CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE SOLITARY MAIDEN.

“What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that low’rs Between this time and that sweet time of grace?”—_Mrs. Kemble._

Etoile, left alone with her servants upon the Island, found the time pass less heavily than she had dared to anticipate.

The winter was less severe than usual. The atmosphere was elastic and bracing, and the Island maiden was enabled to pass part of every day in the open air.

Her plan of self-improvement was conscientiously carried out. The earlier hours of every day were devoted to a course of reading. Finding herself wearied at about twelve o’clock, she would put on a warm hood and sack, buckle on her skates, and have an hour’s fine skating on the frozen bosom of her own crystal creek. The first hours of the afternoon she employed in practicing music, painting, or embroidery. Growing tired of sitting, at about four o’clock she would order her pony to the door, and spring into her saddle for an hour’s gallop around her circular race-course. Or if the weather confined her within doors, so that she could neither skate at noon nor ride at sunset, she substituted for both those recreations a visit to her sheltered birds and flowers, that always afforded her ample entertainment. The long winter evenings were employed in needle-work, or in light reading. And upon some occasions, she would permit her two aged domestics to pass the evening in her parlor, where she would entertain them by reading aloud some interesting book, or else, while busily plying her needle, she would listen to some wild and wonderful legend of ghost, wizard or demon, related by some one or the other of the old people.

Then she had the weekly excitement of receiving or answering letters from her guardian, and the permanent interest of anticipating his return.

Thus her daily employments helped off the week, and the weekly mail-day served to mark off the months, and hurry forward the period for Mr. Luxmore’s return and her own liberation.

Her own liberation! That, at last, was the great object of Etoile’s aspiration!

So the winter wore away, and spring was at hand.

About this time, having read all her books, learned all her music, copied all her pictures, and worked embroideries from all her patterns, and having no material of any sort to labor upon, Etoile bethought herself of painting her own miniature, as a present to her guardian. So one morning she conveyed her drawing materials to her bed-room, arranged them upon her toilet table, and seated herself before the mirror, to commence operations. In three days, the miniature was completed to her satisfaction. And an exquisite face it was—a golden-haired, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked blonde, beautiful as an angel. Etoile was charmed with her success; having completed the picture, she could not leave it, but continued to play with the subject, by changing the color of the drapery, first, from white to rose-color, next to lilac, then to blue; then to black, and finally, after sponging out the black, restoring it to its original snow.

Then, feeling at a loss what to do next, she resolved to paint a miniature of herself with black hair, eyes and eyebrows, to see how she would look thus. She took her place at the mirror, and went to work; and as she proceeded, Pygmalion-like, she fell in love with her own creation. She worked at it with enthusiasm; but as the picture grew toward perfection, her artistic mind discovered that in contrast with those darkest eyes and blackest ringlets, the blonde complexion was too dazzlingly fair for harmony—that she must put in darker and richer tints in the lights and shadows of the face. The subject possessed for her a strange spell of fascination. Under the force of powerful inspiration, she perfected the picture.

And then, why, as she gazed upon her finished work, did her heart swell with a strange trouble, her lips tremble, and her eyes fill with tears? What was there in that beautiful pale face, with its large, dark, mournful eyes, and falling vail of shadowy ringlets, to attract her with such painful power?

She had unconsciously drawn the likeness of her mother!

She selected from her numerous trinkets a plain gold locket, enclosed the miniature therein, and hung it around her neck, wondering all the while, why she felt so strongly inclined to wear this picture!

She placed her own miniature in a similar locket, and reserved it as a gift for her guardian, whose arrival might now be soon expected. And at length, early in May, old Timon brought from the post-office a letter announcing the speedy advent of Mr. Luxmore.

And from the day of the reception of the letter, Etoile prepared all things to welcome with eclat her returning guardian.

And at last he came.

It was high noon, and Etoile, dressed in a white muslin gown and straw hat, stood upon the front piazza, about to take her daily before-dinner walk, when one of the negroes came running up the avenue toward the house, bringing the intelligence that a vessel had come to anchor about three miles out in the Bay, and that a boat put off from her side was rapidly rowed toward the Island.

Etoile, with a cry of joy, hastened down the avenue toward the landing-place, which she reached just as the long-boat, containing Mr. Luxmore and all his baggage, rowed by six sailors, was pushed upon the sands.

Julius Luxmore sprang out and hastened toward Etoile. The beautiful creature looked so attractive as she stood there with her straw hat hanging on her arm, her snowy drapery and golden ringlets floating on the breeze, that Luxmore’s first impulse was to catch her to his bosom in a warm embrace. But she arrested him, as with her innocent child-like look of gladness she sprang forward, offering both her hands, and exclaiming:

“Welcome home, my dear guardian!”

He caught her offered hands, pressed them, shook them heartily, and lifted them to his lips, saying:

“Oh, Etoile! my bride! how enchanted I am to be with you again!”

Then leaving a command with the negroes to unlade the boat, and convey the baggage to the house, he drew the arm of his ward within his own, and they walked up the avenue, homeward, both conversing—he with consummate art, she with guileless simplicity. They reached the house, and Mr. Luxmore retired to his chamber, to prepare for dinner, which was soon served.

The afternoon was spent in unpacking boxes, filled with rich presents, which were displayed before the delighted eyes of Etoile.

“And these are all for my promised bride,” he said.

“Oh, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed the maiden, in sincere gratitude, as one beautiful article after another dazzled her sight.

“Oh! how glorious must be the world beyond, whence all these wondrous beauties come,” she said, for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Well! come midsummer and your birthday, which is also to be your wedding-day, and you shall see that ‘beautiful world beyond.’”

The artless creature responded by a radiant smile.

The costly gifts were then all arranged in her own suite of apartments.

The evening was passed in the moonlit and vine-shaded piazza, where Julius Luxmore related the events of his tour in Italy and his life in Paris—or, at least, so much as was proper for the hearing of Etoile, who listened with deep interest.

“And now at last you are here!” she said. “You have come back with the earliest birds, and flowers of spring, even as you promised!”

“And I shall always keep my word to my beauteous bride,” he answered, gallantly.

“And you find the Island in its very loveliest looks! The Isle is never so charming as in May, when the grass and the foliage wear their greenest and most delicate hue; when the spring flowers are all in bloom, and the orchard and groves are forests of blossoms; and the birds are singing as they build their nests, or feed their young!”

“Yes, it is all lovely! all charming! but the fairest blooming flower and the sweetest singing bird of all, is my own Etoile! my promised bride.”

“And yet to you, who come from the beautiful beyond, this poor Isle cannot look so fair as it does to me who never saw any thing brighter!”

Luxmore smiled at her hallucination, and said to himself—

“Has _any_ one _ever_ seen any place brighter?” But while he asked that question only in his heart, he replied to her by his lips saying—

“Come your wedding-day, and you shall see that beautiful beyond!”

And again the artless maiden responded by a smile of innocent delight.

So passed the first afternoon of Mr. Luxmore’s return. And from that time to two weeks previous to their appointed wedding, Julius Luxmore never left his betrothed.

Five weeks passed away like a dream, and brought July. Etoile knew that she was to be married on the fifteenth. As it was necessary that Mr. Luxmore should visit the main land to obtain the marriage license, the services of a clergyman and a lawyer, and also the rich trousseau, including the bridal vail and jewels, that had already been ordered for Etoile, and as he wished to reach Baltimore in time to join in the celebration of the great national festival, he informed his betrothed that he should set out from the Isle on the first of the month.

“Three days to go to Baltimore, six to transact business there, and three to return, bringing the attorney, the clergyman, and the bridal regalia for my princess!” exclaimed Mr. Luxmore, after detailing his plan to her.

“So, by the fifteenth of July, you will be with me again!” she said.

“Aye! and on the morning of the fifteenth we will be married, and immediately after we shall sail for London, where I shall present you to your English relatives.”

“English relatives!” exclaimed the maiden, in astonishment—“have I English relatives, then?”

“Yes, my love, did you not know it?” inquired the wily Julius.

“Why, of course not! I did not know I had a relative in the world! You must have been aware that I was ignorant of the existence of any kindred of mine,” she said, as a feeling of cold distrust chilled her heart.

“I supposed, my love, that you had heard of your mother’s family.”

“No, no!” exclaimed the maiden, in a voice of deep emotion. “No one would ever tell me of my dear lost mother. I have asked a thousand and a thousand times, but could not learn who she was, or where she lived, or when she died. It is so sorrowful to have never had a mother either living or dead. For though I never saw my mother, if I only knew the place where she sleeps her last sleep, I should sometime go and water the turf with my tears. Mr. Luxmore, can you tell me any thing about my mother?”—she asked, clasping her hands, and fixing her eyes on his face in the earnestness of her entreaty. “Oh, Mr. Luxmore, please, can you inform me of any thing relating to my dear mother?”

“No, nothing whatever, my sweet love.”

“Of my mother’s relations, then? Has she sisters or perhaps parents living, who would tell me all about her?—Oh, _do_ answer me, Mr. Luxmore!”

“My best love you shall go to England, see your relations, and know all—after we are married.”

“After we are married!—after we are married! _Why must every thing be deferred until after we are married!_” inquired Etoile of herself, as the same cold distrust chilled her heart. But the next moment she reproached herself for this incipient suspicion, saying mentally—

“I am unjust and ungenerous! My guardian must know best! My guardian _must_ be right.” And to atone for her momentary doubt, she held out her hand and said submissively—

“As you will, dear Mr. Luxmore. But—after we are married, you will help me to find out all about my dear unknown mother.”

“I will, so help me Heaven, sweet Etoile!” he replied lifting her hand to his lips.

And the next morning, with a promise, wind and tide favoring, to be back in two weeks, Julius Luxmore took a tender and respectful leave of his affianced bride, went on board a passing schooner, and sailed for Baltimore.

Etoile went to her room and wrote a letter to her nurse Madeleine, in New York, informing her that her foster child was to be married to Mr. Luxmore, on the fifteenth instant. This letter was mailed at Heathville.