CHAPTER XII.

THE SKIPPER’S DAUGHTER.

“This should become a noble creature, she Hath all the energy that should construct A goodly whole of glorious elements, If they be wisely mingled by her will.”—_Byron._

How gloriously, the next day, arose the summer sun upon that green and blooming and odoriferous island.

Madame, from the rose-wreathed balcony of her front chamber window, looked out upon the delightful scene, as upon some poetic elysium, encircled by the crystal sea. It was indeed an enchanting vision. The whole isle was carpeted with a brilliant green verdure, sparkling with dew-drops, and enameled with flowers of every elegant form and beautiful color and delicious fragrance!—myriads upon myriads of roses, rose-bushes, rose-trees, and rose-vines—roses clustering, climbing, twisting and twining, everywhere—columns and colonnades, piazzas, balconies, trellises, and arbors, all wreathed and covered and vailed and festooned with roses, that flushed all the green Isle with their intense and vivid blushes, and filled the air with their rich aroma. There were groves of ornamental trees of luxuriant beauty and fragrance—the flowering almond with its delicate perfume, and soft white blossoms, seeming as if a fall of summer snow had lighted on its elegant tendrils; the lanton-belle with its heavy shade and clustering purple tufts and odoriferous breath; the red-bud with its brilliant green foliage and scarlet-drops; the stately tulip-poplar, with its fiery hanging bells; the queenly catalpa, with its aromatic odor; the imperial magnolia, with its deep green, shining leaves, and “all Arabia’s spices” in its pure white vase-like cups; orchards of peach, apple, cherry, apricot and plum-trees, all covered with their pink, white or variegated flowers; walks flanked with raspberries, gooseberries, and currant-bushes, all in full blossom. And lastly, through the intervening branches of the fragrant flowering locusts that overhung the silvery sanded beach, gleamed the snow-white sails of the fairy barque, the “Sylph,” that fluttered in the morning breeze like the wings of some beauteous sea-bird—beyond this flashed and sparkled the deep blue sea, and above all glowed the crimson, purple, and golden glory around the rising sun.

Madame had scarcely taken in this sublime, beautiful and enchanting vision, when Louis rapped at the chamber door and announced that the breakfast, the boat, and his master, all waited Madame’s pleasure.

She descended to the breakfast parlor, where she found the table spread, and Monsieur Henri equipped for his journey.

And after the morning meal of rich coffee, delicate bread, fresh butter and eggs, and delicious fruit and cream, Monsieur Henri announced himself as waiting the orders of Madame, and gallantly conducted her to the barque.

The Sylph was a beautiful sail-boat, gayly painted green on the side, and white and red within. Her deck and ropes and sails were clean and nice as a lady’s face and hands and dress. From the mainmast streamed a snow-white pennant studded with the golden lilies of France.

Four negro sailors in neat straw-hats, blue shirts and white trousers, stood on the deck waiting commands. They doffed their hats to the master and to the lady, as the two latter appeared.

Monsieur Henri assisted Madame to gain the deck, and seated her in a comfortable willow-chair under a canopy in the stern.

Louis placed himself at the helm, the four sailors manned the capstan, the anchor was weighed, the sails filled, and the Sylph floated out upon the blue and sparkling water.

As they sailed from the eastern extremity of the Island, they were obliged to “’bout ship” and make half the circuit of the Isle, in order to steer for the Northampton coast, that lay off to the westward.

After a delightful sail of three hours they came in sight of the main land, with its rolling hills and valleys, and dark green woods and meadows.

A beautiful but solitary shore.

No house in all its length to be seen save one—an old, half-ruined, gray stone mansion, standing far out upon a point of land extending into the sea, and half hidden by the ancient forest trees around it.

“That is Brande’s Headland, where we are going ashore,” said Monsieur Henri—walking forward and giving orders to the men to strike sail and cast anchor where they were.

A small skiff was then let down from the side of the barque, Monsieur Henri and Madame got into it, followed by Louis, who took the single oar and sculled rapidly toward the beach, which they reached in a few minutes.

Monsieur, still with the air of the Chevalier Bayard, or the Grand Monarque, handed Madame from the boat, drew her arm within his own, and with the aid of a gold-headed cane, began to help himself and her up the rugged ascent of the bank.

As they reached its top, and stood upon a level with the old, dilapidated house, some three or four wild looking, handsome, healthy boys ran out to see who was coming. Two great Newfoundland dogs that lay upon the broken, stone steps, sprang up, but were immediately restrained by the appearance of a very handsome, dark-haired girl, of about thirteen years of age, who came to the front door, and laying a hand on the head of each favorite, said:

“Down, Wind! Down, Wave! Behave, boys! How dare you then? Don’t you see it’s Monsieur Henri?”

The dogs, still growling, unwillingly submitted, and the handsome brunette came down the old moss-grown steps to meet her visitors.

“Welcome, Monsieur Henri! but you must forgive the dogs; they know _you_, of course; it was the strange lady they objected to,” said the brown maiden, extending her hand to the old gentleman, who took and shook it cordially and held it cozily, while he said:

“Ah, Barbara, Barbara, still brighter than ever, my brave girl! Why, what a woman you are growing! And how is the old skipper? Eh, Barbara? And the handsome young mate? Eh, Barbara?”

The young girl laughed, displaying a row of the whitest and evenest teeth in striking contrast with her cherry lips, nut-brown skin, and sloe-black hair and eyes. She was too young and guileless to blush at such a question.

“The skipper is off again? Eh, Barbara?”

“Oh, yes, sir, with a cargo of flour to Habana. He will bring back West India sugar and molasses.”

“Why, what a businesswoman you are, Babby. You know all about every thing.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” exclaimed Barbara, laughing.

“And hark ye, Monsieur”—she said, mysteriously bending toward him, and whispering so low that but the last words of her communication were heard—“for Madame.”

“Oh, Barbara, Barbara, you shocking little smuggler! I ought to deliver you to the authorities.”

“No, no, Monsieur. They are for Madame—the sweetmeats,” said the girl.

“For Madame? Very well. I have not presented you to Madame. I must do so,” he said, taking her hand with a droll formality, turning her about facing the lady, and continuing:

“Madame L’Orient, my sweetheart, Barbarie, the daughter of my brave Captain Brande, who owns and commands the good brig Kelpie, trading between this coast and the West Indies, the Bermudas, South America, England—anywhere. Ma belle Barbarie used to sail with the skipper in all his voyages, but now she stays home and takes care of the boys, while her father is at sea, and does a little in the smuggling line when he comes home—do you not?” he asked, playfully, chucking the girl under the chin.

“No—no, Monsieur!”

“Mon Dieu! she has a hamper or so of West India sweetmeats hidden away, that has never seen the outside of a custom-house! but she does not dabble in smuggling! _she_ does not! Eh, bien! She says they are for Madame, and we will excuse her and thank her.”

“Will Monsieur and Madame come in and rest?” asked the maiden.

“No, no, my child—but can you let us have the old carry-all? We are going on to Eastville?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur! Will you want me to drive?”

“No, my child; I have Louis with me, and if I had not—death of my life! do you suppose I would sit back at my ease, and allow you to hold the reins?”

“Monsieur is very polite, but he knows that I am accustomed to drive passengers from the coast to Eastville.”

“Not when they are gentlemen, my pretty one! But, now! how soon can we have that carriage ready?”

“If you and Madame will walk in and sit down, I will put the horses to it directly.”

“By no means, my little one! Direct my servant, Louis, where to find them—he will do it.”

“But, Monsieur,” said the girl, laughing, “if you patronize our house much, you will spoil me! I shall forget the use of my hands, and permit them to grow soft and white, like a lady’s.”

“The gallant young mate of the Kelpie will not object to that, my beauty!” said the old gentleman, who, looking around and seeing Louis coming up the bank, beckoned him to approach, and directed him to go to the stables, get the carriage out, put the horse to it and bring it around.

Louis bowed and went off toward a dilapidated pile of grey stone buildings, at some distance behind the dwelling-house, and which had probably long ago deserved the name of stables.

Since the visitors declined going into the house, Barbara ran in to bring out chairs for them.

While she was gone, Madame, looking around upon the desolate scene, and contrasting it mentally with the lovely island they had that morning left, exclaimed—

“What a ruinous, dilapidated old place! How can the owner allow a fine property like this to go to ruin?”

“Oh! I don’t know! My good friend, Captain Brande, is fit for nothing but the waters! he nor his race! He belongs to that class of old sea dogs that have infested these coasts ever since their first settlement, and before! He married the heiress of all this property—Barbara’s mother; she died, leaving him with Babby and her three little brothers. Babby has been a housekeeper for the father, and a mother for the children, which is as much as can be expected of her, poor child! But you see how the skipper has allowed the house to go to wreck and ruin.”

“But do you tell me”—asked Madame—“do you mean to say that this young maiden stays here with these children day and night, without protection, in this most lonely and desolate of places?”

“Not quite; she has two faithful negro servants, an old married pair, whom she calls Neptune and Amphitrite. And then, those dogs! Either of those beasts could spring at a strong man’s throat and drag him to the earth!”

“And what is that about the smuggling?”

“Why, my little Barbara takes after her salt-water progenitors, who, with charity let it be said, were all free-traders, except those who were pirates!”

“Ugh! and this young creature resembles them!” said Madame, in holy horror.

“I cannot say that she does in the matter of their piratical propensities;—but as for their buccaniering proclivities,—I tell you this young thing has such a keen relish for free-booting, that a smuggled aloe would seem sweeter to her taste than the sweetest orange that had paid duty! The little villain! she whispered me just now, that she had a hundred canisters of West India sweetmeats, that were not one of them flavored with custom-house! The little scamp! how she loves the sea besides! Just to see her black eyes kindle when she speaks of a ship! If she were a boy, she would run away and go to sea; being a girl, with her propensities and in her circumstances, I don’t know what will become of her! Hush! don’t reply, here she is.”

Barbara came out, bringing two chairs, which she placed for her visitors. Then, while they seated themselves, she ran away again, and returned, bringing a little table, which she set before them, and covered with a white cloth. And then, in two or three successive flittings into the house, she brought out the whitest bread and freshest butter, the clearest guava jelly, and the most fragrant pineapple preserves; and lastly, a bottle of wine, that Monsieur Henri lifted up and gazed upon in consternation, exclaiming, when he had somewhat recovered his suspended breath—

“Why, you little audacious! don’t you know, then, that this wine is never, _never_ exported; that it is tantamount to high treason, even if it be not high sacrilege, to send it out of Italy! Why this is the Pope’s own particular drink! How dared you? Where did you get it from? You perceive that I am asking you questions, Mademoiselle!”

The girl laughed merrily, exclaiming—

“Try it, Monsieur! try it! Try it, Madame.”

“Not until you have told me where you got it! You perceive that I have no politeness; I persist in my questions, Mademoiselle.”

“My father brought it from the Levant, when he came home from his last voyage, Monsieur,” said Barbara, laughing.

“And of course every custom-house officer between there and here has drawn the cork, and inhaled the perfume?”

“_Oh of course!_ and tasted the contents and smacked his lips over it—_of course they have!_” exclaimed Barbara, laughing gayly, and clapping her hands in glee.

The luxurious little luncheon was discussed, and by the time they had finished, Louis brought the carriage around.

Monsieur Henri handed his sister-in-law into the back seat, and placed himself beside her. Louis took the front seat, gathered up the reins, and prepared to drive on. Monsieur and Madame then took leave of their young hostess, and the carriage started.

The road to Eastville lay through a thick pine woods, and the ride would have been a very pleasant one but for Madame’s anxious thoughts, that kept her silent, and threw a little gloom over the whole party.

We know what Madame L’Orient’s intentions were in coming to the main land this day; namely, to obtain a writ of lunacy against her kind-hearted old host, and a power of guardianship over his person and property. But was ever a woman so unfortunate as herself? she asked. For no sooner had she brought this old man away from the island than his insanity seemed to have dropped from him, as a garment, and he spoke and acted as rationally as any one,—with no air à la Grand Monarque, no talk of crowns and sceptres, thrones and kingdoms; but with the gay and genial manners of an old French “good fellow.” What was the meaning of it? Was that delightsome island, an enchanted spot, that infected its owner with the proud madness of an imaginary monarchy? And was he at once, on quitting its shores, delivered from the spell. It really seemed so.

On emerging from the pine woods, after an hour’s drive, they arrived at the little hamlet of Eastville, then a small cluster of houses, built around the court-house on the cross roads.

They drove first to the village stores, that Madame might do her ostensible errand of shopping.

And when this was over, and the little packages of linen, muslin, thread and needles, made up and put into the carriage, Madame and Monsieur re-entered, took their seats and drove to the court-house, where the court was in session and the judiciary officers all at their posts. Monsieur De L’Ile’s business there was simply to pay his taxes.

Madame watched in vain for an opportunity of denouncing him as a lunatic. There was none afforded. His conversation upon all subjects—property, agriculture, manufactures, commerce, politics—with the various persons with whom he happened to fall in company, was so strong, so clear, so pointed and conclusive,—evincing an intellect so profound, powerful, and almost prophetic, that to have hinted at the possibility of his being a lunatic, would have been to expose herself to the certainty of being pronounced a maniac or an impostor. In a word, Madame felt herself constrained to defer her purpose to some more favorable opportunity.

Monsieur Henri concluded his business, and they turned their horses’ heads shoreward.

It was near sunset when they reached the headland and Barbara Brande’s old ruined house.

Barbara had tea ready for them. The table was set out under a great elm tree, and covered with imported, if not smuggled luxuries, such as guava jellies, anchovy paste, potted meats, etc., which Barbara exultingly declared had never been spiced with duty.

After tea they took leave of their bright, young hostess, and returned on board their barque. They sailed homeward by moonlight and arrived at early bed time.

After this, Madame made many similar attempts to convict her benefactor of mania; but always without success; for though as long as Monsieur Henri De L’Ile confined himself to the island, he was for six days of the week a king, and on the seventh a pope, yet just so soon as he left its shores, or received any one from the outside world upon its soil, he became a plain, cheerful, clear-headed country gentleman, whom it would have been madness to charge with lunacy. But whether on the isle or off it, whether king or countryman, Monsieur Henri ever remained the same great, generous, warm-hearted host, friend and master, dispensing happiness to all who lived on his lovely isle, beneath his benignant rule.