CHAPTER XIV.

BARBARA BRANDE.

“Go when the hunter’s hand hath wrung From forest caves her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness, But sooth not, mock not my distress!”—_Byron._

We left the beautiful Estelle a fugitive from love over the wide world.

We left Lord Montressor anxiously seeking some clue by which to trace her course.

We bade adieu to the “Island King” and “Princess,” leaving them together in their insulated kingdom.

We parted company with Julius Levering at the moment that he disappeared from the deck of the ship.

And finally we abandoned the poor, wounded, young lioness, Barbara Brande, in the hour of her utmost need, when every earthly stay and support was stricken from her at one blow.

We return first to Barbara. She was of a stronger, firmer, more resolute and courageous nature than any woman, or than most men. Yet when the blow fell—the blow that deprived her at once of father, brother, lover, living,—all in an instant, she dropped beneath it, sunk as it were smitten to the earth!

I have seen a Titanic forest tree struck with lighting before my window—seen it suddenly by a shaft from Heaven, rived, branch, and trunk, and root, from sky to earth!

So fell the thunderbolt of fate upon her! riving, rending, scathing, brain and heart and frame! and dropped under it, prostrate.

But she was strong and could not die—she was a human soul and could not lie prostrate and immovable forever, as the thunder-stricken tree laid!

The energetic spirit soon struggled to free itself from the serpent coils of pain and death, and longed to hurl itself amid some violent, some tempestuous, terrible action, in which the sense of anguish might be lost.

She conquered the agony—she surmounted it as we do every thing in this world! Yes, she surmounted it; but the world was changed, or she was!

Life never seemed the same to her again. All seemed dull, flat, spiritless. She was weary of the careless round of days and nights; weary of the monotonous rising and setting of the sun; weary of the unmeaning, unsympathising faces of men and women; disgusted with the regular recurrence of three meals a day, disgusted with all the eaters and drinkers, workers and sleepers, buyers and sellers in this tedious, insufferable world!

In such a mood of mind, many men and women have gone mad; but Barbara Brande’s brain was too strong and healthy to permit her to lose her consciousness of suffering in madness.

In such a mood many have committed suicide—but Barbara Brande, untutored child of the sea as she was, and driven to despair as she had been, possessed too deep a reverence for the laws of God and his holy gift of life, to cast that life away and rush unbidden into the awful presence of the Giver!

So she struggled bravely to free her spirit from the writhing, binding, fettering serpents of anguish and despair!

Her heart panted to lose its dreadful sense of loss in action! Oh, action! action! action! Such action as that into which despairing man hurls himself, and forgets his despair; struggling, laborious, dangerous action! Strife, battle, war!—war with circumstance, with man, with the elements!

With such irresistible impulses, women have sometimes enlisted as soldiers—aye, and won laurels, too, in the fields of victory; but Barbara Brande, with all her strength, and fire, and courage, and her passionate desire to stun the maddening consciousness of anguish in some stormy conflict and career—could not have done any thing like this. Her maiden modesty would not have permitted her to change her woman’s dress for that of man, any more than her native truthfulness would have allowed her to practice a deception in regard to her sex. And her free, wild, ungovernable spirit could no more have submitted to the control of camp discipline, than her merciful heart could have taken part in the bloodshed of the battle-field.

So, though the wounded, tortured, maddened young creature thought of this, she could not enter upon such a life.

A stricken lioness, with the arrow quivering in her flesh, lays not down in patient suffering, but runs roaring, through the desert, until the shaft falls from the wound, or she drops dead!

So Barbara! she longed to propel herself headlong into some stormy, stunning strife!

Meanwhile two boy brothers of eleven and twelve looked up in her face for comfort and support,—looked up to the brave and gentle sister, who was also the only mother they had ever known.

“Oh, sister, sister! do not stare so! You frighten us to death with your eyes!” they said, as they came to her where she sat, in the dreary, half-furnished old parlor, _her_ chamber of desolation!

They were kneeling each side of her, with their heads upon her lap. Her arms were around each boy, her face bent over them, and her wild black hair all unbound, and streaming around them. She might have seemed a widow with her orphans. But she was even a more desolate creature—this awfully bereaved maiden with her little brothers. For a widow has generally some knowledge of life and some experience to meet its exigencies; but what does a poor, wild girl, thunder-stricken, maddened, blinded, by such overwhelming calamity, know of battling the watch with fate?

Nothing!

There she sat—her arms around the boys’ heads—her face bent over them, her dark hair streaming.

“Oh, sister, don’t look so! Oh, sister, speak to us!”

“Oh, my boys, my boys! what shall sister say to you! What can sister do for you? Oh, lads, the best thing we could do would be to put to sea in a leaking boat and go down with the others!—only that the Lord forbids such!” she cried, wildly clasping them to her heart.

“Oh, no, sister! don’t think of such a thing as that! We don’t want to die at all,” said Edwy, the younger boy.

The elder, Willful, said nothing, but gazed with unspeakable love in his sister’s face.

“Oh, boys, boys! your sister will turn to a pillar of salt if she stays here!”

“Well, _don’t_ stay here, Barbara! get the insurance-money and buy a vessel, and let us lade it and make a voyage to Habana,” said Willful, gazing earnestly into his sister’s face.

For the first time Barbara lifted her lion-like head, shaking her black hair as a mane from her breast—her great, strong eyes kindled, her nostrils quivered, as those of a steed that scents the battle afar off—she drew in a deep breath and exclaimed, in a quick, low, resolute tone—

“That’s it! I have found it! You are right, Willful, my brother! Our father’s craft must be ours.”

“You feel better now, sister?” said the gentle-spirited Edwy, putting his arm around her neck and kissing her cheek—“you feel better?”

“Yes!—thank God.”

“And you won’t any more talk about putting to sea in a leaking boat?”

“No—Heaven forbid!”

From this time Barbara’s spirits rallied. She looked around upon her circumstances, prospects, and duties, and her facilities for meeting the future.

First, what were her duties?

Her brothers looked to her for support, comfort and guidance. She had always filled a mother’s position toward them. She must also now occupy a father’s place.

How should she properly discharge these obligations?

Her father’s last will and testament, besides endowing her with half the small property, constituted her the whole executor of that will and the guardian of her brothers.

The property consisted of the wild, unproductive farm and half-ruined house on the headland—an unprofitable but an inalienable estate, that would just bring garden vegetables and grain enough for family use; there were three or four negroes who worked the garden, and sometimes, when the Skipper had been short of hands, worked the ship. Besides this, there was the insurance-money of the ship and cargo that had also been assigned to Barbara.

Looking over, and mentally appraising her property, her peculiar temperament, talents and circumstances, Barbara’s resolution was soon formed, and carried out. She determined to go to Baltimore, purchase a clipper, and lade it, take her negro sailors and her two brothers, and sail for the West Indies, to open a trade with her father’s old correspondents.

Accordingly, leaving the house and her little brothers in the care of the negroes, Barbara took passage in the first passing vessel for Baltimore, where in a few days she arrived safely.

After the usual demur and delay, she succeeded in getting the whole of the insurance-money, and then she set out in search of a clipper. She was fortunate in having a choice of three, and went about the work of inspecting them with a perfectly composed and competent manner, and astonished the grizzled old skippers of the port, by pronouncing the first unseaworthy; the second, very little if any better; and by ordering certain very judicious alterations and repairs to be made upon the third, which she finally decided on purchasing.

“Who the deuce have we here? What the demon sort of a girl is this, who knows all parts of a ship as well as she does the chambers and cupboards in her mother’s house, and disputes about the build and rigging of a craft with the oldest ‘salt’ among us? aye! and can work a ship, I have no doubt in the world, as well as the best mate we have!” said one grey old sea-captain to another.

“Well! she _is_ an ‘old salt,’” replied the other, “as _old_ a _salt_ as so _young_ a _girl_ can be! That is old Brande’s daughter, he who was lost on the Mercury. I suppose she is about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, and Brande used to take her to sea with him from the time she was five years old! So Barbara may have seen fifteen years of sea-service, for aught I know.”

“But what is she going to do with the clipper she has purchased?”

“Ah! Lord knows! Give one of her brothers the command of it, I suppose, if she has one grown up and capable of taking it.”

While the old skippers took “the bearings,” of her course, Barbara, quite undisturbed by the opinions and comments of others, completed her purchase, and left the wharf.

The same week, Barbara returned home to place affairs in order there before going to sea. She arranged the old house, and left it, together with the garden and the stock, in care of old Neptune and his wife, with whom also she left a small sum of money for their incidental expenses.

Having made all preparations, accompanied by her two brothers and attended by her negro sailors, young Neptune and Ignatius, two stalwart sons of the old couple left in care of the house, Barbara embarked in an up-bay packet for Baltimore.

Very profound was the astonishment of her old acquaintances, the skippers, when they discovered that Barbara herself would take command of her own vessel. Their surprise would have been greater still, perhaps, if they had known how thoroughly competent in all respects was this eagle-eyed, lion-hearted maiden for the task!

She was fitted for the position by nature, constitution, and disposition, for she was a girl of great personal strength, courage, and activity, with a profound passionate attraction toward a sea life.

She was prepared for it by education and habit; for in the dozen voyages she had made with her father, the old skipper had thoroughly instructed her in the theory and practice of the science of navigation, and the art of seamanship.

Finally, she was compelled to it by circumstances. She had not only to support her young brothers but to put them in a way of supporting themselves. Their hereditary attractions, like her own, were to the sea; and no life offered such facilities to her and to them, as the life of the merchant-service. Last and not least, her negro sailors, like their mistress and her brothers, loved the ocean, and knew how to do nothing else so well as to work a ship.

Thus being fitted for a sea life by nature; being prepared for it by education; and driven to it by circumstances, we cannot do better reader, can we? than permit her to be a sea-captain, if she wishes it—especially as our most vehement objections would be unavailing to stop her.

While superintending the lading of her vessel, she, with her brothers, boarded at a comparatively quiet house near the wharf. While at this house, one day she picked up from a parlor table a newspaper, and listlessly ran her eyes down the uninteresting sahara of its advertising columns, when her glance was arrested by the following “want:”

WANTED—TO PURCHASE OR LEASE FOR A TERM OF YEARS a moderate sized country seat in a secluded situation. A sea-coast location preferred. Address box 333, P. O., stating terms, etc.

Does the reader happen to know how many fates daily, hourly, turn upon the mere chance-seeing and answering of newspaper advertisements?

Now, no sooner had Barbara Brande read this “want” than a possibility presented itself to her active mind, such as had never occurred to her previously.

“A country house in a secluded situation; a sea-coast location preferred.” Why our old house on the Headland is the very place this advertiser wants—if it were only in repair! But perhaps this person, if he has capital to spare, would take it and put it in repair; for I shouldn’t wonder, being the precise sort of house he wants, that he would be able to find just such another. Just precisely such houses to let, are not as plenty as muscle-shells. And if he will take it and repair it, and deduct the price of the repairs from the rent, why should I not lease it to him, rather than let the old place lie idle until it falls to pieces? As for me and my boys—our home henceforth will be the ship! Why, therefore, should I not get the rents for this old house, so as to lay an anchor to windward for the boys? It is true that there is poor old Nep and his wife, who need a home. But it will be easy to make a proviso in the lease securing them the use of the cabin they now occupy, and the little garden spot of ground around it, ruminated Barbara.

“I’ll do it if I can.” She shortly determined; and sitting down, penned a note, folded, and directed it to box 333 P. O. Then calling her brother Willful, she dispatched him with it to its destination.

The next morning she received an answer, written in a bold, business-like hand, requesting her to present herself at private parlor, number 3, house number 10 Blank-street, and signed _S. Copsewood_.

“This looks as if Mr. Copsewood wanted to take the house,” said Barbara, who lost no time in obeying the summons.

When she reached number 10, which she found to be an elegant private boarding house, she inquired for room number 3, and was at once shown up into a superbly furnished private parlor, at the door of which she was received by a rosy-cheeked waiting maid, who civilly inquired her name and business, and having ascertained that she was the person whom they were expecting, ushered her immediately into the presence of the loveliest lady Barbara thought she had ever seen.

This beautiful, dark woman was clothed in deep mourning, which, however, could not disguise the exquisite proportions of her graceful form. Her complexion of the purest, palest olive, was contrasted with jet-black, slender-arched eyebrows, long drooping, black eyelashes, that effectually vailed the large languishing dark eyes, and a rich redundance of silken black ringlets that overshadowed the whole face, and lent even a deeper tone to the deep melancholy of its expression.

Barbara Brande was spell-bound, fascinated, not more by the perfect beauty, than by the profound sorrow impressed upon this most lovely countenance.

“This is a most beautiful _shadow_,” thought Barbara; “but where in the world have I seen a ray of _sunshine_ answering, feature by feature, to this exquisite shadow? Where have I seen it? My acquaintance is not so extensive but that I might soon recollect. Let me see! My conscience, yes, I recollect! It is my Star of the Sea! my Island Princess! My golden-haired Etoile! She it is who is the _morning_ to this dark lady’s _midnight_, the _sunshine_ to her _shadow_.”

While these thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of Barbara Brande, the maid-servant presented her to the lady, saying:

“Here, Madam, is the young woman who has come about leasing the house.”

The lady lifted her languid lashes, and said, interrogatively—

“Miss Brande?”

“Yes, Madam,” said Barbara, thinking that she had never heard such liquid music break from human lips before.

“Pray be seated, Miss Brande. Susan, draw that arm-chair forward.”

Susan obeyed, and Barbara accepted the offered seat.

“I received a note this morning from Mr. S. Copsewood, appointing me to call here at this hour to open possible negotiations respecting a house I have to lease. I happen to have a drawing of the house executed by my brother Willful, if Mr. Copsewood would like to see it,” said Barbara.

The lady looked at the speaker with serious attention and some perplexity, while Susan smiled merrily, displaying all her white teeth.

At last the lady said:

“You are under an error, Miss Brande. The note received by you was written by my attendant, Susan Copsewood. And I am the person who desires to lease a house.”

“You, Madam?”

“Myself—Mrs. Estel,” said the lady, placing the accent on the first syllable of her name. “You may show me the drawing, if you please, Miss Brande.”

Barbara produced the drawing, and put it in the hands of Mrs. Estel.

“Will you please to describe the place to me, while I look at the sketch, Miss Brande?” said the lady.

Barbara complied, describing the situation of the house and the scenery of the Headland.

“From the picture and your description, I think the place will suit me. You say, however, that the house is much out of repair?”

“Very much, indeed Madam; it would take five weeks in time and labor, and five hundred dollars in money, to make it comfortable,” replied Barbary, in whose rustic estimation this sum seemed a very large amount. “But I am willing, Madam, to give up the rent as long as necessary for the repairs of the house. And I think, also, that the house could be made ready for you sooner than you could find another to suit you so well.”

“I think that is very likely. You have full power to transfer the property?”

“I am twenty-two years old, Madam, and I am the sole executor of my father’s will, and the sole guardian of my brothers.”

The lady, on hearing this, now, for the first time raised her eyes, and looked full in the face of the strange girl.

A tall, magnificently developed form, with no superfluous flesh to impede activity; a strong, handsome face, with flashing black eyes and bands of jet-black hair, and an expression of pain, suffered and conquered, lingering around it,—a dress and cape of grey serge, a bonnet of coarse straw, was the _tout ensemble_ that met the lady’s gaze.

“How is this Headland to be reached?” was the next question asked.

“By means of the packet-vessels trading along the coast of the Bay, Madam,” answered Barbara.

“Very well. I will take a few days to reflect upon your proposition, Miss Brande, and let you know the result.”

“I thank you, Madam. It is proper to inform you, however, that in a week hence I sail for the West Indies.”

The lady here again lifts her lashes with a look of inquiry, to which Barbara replied—

“I have command of the ‘Stormy Petrel,’ Madam, and shall set sail for Habana in six days.”

The lady looked in gentle amazement upon the girl.

“Excuse me,” she said—“but could I possibly have understood you to say that _you_ had command of a vessel?”

“Yes, Madam, you understand aright.”

The lady was too high bred to suffer any exclamation of surprise or wonder to escape her; but she looked at Barbara with such deep interest that the girl hastened to say—

“You are doubtless surprised, Madam; but you would be less so, were you acquainted with the circumstances. I am a strong girl; I was brought up to the sea, and taught navigation and seamanship by my father, with whom I made many voyages. When he was lost in his own ship, the hapless Mercury, Madam, I was under the necessity of looking about for a support for my young brothers. None offered so readily as my father’s calling—that of a merchantman. I understood no business so well as that. My negroes were all sailors. My little brothers were old enough to serve apprenticeship to the same business. Therefore I am what I am, Madam.”

Mrs. Estel had been regarding her with the deepest interest; when she ceased speaking the lady said—

“Miss Brande, I think I may safely promise to give you, to-morrow, your answer respecting the lease of the house. I think also, that there is no doubt but that I shall take it.”

“Then you have no further commands for me, Madam?”

“I thank you—no.”

Barbara Brande arose, bowed, and withdrew toward the door, followed by the rosy maid. With her hand upon the knob, however, she paused—looked back and said—

“Pardon me, Madam, but there is a condition I should mention before this matter goes any further.”

“Proceed, Miss Brande.”

“It may be a mere trifle to yourself, my lady; but a very important matter to me and _them_. In a word, I have two tried and faithful old family servants, born on the estate, brought up there, and now in their old age, living in a small cabin with a garden which they cultivate; and I should wish——”

“I understand you, Miss Brande,” gently interrupted Mrs. Estel—“In the event of my taking the lease, the old people shall not be disturbed. Is there any thing else, Miss Brande?”

“I thank you—no, Madam. The terms suit you, I think?”

“The terms suit me.”

“Then there is nothing else. Good-day, Madam.”

“Good-day, Miss Brande.”

Barbara now left the room attended by the maid.

When Susan returned she closed the door, and approaching her mistress, said, earnestly and respectfully—

“Will your ladyship go down to that bleak, lonely place?”

“Oh, yes, Susan! Yes, Susan! I never could like the town even in happiness; and now, now it suffocates me! we with oppressed bosoms, need more room to breathe. I long for the boundless woods, and the measureless sea! that is the reason why I prefer a wild, uncultivated coast.” Susan approached her mistress, and sitting down on the carpet by her side, half kneeling, half reclining, gazed upon her face with an expression of mute, appealing affection.

Mrs. Estel laid her hand benignantly upon the head of the faithful girl, and said—

“Besides, Susan, I am imprisoned here; you know I have not left this room, or seen a soul but yourself, since we came here. I dare not go out, lest in a seaport town like this I should be recognized.”

“Does your ladyship suspect then——?”

“What, Susan?”

“_That he is here._”

“My heart! my heart! whom do you mean?”

“Lord Montressor.”

“No! no, Susan! Do not tell me that! He has not followed me here!” said the lady, whose pale, olive cheek seemed turned to marble.

“Susan, speak! say you were mistaken—you might have been mistaken!”

“Dear lady, are you so distressed that his lordship should prove the strength of his——”

“Girl! girl! be careful of your words.”

“I will, Madam,—the strength of his _esteem_ and _respect_ for you?”

“To what end should he prove it? Does it need proof? Oh! why should he follow me here, only to renew a struggle so bitter, so terrible, so agonizing!” thought the lady to herself, as she sat twisting and wringing her white fingers.

“Dear lady, take comfort. Consider that his lordship, indeed, has the law on his side. Pardon me, sweet mistress, for reminding you, that for all that has come and gone you are his wife, and he has at least a right to the hearing, that you have never given him; a right, in a word, to plead his cause with you, and——”

The hand of the lady sank softly but firmly upon the head of the recumbent girl, and with her face, that was pale before, now dark with the swelling up of a suffocating emotion, she whispered huskily—

“Susan, forbear—you know not what you say—he must be free and honored—he has a brilliant career before him—he must cut me off—I fly that he may do so—I would _die_ to rid him of me!”

Susan looked up appalled at her lady’s face, in its dark and terrible agony.

“Susan! never, while you live, renew this counsel. But, tell me now, are you _sure_ you saw him?”

“Yes, perfectly sure, Madame.”

“Where?”

“In St. John’s church, yesterday afternoon.”

“He did not see you?”

“No, Madam; I sat far back, in a dark corner. I wore a vail also; and you know that when a thick vail is down before our faces, close to our eyes, we can see through it even at a distance, while those far off cannot recognize our features. If it had not been for my dark corner and my vail, I think his lordship might have discovered me, for he was looking about a great deal.”

“Was he looking well?”

“Oh! my lady, pardon me, how could he be looking well?”

The lady groaned, and covered her face with her hands. The attendant continued—

“No, my lady, he was not looking well! He was very thin and pale, worn and haggard, with a restlessness and anxiety on his countenance and in his manners, that it half broke my heart to behold. Oh, dearest lady, how can you bear to——”

“SUSAN!” The word escaped like a sharp cry.

“Forgive me, lady, my feelings betray me into indiscretion, sometimes.”

“I am fearful, indeed, my girl, that you are not safe,” said Mrs. Estel, gravely.

After this there was a pause for some moments, and then Mrs. Estel said—

“Was that the only occasion upon which you saw him here, Susan?”

“Yes, Madam; but I knew before that he was here.”

“You knew it before, Susan, and never warned me!”

“You would not permit me to tell you of the shipwreck, lady.”

“No, no! I cannot bear to hear of the shipwreck. There are wrecks of the heart and soul, God knows, that none upon the ocean equals! And—but we were speaking of _him_; and I do not see what the shipwreck you talk of has to do with him, since, thank Heaven, he was not wrecked.”

“It has everything to do with him, dear lady! You have confined yourself to this room ever since you arrived in the city, never once going out—never seeing any one here—never looking at a newspaper—never hearing any news, and not even permitting me to speak to you of a subject that is the universal talk of the city, yet of which you know nothing. And yet, dear lady, it has something to do with Lord Montressor, since his heroism upon that occasion is the subject of universal applause.”

“Applause! truly, applause would seem the natural attendant of Lord Montressor’s movements; but I wait to hear what special act of his lordship called forth the applause upon this occasion.”

“To explain it, my lady, I should be obliged to speak in detail of that fatal shipwreck, of which you have refused to hear.”

“Proceed Susan, proceed and have done with it, my girl; for I perceive that neither you nor I will have any peace until I have consented to listen to all the horrors you long to relate to me. Only be brief, then, and spare yourself and me as much as possible,” said the lady, and resting her elbow on the arm of the chair, and leaning her forehead upon the palm of her hand, she composed herself into a listening mood.