CHAPTER XL.

MEETING WITH AN OLD FRIEND.

“It gives me wonder great as my content, To see you here before me.”—_Shakspeare._

The brig lay some quarter of a mile off the shore. Susan hailed a skiff, which soon put herself and her mistress alongside the vessel.

Barbara Brande’s deck, as usual, presented an animating scene of orderly industry. Edwy, as mate, had charge of the forecastle. Several men were aloft, at work upon the rigging. Others were at the hatches, getting freight into the hold. Barbara stood upon the quarter-deck, directing some men, who were lowering the long-boat to go on shore Upon observing a lady coming over the gangway, she quickly walked forward to welcome the visitor. Barbara was the same handsome Amazon; with the same erect and rounded form, the same stately head, firm features, great, strong, flashing black eyes and brilliant complexion, shaded by crisp, rippled bands of glittering, jet-black hair.

“Mrs. Estel! By all that is best, Mrs. Estel! Welcome, welcome, welcome! I am so overjoyed to see you!” she exclaimed, extending both hands to her visitor.

“Am I so little changed, Miss Brande, as to be recognized at once?” inquired the lady, with a slight smile, as she clasped the offered hands of the girl.

“Changed?” repeated Barbara, looking affectionately into her face. “Yes, my lady, you are changed somewhat—a little paler and thinner, which makes your eyes look still larger and darker by the contrast; that is all. I knew you, of course, at a glance. Ah, Susan, is that you? _You_ are not changed the least in life. How are you? But come into the cabin where we can talk; for oh, my lady, I think that we must have a great deal to say to each other,” exclaimed Barbara, addressing sometimes one and sometimes the other of her visitors, as she led the way into the cabin.

“First of all, Miss Brande, I wish to inquire it myself and maid can have berths here?” asked Estelle.

“Of course,” replied Barbara, promptly, as she motioned her visitors to take seats upon the sofa, at the same time placing herself in a chair.

“Then consider them engaged at once.”

“You are going to Baltimore or Washington?”

“To neither. We are going back to the Headland, unless you can engage to put me on shore upon East Island.”

“EAST ISLAND!”

“Yes; why are you astonished, Miss Brande?”

“Because no one ever lands on East Island. It is, in fact, inaccessible at all points save one. Besides, the old man who owns it is as jealous as a Chinaman of the approach of strangers.”

“But the old man has been dead nearly a twelvemonth.”

“The old man dead!—and I never knew it!—though, in fact, everybody on the Island might die, and the rest of the world would know nothing about it. And so he is gone! Well, ’tis said that

‘The angels weep, when a babe is born, And sing when an old man dies.’

But what has become of the pretty heiress, Etoile?” inquired Barbara, at heart wondering how it was that Mrs. Estel should know any thing of the Isle and its inhabitants.

“The young girl remains there under the charge of her guardian, Mr. Julius Luxmore.”

Barbara heard! She heard this name pronounced without an exclamation, a start, or a change of color, betraying how terrible was the shock she had received—so perfect was the nervous system, and so admirable was the self-command of this noble girl.

There was scarcely a perceptible change in her voice, as she repeated—

“Mr. Julius Luxmore? You said that the young lady’s guardian was Mr. Julius Luxmore?”

“Yes, Miss Brande.”

“May you not be mistaken in the name, madam?”

“Impossible, Miss Brande. But why do you ask?”

“Why, I knew Monsieur Henri De L’Ile for many years, and never heard him mention such a person among his intimate acquaintances. Though it is true that Monsieur Henri, who never encouraged visitors to approach the Island, some years ago even discontinued his visits to the mainland; or else, changed his trade from our shore to the opposite one, so that, for the last five years, I have lost sight of Monsieur De L’lle.”

“And it was precisely for that length of time, only, that he had been acquainted with Mr. Luxmore.”

“Then it is not strange that I should never have heard of that friendship,” said Barbara, too calmly to betray how much she was impressed by this new coincidence.

“But, Miss Brande, I have made a discovery, which I wish to impart to you. But first, will you permit Susan to close the cabin?”

Barbara arose and secured the door, and returning, said:

“Now I am at your service, dear lady. Go on: I listen.”

“Miss Brande, this man, this Julius Luxmore, has for five years past, fixed his avaricious eyes upon the fortune of his ward, and to secure that, has determined to take advantage of her innocence and inexperience, and, child as she is, to marry her. But, if it should not be too late, I have power, through the discovery that I have made, to prevent this sacrifice.”

“You, my lady?” replied Barbara, who neither by look, tone, or gesture, revealed how deeply the iron entered her soul.

“Yes, I, Miss Brande! And hence my intended voyage to the Island. But I must tell you the momentous discovery that I have made. You may remember that, in relating my story, I informed you that after the birth of my little girl, I just saw her face fade away from my fainting eyes; and that after recovering from the alternate stupor and delirium of many weeks, upon inquiring for my child, I was told that she was dead and buried?”

“I remember, lady.”

“_I was deceived._ My child was not dead. She had been secreted by her grandmother, Madame L’Orient, who after the transportation of Monsieur Victoire, to make herself acceptable to the childless Monsieur Henri, conveyed the infant to the Island.”

“Oh, madam, what a discovery! To what providential circumstance were you indebted for it?” inquired Barbara, who, through all her own aching heart, sympathized with this deeply-wronged mother.

“To a providential meeting and conversation with her nurse, Madeleine, whom the jealousy and caution of Mr. Luxmore had banished from the Island,” replied the lady, who thereupon commenced and gave a full and detailed account of the manner in which she had become acquainted with Madeleine, and the revelation which had been made her by the latter, concerning the infancy of Etoile, the death of Monsieur Henri, the guardianship of Mr. Luxmore, and the appointed marriage between the guardian and his ward.

And Barbara listened—no outward emotions revealing the inward storm that shook her great soul. That her betrothed—whom she had mourned as dead, these five years past, and to whose memory she had been more faithful than many widows to that of their husbands—should have been for this length of time, not dead, but deliberately false—false under circumstances that increased a thousand-fold the heinous enormity of his treachery—was a thought that convulsed her soul with anguish. But there existed a merciful possibility that this might not be _her_ Julius Luxmore! True, the name was rare, the coincidences striking, the circumstantial evidence nearly overwhelming; but she had heard of innocent people being convicted upon much stronger proof; and she would suspend her judgment until her own eyes should convince her of his turpitude! But, until then, what a war in her bosom! Happily, with her regnant self-control, she let no sign of this inward tempest escape. She answered Estelle very calmly, saying—

“Yes, lady, you are right. If not too late, this unnatural marriage must be stopped. And if not too late _now_, lest it should become so by another day’s delay, we must lose no time. It was my intention to sail to-morrow morning for the Chesapeake. But if you wish, and if you will be ready, I will get up anchor and make sail for the Island at moonrise this evening.”

“Oh! how generous you are! how heart and soul you enter into my interests, Miss Brande—dearest Barbara!”

“Ay, call me by my Christian name, I like that best,” was all the answer the quiet, but half broken-hearted girl made.

Estelle and her maid then arose and took leave of Miss Brande, promising to be on board an hour before the time of sailing, in the evening.

For some moments after her friends had left the vessel, Barbara Brande remained standing, like one transfixed by sorrow and dismay. Then, suddenly starting, she exclaimed—

“But this is no time to think of my own trouble. I must bring _them_ together!”

And she hastened down into her cabin, where she took a seat at her little table, drew writing materials before her, and indited the following brief letter—

_Brig Ocean Queen_, _New York Harbor, July, 184—._

MY LORD:—We sail for the Chesapeake this evening. If you would hear of one for whom you have long searched, meet me at the Headland, where I shall wait for you.

B. B.

She sealed the letter and superscribed it—

‘The Right Honorable, the Earl of Eagletower, Washington, D. C.’

Then, calling Edwy, she bade him take the letter, and hasten with it ashore, to secure the next mail.

Meanwhile the skiff, still waiting alongside, conveyed Estelle and her maid to the wharf where they entered the cab and returned home to make hasty preparations for their voyage. They packed up a few articles of wearing apparel, closed up the house, called to take a hasty leave of Madeleine, drove down to the wharf, and by seven o’clock found themselves in the stern gallery of the Ocean Queen.

At eight o’clock, the full moon arose, a light breeze from the west sprang up, and under these favorable auspices the brig made sail.

“If this weather continues, we shall reach the Island in five days,” said Barbara.

“Heaven grant that it may so,” replied Estelle.

“Unlikely, as under the most favorable circumstances, it seems, I still have a deep prophetic feeling that I shall yet be able to save my child!”

“Heaven grant _that_, also,” said Barbara.

“Amen,” responded Estelle.

And then, as the friends sat in the stern gallery, watching the receding shores, or the moonlit sea, their thoughts reverted to by-gone days.

Estelle said—

“I do not see Willful! What have you done with my favorite?”

“Willful has been midshipman in the navy for three years past, dear lady; his ship is now daily expected home from the Mediterranean.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Estelle, and then after a short pause, she said—

“I am thinking of Joseph in Egypt, when he lifted up his voice, and said—‘I am Joseph. Doth my father yet live?’ Oh, Barbara, you know what I would ask! Do _my_ parents yet live?”

“Lady, when I last heard of Sir Parke and Lady Morelle, some few months since, they were enjoying their usual health, and living in their customary state, at Hyde Hall.”

“Thank heaven!”

“But, Madam, is there no one else that you care to inquire for?”

“Yes! Tell me, Miss Brande, if you can, that _he_ is well and happy. That he has forgotten poor Estelle, and all the sorrows she has occasioned him, and has found, somewhere, a bride to his mind?”

“Lady, is it possible that you never look into an English newspaper?”

“Never. If they fell in my way, I might not be able to refrain from searching them, any more than I can refrain from questioning you. But they have _not_ come in my way, and I have abstained from seeking them. But tell me of _him_.”

“Lady, he has regularly corresponded with me, for the last five years. Each month he has written, asking me if I have heard news of _you_. And when I last heard of _Lord Montressor_,”—she said, laying a strong emphasis on the name—“he was resident minister at the court of ——. Lady, both your parents and your lover have sought you over the earth, for five years past. Immediately after the decision of the Arches Court, which you might have seen——”

“Yes, I saw it by chance, in the Court Journal.”

——“Your father and lover set out for the Headland, where they arrived just a month after you had left. I cannot describe to you their disappointment. It was deplorable! Since that they have used every means to discover your retreat. How vainly, you know.”

“Miss Brande, I shall trust in you to keep my secret!”

“Dear lady, I really will not enter into any bonds of that sort. You must trust solely to Providence for your future. I think if you knew how rare a thing is constancy, in this world of ours, you would set more value upon that of the Earl—I mean Lord Montressor.”

Estelle made no reply to that, but turned the conversation into another channel.

They remained talking until ten o’clock, when Estelle retired to her state-room, and soon after to her berth, where, exhausted by the fatigue and excitement of the last two days, she soon fell into a deep sleep.

Alas! for the fair hopes with which this voyage commenced! The next day the weather changed, the wind shifted, and blew straight ahead for three days, during which the vessel beat about, making little or no progress down the Atlantic. And when at last the gale subsided, there ensued a dead calm, that lasted two weeks, during which the vessel lay like a log, burning under the fierce heat of the July sun. Barbara and her passengers were nearly in despair. But we must leave them in their dilemma, and borrowing the wings of imagination, precede them to the Island, to ascertain what, in the meantime, has been the fate of Estelle’s child.