may not have spirits to see you again!” She held out her hand to him; it was cold as ice; her face was still half–averted, and her whole frame trembled violently.Ethelston took the offered hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, “A thousand, thousand thanks for all your kindness! If I reach home alive I will make your honoured father ample amends for the theft of his schooner; and if ever you have an opportunity to let me know that you are well and happy, do not forget that such news will always gladden my heart.” He turned to look at her as he went; he doubted whether the cold rigid apathy of her form and countenance was that of despair or of indifference; but he dared not trust himself longer in her presence; and as he left the room she sunk on the chair against which she had been leaning for support.When Ethelston found himself alone, he collected his thoughts, and endeavoured in vain to account for the strange deportment of Nina in bidding him farewell. The coldness of her manner, the abrupt brevity of her parting address, had surprised him; and yet the tremor, the emotion, amounting almost to fainting, the forced tone of voice in which she had spoken, all forbad him to hope that she had overcome her unhappy passion; he was grieved that he had scarcely parted from her in kindness; and the pity with which he regarded her was, for the moment, almost akin to love.Shaking off this temporary weakness, he employed himself forthwith in the preparations for his departure: among the first of which was a letter, which he wrote to Captain L’Estrange, and left upon his table. On the following day he never once saw Nina; but he heard from one of the slaves that she was confined to her room by severe headache.The wind blew with unabated force, the evening was dark and lowering, as, at the appointed hour, Ethelston, accompanied by his faithful Cupid, left the house with noiseless step. They reached the boat without obstruction; pushed off, and in ten minutes were safe on deck: the coxswain whispered that all was ready; the boat was hoisted up, the anchor weighed, and the schooner was soon dashing the foam from her bows on the open sea.
c112CHAPTER XII.VISIT OF WINGENUND TO MOOSHANNE.—HE REJOINS WAR–EAGLE, AND THEY RETURN TO THEIR BAND IN THE FAR WEST.—M. PERROT MAKES AN UNSUCCESSFUL ATTACK ON THE HEART OF A YOUNG LADY.We must now return to Mooshanne, where Colonel Brandon received Wingenund very kindly; and within half an hour of the arrival of the party, they were all seated at his hospitable board, whereon smoked venison steaks, various kinds of fowls, a substantial ham, cakes of rice, and Indian maize. On the side–table were cream, wild honey, cheese, and preserved fruits, all these delicacies being admirably served under the superintendence of Aunt Mary, who was delighted with Wingenund, praised the extreme beauty of his eyes and features, telling the Colonel, in a whisper, that if she had been thirty–five years younger, she should have been afraid of losing her heart! The youth was indeed the hero of the day: all were grateful to him for his gallant preservation of Reginald’s life, and all strove with equal anxiety to make him forget that he was among strangers. Nor was the task difficult; for though he had only the use of one hand, it was surprising to see the tact and self–possession with which he conducted himself, the temperate quietness with which he ate and drank, and the ease with which he handled some of the implements at table, which he probably saw for the first time. Baptiste was a privileged person in the Colonel’s house, and was allowed to dine as he pleased, either with its master, or with Perrot and the other servants. On this occasion, he was present in the dining–room, and seemed to take a pleasure in drawing out the young Delaware, and in making him talk on subjects which he knew would be interesting to the rest of the party.Wingenund was quiet and reserved in his replies, except when a question was put to him by Lucy, to whom he gave his answers with the greatestnaïveté, telling her more than once, that she reminded him of his sister Prairie–bird, but that the latter was taller, and had darker hair. Whilst addressing her, he kept his large speaking eyes so riveted upon Lucy’s countenance, that she cast her own to the ground, almost blushing at the boy’s earnest and admiring gaze. To relieve herself from embarrassment, she again inquired about this mysterious sister, saying, “Tell me, Wingenund, has she taught you to read, as well as to speak our tongue?”“No,” said the youth; “Prairie–bird talks with the Great Spirit, and with paper books, and so does the Black Father; but Wingenund cannot understand them,—he is only a poor Indian.”Here Reginald, whose curiosity was much excited, inquired, “Does the Prairie–bird look kindly on the young chiefs of the tribe?—Will she be the wife of a chief?”There was something both of surprise and scorn in Wingenund’s countenance, as he replied, “Prairie–bird is kind to all—the young chiefs find wives among the daughters of the Delawares;—but the antelope mates not with the moose, though they feed on the same Prairie. The Great Spirit knows where the Prairie–bird was born! but her race is unknown to the wise men among the Tortoises.”Reginald and his sister were equally at a loss to understand his meaning; both looked inquiringly at the guide, who was rubbing his ear, as if rather puzzled by the young Delaware’s answer. At length he said, “Why, Miss Lucy, you see, much of what the lad says is as plain to me as the sight on my rifle: for the tribes of the Lenapé are as well known to me as thetotemsof the Oggibeways. The Great nation is divided into three tribes:—the Minsi, or the Wolf–tribe (sometimes called also Puncsit, or round–foot); the Unalacticos, or the Turkey–tribe; and theUnamis, or the Tortoise–tribe. The last are considered the principal and most ancient; and as Wingenund’s family are of this band, he spoke just now of their wise men. But who, or what kin’ o’ crittur this Prairie–bird can be, would puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to tell, let alone a poor hunter who knows little out of the line of his trade.”“Then, Baptiste,” said Lucy, smiling; “your trade is a pretty extensive one, for I think you have more knowledge in your head on most subjects than half the lawyers and clerks in the territory.”“There it is, Miss Lucy; you’re always a givin’ me a little dose of flattery, just as I give my patches a bit of grease to make the Doctor swallow his lead pills. You ladies think we’re all alike,—young sparks, and tough old chaps like me,—if you do but dip your fingers into the honey–pot, you know we shall lick them as soon as your backs are turned! But it is getting late,” he added, rising from his seat; “and I have much to say to this youth, who is already tired; with your leave, Miss, I will retire with him, and see that he has a comfortable sleeping quarter, and that he wants for nothing.”“Pray do so,” said Lucy; “let him be treated as if he were one of our own family. I am sure, dear papa, such would be your wish,” she added, turning to her father.“It is indeed, my child,” said the Colonel. “Wingenund, again I beg you to receive a father’s best thanks for your brave defence of his son.”“It was nothing,” replied the boy modestly. “You are all good, too good to Wingenund; when he gets to the Far Prairie, he will tell the Prairie–bird and the Black Father to speak to the Great Spirit, that He may smile on my white father and on my brother; and,” he added, slowly raising his dark eloquent eyes to Lucy’s face, “that he may send down pleasant sunshine and refreshing dew on the Lily of Mooshanne.” So saying, he turned and left the room, accompanied by the guide.“Well,” exclaimed the Colonel, as the youth disappeared, “they may call that lad a savage; but his feelings, ay, and his manners too, would put to shame those of many who think themselves fine gentlemen.”“He is, indeed, a noble young fellow,” said Reginald, “and worthy to be the relative and pupil of my Indian brother. I would that you had seenhim, father: you are in general rather sceptical as to the qualities of the red–skins. I think the War–Eagle would surprise you!”“Indeed, Reginald,” said the Colonel, “I have seen among them so much cruelty, cunning, and drunkenness, that the romantic notions which I once entertained respecting them arecompletely dissipated. Nevertheless, I confess that many of their worst faults have arisen from their commerce with the whites; and they still retain some virtues which are extremely rare among us.”“To which do you allude?” inquired Reginald.“More especially, to patience under suffering, a padlocked mouth when entrusted with a secret, and unshaken fidelity in friendship.”“These are indeed high and valuable qualities,” replied Reginald. “Moreover, it strikes me that in one principal feature of character the Indian is superior to us; he acts up to his creed. That creed may be entirely based on error; it may teach him to prefer revenge to mercy, theft to industry, violence to right; but such as he has learnt it from his fathers, he acts up to it more firmly and consistently than we do, ‘who know the right and still the wrong pursue.’”“Your observation is just,” replied his father; “they are benighted, and do many of the deeds of darkness. What shall we say of those who do them under the light of a noonday sun?”“And yet,” said Lucy, “this Wingenund seems half a Christian, and more than half a gentleman, either by nature, or by the instructions of the strange being he calls the Prairie–bird!”“Upon my word, Lucy,” said her brother, with a malicious smile, “I thought, while the lad was speaking of his sister on the Prairie, his eyes were strangely fixed upon the white lady in the wigwam. It is fortunate he is going soon; and still more fortunate that a certain cruising captain is not returned from the West Indies.” As this impertinent speech was made in a whisper, it did not reach Aunt Mary or the Colonel; and the only reply it drew from Lucy, was a blushing threat of a repetition of the same punishment which she had inflicted in the morning for a similar offence. He begged pardon, and was forgiven; soon after which the little party broke up and retired to rest.Meantime Baptiste, who knew that the well–intentioned offer of a bed–room and its comforts would be a great annoyance to Wingenund, took the lad out with him to a dry barn behind the house, where there was an abundant supply of clean straw, and where he intended to lodge him for thenight. “Wingenund,” said he, “you will rest here for some hours; but we must go long before daylight to meet War–Eagle, according to my promise.”“I will be ready,” replied the youth; and casting himself down on a bundle of straw, in five minutes his wounds and fatigues were forgotten in a refreshing sleep, over which hovered the bright dreams of youth, wherein the sweet tones of his sister’s voice were confused with the blue eyes of Lucy; and yet withal, a sleep such as guilt can never know, and the wealth of the Indies cannot purchase.Before three o’clock on the following morning, the guide re–entered the barn with a light step; not so light, however, as to escape the quick ear of the young Indian, who leapt from his straw couch, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, stood before the hunter. “I hope you slept well,” said the latter, “and that your arm gives you less pain?”“I slept till you came,” said the boy, “and the pain sleeps still. I feel nothing of it.”“Wingenund will be like his father,” said the guide; “he will laugh at pain and fatigue and danger; and his war–path will be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies.”The youth drew himself proudly up; and though gratified by the guide’s observation, merely replied, “The Great Spirit knows.—I am ready; let us go.”Baptiste had provided a couple of horses, and they started at a brisk pace, as he wished to reach the spot where he had appointed to meet War–Eagle soon after daylight. To one less familiar with the woods, the tangled and winding path through which he led the way would have offered many impediments; but Baptiste went rapidly forward without hesitation or difficulty, Wingenund following in silence; and after a brisk ride of three hours they came to an opening in the forest, where a log–hut was visible, and beyond it the broad expanse of Ohio’s stream.The guide here whispered to Wingenund to remain concealed in the thicket with the horses, whilst he reconnoitred the hut; because he knew that it was sometimes used as a shelter and a rendezvous by some of the lawless and desperate characters on the borders of the settlements.Having finished his examination, and ascertained that the hut was empty, he returned to Wingenund, and desired himto come down to the water’s edge, where he was to make a signal for War–Eagle, who ought to be now at no great distance. The youth accordingly went to the river’s bank, and understanding from the guide that there was no occasion for further concealment, he gave three whistles in a peculiar tone, but exceedingly loud and shrill. For some time they listened for a reply. Nothing was heard, except the beak of the woodpecker upon the bark of the elm, and the notes of the various feathered choristers chirping their matin song.After a pause of several minutes, the guide said, “Surely some accident has detained War–Eagle! Perhaps he has failed in getting the canoe. Repeat the signal, Wingenund.”“War–Eagle is here,” replied the youth, who was quietly leaning on his rifle, with an abstracted air.Again, the guide listened attentively; and as he was unable to distinguish the slightest sound indicative of the chief’s approach, he was rather vexed at the superior quickness implied in Wingenund’s reply, and said somewhat testily, “A moose might hear something of him, or a bloodhound might find the wind of him, but I can make out nothing, and my ears an’t used to be stuffed with cotton, neither!”“Grande–Hâche is a great warrior, and Wingenund would be proud to follow in his war–path; eyes and ears are the gift of the Great Spirit.”“How know you that War–Eagle is here?” inquired the guide impatiently.“By that,” replied the boy, pointing to a scarcely perceptible mark on the bank a few yards from his feet, “that is the mocassin of the War–Eagle; he has been to the hut this morning; below that foot–print you will see on the sand the mark of where his canoe has touched the ground.”“The boy is right,” muttered Baptiste, examining the marks carefully. “I believe I am no hunter, but an ass after all, with no better ears and eyes than Master Perrot, or any other parlour–boarder.”In a very few minutes the sound of the paddle was heard, and War–Eagle brought his canoe to the bank; a brief conversation now took place between him and Baptiste, in which some particulars were arranged for Reginald’s visit to the Western Prairie. The guide then taking from his wallet several pounds of bread and beef, and a large parcel of tobacco, addedthese to the stores in the bottom of the canoe, and having shaken hands heartily with the chief and Wingenund, returned leisurely on his homeward way; but he still muttered to himself as he went; and it was evident that he could not shake off the annoyance which he felt at being “out–crafted,” as he called it, “by a boy!”We will not follow the tedious and toilsome voyage of War–Eagle and his young friend in the canoe, a voyage in which, after descending the Ohio, they had to make their way up the Mississippi to its junction with the Missouri, and thence up the latter river to the mouth of the Osage river, which they also ascended between two and three hundred miles before they rejoined their band. It is sufficient for the purposes of our tale to inform the reader that they reached their destination in safety, and that Wingenund recovered from the effects of his severe wound.When Baptiste returned to Mooshanne, he found the family surprised and annoyed at the sudden disappearance of their young Indian guest; but when he explained to Reginald that he had gone to rejoin his chief by War–Eagle’s desire, Reginald felt that the best course had been adopted, as the boy might, if he had remained, have fallen in the way of the exasperated party who were seeking to revenge Hervey’s death.It was about noon when Mike Smith, and several of those who accompanied him the preceding day, arrived at Mooshanne, and insisted upon Baptiste showing them the spot where he had told them that an Indian had been recently buried, Reginald declined being of the party, which set forth under the conduct of the guide, to explore the scene of the occurrences mentioned in a former chapter.During their absence, Reginald was lounging in his sister’s boudoir, talking with her over the events of the preceding days, when they heard the sound of a vehicle driven up to the door, and the blood rushed into Lucy’s face as the thought occurred to her that it might be Ethelston; the delusion was very brief, for a moment afterwards the broad accent of David Muir was clearly distinguishable, as he said to his daughter, “Noo, Jessie, haud a grip o’ Smiler, whilst I gie a pull at the door–bell.”Much to the surprise of the worthy “merchaunt” (by which appellation David delighted to be designated), the door was opened by no less a personage than Monsieur GustavePerrot himself, who seeing the pretty Jessie in her father’s spring–cart, hastened with characteristic gallantry to assist her to descend; in the performance of which operation he extended both his hands to support her waist, saying, in his most tender tone, “Take care, Miss Jessie; now shump, and trust all your leetle weight with me.”But while he was speaking, the active girl, putting one foot on the step, and touching him lightly on the arm, stood on the ground beside him.“Weel, Mr. Parrot, and how’s a’ wi’ ye the day?” said David, who was busily employed in extracting various packages and parcels from the cart.“All ver’ well, thank you, Mr. Muir; wonderful things happen, though. My young Mr. Reginald he be drowned and stabbed, and quite well!”“Gude save us!” said David in horror; “drowned and stabbed, and quite well! Ye’re surely no in earnest, Mr. Parrot!”“I speak only the truth always,—Miss Jessie, the fresh air and the ride make your cheek beautiful rosy.”“Mr. Perrot,” replied Jessie, smiling, “that is a poor compliment! You are so gallant a gentleman, you should praise the roses in a lady’s cheek without mentioning that she owes them to a rough road and a fresh breeze!”This dialogue on roses was here interrupted by David, who said, “May be, Mr. Parrot, ye’ll just let Smiler be ta’en round to the stable, and desire ane o’ the lads to help us in with these twa parcels; yon muckle basket, there, is brimfull of all the newest kick–shaws, and modes, as they call ‘em, frae Philadelphy; so Jessie’s just come wi’ me to gie Miss Lucy the first choice; and she’s a right to hae it too, for she’s the bonniest and the best young lady in the territory.”Mr. Perrot, having given these necessary orders, David, with his papers, was soon closeted with the Colonel in his business room; and Jessie was ushered into the young lady’s boudoir, where her brother still sat, with the intention of giving his sister the benefit of his advice in the selection of what David called kick–shaws and modes for her toilet. Meanwhile Perrot was preparing a formidable attack upon Jessie’s heart, through the medium of some venison steaks, a delicate ragout of squirrel, and sundry other tit–bits, with whichhe hoped to propitiate the village beauty. As Jessie entered the room, her salutation of Lucy was modestly respectful; and she returned Reginald’s bow with an unembarrassed and not ungraceful courtesy. While she was drawing out and placing on a table the silken contents of her basket, Reginald inquired of her whether any news was stirring in Marietta.“None,” replied she, “except the killing of Hervey. All the town is speaking of it, and they say it will cause more bloodshed; for Mike Smith vows, if he cannot find the real offender, he’ll shoot down the first Indian he finds in the woods.”“Mike Smith is a hot–headed fool,” replied Reginald; but remembering sundry reports which had reached his ear, he added, “I beg your pardon, Miss Jessie, if the words give you offence.”“Indeed you have given none, Master Reginald,” said Jessie, colouring a little at the implied meaning of his words; “Mike comes very often to our store, but I believe it is more for whiskey than any thing else.”“Nay,” said Reginald; “I doubt you do him injustice. They say he prefers the end of the store which is the furthest from the bar.”“Perhaps he may,” replied Jessie; “I am always better pleased when he stays away, for he is very ill–tempered and quarrelsome! Well, Miss,” continued she, “are not these pink ribbons beautiful, and these two light shawls,—they come from the British East India House?”“They are indeed the prettiest and most delicate that I ever saw,” replied Lucy; “and see here, Reginald,” said she, drawing him aside, “these French bead necklaces will do famously for some of your Delaware friends.” She added in a whisper, “Ask her if there is no other news at the town?”“What about?” inquired her brother. A silent look of reproach was her only reply, as she turned away, and again busied herself with the silks. He was instantly conscious and ashamed of his thoughtlessness, which, after a few moments’ silence, he proceeded to repair, saying, “Pray tell me, Miss Jessie, has your father received no intelligence of The Pride of the Ohio?”“Alas! not a word,” replied the girl, in a tone of voice so melancholy, that it startled them both.“But why speak you in so sad a voice about the vessel, Jessie, if you have heard no bad news regarding her?” said Reginald, quickly.“Because, sir, she has been very long over–due, and there are many reports of French ships of war; and we, that is, my father, is much interested about her.”Poor Lucy’s colour came and went; but she had not the courage to say a word. After a short pause, Reginald inquired, “Have any boats come up lately from New Orleans?”“Yes, sir, Henderson’s came up only a few days ago, and Henry Gregson, who had been down on some business for my father, returned in her.”“That is the young man who assists your father in the store? I believe he is a son of the mate on board The Pride. I have remarked that he is a very fine–looking young fellow!”“He is the son of Captain Ethelston’s mate,” said Jessie, casting down her eyes, and busying herself with some of her ribbons and silks. “But I hope,” continued she, “that you, Mr. Reginald, are not seriously hurt. Mr. Perrot told me you had been drowned and stabbed!”“Not quite so bad as that,” said Reginald, laughing; “I had, indeed, a swim in the Muskingum, and a blow from a horse’s hoof, but am none the worse for either. Do not forget, Miss Jessie, to send off a messenger immediately that any news arrive of The Pride. You know what a favourite she is, and how anxious we are here about her!”“Indeed I will not forget,” replied Jessie.Lucy sighed audibly; and after purchasing a few ribbons and shawls, as well as a stock of beads for her brother, she allowed Jessie to retire, begging, at the same time, her acceptance of one of the prettiest shawls in her basket. As the latter hesitated about receiving it, Lucy threw it over the girl’s shoulder, saying playfully, “Nay, Jessie, no refusal; I am mistress here; and nobody, not even Mr. Reginald, disputes my will in this room.”Jessie thanked the young lady, and saluting her brother, withdrew to a back parlour, where Monsieur Perrot had already prepared his good things, and where her father only waited her coming to commence a dinner which his drive had made desirable, and which his olfactory nerves told him was more savoury than the viands set before him at Marietta by Mrs. Christie.“Call ye this a squirrel ragoo?” said the worthy merchaunt; “weel now it’s an awfu’ thing to think how the Lord’s gifts are abused in the auld country! I hae seen dizens o’ they wee devils lilting and looping amaing the woods in the Lothians; and yet the hungry chaps wha can scarce earn a basin o’ porritch, or a pot o’ kail to their dinner, would as soon think o’ eatin’ a stoat or a foumart!”While making this observation, Davie was despatching the “ragoo” with a satisfaction which showed how completely he had overcome his insular prejudices. Nor were Perrot’s culinary attentions altogether lost upon Miss Jessie; for although she might not repay them entirely according to the wishes of the gallant Maître d’Hôtel, she could not help acknowledging that he was a pleasant good–humoured fellow, and that his abilities as a cook were of the highest order. Accordingly, when he offered her a foaming glass of cider, she drank it to his health, with a glance of her merry eye sufficient to have turned the head of a man less vain and amorous than Monsieur Perrot.The dinner passed pleasantly enough; and as David Muir drove his daughter back to Marietta, his heart being warmed and expanded by the generous cider (which, for the good of his health, he had crowned with a glass of old rum), he said, “Jessie, I’m thinking, that Maister Parrot is a douce and clever man; a lassie might do waur than tak’ up wi’ the like o’ him! I’se warrant his nest will no be ill feathered!”“Perhaps not,” replied Jessie; and turning her head away, she sighed, and thought of Henry Gregson.
c112
VISIT OF WINGENUND TO MOOSHANNE.—HE REJOINS WAR–EAGLE, AND THEY RETURN TO THEIR BAND IN THE FAR WEST.—M. PERROT MAKES AN UNSUCCESSFUL ATTACK ON THE HEART OF A YOUNG LADY.
We must now return to Mooshanne, where Colonel Brandon received Wingenund very kindly; and within half an hour of the arrival of the party, they were all seated at his hospitable board, whereon smoked venison steaks, various kinds of fowls, a substantial ham, cakes of rice, and Indian maize. On the side–table were cream, wild honey, cheese, and preserved fruits, all these delicacies being admirably served under the superintendence of Aunt Mary, who was delighted with Wingenund, praised the extreme beauty of his eyes and features, telling the Colonel, in a whisper, that if she had been thirty–five years younger, she should have been afraid of losing her heart! The youth was indeed the hero of the day: all were grateful to him for his gallant preservation of Reginald’s life, and all strove with equal anxiety to make him forget that he was among strangers. Nor was the task difficult; for though he had only the use of one hand, it was surprising to see the tact and self–possession with which he conducted himself, the temperate quietness with which he ate and drank, and the ease with which he handled some of the implements at table, which he probably saw for the first time. Baptiste was a privileged person in the Colonel’s house, and was allowed to dine as he pleased, either with its master, or with Perrot and the other servants. On this occasion, he was present in the dining–room, and seemed to take a pleasure in drawing out the young Delaware, and in making him talk on subjects which he knew would be interesting to the rest of the party.Wingenund was quiet and reserved in his replies, except when a question was put to him by Lucy, to whom he gave his answers with the greatestnaïveté, telling her more than once, that she reminded him of his sister Prairie–bird, but that the latter was taller, and had darker hair. Whilst addressing her, he kept his large speaking eyes so riveted upon Lucy’s countenance, that she cast her own to the ground, almost blushing at the boy’s earnest and admiring gaze. To relieve herself from embarrassment, she again inquired about this mysterious sister, saying, “Tell me, Wingenund, has she taught you to read, as well as to speak our tongue?”
“No,” said the youth; “Prairie–bird talks with the Great Spirit, and with paper books, and so does the Black Father; but Wingenund cannot understand them,—he is only a poor Indian.”
Here Reginald, whose curiosity was much excited, inquired, “Does the Prairie–bird look kindly on the young chiefs of the tribe?—Will she be the wife of a chief?”
There was something both of surprise and scorn in Wingenund’s countenance, as he replied, “Prairie–bird is kind to all—the young chiefs find wives among the daughters of the Delawares;—but the antelope mates not with the moose, though they feed on the same Prairie. The Great Spirit knows where the Prairie–bird was born! but her race is unknown to the wise men among the Tortoises.”
Reginald and his sister were equally at a loss to understand his meaning; both looked inquiringly at the guide, who was rubbing his ear, as if rather puzzled by the young Delaware’s answer. At length he said, “Why, Miss Lucy, you see, much of what the lad says is as plain to me as the sight on my rifle: for the tribes of the Lenapé are as well known to me as thetotemsof the Oggibeways. The Great nation is divided into three tribes:—the Minsi, or the Wolf–tribe (sometimes called also Puncsit, or round–foot); the Unalacticos, or the Turkey–tribe; and theUnamis, or the Tortoise–tribe. The last are considered the principal and most ancient; and as Wingenund’s family are of this band, he spoke just now of their wise men. But who, or what kin’ o’ crittur this Prairie–bird can be, would puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to tell, let alone a poor hunter who knows little out of the line of his trade.”
“Then, Baptiste,” said Lucy, smiling; “your trade is a pretty extensive one, for I think you have more knowledge in your head on most subjects than half the lawyers and clerks in the territory.”
“There it is, Miss Lucy; you’re always a givin’ me a little dose of flattery, just as I give my patches a bit of grease to make the Doctor swallow his lead pills. You ladies think we’re all alike,—young sparks, and tough old chaps like me,—if you do but dip your fingers into the honey–pot, you know we shall lick them as soon as your backs are turned! But it is getting late,” he added, rising from his seat; “and I have much to say to this youth, who is already tired; with your leave, Miss, I will retire with him, and see that he has a comfortable sleeping quarter, and that he wants for nothing.”
“Pray do so,” said Lucy; “let him be treated as if he were one of our own family. I am sure, dear papa, such would be your wish,” she added, turning to her father.
“It is indeed, my child,” said the Colonel. “Wingenund, again I beg you to receive a father’s best thanks for your brave defence of his son.”
“It was nothing,” replied the boy modestly. “You are all good, too good to Wingenund; when he gets to the Far Prairie, he will tell the Prairie–bird and the Black Father to speak to the Great Spirit, that He may smile on my white father and on my brother; and,” he added, slowly raising his dark eloquent eyes to Lucy’s face, “that he may send down pleasant sunshine and refreshing dew on the Lily of Mooshanne.” So saying, he turned and left the room, accompanied by the guide.
“Well,” exclaimed the Colonel, as the youth disappeared, “they may call that lad a savage; but his feelings, ay, and his manners too, would put to shame those of many who think themselves fine gentlemen.”
“He is, indeed, a noble young fellow,” said Reginald, “and worthy to be the relative and pupil of my Indian brother. I would that you had seenhim, father: you are in general rather sceptical as to the qualities of the red–skins. I think the War–Eagle would surprise you!”
“Indeed, Reginald,” said the Colonel, “I have seen among them so much cruelty, cunning, and drunkenness, that the romantic notions which I once entertained respecting them arecompletely dissipated. Nevertheless, I confess that many of their worst faults have arisen from their commerce with the whites; and they still retain some virtues which are extremely rare among us.”
“To which do you allude?” inquired Reginald.
“More especially, to patience under suffering, a padlocked mouth when entrusted with a secret, and unshaken fidelity in friendship.”
“These are indeed high and valuable qualities,” replied Reginald. “Moreover, it strikes me that in one principal feature of character the Indian is superior to us; he acts up to his creed. That creed may be entirely based on error; it may teach him to prefer revenge to mercy, theft to industry, violence to right; but such as he has learnt it from his fathers, he acts up to it more firmly and consistently than we do, ‘who know the right and still the wrong pursue.’”
“Your observation is just,” replied his father; “they are benighted, and do many of the deeds of darkness. What shall we say of those who do them under the light of a noonday sun?”
“And yet,” said Lucy, “this Wingenund seems half a Christian, and more than half a gentleman, either by nature, or by the instructions of the strange being he calls the Prairie–bird!”
“Upon my word, Lucy,” said her brother, with a malicious smile, “I thought, while the lad was speaking of his sister on the Prairie, his eyes were strangely fixed upon the white lady in the wigwam. It is fortunate he is going soon; and still more fortunate that a certain cruising captain is not returned from the West Indies.” As this impertinent speech was made in a whisper, it did not reach Aunt Mary or the Colonel; and the only reply it drew from Lucy, was a blushing threat of a repetition of the same punishment which she had inflicted in the morning for a similar offence. He begged pardon, and was forgiven; soon after which the little party broke up and retired to rest.
Meantime Baptiste, who knew that the well–intentioned offer of a bed–room and its comforts would be a great annoyance to Wingenund, took the lad out with him to a dry barn behind the house, where there was an abundant supply of clean straw, and where he intended to lodge him for thenight. “Wingenund,” said he, “you will rest here for some hours; but we must go long before daylight to meet War–Eagle, according to my promise.”
“I will be ready,” replied the youth; and casting himself down on a bundle of straw, in five minutes his wounds and fatigues were forgotten in a refreshing sleep, over which hovered the bright dreams of youth, wherein the sweet tones of his sister’s voice were confused with the blue eyes of Lucy; and yet withal, a sleep such as guilt can never know, and the wealth of the Indies cannot purchase.
Before three o’clock on the following morning, the guide re–entered the barn with a light step; not so light, however, as to escape the quick ear of the young Indian, who leapt from his straw couch, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, stood before the hunter. “I hope you slept well,” said the latter, “and that your arm gives you less pain?”
“I slept till you came,” said the boy, “and the pain sleeps still. I feel nothing of it.”
“Wingenund will be like his father,” said the guide; “he will laugh at pain and fatigue and danger; and his war–path will be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies.”
The youth drew himself proudly up; and though gratified by the guide’s observation, merely replied, “The Great Spirit knows.—I am ready; let us go.”
Baptiste had provided a couple of horses, and they started at a brisk pace, as he wished to reach the spot where he had appointed to meet War–Eagle soon after daylight. To one less familiar with the woods, the tangled and winding path through which he led the way would have offered many impediments; but Baptiste went rapidly forward without hesitation or difficulty, Wingenund following in silence; and after a brisk ride of three hours they came to an opening in the forest, where a log–hut was visible, and beyond it the broad expanse of Ohio’s stream.
The guide here whispered to Wingenund to remain concealed in the thicket with the horses, whilst he reconnoitred the hut; because he knew that it was sometimes used as a shelter and a rendezvous by some of the lawless and desperate characters on the borders of the settlements.
Having finished his examination, and ascertained that the hut was empty, he returned to Wingenund, and desired himto come down to the water’s edge, where he was to make a signal for War–Eagle, who ought to be now at no great distance. The youth accordingly went to the river’s bank, and understanding from the guide that there was no occasion for further concealment, he gave three whistles in a peculiar tone, but exceedingly loud and shrill. For some time they listened for a reply. Nothing was heard, except the beak of the woodpecker upon the bark of the elm, and the notes of the various feathered choristers chirping their matin song.
After a pause of several minutes, the guide said, “Surely some accident has detained War–Eagle! Perhaps he has failed in getting the canoe. Repeat the signal, Wingenund.”
“War–Eagle is here,” replied the youth, who was quietly leaning on his rifle, with an abstracted air.
Again, the guide listened attentively; and as he was unable to distinguish the slightest sound indicative of the chief’s approach, he was rather vexed at the superior quickness implied in Wingenund’s reply, and said somewhat testily, “A moose might hear something of him, or a bloodhound might find the wind of him, but I can make out nothing, and my ears an’t used to be stuffed with cotton, neither!”
“Grande–Hâche is a great warrior, and Wingenund would be proud to follow in his war–path; eyes and ears are the gift of the Great Spirit.”
“How know you that War–Eagle is here?” inquired the guide impatiently.
“By that,” replied the boy, pointing to a scarcely perceptible mark on the bank a few yards from his feet, “that is the mocassin of the War–Eagle; he has been to the hut this morning; below that foot–print you will see on the sand the mark of where his canoe has touched the ground.”
“The boy is right,” muttered Baptiste, examining the marks carefully. “I believe I am no hunter, but an ass after all, with no better ears and eyes than Master Perrot, or any other parlour–boarder.”
In a very few minutes the sound of the paddle was heard, and War–Eagle brought his canoe to the bank; a brief conversation now took place between him and Baptiste, in which some particulars were arranged for Reginald’s visit to the Western Prairie. The guide then taking from his wallet several pounds of bread and beef, and a large parcel of tobacco, addedthese to the stores in the bottom of the canoe, and having shaken hands heartily with the chief and Wingenund, returned leisurely on his homeward way; but he still muttered to himself as he went; and it was evident that he could not shake off the annoyance which he felt at being “out–crafted,” as he called it, “by a boy!”
We will not follow the tedious and toilsome voyage of War–Eagle and his young friend in the canoe, a voyage in which, after descending the Ohio, they had to make their way up the Mississippi to its junction with the Missouri, and thence up the latter river to the mouth of the Osage river, which they also ascended between two and three hundred miles before they rejoined their band. It is sufficient for the purposes of our tale to inform the reader that they reached their destination in safety, and that Wingenund recovered from the effects of his severe wound.
When Baptiste returned to Mooshanne, he found the family surprised and annoyed at the sudden disappearance of their young Indian guest; but when he explained to Reginald that he had gone to rejoin his chief by War–Eagle’s desire, Reginald felt that the best course had been adopted, as the boy might, if he had remained, have fallen in the way of the exasperated party who were seeking to revenge Hervey’s death.
It was about noon when Mike Smith, and several of those who accompanied him the preceding day, arrived at Mooshanne, and insisted upon Baptiste showing them the spot where he had told them that an Indian had been recently buried, Reginald declined being of the party, which set forth under the conduct of the guide, to explore the scene of the occurrences mentioned in a former chapter.
During their absence, Reginald was lounging in his sister’s boudoir, talking with her over the events of the preceding days, when they heard the sound of a vehicle driven up to the door, and the blood rushed into Lucy’s face as the thought occurred to her that it might be Ethelston; the delusion was very brief, for a moment afterwards the broad accent of David Muir was clearly distinguishable, as he said to his daughter, “Noo, Jessie, haud a grip o’ Smiler, whilst I gie a pull at the door–bell.”
Much to the surprise of the worthy “merchaunt” (by which appellation David delighted to be designated), the door was opened by no less a personage than Monsieur GustavePerrot himself, who seeing the pretty Jessie in her father’s spring–cart, hastened with characteristic gallantry to assist her to descend; in the performance of which operation he extended both his hands to support her waist, saying, in his most tender tone, “Take care, Miss Jessie; now shump, and trust all your leetle weight with me.”
But while he was speaking, the active girl, putting one foot on the step, and touching him lightly on the arm, stood on the ground beside him.
“Weel, Mr. Parrot, and how’s a’ wi’ ye the day?” said David, who was busily employed in extracting various packages and parcels from the cart.
“All ver’ well, thank you, Mr. Muir; wonderful things happen, though. My young Mr. Reginald he be drowned and stabbed, and quite well!”
“Gude save us!” said David in horror; “drowned and stabbed, and quite well! Ye’re surely no in earnest, Mr. Parrot!”
“I speak only the truth always,—Miss Jessie, the fresh air and the ride make your cheek beautiful rosy.”
“Mr. Perrot,” replied Jessie, smiling, “that is a poor compliment! You are so gallant a gentleman, you should praise the roses in a lady’s cheek without mentioning that she owes them to a rough road and a fresh breeze!”
This dialogue on roses was here interrupted by David, who said, “May be, Mr. Parrot, ye’ll just let Smiler be ta’en round to the stable, and desire ane o’ the lads to help us in with these twa parcels; yon muckle basket, there, is brimfull of all the newest kick–shaws, and modes, as they call ‘em, frae Philadelphy; so Jessie’s just come wi’ me to gie Miss Lucy the first choice; and she’s a right to hae it too, for she’s the bonniest and the best young lady in the territory.”
Mr. Perrot, having given these necessary orders, David, with his papers, was soon closeted with the Colonel in his business room; and Jessie was ushered into the young lady’s boudoir, where her brother still sat, with the intention of giving his sister the benefit of his advice in the selection of what David called kick–shaws and modes for her toilet. Meanwhile Perrot was preparing a formidable attack upon Jessie’s heart, through the medium of some venison steaks, a delicate ragout of squirrel, and sundry other tit–bits, with whichhe hoped to propitiate the village beauty. As Jessie entered the room, her salutation of Lucy was modestly respectful; and she returned Reginald’s bow with an unembarrassed and not ungraceful courtesy. While she was drawing out and placing on a table the silken contents of her basket, Reginald inquired of her whether any news was stirring in Marietta.
“None,” replied she, “except the killing of Hervey. All the town is speaking of it, and they say it will cause more bloodshed; for Mike Smith vows, if he cannot find the real offender, he’ll shoot down the first Indian he finds in the woods.”
“Mike Smith is a hot–headed fool,” replied Reginald; but remembering sundry reports which had reached his ear, he added, “I beg your pardon, Miss Jessie, if the words give you offence.”
“Indeed you have given none, Master Reginald,” said Jessie, colouring a little at the implied meaning of his words; “Mike comes very often to our store, but I believe it is more for whiskey than any thing else.”
“Nay,” said Reginald; “I doubt you do him injustice. They say he prefers the end of the store which is the furthest from the bar.”
“Perhaps he may,” replied Jessie; “I am always better pleased when he stays away, for he is very ill–tempered and quarrelsome! Well, Miss,” continued she, “are not these pink ribbons beautiful, and these two light shawls,—they come from the British East India House?”
“They are indeed the prettiest and most delicate that I ever saw,” replied Lucy; “and see here, Reginald,” said she, drawing him aside, “these French bead necklaces will do famously for some of your Delaware friends.” She added in a whisper, “Ask her if there is no other news at the town?”
“What about?” inquired her brother. A silent look of reproach was her only reply, as she turned away, and again busied herself with the silks. He was instantly conscious and ashamed of his thoughtlessness, which, after a few moments’ silence, he proceeded to repair, saying, “Pray tell me, Miss Jessie, has your father received no intelligence of The Pride of the Ohio?”
“Alas! not a word,” replied the girl, in a tone of voice so melancholy, that it startled them both.
“But why speak you in so sad a voice about the vessel, Jessie, if you have heard no bad news regarding her?” said Reginald, quickly.
“Because, sir, she has been very long over–due, and there are many reports of French ships of war; and we, that is, my father, is much interested about her.”
Poor Lucy’s colour came and went; but she had not the courage to say a word. After a short pause, Reginald inquired, “Have any boats come up lately from New Orleans?”
“Yes, sir, Henderson’s came up only a few days ago, and Henry Gregson, who had been down on some business for my father, returned in her.”
“That is the young man who assists your father in the store? I believe he is a son of the mate on board The Pride. I have remarked that he is a very fine–looking young fellow!”
“He is the son of Captain Ethelston’s mate,” said Jessie, casting down her eyes, and busying herself with some of her ribbons and silks. “But I hope,” continued she, “that you, Mr. Reginald, are not seriously hurt. Mr. Perrot told me you had been drowned and stabbed!”
“Not quite so bad as that,” said Reginald, laughing; “I had, indeed, a swim in the Muskingum, and a blow from a horse’s hoof, but am none the worse for either. Do not forget, Miss Jessie, to send off a messenger immediately that any news arrive of The Pride. You know what a favourite she is, and how anxious we are here about her!”
“Indeed I will not forget,” replied Jessie.
Lucy sighed audibly; and after purchasing a few ribbons and shawls, as well as a stock of beads for her brother, she allowed Jessie to retire, begging, at the same time, her acceptance of one of the prettiest shawls in her basket. As the latter hesitated about receiving it, Lucy threw it over the girl’s shoulder, saying playfully, “Nay, Jessie, no refusal; I am mistress here; and nobody, not even Mr. Reginald, disputes my will in this room.”
Jessie thanked the young lady, and saluting her brother, withdrew to a back parlour, where Monsieur Perrot had already prepared his good things, and where her father only waited her coming to commence a dinner which his drive had made desirable, and which his olfactory nerves told him was more savoury than the viands set before him at Marietta by Mrs. Christie.
“Call ye this a squirrel ragoo?” said the worthy merchaunt; “weel now it’s an awfu’ thing to think how the Lord’s gifts are abused in the auld country! I hae seen dizens o’ they wee devils lilting and looping amaing the woods in the Lothians; and yet the hungry chaps wha can scarce earn a basin o’ porritch, or a pot o’ kail to their dinner, would as soon think o’ eatin’ a stoat or a foumart!”
While making this observation, Davie was despatching the “ragoo” with a satisfaction which showed how completely he had overcome his insular prejudices. Nor were Perrot’s culinary attentions altogether lost upon Miss Jessie; for although she might not repay them entirely according to the wishes of the gallant Maître d’Hôtel, she could not help acknowledging that he was a pleasant good–humoured fellow, and that his abilities as a cook were of the highest order. Accordingly, when he offered her a foaming glass of cider, she drank it to his health, with a glance of her merry eye sufficient to have turned the head of a man less vain and amorous than Monsieur Perrot.
The dinner passed pleasantly enough; and as David Muir drove his daughter back to Marietta, his heart being warmed and expanded by the generous cider (which, for the good of his health, he had crowned with a glass of old rum), he said, “Jessie, I’m thinking, that Maister Parrot is a douce and clever man; a lassie might do waur than tak’ up wi’ the like o’ him! I’se warrant his nest will no be ill feathered!”
“Perhaps not,” replied Jessie; and turning her head away, she sighed, and thought of Henry Gregson.
c113CHAPTER XIII.IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND THAT THE COUCH OF AN INVALID HAS PERILS NOT LESS FORMIDABLE THAN THOSE WHICH ARE TO BE ENCOUNTERED AT SEA.We left Ethelston stretched on a sick couch in Guadaloupe, in the house of Captain L’Estrange, and tended by his daughter Nina, and by her brother, the young lieutenant. The latter grew daily more attached to the patient, who had been his captor, and was now his prisoner; but he was obliged, as soonas Ethelston was pronounced out of danger, to sail for Europe, as he was anxious to obtain that professional distinction which his parole prevented his gaining in service against the United States. And in France there seemed a promising harvest of combat and of glory, sufficient to satisfy the martial enthusiasm even of the most adventurous of her sons. When he sailed, he again and again pressed upon his sister to bestow every attention upon Ethelston; and as the Captain was much busied with his command, and as Madame L’Estrange was entirely devoted to her boudoir,—where, with two chattering parrots to amuse her, and a little black girl to fan her while listlessly poring over the pages of Florian in a fauteuil,—the whole charge devolved upon the willing and kind–hearted Nina. She was the third and youngest daughter of Monsieur and Madame L’Estrange; but (her two elder sisters being married) she was the only one resident with her parents.Sixteen summers had now passed over her, and her disposition was like that of her brother,—frank, impetuous, and warm–hearted. Her feelings had never been guided or regulated by her handsome but indolent mother; her mind had been allowed to seek its food at hap–hazard among the romances, poems, and plays upon the shelves in the drawing–room. Her father spoilt and her brother petted her. A governess also she had, whom she governed, and to whose instructions she owed little, except a moderate proficiency in music. Her countenance was a very beautiful mirror, reflecting the warm and impassioned features of her character. Her complexion was dark, though clear, and her hair black and glossy. The pencilling of her eyebrows was exceedingly delicate; and the eyes themselves were large, speaking, and glowing with that humid lustre which distinguishes creole beauty. Nothing could exceed the rosy fulness of her lip, and the even whiteness of the teeth which her joyous smile disclosed. Her figure was exquisitely proportioned; and her every movement a very model of natural grace. She seemed, indeed, impregnated with the fervour of the sunny climate in which she had been reared; and her temper, her imagination, her passions, all glowed with its ardent but dangerous warmth. According to the usage of her country, she had been betrothed, when a child, to a neighbouring planter, one of the richest in the island; but as he was absent in Europe, and there remained yet two years before the time fixed for the fulfilmentof the contract, she rarely troubled her head about the marriage or her future destiny.Such was the girl who now officiated as nurse to Ethelston, and who, before she had seen him, had gathered from her brother such traits of his character as had called forth all the interest and sympathy of her romantic disposition. Although not eminently handsome, we have before noted that his countenance was manly and expressive, and his manners courteous and engaging. Perhaps also the weakness, remaining after the crisis of his fever, imparted to the usually gentle expression of his features that touching attraction which is called by a modern poet “a loving languor.” At all events, certain it is, that ere poor Nina had administered the third saline draughd to her grateful patient, her little heart beat vehemently; and when she had attended his feverish couch one short week, she was desperately in love!How fared it in the meantime with Ethelston? Did his heart run any risk from the dark eloquent eyes, and the gracefully rounded form of the ministering angel who hovered about his sick–room? At present none, for Lucy was shrined there; and he had been taught by young L’Estrange to consider his sister in the light of a nursery–girl, still under the dominion of the governess.Days and weeks elapsed, Ethelston’s recovery progressed, and he was able to stroll in the shade of the orange and citron groves which sheltered Captain L’Estrange’s villa to the northward. Here, with his eyes fixed on the sea, would he sometimes sit for hours, and devise schemes for returning to his home. On these occasions he was frequently accompanied by Nina, who walked by his side with her guitar in her hand; and under the pretence of receiving instructions from him in music, she would listen with delight, and hang with rapture on every syllable that he uttered. Though he could not avoid being sensible of her ripening beauty, his heart was protected by the seven–fold shield of a deep and abiding attachment; and as he still looked upon Nina as a lovely girl, completing her education in the nursery, he gladly gave her all the assistance that she asked under her musical difficulties; and this he was able to do, from having made no small proficiency in the science during his long residence in Germany.Sometimes he paid his respects to Madame L’Estrange; butthat lady was so indolent, and so exclusively devoted to her parrots and her lap–dog, that his visits to her were neither frequent nor of long duration. The Captain was very seldom ashore; and thus Ethelston was obliged to spend his time alone, or in the society of the young girl who had nursed him so kindly during his illness. Her character seemed to have undergone a sudden and complete change. The conquering god, who had at first only taken possession of the outworks of her fancy, had now made himself master of the citadel of her heart. She loved with all the intense absorbing passion of a nature that had never known control. The gaiety and buoyancy of her spirits had given place to a still, deep flood of feeling, which her reason never attempted to restrain. Even when withhimshe spoke little. Her happiness was too intense to find a vent in words; and thus she nursed and fed a flame, that needed only the breath of accident to make it burst forth with a violence that should burn up or overleap all the barriers of self–control.Nor must the reader imagine that Ethelston was dull or blind, because he observed not the state of Nina’s affections. His own were firmly rooted elsewhere; he was neither of a vain nor a romantic disposition; and he had been duly informed by Monsieur L’Estrange, that in the course of two years Nina was to be married to Monsieur Bertrand, the young planter, to whom, as we have before mentioned, she had been betrothed by her parents since her thirteenth year. He could not help seeing that, although her intellect was quick, and her character enthusiastic, her education had been shamefully neglected both by Madame L’Estrange and the governess. Hence he spoke, counselled, and sometimes chid her, in the tone of an elder brother, heedless of the almost imperceptible line that separates friendship from love in the bosom of a girl nurtured under a West Indian sun.In this state were matters, when, on a fine evening, Ethelston strolled alone into his favourite orange–grove, to look out upon the ocean, and, in the enjoyment of its refreshing breeze, to ruminate on his strange captivity, and revolve various plans of escape.Captain L’Estrange had paid a visit to his home on the preceding day, and finding his prisoner so completely restored to health and strength, had said to him, jokingly, “Indeed,fair sir, I think I must put you on your parole, or in chains; for, after the character given of you by my son, I cannot allow so dangerous a person to be at large during the continuance of hostilities between our respective nations.”Ethelston answered, half in earnest, and half in jest, “Nay, sir, then I must wear the chains, for assuredly I cannot give my parole; if an American vessel were to come in sight, or any other means of flight to offer itself, depend upon it, in spite of the kindness and hospitality I have met with here, I should weigh anchor in a moment.”“Well, that is a fair warning,” said the old Commodore; “nevertheless I will not lock you up just yet, for I do not think it very likely that any strange sail will come under the guns of our fort; and I will run the risk of your flying away on the back of a sea–gull.” Thus had they parted; and the old gentleman was again absent on a cruise.Ethelston was, as we have said, reclining listlessly under an orange–tree, inhaling the cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of its blossoms, now devising impossible plans of escape, and now musing on a vision of Lucy’s graceful figure, gliding among the deep woods around Mooshanne. As these thoughts passed through his mind, they imparted a melancholy shade to his brow, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips.It was echoed by one yet deeper, close to his ear; and starting from his reverie, he beheld Nina, who had approached him unawares, and who, leaning on her guitar, had been for the last few minutes gazing on his countenance with an absorbed intensity, more fond and riveted than that with which the miser regards his treasure, or the widowed mother her only child.When she found herself perceived, she came forward, and covering her emotion under an assumed gaiety, she said, “What is my kind instructor thinking of? He seems more grave and sad than usual.”“He is thinking,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly, “that he ought to scold a certain young lady very severely for coming upon him slily, and witnessing that gravity and sadness in which a captive must sometimes indulge, but which her presence has already dissipated.”“Nay,” said Nina, still holding her guitar, and sitting down on the bank near him; “you know that I am onlyobeying papa’s orders in watching you; for he says you would not give your parole, and I am sure you were thinking of your escape from Guadaloupe.”“Perhaps you might have guessed more wide of the mark, Mademoiselle Nina,” said Ethelston.“And are you then so very anxious to—to—see your home again?” inquired Nina, hesitating.“Judge for yourself, Nina,” he replied, “when I remind you that for many months I have heard nothing of those who have been my nearest and dearest friends from childhood; nothing of the brave men who were captured with me when our poor brig was lost!”“Tell me about your friends and your home. Is it very beautiful? Have you the warm sun, and the fresh sea–breeze, and the orange–flowers, that we have here?”“Scarcely,” replied Ethelston, smiling at the earnest rapidity with which the beautiful girl based her inquiries on the scene before her; “but we have in their place rivers, on the bosom of which your father’s frigate might sail; groves and woods of deep shade, impenetrable to the rays of the hottest sun; and prairies smiling with the most brilliant and variegated flowers.”“Oh! how I should love to see that land!” exclaimed Nina, her fervid imagination instantly grasping and heightening its beauties. “How I should love to dwell there!”“Nay, it appears to me not unlikely that you should at some time visit it,” replied Ethelston. “This foolish war between our countries will soon be over, and your father may wish to see a region the scenery of which is so magnificent, and which is not difficult of access from here.”“Papa will never leave these islands, unless he goes to France, and that he hates,” said Nina.“Well then,” continued Ethelston, smiling, as he alluded for the first time to her marriage, “you must defer your American trip a year or two longer; then, doubtless, Monsieur Bertrand will gladly gratify your desire to see the Mississippi.”Nina started as if stung by an adder; the blood rushed and mantled over her face and neck; her eyes glowed with indignation, as she exclaimed, “I abhor and detest Monsieur Bertrand. I would die before I would marry him!” Thenadding in a low voice, the sadness of which went to his heart, “and this from you too!” She covered her face with her hands and wept.Never was man more astonished than Ethelston at the sudden storm which he had inadvertently raised. Remembering that Madame L’Estrange had told him of the engagement as being known to Nina, he had been led to suppose from her usual flow of spirits, that the prospect was far from being disagreeable to her. Young L’Estrange had also told him that Bertrand was a good looking man, of high character, and considered, from his wealth, as the best match in the French islands; so that Ethelston was altogether unprepared for the violent aversion which Nina now avowed for the marriage, and for the grief by which she seemed so deeply agitated. Still he was as far as ever from divining the true cause of her emotion, and conjectured that she had probably formed an attachment to one of the young officers on board her father’s ship. Under this impression he took her hand, and sympathising with the grief of one so fair and so young, he said to her kindly, “Forgive me, Nina, if I have said any thing to hurt your feelings; indeed I always have believed that your engagement to Monsieur Bertrand was an affair settled by your parents entirely with your consent. I am sure Monsieur L’Estrange loves his favourite child too well to compel her to a marriage against her inclination. Will you permit your Mentor (as you have more than once allowed me to call myself) to speak with him on the subject?”Nina made no reply, and the tears coursed each other yet faster down her cheek.“Your brother is absent,” continued Ethelston; “you seem not to confide your little secrets to your mother—will you not let me aid you by my advice? I am many years older than you.—I am deeply grateful for all your kindness during my tedious illness; believe me, I will, if you will only trust me, advise you with the affectionate interest of a parent, or an elder brother.”The little hand trembled violently in his, but still no reply escaped from Nina’s lips.“If you will not tell me your secret,” pursued Ethelston, “I must guess it. Your aversion to the engagement arises not so much from your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand, as from yourpreference of some other, whom perhaps your parents would not approve?”The hand was withdrawn, being employed in an ineffectual attempt to check her tears. The slight fillet which bound her black tresses had given way, and they now fell in disorder, veiling the deep crimson glow which again mantled over the neck of the weeping girl.Ethelston gazed on her with emotions of deep sympathy. There was a reality, a dignity about her speechless grief, that must have moved a sterner heart than his; and as he looked upon the heaving of her bosom, and upon the exquisite proportions unconsciously developed in her attitude, he suddenly felt that he was speaking, not to a child in the nursery, but to a girl in whose form and heart the bud and blossom of womanhood were thus early ripened. It was, therefore, in a tone, not less kind, but more respectful than he had hitherto used, that he said, “Nay, Nina, I desire not to pry into your secrets—I only wish to assure you of the deep sympathy which I feel with your sorrow, and of my desire to aid or comfort you by any means within my power; but if my curiosity offends you, I will retire, in the hope that your own gentle thoughts may soon afford you relief.”Again the little hand was laid upon his arm, as Nina, still weeping, whispered, “No, no,—you do not offend me.—Do not leave me, I entreat you!”A painful silence ensued; and Ethelston, more than ever confirmed in the belief that she had bestowed her affections on some young middy, or lieutenant, under her father’s command, continued, in a tone which he attempted to render gay: “Well then, Nina, since you will not give your confidence to Mentor, he must appoint himself your confessor; and to commence, is he right in believing that your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand arises from your having given your heart elsewhere?”There was no reply; but her head was bowed in token of acquiescence!“I need not inquire,” pursued he, “whether the object of your choice is, in rank and character, worthy of your affection?”In an instant the drooping head was raised, and the dark tresses thrown back from her brow, as, with her eyes flashing through the moisture by which they were still bedewed, Nina replied, “Worthy!—worthy the affection of a queen!”Ethelston, startled by her energy, was about to resume his inquiries, when Nina, whose excited spirit triumphed for the moment over all restraint, stopped him, saying, “I will spare you the trouble of further questions. I will tell you freely, that till lately, very lately, I cared for none.—Monsieur Bertrand and all others were alike to me; but fate threw a stranger in my path.—He was a friend of my brother;—he was wounded.—For hours and hours I watched by his couch;—he revived;—his looks were gentle; his voice was music.—I drew counsel from his lips;—he filled my thoughts, my dreams, my heart, my being! But he—he considered me only as a silly child;—he understood not my heart;—he mocked my agony;—he saved my brother’s life,—and is now accomplishing the sister’s death!”The excitement which supported Nina during the commencement of this speech gradually died away. Towards its close, her voice grew tremulous, and as the last words escaped her quivering lips, exhausted nature gave way under the burden of her emotion, and she fainted!The feelings of Ethelston may be better imagined than described. As the dreadful import of the poor girl’s words gradually broke upon him, his cheeks grew paler and paler; and when, at their conclusion, her senseless form lay extended at his feet, the cold dew of agony stood in drops upon his forehead! But Nina’s condition demanded immediate aid and attention. Mastering himself by a powerful effort, he snatched a lemon from a neighbouring tree; he cut it in half, and sustaining the still insensible girl, he chafed her hands, and rubbed her temples with the cool refreshing juice of the fruit. After a time, he had the consolation of seeing her restored gradually to her senses; and a faint smile came over her countenance as she found herself supported by his arm. Still she closed her eyes, as if in a happy dream, which Ethelston could not bring himself to disturb; and, as the luxuriant black tresses only half veiled the touching beauty of her countenance, he groaned at the reflection that he had inadvertently been the means of shedding the blight of unrequited love on a budding flower of such exquisite loveliness. A long silence ensued, softened, rather than interrupted, by the low wind as it whispered through the leaves of the orange–grove; while the surrounding landscape, and the wide expanse of ocean, glowedwith the red golden tints of the parting sun. Nounplightedheart could have resisted all the assailing temptations of that hour. But Ethelston’s heart was not unplighted; and the high principle and generous warmth of his nature served only to deepen the pain and sadness of the present moment. He formed, however, his resolution; and as soon as he found that Nina was restored to consciousness, and to a certain degree of composure, he gently withdrew the arm which had supported her, and said, in a voice of most melancholy earnestness, “Dear Nina! I will not pretend to misunderstand what you have said. I have much to tell you; but I have not now enough command over myself to speak, while you are still too agitated to listen. Meet me here to–morrow at this same hour; meanwhile, I entreat you, recall those harsh and unkind thoughts which you entertained of me; and believe me, dear, dear sister, that I would, rather than have mocked your feelings, have died on that feverish couch, from which your care revived me.” So saying, he hastened from her presence in a tumult of agitation scarcely less than her own.For a long time she sat motionless, in a kind of waking dream; his parting words yet dwelt in her ear, and her passionate heart construed them now according to its own wild throbbings, now according to its gloomiest fears. “He has much to tell me,” mused she; “he called me dear Nina; he spoke not in a voice of indifference; his eye was full of a troubled expression that I could not read. Alas! alas, ‘twas only pity! He called me ‘dear sister!’—what can he mean?—Oh that to–morrow were come! I shall not outlive the night unless I can believe that he loves me!” And then she fell again into a reverie; during which all the looks and tones that her partial fancy had interpreted, and her too faithful memory had treasured, were recalled, and repeated in a thousand shapes; until, exhausted by her agitation, and warned by the darkness of the hour, Nina retired to her sleepless couch.Meanwhile Ethelston, when he found himself alone in his room, scrutinised with the most unsparing severity his past conduct, endeavouring to remember every careless or unheeded word by which he could have awakened or encouraged her unsuspected affection. He could only blame himself that he had not been more observant; that he had considered Ninatoo much in the light of a child; and had habitually spoken to her in a tone of playful and confidential familiarity. Thus, though his conscience acquitted him of the most remote intention of trifling with her feelings, he accused himself of having neglected to keep a watchful guard over his language and behaviour, and resolved, at the risk of incurring her anger or her hatred, to tell her firmly and explicitly on the morrow, that he could not requite her attachment as it deserved, his heart having been long and faithfully devoted to another.
c113
IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND THAT THE COUCH OF AN INVALID HAS PERILS NOT LESS FORMIDABLE THAN THOSE WHICH ARE TO BE ENCOUNTERED AT SEA.
We left Ethelston stretched on a sick couch in Guadaloupe, in the house of Captain L’Estrange, and tended by his daughter Nina, and by her brother, the young lieutenant. The latter grew daily more attached to the patient, who had been his captor, and was now his prisoner; but he was obliged, as soonas Ethelston was pronounced out of danger, to sail for Europe, as he was anxious to obtain that professional distinction which his parole prevented his gaining in service against the United States. And in France there seemed a promising harvest of combat and of glory, sufficient to satisfy the martial enthusiasm even of the most adventurous of her sons. When he sailed, he again and again pressed upon his sister to bestow every attention upon Ethelston; and as the Captain was much busied with his command, and as Madame L’Estrange was entirely devoted to her boudoir,—where, with two chattering parrots to amuse her, and a little black girl to fan her while listlessly poring over the pages of Florian in a fauteuil,—the whole charge devolved upon the willing and kind–hearted Nina. She was the third and youngest daughter of Monsieur and Madame L’Estrange; but (her two elder sisters being married) she was the only one resident with her parents.
Sixteen summers had now passed over her, and her disposition was like that of her brother,—frank, impetuous, and warm–hearted. Her feelings had never been guided or regulated by her handsome but indolent mother; her mind had been allowed to seek its food at hap–hazard among the romances, poems, and plays upon the shelves in the drawing–room. Her father spoilt and her brother petted her. A governess also she had, whom she governed, and to whose instructions she owed little, except a moderate proficiency in music. Her countenance was a very beautiful mirror, reflecting the warm and impassioned features of her character. Her complexion was dark, though clear, and her hair black and glossy. The pencilling of her eyebrows was exceedingly delicate; and the eyes themselves were large, speaking, and glowing with that humid lustre which distinguishes creole beauty. Nothing could exceed the rosy fulness of her lip, and the even whiteness of the teeth which her joyous smile disclosed. Her figure was exquisitely proportioned; and her every movement a very model of natural grace. She seemed, indeed, impregnated with the fervour of the sunny climate in which she had been reared; and her temper, her imagination, her passions, all glowed with its ardent but dangerous warmth. According to the usage of her country, she had been betrothed, when a child, to a neighbouring planter, one of the richest in the island; but as he was absent in Europe, and there remained yet two years before the time fixed for the fulfilmentof the contract, she rarely troubled her head about the marriage or her future destiny.
Such was the girl who now officiated as nurse to Ethelston, and who, before she had seen him, had gathered from her brother such traits of his character as had called forth all the interest and sympathy of her romantic disposition. Although not eminently handsome, we have before noted that his countenance was manly and expressive, and his manners courteous and engaging. Perhaps also the weakness, remaining after the crisis of his fever, imparted to the usually gentle expression of his features that touching attraction which is called by a modern poet “a loving languor.” At all events, certain it is, that ere poor Nina had administered the third saline draughd to her grateful patient, her little heart beat vehemently; and when she had attended his feverish couch one short week, she was desperately in love!
How fared it in the meantime with Ethelston? Did his heart run any risk from the dark eloquent eyes, and the gracefully rounded form of the ministering angel who hovered about his sick–room? At present none, for Lucy was shrined there; and he had been taught by young L’Estrange to consider his sister in the light of a nursery–girl, still under the dominion of the governess.
Days and weeks elapsed, Ethelston’s recovery progressed, and he was able to stroll in the shade of the orange and citron groves which sheltered Captain L’Estrange’s villa to the northward. Here, with his eyes fixed on the sea, would he sometimes sit for hours, and devise schemes for returning to his home. On these occasions he was frequently accompanied by Nina, who walked by his side with her guitar in her hand; and under the pretence of receiving instructions from him in music, she would listen with delight, and hang with rapture on every syllable that he uttered. Though he could not avoid being sensible of her ripening beauty, his heart was protected by the seven–fold shield of a deep and abiding attachment; and as he still looked upon Nina as a lovely girl, completing her education in the nursery, he gladly gave her all the assistance that she asked under her musical difficulties; and this he was able to do, from having made no small proficiency in the science during his long residence in Germany.
Sometimes he paid his respects to Madame L’Estrange; butthat lady was so indolent, and so exclusively devoted to her parrots and her lap–dog, that his visits to her were neither frequent nor of long duration. The Captain was very seldom ashore; and thus Ethelston was obliged to spend his time alone, or in the society of the young girl who had nursed him so kindly during his illness. Her character seemed to have undergone a sudden and complete change. The conquering god, who had at first only taken possession of the outworks of her fancy, had now made himself master of the citadel of her heart. She loved with all the intense absorbing passion of a nature that had never known control. The gaiety and buoyancy of her spirits had given place to a still, deep flood of feeling, which her reason never attempted to restrain. Even when withhimshe spoke little. Her happiness was too intense to find a vent in words; and thus she nursed and fed a flame, that needed only the breath of accident to make it burst forth with a violence that should burn up or overleap all the barriers of self–control.
Nor must the reader imagine that Ethelston was dull or blind, because he observed not the state of Nina’s affections. His own were firmly rooted elsewhere; he was neither of a vain nor a romantic disposition; and he had been duly informed by Monsieur L’Estrange, that in the course of two years Nina was to be married to Monsieur Bertrand, the young planter, to whom, as we have before mentioned, she had been betrothed by her parents since her thirteenth year. He could not help seeing that, although her intellect was quick, and her character enthusiastic, her education had been shamefully neglected both by Madame L’Estrange and the governess. Hence he spoke, counselled, and sometimes chid her, in the tone of an elder brother, heedless of the almost imperceptible line that separates friendship from love in the bosom of a girl nurtured under a West Indian sun.
In this state were matters, when, on a fine evening, Ethelston strolled alone into his favourite orange–grove, to look out upon the ocean, and, in the enjoyment of its refreshing breeze, to ruminate on his strange captivity, and revolve various plans of escape.
Captain L’Estrange had paid a visit to his home on the preceding day, and finding his prisoner so completely restored to health and strength, had said to him, jokingly, “Indeed,fair sir, I think I must put you on your parole, or in chains; for, after the character given of you by my son, I cannot allow so dangerous a person to be at large during the continuance of hostilities between our respective nations.”
Ethelston answered, half in earnest, and half in jest, “Nay, sir, then I must wear the chains, for assuredly I cannot give my parole; if an American vessel were to come in sight, or any other means of flight to offer itself, depend upon it, in spite of the kindness and hospitality I have met with here, I should weigh anchor in a moment.”
“Well, that is a fair warning,” said the old Commodore; “nevertheless I will not lock you up just yet, for I do not think it very likely that any strange sail will come under the guns of our fort; and I will run the risk of your flying away on the back of a sea–gull.” Thus had they parted; and the old gentleman was again absent on a cruise.
Ethelston was, as we have said, reclining listlessly under an orange–tree, inhaling the cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of its blossoms, now devising impossible plans of escape, and now musing on a vision of Lucy’s graceful figure, gliding among the deep woods around Mooshanne. As these thoughts passed through his mind, they imparted a melancholy shade to his brow, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips.
It was echoed by one yet deeper, close to his ear; and starting from his reverie, he beheld Nina, who had approached him unawares, and who, leaning on her guitar, had been for the last few minutes gazing on his countenance with an absorbed intensity, more fond and riveted than that with which the miser regards his treasure, or the widowed mother her only child.
When she found herself perceived, she came forward, and covering her emotion under an assumed gaiety, she said, “What is my kind instructor thinking of? He seems more grave and sad than usual.”
“He is thinking,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly, “that he ought to scold a certain young lady very severely for coming upon him slily, and witnessing that gravity and sadness in which a captive must sometimes indulge, but which her presence has already dissipated.”
“Nay,” said Nina, still holding her guitar, and sitting down on the bank near him; “you know that I am onlyobeying papa’s orders in watching you; for he says you would not give your parole, and I am sure you were thinking of your escape from Guadaloupe.”
“Perhaps you might have guessed more wide of the mark, Mademoiselle Nina,” said Ethelston.
“And are you then so very anxious to—to—see your home again?” inquired Nina, hesitating.
“Judge for yourself, Nina,” he replied, “when I remind you that for many months I have heard nothing of those who have been my nearest and dearest friends from childhood; nothing of the brave men who were captured with me when our poor brig was lost!”
“Tell me about your friends and your home. Is it very beautiful? Have you the warm sun, and the fresh sea–breeze, and the orange–flowers, that we have here?”
“Scarcely,” replied Ethelston, smiling at the earnest rapidity with which the beautiful girl based her inquiries on the scene before her; “but we have in their place rivers, on the bosom of which your father’s frigate might sail; groves and woods of deep shade, impenetrable to the rays of the hottest sun; and prairies smiling with the most brilliant and variegated flowers.”
“Oh! how I should love to see that land!” exclaimed Nina, her fervid imagination instantly grasping and heightening its beauties. “How I should love to dwell there!”
“Nay, it appears to me not unlikely that you should at some time visit it,” replied Ethelston. “This foolish war between our countries will soon be over, and your father may wish to see a region the scenery of which is so magnificent, and which is not difficult of access from here.”
“Papa will never leave these islands, unless he goes to France, and that he hates,” said Nina.
“Well then,” continued Ethelston, smiling, as he alluded for the first time to her marriage, “you must defer your American trip a year or two longer; then, doubtless, Monsieur Bertrand will gladly gratify your desire to see the Mississippi.”
Nina started as if stung by an adder; the blood rushed and mantled over her face and neck; her eyes glowed with indignation, as she exclaimed, “I abhor and detest Monsieur Bertrand. I would die before I would marry him!” Thenadding in a low voice, the sadness of which went to his heart, “and this from you too!” She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Never was man more astonished than Ethelston at the sudden storm which he had inadvertently raised. Remembering that Madame L’Estrange had told him of the engagement as being known to Nina, he had been led to suppose from her usual flow of spirits, that the prospect was far from being disagreeable to her. Young L’Estrange had also told him that Bertrand was a good looking man, of high character, and considered, from his wealth, as the best match in the French islands; so that Ethelston was altogether unprepared for the violent aversion which Nina now avowed for the marriage, and for the grief by which she seemed so deeply agitated. Still he was as far as ever from divining the true cause of her emotion, and conjectured that she had probably formed an attachment to one of the young officers on board her father’s ship. Under this impression he took her hand, and sympathising with the grief of one so fair and so young, he said to her kindly, “Forgive me, Nina, if I have said any thing to hurt your feelings; indeed I always have believed that your engagement to Monsieur Bertrand was an affair settled by your parents entirely with your consent. I am sure Monsieur L’Estrange loves his favourite child too well to compel her to a marriage against her inclination. Will you permit your Mentor (as you have more than once allowed me to call myself) to speak with him on the subject?”
Nina made no reply, and the tears coursed each other yet faster down her cheek.
“Your brother is absent,” continued Ethelston; “you seem not to confide your little secrets to your mother—will you not let me aid you by my advice? I am many years older than you.—I am deeply grateful for all your kindness during my tedious illness; believe me, I will, if you will only trust me, advise you with the affectionate interest of a parent, or an elder brother.”
The little hand trembled violently in his, but still no reply escaped from Nina’s lips.
“If you will not tell me your secret,” pursued Ethelston, “I must guess it. Your aversion to the engagement arises not so much from your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand, as from yourpreference of some other, whom perhaps your parents would not approve?”
The hand was withdrawn, being employed in an ineffectual attempt to check her tears. The slight fillet which bound her black tresses had given way, and they now fell in disorder, veiling the deep crimson glow which again mantled over the neck of the weeping girl.
Ethelston gazed on her with emotions of deep sympathy. There was a reality, a dignity about her speechless grief, that must have moved a sterner heart than his; and as he looked upon the heaving of her bosom, and upon the exquisite proportions unconsciously developed in her attitude, he suddenly felt that he was speaking, not to a child in the nursery, but to a girl in whose form and heart the bud and blossom of womanhood were thus early ripened. It was, therefore, in a tone, not less kind, but more respectful than he had hitherto used, that he said, “Nay, Nina, I desire not to pry into your secrets—I only wish to assure you of the deep sympathy which I feel with your sorrow, and of my desire to aid or comfort you by any means within my power; but if my curiosity offends you, I will retire, in the hope that your own gentle thoughts may soon afford you relief.”
Again the little hand was laid upon his arm, as Nina, still weeping, whispered, “No, no,—you do not offend me.—Do not leave me, I entreat you!”
A painful silence ensued; and Ethelston, more than ever confirmed in the belief that she had bestowed her affections on some young middy, or lieutenant, under her father’s command, continued, in a tone which he attempted to render gay: “Well then, Nina, since you will not give your confidence to Mentor, he must appoint himself your confessor; and to commence, is he right in believing that your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand arises from your having given your heart elsewhere?”
There was no reply; but her head was bowed in token of acquiescence!
“I need not inquire,” pursued he, “whether the object of your choice is, in rank and character, worthy of your affection?”
In an instant the drooping head was raised, and the dark tresses thrown back from her brow, as, with her eyes flashing through the moisture by which they were still bedewed, Nina replied, “Worthy!—worthy the affection of a queen!”
Ethelston, startled by her energy, was about to resume his inquiries, when Nina, whose excited spirit triumphed for the moment over all restraint, stopped him, saying, “I will spare you the trouble of further questions. I will tell you freely, that till lately, very lately, I cared for none.—Monsieur Bertrand and all others were alike to me; but fate threw a stranger in my path.—He was a friend of my brother;—he was wounded.—For hours and hours I watched by his couch;—he revived;—his looks were gentle; his voice was music.—I drew counsel from his lips;—he filled my thoughts, my dreams, my heart, my being! But he—he considered me only as a silly child;—he understood not my heart;—he mocked my agony;—he saved my brother’s life,—and is now accomplishing the sister’s death!”
The excitement which supported Nina during the commencement of this speech gradually died away. Towards its close, her voice grew tremulous, and as the last words escaped her quivering lips, exhausted nature gave way under the burden of her emotion, and she fainted!
The feelings of Ethelston may be better imagined than described. As the dreadful import of the poor girl’s words gradually broke upon him, his cheeks grew paler and paler; and when, at their conclusion, her senseless form lay extended at his feet, the cold dew of agony stood in drops upon his forehead! But Nina’s condition demanded immediate aid and attention. Mastering himself by a powerful effort, he snatched a lemon from a neighbouring tree; he cut it in half, and sustaining the still insensible girl, he chafed her hands, and rubbed her temples with the cool refreshing juice of the fruit. After a time, he had the consolation of seeing her restored gradually to her senses; and a faint smile came over her countenance as she found herself supported by his arm. Still she closed her eyes, as if in a happy dream, which Ethelston could not bring himself to disturb; and, as the luxuriant black tresses only half veiled the touching beauty of her countenance, he groaned at the reflection that he had inadvertently been the means of shedding the blight of unrequited love on a budding flower of such exquisite loveliness. A long silence ensued, softened, rather than interrupted, by the low wind as it whispered through the leaves of the orange–grove; while the surrounding landscape, and the wide expanse of ocean, glowedwith the red golden tints of the parting sun. Nounplightedheart could have resisted all the assailing temptations of that hour. But Ethelston’s heart was not unplighted; and the high principle and generous warmth of his nature served only to deepen the pain and sadness of the present moment. He formed, however, his resolution; and as soon as he found that Nina was restored to consciousness, and to a certain degree of composure, he gently withdrew the arm which had supported her, and said, in a voice of most melancholy earnestness, “Dear Nina! I will not pretend to misunderstand what you have said. I have much to tell you; but I have not now enough command over myself to speak, while you are still too agitated to listen. Meet me here to–morrow at this same hour; meanwhile, I entreat you, recall those harsh and unkind thoughts which you entertained of me; and believe me, dear, dear sister, that I would, rather than have mocked your feelings, have died on that feverish couch, from which your care revived me.” So saying, he hastened from her presence in a tumult of agitation scarcely less than her own.
For a long time she sat motionless, in a kind of waking dream; his parting words yet dwelt in her ear, and her passionate heart construed them now according to its own wild throbbings, now according to its gloomiest fears. “He has much to tell me,” mused she; “he called me dear Nina; he spoke not in a voice of indifference; his eye was full of a troubled expression that I could not read. Alas! alas, ‘twas only pity! He called me ‘dear sister!’—what can he mean?—Oh that to–morrow were come! I shall not outlive the night unless I can believe that he loves me!” And then she fell again into a reverie; during which all the looks and tones that her partial fancy had interpreted, and her too faithful memory had treasured, were recalled, and repeated in a thousand shapes; until, exhausted by her agitation, and warned by the darkness of the hour, Nina retired to her sleepless couch.
Meanwhile Ethelston, when he found himself alone in his room, scrutinised with the most unsparing severity his past conduct, endeavouring to remember every careless or unheeded word by which he could have awakened or encouraged her unsuspected affection. He could only blame himself that he had not been more observant; that he had considered Ninatoo much in the light of a child; and had habitually spoken to her in a tone of playful and confidential familiarity. Thus, though his conscience acquitted him of the most remote intention of trifling with her feelings, he accused himself of having neglected to keep a watchful guard over his language and behaviour, and resolved, at the risk of incurring her anger or her hatred, to tell her firmly and explicitly on the morrow, that he could not requite her attachment as it deserved, his heart having been long and faithfully devoted to another.
c114CHAPTER XIV.NARRATING THE TRIALS AND DANGERS THAT BESET ETHELSTON; AND HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THEM, AND FROM THE ISLAND OF GUADALOUPE.The night succeeding the occurrences related in the last chapter brought little rest to the pillow either of Nina or of Ethelston; and on the following day, as if by mutual agreement, they avoided each other’s presence, until the hour appointed for their meeting again in the orange–grove. Ethelston was firmly resolved to explain to her unreservedly his long engagement to Lucy, hoping that the feelings of Nina would prove, in this instance, rather impetuous than permanent. The tedious day appeared to her as if it never would draw to a close. She fled from her mother, and from the screaming parrots; she tried the guitar, but it seemed tuneless and discordant; her pencil and her book were by turns taken up, and as soon laid aside; she strolled even at midday into the orange–grove, to the spot where she had last sat by him, and a blush stole over her cheek when she remembered that she had been betrayed into an avowal of her love; and then came the doubt, the inquiry, whether he felt any love for her? Thus did she muse and ponder, until the hours, which in the morning had appeared to creep so slowly over the face of the dial, now glided unconsciously forward. The dinner–hour had passed unheeded; and before she had summoned any of the courage and firmness which she meant to call to her aid, Ethelston stood before her. He was surprisedat finding Nina on this spot, and had approached it long before the appointed time, in order that he might prepare himself for the difficult and painful task which he had undertaken. But though unprepared, his mind was of too firm and regulated a character to be surprised out of a fixed determination; and he came up and offered his hand to Nina, greeting her in his accustomed tone of familiar friendship. She received his salutation with evident embarrassment; her hand and her voice trembled, and her bosom throbbed in a tumult of anxiety and expectation. Ethelston saw that he could not defer the promised explanation; and he commenced it with his usual gentleness of manner, but with a firm resolve that he would be honest and explicit in his language. He began by referring to his long illness, and, with gratitude, to her care and attention during its continuance; he assured her, that having been told both by Madame L’Estrange and her brother, that she was affianced to Monsieur Bertrand, he had accustomed himself to look on her as a younger sister; and, as such, had ventured to offer her advice and instruction in her studies. He knew not, he dreamt not, that she could ever look upon him in any other light than that of a Mentor.Here he paused a moment, and continued in a deeper and more earnest tone “Nina—dear Nina, wemustbe as Mentor and his pupil to each other, or we must part. I will frankly lay my heart open to you. I will conceal nothing; then you will not blame me, and will, I hope, permit me to remain your grateful friend and brother. Nina, I am not blind either to your beauty, or to the many, many graces of your disposition. I do full justice to the warmth and truth of your affections: you deserve, when loved, to be loved with a whole heart—““O spare this!” interrupted Nina, in a hurried whisper: “Spare this, speak of yourself!”“I was even about to do so,” continued Ethelston; “but, Nina, such a heart I have not to give. For many months and years, before I ever saw or knew you, I have loved, and still am betrothed to another.”A cold shudder seemed to pass through Nina’s frame while these few words were spoken, as if in a moment the health, the hope, the blossom of her youth were blighted! Not a tear, not even a sob, gave relief to her agony; herbloodless lip trembled in a vain attempt to speak she knew not what, and a burning chill sat upon her heart. These words may appear to some strange and contradictory: happy, thrice happy, ye to whom they so appear! If you have never known what it is to feel at once a scorching heat parching the tongue, and drying up all the well–springs of life within, while a leaden weight of ice seems to benumb the heart, then have you never known the sharpest, extreme pangs of disappointed love!Ethelston was prepared for some sudden and violent expression on the part of Nina, but this death–like, motionless silence almost overpowered him. He attempted, by the gentlest and the kindest words, to arouse her from this stupor of grief. He took her hand; its touch was cold. Again and again he called her name; but her ear seemed insensible, even to his voice. At length, unable to bear the sight of her distress, and fearful that he might no longer restrain his tongue from uttering words which would be treason to his first and faithful love, he rushed into the house, and hastily informing Nina’s governess that her pupil had been suddenly taken ill in the orange–grove, he locked himself in his room, and gave vent to the contending emotions by which he was oppressed.It was in vain that he strove to calm himself by the reflection that he had intentionally transgressed none of the demands of truth and honour;—it was in vain that he called up all the long–cherished recollections of his Lucy and his home;—still the image of Nina would not be banished; now presenting itself as he had seen her yesterday, in the full glow of passion, and in the full bloom of youthful beauty,—and now, as he had just left her, in the deadly paleness and fixed apathy of despair. The terrible thought that, whether guiltily or innocently, he had been the cause of all this suffering in one to whom he owed protection and gratitude, wrung his heart with pain that he could not repress; and he found relief only in falling on his knees, and praying to the Almighty that the sin might not be laid to his charge, and that Nina’s sorrow might be soothed and comforted by Him, who is the God of consolation.Meanwhile the governess had, with the assistance of two of the negro attendants, brought Nina into the house. The poorgirl continued in the same state of insensibility to all that was passing around; her eyes were open, but she seemed to recognise no one, and a few vague indistinct words still trembled on her lips.The doctor was instantly summoned, who pronounced, as soon as he had seen his patient, that she was in a dangerous fit, using sundry mysterious expressions about “febrile symptoms,” and “pressure on the brain,” to which the worthy leech added shakings of the head yet more mysterious.For many days her condition continued alarming; the threatened fever came, and with it a protracted state of delirium. During this period Ethelston’s anxiety and agitation were extreme; and proportionate was the relief that he experienced, when he learnt that the crisis was past, and that the youthful strength of her constitution promised speedy recovery.Meanwhile he had to endure the oft–repeated inquiries of the governess, “How he happened to find Mademoiselle just as the fit came on?” and of Madame L’Estrange, “How it was possible for Nina to be attacked by so sudden an illness, while walking in the orange–grove?”When she was at length pronounced out of danger, Ethelston again began to consider various projects for his meditated escape from the island. He had more than once held communication with his faithful Cupid on the subject, who was ready to brave all risks in the service of his master; but the distance which must be traversed before they could expect to find a friendly ship or coast, seemed to exclude all reasonable hope of success.It would be impossible to follow and portray the thousand changes that came over Nina’s spirit during her recovery. She remembered but too well the words that Ethelston had last spoken: at one moment she called him perfidious, ungrateful, heartless; then she chid herself for railing at him, and loaded his name with every blessing, and the expression of the fondest affection: now she resolved that she would never see nor speak to him more; then she thought that she must see him, if it were only to show how she had conquered her weakness. Amidst all these contending resolutions, she worked herself into the belief that Ethelston had deceived her; and that, because he thought her a child, and did not love her, hehad invented the tale of his previous engagement to lessen her mortification. This soon became her settled conviction; and when it crossed her mind, she would start with passion and exclaim, “He shall yet love me, and me alone!”The only confidant of her love was a young negress, who waited upon her, and who was indeed so devoted to her that she would have braved the Commodore’s utmost wrath, or perilled her life, to execute her mistress’ commands.It happened one evening that this girl, whose name was Fanchette, went out to gather some fruit in the orange–grove; and while thus employed she heard the voice of some one speaking. On drawing nearer to the spot whence the sound proceeded, she saw Ethelston sitting under the deep shade of a tree, with what appeared a book before him.Knowing that Nina was still confined to her room, he had resorted hither to consider his schemes without interruption, and was so busily employed in comparing distances, and calculating possibilities, on the map before him, that Fanchette easily crept to a place whence she could, unperceived, overhear and observe him. “I must and will attempt it,” he muttered aloud to himself; “we must steal a boat. Cupid and I can manage it between us; my duty and my love both forbid my staying longer here: with a fishing–boat we might reach Antigua or Dominica, or at all events chance to fall in with an American or a neutral vessel. Poor dear Nina,” he added, in a lower tone. “Would to God I had never visited this shore!this,” he continued, drawing a locket from his breast, “this treasured remembrance of one far distant has made me proof against thy charms, cold to thy love, but not, as Heaven is my witness, unmoved or insensible to thy sufferings.” So saying he relapsed into silent musing; and as he replaced the locket, Fanchette crept noiselessly from her concealment, and ran to communicate to her young mistress her version of what she had seen. Being very imperfectly skilled in English, she put her own construction upon those few words which she had caught, and thought to serve Nina best by telling her what she would most like to hear. Thus she described to her how Ethelston had spoken to himself over a map; how he had mentioned islands to which he would sail; how he had named her name with tenderness, and had taken something from his vest to press it to his lips.Poor Nina listened in a tumult of joy; her passionate heart would admit no doubting suggestion of her reason. She was too happy to bear even the presence of Fanchette, and rewarding her for her good news by the present of a beautiful shawl which she wore at the moment, pushed the delighted little negress out of the room, and threw herself on her couch, where she repeated a hundred times thathehad been to her orange–grove, where they had last parted, had named her name with tenderness, had pressed some token to his lips—what could that be? It might be a flower, a book, any thing—it mattered not—so long as she only knew he loved her! Having long wept with impassioned joy, she determined to show herself worthy of his love; and the schemes which she formed, and resolved to carry into effect, evinced the wild force and energy of her romantic character. Among her father’s slaves was one who, being a steady and skilful seaman, had the charge of a schooner (originally an American prize), which lay in the harbour, and which the Commodore sometimes used as a pleasure–yacht, or for short trips to other parts of the island: this man (whose name was Jacques) was not only a great favourite with the young lady, but was also smitten with the black eyes and plump charms of M’amselle Fanchette, who thus exercised over him a sway little short of absolute. Nina having held a conference with her abigail, sent for Jacques, who was also admitted to a confidential consultation, the result of which, after–occurrences will explain to the reader. When this was over, she acquired, rather than assumed, a sudden composure and cheerfulness: the delights of a plot seemed at once to restore her to health; and on the following day she sent to request that Ethelston would come to see her in her boudoir, where she received him with a calmness and self–possession for which he was altogether unprepared. “Mr. Ethelston,” said she, as soon as he was seated, “I believe you still desire to escape from your prison, and that you are devising various plans for effecting that object; you will never succeed unless you call me into your counsel.”Ethelston, though extremely surprised at the composure of her manner and language, replied with a smile, “M’amselle Nina, I will not deny that you have rightly guessed mythoughts; but as your father is my jailor, I did not dare to ask your counsel in this matter.”“Well, Mr. Mentor,” said the wayward girl, “how does your wisdom propose to act without my counsel?”“I confess I am somewhat at a loss,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly; “I must go either through the air or the water; and the latter, being my proper element, is the path which I would rather attempt.”“And what should you think of me, if I were to play the traitoress, and aid you in eluding the vigilance of my father, and afford the means of escape to so formidable an enemy?”Ethelston was completely puzzled by this playful tone of banter, in one whom he had last seen under a paroxysm of passion, and in whose dark eye there yet lurked an expression which he could not define; but he resolved to continue the conversation in the same spirit, and replied, “I would not blame you for this act of filial disobedience; and though no longer your father’s prisoner, I would, if I escaped, ever remain his friend.”“And would you show no gratitude to the lady who effected your release?”“I owe her already more—far more, than I can pay; and, for this last crowning act of her generosity and kindness, I would—“As he hesitated, she inquired, abruptly, “You would what, Ethelston?” For a moment she had forgotten the part she was acting; and both the look that accompanied these words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, reminded him that he stood on the brink of a volcanic crater.“I would give her any proof of my gratitude that she would deign to accept, yesany,” he repeated earnestly, “even to life itself, knowing that she is too noble and generous to accept aught at my hands which faith and honour forbid me to offer.”Nina turned aside for a moment, overcome by her emotion; but recovering herself quickly, she added, in her former tone of pleasantry, “She will not impose any hard conditions; but to the purpose; has your sailor–eye noticed a certain little schooner anchored in the harbour?”“What!” said Ethelston, eagerly, “a beautiful craft, of about twenty tons, on the other side of the bay?”“Even the same.”“Surely I have! She is American built, and swims like a duck.”“Well then,” replied Nina, “I think I shall do no great harm in restoring her to an American! How many men should you require to manage her?”“I could sail her easily with one able seaman, besides my black friend Cupid.”“Then,” said Nina, “I propose to lend her to you; you may send her back at your convenience; and I will also provide you an able seaman: write me a list of the stores and articles which you will require for the trip, and send it me in an hour’s time: prepare your own baggage, and be ready upon the shortest notice. It is now my turn to command, and yours to obey. Good–b’ye, Mr. Mentor.” So saying, she kissed her hand to him, and withdrew.Ethelston rubbed his eyes as if he did not believe their evidence. “Could this merry, ready–witted girl be the same as the Nina whom he had seen, ten days before, heart–broken, and unable to conceal or repress the violence of her passion?” The longer he mused, the more was he puzzled; and he came at length to a conclusion at which many, more wise and more foolish than himself, had arrived, that a woman’s mind, when influenced by her affections, is a riddle hard to be solved. He had not, however, much time for reflection, and being resolved at all risks to escape from the island, he hastened to his room, and, within the hour specified by Nina, sent her a list of the stores and provisions for the voyage.Meanwhile Fanchette had not been idle: she had painted to Jacques, in the liveliest colours, the wealth, beauty, and freedom of the distant land of Ohio, artfully mingling with this description promises and allurements which operated more directly on the feelings of her black swain; so that the latter, finding himself entreated by Fanchette, and commanded by his young mistress, hesitated no longer to betray his trust, and desert the Commodore.Ethelston, having communicated the prosperous state of affairs to Cupid, and desired him to have all ready for immediate escape, hastened to obey another summons sent to him by Nina. He found her in a mood no less cheerful than before; and although she purposely averted her face, a smile, themeaning of which he could not define, played round the corner of her expressive mouth. Though really glad to escape homeward, and disposed to be grateful to Nina for her aid, he could not help feeling angry and vexed at the capricious eagerness with which she busied herself in contriving the departure of one to whom she had so lately given the strongest demonstration of tenderness; and although his heart told him that he could not love her, there was something in this easy and sudden withdrawal of her affection which wounded that self–love from which the best of men are not altogether free. These feelings gave an unusual coldness and constraint to his manner, when he inquired her further commands.To this question Nina replied by saying, “Then, Mr. Ethelston, you are quite resolved to leave us, and to risk all the chances and perils of this voyage?”“Quite,” he replied: “it is my wish, my duty, and my firm determination; and I entered the room,” he added, almost in a tone of reproof, “desirous of repeating to you my thanks for your kind assistance.”Nina’s countenance changed; but, still averting it from Ethelston, she continued in a lower voice, “And do you leave us without pain—without regret?”There was a tremor, a natural feeling in the tone in which she uttered these few words, that recalled to his mind all that he had seen her suffer, and drove from it the harsh thoughts which he had begun to entertain; and he answered, in a voice from which his self–command could not banish all traces of emotion, “Dear Nina, I shall leave you with regret that would amount to misery, if I thought that my visit had brought any permanent unhappiness into this house. I desire to leave you as a Mentor should leave a beloved pupil—as a brother leaves a sister; with a full hope, that when I am gone, you will fulfil your parents’ wishes, your own auspicious destinies, and that, after years and years of happiness among those whom Fate has decreed to be the companions of your life, you will look back upon me as upon a faithful adviser of your youth,—an affectionate friend, who——“Nina’s nerves were not strung for the part she had undertaken: gradually her countenance had grown pale as marble; a choking sensation oppressed her throat; and she sunk in a chair, sobbing, rather than uttering, the word, “Water.”It was fortunately at hand; and having placed it in a glass by her side, Ethelston retired to the window to conceal his own emotion, and to allow time for that of Nina to subside.After a few minutes she recovered her self–possession; and although still deadly pale, her voice was distinct and firm, as she said, “Ethelston, I am ashamed of this weakness; but it is over: we will not speak of the past, and will leave to Fate the future. Now listen to me: all the arrangements for your departure will be complete by to–morrow evening. At an hour before midnight, a small boat, with one man, will be at the Quai du Marché, below the Place St. Louis. It is far from the fort, and there is no sentry near the spot: you can then row to the vessel and depart. But is it not too dangerous?” she added. “Can you risk it? for the wind whistles terribly, and I fear the approach of a hurricane!”Ethelston’s eye brightened as he replied, “A rough night is the fairest for the purpose, Nina.”“Be it so,” she replied. “Now, in return for all that I have done for you, there is only one favour I have to ask at your hands.”“Name it,” said Ethelston, eagerly.“There is,” she continued, “a poor sick youth in the town, the child of respectable parents in New Orleans; he desires to go home, if it be only to die there: and a nurse will take care of him on the passage, if you will let him go with you?”“Assuredly I will,” said Ethelston; “and will take as much care of him as if he were my brother.”“Nay,” said Nina, “they tell me he is ordered to be perfectly quiet, and no one attends him but the nurse; neither will he give any trouble, as the coxswain says there is a small cabin where he can remain alone and undisturbed.”“You may depend,” said Ethelston, “that all your orders about him shall be faithfully performed; and I will see, if I live, that he reaches his home in safety.”“He and his nurse will be on board before you,” said Nina; “and as soon as you reach the vessel, you have nothing to do but to escape as quick as you can. Now I must bid you farewell! I may not have spirits to see you again!” She held out her hand to him; it was cold as ice; her face was still half–averted, and her whole frame trembled violently.Ethelston took the offered hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, “A thousand, thousand thanks for all your kindness! If I reach home alive I will make your honoured father ample amends for the theft of his schooner; and if ever you have an opportunity to let me know that you are well and happy, do not forget that such news will always gladden my heart.” He turned to look at her as he went; he doubted whether the cold rigid apathy of her form and countenance was that of despair or of indifference; but he dared not trust himself longer in her presence; and as he left the room she sunk on the chair against which she had been leaning for support.When Ethelston found himself alone, he collected his thoughts, and endeavoured in vain to account for the strange deportment of Nina in bidding him farewell. The coldness of her manner, the abrupt brevity of her parting address, had surprised him; and yet the tremor, the emotion, amounting almost to fainting, the forced tone of voice in which she had spoken, all forbad him to hope that she had overcome her unhappy passion; he was grieved that he had scarcely parted from her in kindness; and the pity with which he regarded her was, for the moment, almost akin to love.Shaking off this temporary weakness, he employed himself forthwith in the preparations for his departure: among the first of which was a letter, which he wrote to Captain L’Estrange, and left upon his table. On the following day he never once saw Nina; but he heard from one of the slaves that she was confined to her room by severe headache.The wind blew with unabated force, the evening was dark and lowering, as, at the appointed hour, Ethelston, accompanied by his faithful Cupid, left the house with noiseless step. They reached the boat without obstruction; pushed off, and in ten minutes were safe on deck: the coxswain whispered that all was ready; the boat was hoisted up, the anchor weighed, and the schooner was soon dashing the foam from her bows on the open sea.
c114
NARRATING THE TRIALS AND DANGERS THAT BESET ETHELSTON; AND HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THEM, AND FROM THE ISLAND OF GUADALOUPE.
The night succeeding the occurrences related in the last chapter brought little rest to the pillow either of Nina or of Ethelston; and on the following day, as if by mutual agreement, they avoided each other’s presence, until the hour appointed for their meeting again in the orange–grove. Ethelston was firmly resolved to explain to her unreservedly his long engagement to Lucy, hoping that the feelings of Nina would prove, in this instance, rather impetuous than permanent. The tedious day appeared to her as if it never would draw to a close. She fled from her mother, and from the screaming parrots; she tried the guitar, but it seemed tuneless and discordant; her pencil and her book were by turns taken up, and as soon laid aside; she strolled even at midday into the orange–grove, to the spot where she had last sat by him, and a blush stole over her cheek when she remembered that she had been betrayed into an avowal of her love; and then came the doubt, the inquiry, whether he felt any love for her? Thus did she muse and ponder, until the hours, which in the morning had appeared to creep so slowly over the face of the dial, now glided unconsciously forward. The dinner–hour had passed unheeded; and before she had summoned any of the courage and firmness which she meant to call to her aid, Ethelston stood before her. He was surprisedat finding Nina on this spot, and had approached it long before the appointed time, in order that he might prepare himself for the difficult and painful task which he had undertaken. But though unprepared, his mind was of too firm and regulated a character to be surprised out of a fixed determination; and he came up and offered his hand to Nina, greeting her in his accustomed tone of familiar friendship. She received his salutation with evident embarrassment; her hand and her voice trembled, and her bosom throbbed in a tumult of anxiety and expectation. Ethelston saw that he could not defer the promised explanation; and he commenced it with his usual gentleness of manner, but with a firm resolve that he would be honest and explicit in his language. He began by referring to his long illness, and, with gratitude, to her care and attention during its continuance; he assured her, that having been told both by Madame L’Estrange and her brother, that she was affianced to Monsieur Bertrand, he had accustomed himself to look on her as a younger sister; and, as such, had ventured to offer her advice and instruction in her studies. He knew not, he dreamt not, that she could ever look upon him in any other light than that of a Mentor.
Here he paused a moment, and continued in a deeper and more earnest tone “Nina—dear Nina, wemustbe as Mentor and his pupil to each other, or we must part. I will frankly lay my heart open to you. I will conceal nothing; then you will not blame me, and will, I hope, permit me to remain your grateful friend and brother. Nina, I am not blind either to your beauty, or to the many, many graces of your disposition. I do full justice to the warmth and truth of your affections: you deserve, when loved, to be loved with a whole heart—“
“O spare this!” interrupted Nina, in a hurried whisper: “Spare this, speak of yourself!”
“I was even about to do so,” continued Ethelston; “but, Nina, such a heart I have not to give. For many months and years, before I ever saw or knew you, I have loved, and still am betrothed to another.”
A cold shudder seemed to pass through Nina’s frame while these few words were spoken, as if in a moment the health, the hope, the blossom of her youth were blighted! Not a tear, not even a sob, gave relief to her agony; herbloodless lip trembled in a vain attempt to speak she knew not what, and a burning chill sat upon her heart. These words may appear to some strange and contradictory: happy, thrice happy, ye to whom they so appear! If you have never known what it is to feel at once a scorching heat parching the tongue, and drying up all the well–springs of life within, while a leaden weight of ice seems to benumb the heart, then have you never known the sharpest, extreme pangs of disappointed love!
Ethelston was prepared for some sudden and violent expression on the part of Nina, but this death–like, motionless silence almost overpowered him. He attempted, by the gentlest and the kindest words, to arouse her from this stupor of grief. He took her hand; its touch was cold. Again and again he called her name; but her ear seemed insensible, even to his voice. At length, unable to bear the sight of her distress, and fearful that he might no longer restrain his tongue from uttering words which would be treason to his first and faithful love, he rushed into the house, and hastily informing Nina’s governess that her pupil had been suddenly taken ill in the orange–grove, he locked himself in his room, and gave vent to the contending emotions by which he was oppressed.
It was in vain that he strove to calm himself by the reflection that he had intentionally transgressed none of the demands of truth and honour;—it was in vain that he called up all the long–cherished recollections of his Lucy and his home;—still the image of Nina would not be banished; now presenting itself as he had seen her yesterday, in the full glow of passion, and in the full bloom of youthful beauty,—and now, as he had just left her, in the deadly paleness and fixed apathy of despair. The terrible thought that, whether guiltily or innocently, he had been the cause of all this suffering in one to whom he owed protection and gratitude, wrung his heart with pain that he could not repress; and he found relief only in falling on his knees, and praying to the Almighty that the sin might not be laid to his charge, and that Nina’s sorrow might be soothed and comforted by Him, who is the God of consolation.
Meanwhile the governess had, with the assistance of two of the negro attendants, brought Nina into the house. The poorgirl continued in the same state of insensibility to all that was passing around; her eyes were open, but she seemed to recognise no one, and a few vague indistinct words still trembled on her lips.
The doctor was instantly summoned, who pronounced, as soon as he had seen his patient, that she was in a dangerous fit, using sundry mysterious expressions about “febrile symptoms,” and “pressure on the brain,” to which the worthy leech added shakings of the head yet more mysterious.
For many days her condition continued alarming; the threatened fever came, and with it a protracted state of delirium. During this period Ethelston’s anxiety and agitation were extreme; and proportionate was the relief that he experienced, when he learnt that the crisis was past, and that the youthful strength of her constitution promised speedy recovery.
Meanwhile he had to endure the oft–repeated inquiries of the governess, “How he happened to find Mademoiselle just as the fit came on?” and of Madame L’Estrange, “How it was possible for Nina to be attacked by so sudden an illness, while walking in the orange–grove?”
When she was at length pronounced out of danger, Ethelston again began to consider various projects for his meditated escape from the island. He had more than once held communication with his faithful Cupid on the subject, who was ready to brave all risks in the service of his master; but the distance which must be traversed before they could expect to find a friendly ship or coast, seemed to exclude all reasonable hope of success.
It would be impossible to follow and portray the thousand changes that came over Nina’s spirit during her recovery. She remembered but too well the words that Ethelston had last spoken: at one moment she called him perfidious, ungrateful, heartless; then she chid herself for railing at him, and loaded his name with every blessing, and the expression of the fondest affection: now she resolved that she would never see nor speak to him more; then she thought that she must see him, if it were only to show how she had conquered her weakness. Amidst all these contending resolutions, she worked herself into the belief that Ethelston had deceived her; and that, because he thought her a child, and did not love her, hehad invented the tale of his previous engagement to lessen her mortification. This soon became her settled conviction; and when it crossed her mind, she would start with passion and exclaim, “He shall yet love me, and me alone!”
The only confidant of her love was a young negress, who waited upon her, and who was indeed so devoted to her that she would have braved the Commodore’s utmost wrath, or perilled her life, to execute her mistress’ commands.
It happened one evening that this girl, whose name was Fanchette, went out to gather some fruit in the orange–grove; and while thus employed she heard the voice of some one speaking. On drawing nearer to the spot whence the sound proceeded, she saw Ethelston sitting under the deep shade of a tree, with what appeared a book before him.
Knowing that Nina was still confined to her room, he had resorted hither to consider his schemes without interruption, and was so busily employed in comparing distances, and calculating possibilities, on the map before him, that Fanchette easily crept to a place whence she could, unperceived, overhear and observe him. “I must and will attempt it,” he muttered aloud to himself; “we must steal a boat. Cupid and I can manage it between us; my duty and my love both forbid my staying longer here: with a fishing–boat we might reach Antigua or Dominica, or at all events chance to fall in with an American or a neutral vessel. Poor dear Nina,” he added, in a lower tone. “Would to God I had never visited this shore!this,” he continued, drawing a locket from his breast, “this treasured remembrance of one far distant has made me proof against thy charms, cold to thy love, but not, as Heaven is my witness, unmoved or insensible to thy sufferings.” So saying he relapsed into silent musing; and as he replaced the locket, Fanchette crept noiselessly from her concealment, and ran to communicate to her young mistress her version of what she had seen. Being very imperfectly skilled in English, she put her own construction upon those few words which she had caught, and thought to serve Nina best by telling her what she would most like to hear. Thus she described to her how Ethelston had spoken to himself over a map; how he had mentioned islands to which he would sail; how he had named her name with tenderness, and had taken something from his vest to press it to his lips.
Poor Nina listened in a tumult of joy; her passionate heart would admit no doubting suggestion of her reason. She was too happy to bear even the presence of Fanchette, and rewarding her for her good news by the present of a beautiful shawl which she wore at the moment, pushed the delighted little negress out of the room, and threw herself on her couch, where she repeated a hundred times thathehad been to her orange–grove, where they had last parted, had named her name with tenderness, had pressed some token to his lips—what could that be? It might be a flower, a book, any thing—it mattered not—so long as she only knew he loved her! Having long wept with impassioned joy, she determined to show herself worthy of his love; and the schemes which she formed, and resolved to carry into effect, evinced the wild force and energy of her romantic character. Among her father’s slaves was one who, being a steady and skilful seaman, had the charge of a schooner (originally an American prize), which lay in the harbour, and which the Commodore sometimes used as a pleasure–yacht, or for short trips to other parts of the island: this man (whose name was Jacques) was not only a great favourite with the young lady, but was also smitten with the black eyes and plump charms of M’amselle Fanchette, who thus exercised over him a sway little short of absolute. Nina having held a conference with her abigail, sent for Jacques, who was also admitted to a confidential consultation, the result of which, after–occurrences will explain to the reader. When this was over, she acquired, rather than assumed, a sudden composure and cheerfulness: the delights of a plot seemed at once to restore her to health; and on the following day she sent to request that Ethelston would come to see her in her boudoir, where she received him with a calmness and self–possession for which he was altogether unprepared. “Mr. Ethelston,” said she, as soon as he was seated, “I believe you still desire to escape from your prison, and that you are devising various plans for effecting that object; you will never succeed unless you call me into your counsel.”
Ethelston, though extremely surprised at the composure of her manner and language, replied with a smile, “M’amselle Nina, I will not deny that you have rightly guessed mythoughts; but as your father is my jailor, I did not dare to ask your counsel in this matter.”
“Well, Mr. Mentor,” said the wayward girl, “how does your wisdom propose to act without my counsel?”
“I confess I am somewhat at a loss,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly; “I must go either through the air or the water; and the latter, being my proper element, is the path which I would rather attempt.”
“And what should you think of me, if I were to play the traitoress, and aid you in eluding the vigilance of my father, and afford the means of escape to so formidable an enemy?”
Ethelston was completely puzzled by this playful tone of banter, in one whom he had last seen under a paroxysm of passion, and in whose dark eye there yet lurked an expression which he could not define; but he resolved to continue the conversation in the same spirit, and replied, “I would not blame you for this act of filial disobedience; and though no longer your father’s prisoner, I would, if I escaped, ever remain his friend.”
“And would you show no gratitude to the lady who effected your release?”
“I owe her already more—far more, than I can pay; and, for this last crowning act of her generosity and kindness, I would—“
As he hesitated, she inquired, abruptly, “You would what, Ethelston?” For a moment she had forgotten the part she was acting; and both the look that accompanied these words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, reminded him that he stood on the brink of a volcanic crater.
“I would give her any proof of my gratitude that she would deign to accept, yesany,” he repeated earnestly, “even to life itself, knowing that she is too noble and generous to accept aught at my hands which faith and honour forbid me to offer.”
Nina turned aside for a moment, overcome by her emotion; but recovering herself quickly, she added, in her former tone of pleasantry, “She will not impose any hard conditions; but to the purpose; has your sailor–eye noticed a certain little schooner anchored in the harbour?”
“What!” said Ethelston, eagerly, “a beautiful craft, of about twenty tons, on the other side of the bay?”
“Even the same.”
“Surely I have! She is American built, and swims like a duck.”
“Well then,” replied Nina, “I think I shall do no great harm in restoring her to an American! How many men should you require to manage her?”
“I could sail her easily with one able seaman, besides my black friend Cupid.”
“Then,” said Nina, “I propose to lend her to you; you may send her back at your convenience; and I will also provide you an able seaman: write me a list of the stores and articles which you will require for the trip, and send it me in an hour’s time: prepare your own baggage, and be ready upon the shortest notice. It is now my turn to command, and yours to obey. Good–b’ye, Mr. Mentor.” So saying, she kissed her hand to him, and withdrew.
Ethelston rubbed his eyes as if he did not believe their evidence. “Could this merry, ready–witted girl be the same as the Nina whom he had seen, ten days before, heart–broken, and unable to conceal or repress the violence of her passion?” The longer he mused, the more was he puzzled; and he came at length to a conclusion at which many, more wise and more foolish than himself, had arrived, that a woman’s mind, when influenced by her affections, is a riddle hard to be solved. He had not, however, much time for reflection, and being resolved at all risks to escape from the island, he hastened to his room, and, within the hour specified by Nina, sent her a list of the stores and provisions for the voyage.
Meanwhile Fanchette had not been idle: she had painted to Jacques, in the liveliest colours, the wealth, beauty, and freedom of the distant land of Ohio, artfully mingling with this description promises and allurements which operated more directly on the feelings of her black swain; so that the latter, finding himself entreated by Fanchette, and commanded by his young mistress, hesitated no longer to betray his trust, and desert the Commodore.
Ethelston, having communicated the prosperous state of affairs to Cupid, and desired him to have all ready for immediate escape, hastened to obey another summons sent to him by Nina. He found her in a mood no less cheerful than before; and although she purposely averted her face, a smile, themeaning of which he could not define, played round the corner of her expressive mouth. Though really glad to escape homeward, and disposed to be grateful to Nina for her aid, he could not help feeling angry and vexed at the capricious eagerness with which she busied herself in contriving the departure of one to whom she had so lately given the strongest demonstration of tenderness; and although his heart told him that he could not love her, there was something in this easy and sudden withdrawal of her affection which wounded that self–love from which the best of men are not altogether free. These feelings gave an unusual coldness and constraint to his manner, when he inquired her further commands.
To this question Nina replied by saying, “Then, Mr. Ethelston, you are quite resolved to leave us, and to risk all the chances and perils of this voyage?”
“Quite,” he replied: “it is my wish, my duty, and my firm determination; and I entered the room,” he added, almost in a tone of reproof, “desirous of repeating to you my thanks for your kind assistance.”
Nina’s countenance changed; but, still averting it from Ethelston, she continued in a lower voice, “And do you leave us without pain—without regret?”
There was a tremor, a natural feeling in the tone in which she uttered these few words, that recalled to his mind all that he had seen her suffer, and drove from it the harsh thoughts which he had begun to entertain; and he answered, in a voice from which his self–command could not banish all traces of emotion, “Dear Nina, I shall leave you with regret that would amount to misery, if I thought that my visit had brought any permanent unhappiness into this house. I desire to leave you as a Mentor should leave a beloved pupil—as a brother leaves a sister; with a full hope, that when I am gone, you will fulfil your parents’ wishes, your own auspicious destinies, and that, after years and years of happiness among those whom Fate has decreed to be the companions of your life, you will look back upon me as upon a faithful adviser of your youth,—an affectionate friend, who——“
Nina’s nerves were not strung for the part she had undertaken: gradually her countenance had grown pale as marble; a choking sensation oppressed her throat; and she sunk in a chair, sobbing, rather than uttering, the word, “Water.”It was fortunately at hand; and having placed it in a glass by her side, Ethelston retired to the window to conceal his own emotion, and to allow time for that of Nina to subside.
After a few minutes she recovered her self–possession; and although still deadly pale, her voice was distinct and firm, as she said, “Ethelston, I am ashamed of this weakness; but it is over: we will not speak of the past, and will leave to Fate the future. Now listen to me: all the arrangements for your departure will be complete by to–morrow evening. At an hour before midnight, a small boat, with one man, will be at the Quai du Marché, below the Place St. Louis. It is far from the fort, and there is no sentry near the spot: you can then row to the vessel and depart. But is it not too dangerous?” she added. “Can you risk it? for the wind whistles terribly, and I fear the approach of a hurricane!”
Ethelston’s eye brightened as he replied, “A rough night is the fairest for the purpose, Nina.”
“Be it so,” she replied. “Now, in return for all that I have done for you, there is only one favour I have to ask at your hands.”
“Name it,” said Ethelston, eagerly.
“There is,” she continued, “a poor sick youth in the town, the child of respectable parents in New Orleans; he desires to go home, if it be only to die there: and a nurse will take care of him on the passage, if you will let him go with you?”
“Assuredly I will,” said Ethelston; “and will take as much care of him as if he were my brother.”
“Nay,” said Nina, “they tell me he is ordered to be perfectly quiet, and no one attends him but the nurse; neither will he give any trouble, as the coxswain says there is a small cabin where he can remain alone and undisturbed.”
“You may depend,” said Ethelston, “that all your orders about him shall be faithfully performed; and I will see, if I live, that he reaches his home in safety.”
“He and his nurse will be on board before you,” said Nina; “and as soon as you reach the vessel, you have nothing to do but to escape as quick as you can. Now I must bid you farewell! I may not have spirits to see you again!” She held out her hand to him; it was cold as ice; her face was still half–averted, and her whole frame trembled violently.
Ethelston took the offered hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, “A thousand, thousand thanks for all your kindness! If I reach home alive I will make your honoured father ample amends for the theft of his schooner; and if ever you have an opportunity to let me know that you are well and happy, do not forget that such news will always gladden my heart.” He turned to look at her as he went; he doubted whether the cold rigid apathy of her form and countenance was that of despair or of indifference; but he dared not trust himself longer in her presence; and as he left the room she sunk on the chair against which she had been leaning for support.
When Ethelston found himself alone, he collected his thoughts, and endeavoured in vain to account for the strange deportment of Nina in bidding him farewell. The coldness of her manner, the abrupt brevity of her parting address, had surprised him; and yet the tremor, the emotion, amounting almost to fainting, the forced tone of voice in which she had spoken, all forbad him to hope that she had overcome her unhappy passion; he was grieved that he had scarcely parted from her in kindness; and the pity with which he regarded her was, for the moment, almost akin to love.
Shaking off this temporary weakness, he employed himself forthwith in the preparations for his departure: among the first of which was a letter, which he wrote to Captain L’Estrange, and left upon his table. On the following day he never once saw Nina; but he heard from one of the slaves that she was confined to her room by severe headache.
The wind blew with unabated force, the evening was dark and lowering, as, at the appointed hour, Ethelston, accompanied by his faithful Cupid, left the house with noiseless step. They reached the boat without obstruction; pushed off, and in ten minutes were safe on deck: the coxswain whispered that all was ready; the boat was hoisted up, the anchor weighed, and the schooner was soon dashing the foam from her bows on the open sea.