CHAPTER XXXVII.
ETOILE LEFT ALONE.
“Her sweet song died, and a vague unrest, And a nameless longing filled her breast— A wish that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.”—_Whittier._
Not until all these arrangements had been completed did Julius Luxmore announce to Etoile his intention of leaving the Island to spend the winter in Paris.
The young creature looked dismayed.
“Oh, Mr. Luxmore, you will not go and leave me also! My dear uncle is dead; Madeleine and Frivole have gone; winter is at hand, when I cannot go out; you will not leave me alone on the Island all these dreary months!”
“My sweet girl, I go at the call of duty. Besides you will not be alone. There is still a gang of young women and a force of old men on the Island, and in the house you have Timon, Moll, and their granddaughter Peggy.”
“I know, and they are good creatures, and I will do all I can to make them happy; but, Mr. Luxmore, I cannot make companions of them,” replied the maiden, with a certain mild majesty.
“But, my fair girl, you can seek companionship in your books, your music, and your drawing. You can employ these winter days in perfecting yourself in belles-lettres and arts, and let me see when I return what progress you have made; for, Etoile, with the earliest spring I will be here again.”
Etoile smiled, but the smile was so sad that Julius Luxmore hastened to say:
“You would not detain me here against my duty, would you, my fair?”
“No, oh no! it is selfish in me to repine. I will do so no longer. Go, Mr. Luxmore, to the lovely, distant world; but, come back to me with the flowers and birds of spring,” said Etoile, and with a brighter smile she offered her hand.
“With the earliest birds and flowers of spring, I will be again beside my princess, and claim the hand of my promised bride,” exclaimed Julius Luxmore, gallantly lifting the tips of her fingers to his lips. Then, with a smile and bow he left her, and went to make his final preparations for departure.
From this day a man with telescope at hand was constantly stationed on the look-out from the beach, to watch for and hail the first up-bay vessel. For it was Julius Luxmore’s intention to go to Baltimore, thence to New York, whence he expected to find the earliest opportunity of sailing for Havre.
He held himself prepared to leave at half an hour’s warning.
It was at sunrise on a fine, clear morning, early in the month, that the man on the look-out reported a sail bearing up the bay.
Mr. Luxmore ordered him to exchange his telescope for a speaking trumpet, and when she drew sufficiently near, to hail her, to take on a passenger.
The man obeyed, and the clipper came to anchor within half a mile of the Island, and sent her long-boat ashore.
Julius Luxmore, all ready to depart, sent his trunks and boxes on board the boat, and only waited for the appearance of Etoile, to take leave of her before going.
He knew that he had not to wait long.
Etoile, fresh, blooming, and beautiful as a rose, came down from her morning toilet, and stood beside him on the piazza.
“You are going then, this morning, Mr. Luxmore?” she asked, trying to smile and to speak cheerfully.
“Yes, my fairest and best beloved; I am going. It is duty that turns me from your side.”
“And duty must always be obeyed, I know,” she said.
Julius Luxmore looked at her for a moment. He seemed to realize with a strange thrill that the fascinating creature beside him was no longer a child.
He thought her, as she stood there, the most beautiful creature that his eyes had ever beheld. Her dress of deep black by the contrast of its shadow only threw out into stronger light the dazzling clearness of her snowy skin, the brilliant bloom of her cheeks and lips, and the sunny splendor of her golden ringlets.
He longed to clasp her to his heart and press a kiss upon her rosy lips. But he durst not as yet. He never had dared to embrace Etoile. For though in her unconscious innocence she had freely promised to become his wife; and though, as long as his endearments had been confined to words, she had received them very quietly, yet he had noticed that whenever he ventured to caress her, she shrank as a sensitive plant shrinks at the slightest touch.
Therefore he abstained from a parting embrace, lest he should alarm her delicacy, and fatally repel her confidence. And thus, alone, helpless, and in his power as she seemed, his gentle and submissive ward, and his promised bride as she was, her maiden modesty, and native dignity effectually protected her from all undue familiarity on the part of Mr. Julius Luxmore, until, as he promised himself, the law and the church should place her irrevocably in his power.
“The boat waits—I must tear myself away from you, my own Etoile,” he said, taking her hand.
She gently withdrew it; but affectionately replied:
“I will go down to the beach with you, Mr. Luxmore. Surely you do not think I would part with you on the threshold of the house, when I might walk with you down to the shore, and watch you even to the ship?”
“My darling girl, but it is so cold for my Etoile.”
“No, I had prepared for the cold,” replied the child, beckoning her sable maid, Peggy, and taking from her hands a large fleecy white shawl, in which she wrapped her head and shoulders.
They then went down to the shore, where the boat waited. The baggage was already stowed, and the sailors were impatient.
“Remember your promise to write every week, and to send Timon to mail the letters at the Heathville post-office,” said Mr. Luxmore.
“Oh, yes, you may be sure that I will never miss doing so. It will be my best comfort,” replied Etoile.
“And if you should ever be ill enough to need a physician’s services, which is not at all likely, send for old Doctor Crampton.”
“Yes, I will remember and obey you in all things, my dear guardian.”
“And now, farewell, my beloved and beautiful Etoile,”—he said, lifting her fair hands to his lips—“farewell for the winter.”
“Yes, farewell for the _winter_; but with the first birds and blossoms of spring you have promised to come back.”
“To claim the white hand of my beautiful bride,” replied Mr. Luxmore, pressing her slender fingers. Then he relinquished them and jumped into the boat, which was immediately pushed off, and where he stood looking back and waving his hat as long as he could see the fair Etoile lingering on the shore.
* * * * *
Julius Luxmore’s voyage was rapid. Favored with a fair wind, he soon reached Baltimore, whence he took the cars to New York, where he arrived early upon the morning of the day when the regular packet was to sail for Havre, and in which he immediately took a berth. The passage across the Atlantic was equally prosperous, and early in the new year he found himself at Paris.
Mr. Luxmore’s immense wealth, or rather that of his ward, which he freely appropriated, enabled him to enter extensively into the English and American society of the French metropolis.
He contrived to get admission into an English Club, and by his adroit maneuvering, he learned, for the first time, a fact of the greatest importance to his plans; it was that of the decision of the Court of Arches, recognizing the legality of the marriage of Victoire L’Orient with the only daughter of Sir Parke Morelle.
And Julius Luxmore discovered with a thrill of joy, that the beautiful Etoile was not only the actual owner of the rich Island, but also the sole heiress of one of the wealthiest estates in the West of England.
Thus, in birth and in fortune, as well as in beauty and accomplishments, she was a match for a prince! But she should never know it! He would guard her more jealously than ever, and not until she had become his wife, should he take her from the Island, present her to her aristocratic relatives, or claim in her behalf the Island estate to which the documents in his possession would enable him to establish her right.
And he longed with eager, vehement, passionate impatience for the time to come that should secure to him the possession of this peerless prize.
He resolved that their marriage should be delayed no longer than her sixteenth birthday, which would arrive the ensuing midsummer. To pass the intervening time with as little sense of tedium as possible, he plunged into all the gayeties of the French capital. Then he made a short tour through Italy. And finally, toward the spring, returned to Paris, to collect _bijouterie_ for Etoile, and to prepare for his homeward voyage.