CHAPTER XLI.

A WAITING BRIDE.

“Wake, maiden, wake! the moments fly Which yet that maiden name allow; Wake, lady, wake! the hour is nigh When One shall claim thy plighted vow.”—_Scott._

No band of hired minstrels sounding their reveille, aroused Etoile L’Orient on the morning of her birthday and appointed bridal eve. But the matin songs of myriad birds that made the fair Isle their home, as usual awoke the maiden.

With no understanding of the dreadful, loveless, life-long bond, with which she was about to fetter her soul—but with an ecstatic recollection that upon this day, it was appointed she should leave the Isle for the unknown world beyond, the artless creature sprang from her couch, to greet the sun upon this her bridal morn.

She went first and threw open the window-shutters to look out.

It was a morning without cloud or mist, or breath of stirring air. Far eastward, across the still gray waters and beyond the silvery sanded flats of Accomac, the sun—like a king without his court—was rising in solitary grandeur; not a single courtier cloud attended his levee, or reflected his splendor. Every aspect of the earth, sea and sky, foreboded a still, close, hot day, to be followed by a night of storm.

Every solitary dweller with nature is by habit weatherwise. Etoile, the young recluse of the Island, could read the signs of the sky, and looking out, breathed a light sigh.

“The atmosphere is lifeless, though ’tis early morning; not a leaf stirs on the trees; scarcely a ripple curls on the waters; even the birds have already ceased their songs; and I—I can scarcely breathe this motionless air! But I will ask Moll about the weather, she knows the best.”

And going to the bell-rope, the young girl rang for her attendant.

Old Moll and little Peggy entered.

“What sort of day is this going to be, Aunt Moll?”

“’Deed, Miss Etty, it gwine be like yisdy and day ’fore yisdy, on’y more so! ’Deed it’s wonderful hot an’ close; not a bref of air more’n de whole yeth had de asthmetics! Marster send a little gus’ or somefin to freshen the air a bit! Is yer gwine down to the crik?” said the old woman, as she busied herself with getting together her young lady’s bathing dress, shoes, cap, towels and so forth.

“Yes,” Etoile said, “of course I am going down to the creek.”

Old Timon always waited at the little maiden’s solitary breakfast table. This morning he made his appearance just as his young mistress took her seat at the board.

“What sort of weather are we going to have, Timon?” asked the child.

“Honey, dere’s bound to be a change afore long,” replied this philosopher, oracularly.

“What _sort_ of a change, Timon?” inquired Etoile, a little impatiently.

“A _change_—dat all I kin say,” responded the sable savan, growing more profoundly mysterious.

“Do you think that the packet will reach here this morning?”

“Yes, honey, dat is ef she kin git here! which you see ’pends ’pon circumferences b’yond our ’trol.”

Finding that there was no satisfaction to be got from Timon, the young lady arose and retired to her own parlor and endeavored to settle herself to her usual avocation. In vain! She could not confine her attention to the open book before her. She tried her painting, and then her music, with no better success. Finally, she arose and went to her aviary.

“Poor little captives! you are so like myself that I ought not to neglect you for an hour,” she said, and calling her little hand-maid, Peggy, to her assistance, she opened all the windows of the aviary to let in more light if not more air. And then she busied herself until noon in cleaning out the cages, and supplying them with seed and water and fresh green boughs. The clock struck twelve while she was still at work.

“Noon! and the packet not here yet! Bring me the telescope, Peggy.”

The little maid obeyed. And Etoile taking the instrument from her hand, went out upon the piazza, adjusted the glass, and took a sweeping survey of the Chesapeake. Up the Bay, in the direction whence she expected the packet with Mr. Luxmore, not a sail was to be seen. Down the Bay—very far down, midway between the two capes, lay, apparently becalmed, a vessel.

With a deep sigh, she lowered the telescope, laid it on the settee, and returned to her occupation in the aviary.

At dinner she again spoke to Timon.

“Two o’clock, uncle, and the packet not here!”

“How she gwine be here, chile, widout a bref of win’ to blow her along?”

“Oh, I wish the wind would rise!”

“Hush, honey! you don’t know what yer asking for!”

“Ah, but I am _so tired_ of this place.”

“You wants to leab we-dem mighty bad!”

“Oh, no! no! no! only for a little while! I could not desert the dear Isle, and you all who are on it, forever, because, after all, I love my Island and my people better than all else _living_. But I do not want to go and see the wonderful world. And even more than that, I want to see my dear lost mother’s friends and hear about _her_. For you know, no one would ever tell me about my dear mother—where she lived, or if she lived at all!—or if she was dead, or where she was buried! So, you see, I am left altogether in doubt. And Mr. Luxmore has promised to take me, directly after we are married, back to my mother’s friends. It is that which makes me so anxious to be gone! Oh, Heaven! that the wind would rise!”

Leaving the table, she called Peggy to bring her the telescope, and went up stairs to the attic, and then up the ladder to the little observatory terrace upon the apex of the roof between the two central chimneys. Adjusting the instrument, she looked far up the Bay. There was not a sail to be seen. She turned the glass down the Bay. There lay the schooner just within the Capes.

While watching her still white sails, she observed the ragged end of an inky cloud just above the horizon. At the same instant, a distant, deep, and hollow moan sounded over the sea, and like a prophetic sigh from nature, the first breath of the waking breeze touched her brow.

“Thank Heaven, the wind is rising,” she said.

And lowering her telescope, she went below.

“Timon, the wind is getting up! the packet will be in!” she said exultingly to the old man, whom she found upon the piazza.

“Yes, honey; but dis win’ come _up_ de Bay dead ag’in any down packet.”

“Why, so it is! I never thought of that,” said Etoile, with a look of disappointment.

“But don’t you git ’scouraged, honey! Now de win’ up, it may shif’, an’ any win’ short ob _harrycane_ is better nor a dead calm.”

Restlessly, impatiently, the girl walked about, looking first from one window and then from another. At last she said:

“Bring along the telescope, and go down to the beach with me, Timon. I want to watch.”

And taking down her straw hat, she tied it on and led the way to the extreme south point of the Island, called The Shells.

This was the most desolate—or rather the _only_ desolate portion of her insular domain. In low water, it exhibited several acres of rugged shoal, consisting of reefs beyond reefs of sand, shells, sea ore, and all the multifarious deposits of the waves. Here, after ebb tide, in the deep pools left in the hollows between the reefs, shell-fish were caught in abundance by the Island negroes. Now, the water was very low, and Etoile could easily step across the little pools in which she observed the crabs and manenosies struggling to escape.

“Give me the glass! There! stand and let me rest it upon your shoulder, good Timon, and I will see what I can see. That schooner is nearer. Her sails are filling with the breeze. She is bearing up,” said Etoile, after she had taken sight. Then lowering the glass, and returning it to the keeping of Timon, she scanned the sky with her naked eye. Detached and ragged fragments of an inky cloud, sailed like an ill-omened fleet before the wind up the horizon.

“There will be a gust! I hope it will not be a serious one. What think you, father Timon?”

“’Deed, honey, you may ’pare for any thing, when you sees de debil’s black rag-bag shook out in the sky dat way!” said Timon, ominously.

The wind blew higher—the fleet of clouds sailed up faster—the sea took on a darker shadow.

“Miss Etty, chile, I think how we done better go into the house,” said the old negro, uneasily.

“Perhaps we had,” said Etoile, turning. “But, father Timon, what is the matter with the birds?” she inquired, calling his attention to the great flocks of water-fowl screaming, that darted distractedly to and fro between the darkened heavens and the troubled sea, or dropped in sudden terror to the covert of some thicket on the Island. “What does ail the birds, father Timon?”

“_Dey_ knows,—de dumb creatures do!” replied the old man, mysteriously.

“What do you mean, father Timon?”

“Ah! chile, you’s young—you is! You nebber see such a tempes’ in your life, as we-dem gwine to have to-night!”

“Oh, I hope not! Dear Heaven, I hope not!” exclaimed Etoile fervently, and the next moment she took heart of grace, and comforted herself with the reflection that old Timon was always at best a croaker.

The gale was now blowing so hard, that it was with difficulty she could keep her footing, and avoid being thrown forward upon her face.

As they neared the house, she saw old Moll and Peggy hastily closing blinds and letting down windows.

Turning her eyes over the grounds, she noticed the old men hurrying the frightened cattle into their places of shelter, while crowds of women and children were running toward the mansion house, as a place of greater safety from the impending storm.

Flocks of sea-fowl were seen settling on the Isle. Man and beast, alike, seemed impressed with the prophetic instinct, that the coming tempest would be one of unprecedented violence.

Old Moll opened the front door to admit her young mistress.

“Come in, chile! Lors a messy ’pon top o’ me! Come in out’n the win’! It’s enough to blow you ’way!” she said, taking the hand of the young girl, and drawing her within the door. Then noticing the crowd of women and children, increased now by the arrival of the old men from putting the cattle up, she angrily exclaimed:

“What all you-dem black niggers come a scrowdging in here for? Go ’long wid yer! You tink how ef de debbil want you to-night, Miss Etwil can save you? Go ’long wid you!”

“Oh, let them come in, poor souls! if they think they will feel any better here! We will all sit together in the large, front room, until the storm is past,” said the gentle-hearted girl. And, as her sweet will was law, all her people entered with her, and found shelter in that spacious apartment opposite Etoile’s parlor, which had once been Monsieur Henri’s hall of state.

The negroes withdrew to the walls of the rooms.

“Find seats—find seats—you must not, after your long day’s labor, remain standing,” said their kind young mistress.

The old people sat down in chairs, at a humble distance from their little lady, and took the children upon their laps. The others seated themselves upon the carpet.

Etoile drew a chair to the centre-table, and reclined.

They were scarcely thus arranged, when a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a tremendous roll of thunder, startled every one to their feet.

“Marster, messy on us!” cried old Moll, crossing herself. “Oh, Miss Etwil, honey, let me light a bless’ candle!”

“You must trust in the Lord, mother Moll.”

“Yes, chile, so I does; but I’d feel heap easier in my mind, if there was a bless’ candle-light.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Etwil! please, honey, let the bress candle be lit,” pleaded the other servants.

There was no wisdom in arguing with terrified negroes in a storm.

“Light the candles, if you like,” said the little lady.

Moll jumped to avail herself of the permission. She went to the fire-place, where, occupying the centre of the mantelshelf, stood a plaster image of a saint, with a wax candle in each hand. Moll took one of these, drew a match and lighted it, and was just about to replace it in the hand of the image, when—

There fell—hurled down from heaven—a tremendous thunderbolt, striking and shattering the chimney, throwing Moll upon her face, extinguishing the candle, and stunning, into momentary insensibility, every person in the apartment.

Total darkness and silence followed the shock.

Etoile, who, in the swift instant of receiving the electric charge had believed herself to be annihilated, was the first to recover her senses and presence of mind. More slowly returned her powers of speech and motion. But all was total darkness and stillness around her. She listened.

Not a motion—not a breath—not a sound—save the falling of the rain, was heard.

“My Father! are they all killed?” she exclaimed. “Who is alive? Is there no one that can answer me?” she inquired and waited for the issue.

None spoke.

She arose, still quivering from the shock, and groped her way over prostrate forms to the mantle-piece, when she felt for the matches, and lighted the remaining candle. The illumination of the room showed her the forms of the prostrate negroes, slowly recovering, and amid muttered prayers and exclamations of dismay, picking themselves up.

No one was hurt.

Etoile stooped and took up the extinguished candle, lighted it, and placed it, with the other, in the hands of the image. The double light certainly made the large room look more cheerful, and revived the spirits of the appalled negroes.

“But see you,” said their young mistress, “you must trust in God alone. For observe, even though Aunt Moll held the blessed candle in her hand, she was struck down by the shock of the thunderbolt, and the candle was extinguished.”

“Lord forgive you, Miss Etwill, honey,” replied the old woman. “It wur de bressed an’ holy candle as saved all our lives. An’ ef’ I hadn’d had de sanctify candle lighted in my han’ when I was struck, I done been stretch out here, a dead ’oman on de floor.”

Etoile’s blue eyes dilated at this strange but almost unanswerable argument, and before she found a reply, another blinding flash of lightning, followed by an appalling crash of thunder, and a dashing flood of rain, sent all the negroes upon their knees.

Etoile grew pale as death, not for herself, but for others.

“Oh, God have mercy! Oh, God guard the ships at sea!” she prayed, with clasped hands, and lifted eyes.

“An on we-dem, too, amen, amen,” responded all around her.

And now in the intervals between the rolling, crushing, and rending peals of thunder, and in the pauses of the dashing floods of rain, and the howling blasts of wind, was heard another dread sound.

It came not—like the thunder, the rain, and the wind—in fitful and startling assaults.

It came at certain intervals—regular, monotonous, and inexorable as fate.

It was a slow succession of dull, heavy, tremendous shocks, at each of which the solid earth seemed to quake and shudder.

Each shock was nearer, harder, heavier than the last.

The negroes heard it in appalled silence.

Our young heroine listened to the unknown sound, and looked upon the panic-stricken faces of her people. Then she inquired with forced calmness—

“What is that noise, Timon?”

“Oh, Miss Etwill, honey, don’t ax me! Say your prayers, chile, an’ let’s die like Christians.”

“Oh, God, it is the SEA! The SEA is advancing upon the Island!” exclaimed Etoile, as the awful truth broke upon her consciousness.

Then followed weeping and wailing, and wild wringing of the hands among her servants.

Etoile, heroic by nature, and self-controlled by education, after her first exclamation, became composed. Her clear, strong, active intellect at once comprehended the circumstances.

“The house stands high, the walls are of solid masonry. The sea may enter and flood the lower chambers, but will not be likely to rise to the upper ones, and cannot sweep away the building,” she said to herself.

But, meanwhile, the wild tumultuous waters thundered onward like a vast besieging army. Soon the strong walls shook under the cannonading of the waves.

The negroes howled in the very agony of terror.

“Silence, and listen to me!” exclaimed the young heroine rising and lifting her hand to attract attention.

In an instant the lamentations ceased, and all looked up to her beautiful inspired face, as though it had been the face of an angel.

“To the attic chambers! Every one of you to the attic! There you will be quite safe.”

But so benumbed were their faculties by fright, and so confused their senses—with the mingled, deafening, chaotic noises of rolling thunder, and howling wind, and falling trees, and, above all, of the dreadful roar of the waters that broke against the trembling walls and creaking doors and windows of the house—that they seemed to have lost the power of motion.

“To the attic! to the attic, for your lives! Snatch up the children and fly!” exclaimed Etoile, just as a great sea, thundering, broke upon the walls, and bearing down the doors and windows, rushed roaring into the house.

They had had barely time to seize the children and run through the back door to the back staircase, up which they fled before the pursuing waves.

Etoile, who had lingered behind to see that none were left, must have been whelmed in the black rush of waters that soon filled the first floor, but for her power of swimming. So she reached the staircase, and clambered up.

Three flights of stairs brought her to the attic, where she found her terrified people gathered.

“We are safe! we are safe! Return thanks to God and set yourselves at rest,” exclaimed their mistress, as she joined them.

“Oh, young missus, is you sure?” inquired one of the old women.

“Yes, the water has risen only to the fifth step on the first staircase—it is wonderful that it could rise so high, and nearly impossible that it should rise higher. Be all composed. Give thanks to God, who holds the sea in the hollow of his hands. Who says unto the wild waters, ‘Thus far, no further shalt thou go; and here let thy proud waves be stayed.’ The storm must be nearly expended. It is almost midnight. And midnight and noonday, like sunset and sunrise, are always crises in weather,” said the young girl.

But nothing seemed to corroborate her comforting testimony. For in this lofty, bleak, exposed attic, the violence of the storm was fearfully apparent. Through the uncovered glass windows, the lightning blazed in a continuous and blinding glare. Over the near roof, the thunder broke in deafening crashes. Around the peaked gables, the wind raved, rifting off and rattling down the shingles. And through every chink and crevice the rain poured; while up from below, rose the roar of the multitudinous devouring waters.

It was a night of such fear, horror, and desolation, as the oldest negro on that Island had never seen before.

At one o’clock, while the storm was still raging, Etoile crept down in the dark, to take observation of how high the waters might have risen in the house. Down two flights she went, and paused at the head of the third. It was pitch dark. She stopped and listened, and heard the muffled motion of the waters within the walls, but was unable, from the sound, to judge how near they might be to her feet.

“Never mind. I will hold by the bannisters and step cautiously, and when I wet my shoes, it will be time enough to stop,” said the heroic girl, as she went down on her dark and dangerous exploration. She had descended to the turn in the staircase, and had not yet wet her feet, when by the red gleam of the wax-lights left burning high in the hands of the image on the marble shelf of the large room, she saw the dark pool of waters below. Now, it may be strange, but it is true, that this still, black, confined abyss of water in an unwonted place, filled her soul with more fear than the great waves of the open sea could have inspired, because mingling with this fear was a disgust and loathing which could make no part of the terrors of the great ocean. Nevertheless, she went down nearly to the dark water’s edge, and by the red gleam of the candle-light upon the surface, she noticed that it had fallen to the third step and was steadily subsiding. Having ascertained this fact, she hastened back up stairs to rejoice the hearts of her people with these glad tidings.

“The sea is receding. In an hour it will have retired from the house. _Now_ will you return thanks to the Lord who has stayed the waves?” she exclaimed, as she joined her people.

“Oh! we do, we do, Miss Etwill, but hear to the thunder still!” responded old Moll on the part of the negroes.

The storm, however, had spent its worst fury.

The wind, like the waves, was subsiding.

The flashes of lightning were less vivid, and less frequent. The peals of thunder rolled off faint and far.

The rain fell softer.

After two o’clock the clouds began to break away, dispersed. And at three o’clock the same placid morn that had shone upon Estelle, lying awake in her small dwelling in the distant city, looked in now through the attic window, upon her fair child, Etoile, seated among her sable attendants.

As soon as the thunder and lightning had ceased, the negroes, a heavy-headed race, had one by one dropped asleep on the attic floor.

But not so could Etoile compose herself to slumber. The novelty and excitement of her position, suspense and anxiety concerning the fate of the vessels at sea, combined to banish sleep from her eyelids.

Near morning she went to one of the front dormer windows, opened it and looked out.

The far-spent night was now almost as light as day. The full moon rode in the mid heavens. The first faint dawn of morning paled the east. A few rent and ragged black clouds hung about the horizon, only serving to make the gray sky look lighter by the contrast. The sea had receded from the centre of the Island, but still raged and boiled over two thirds of the lower portion. Many fragments of broken timber were tossed hither and thither upon the crests of the waves. At first Etoile naturally supposed these to be portions of the Island cabins carried away by the flood.

But the next instant, raising her eyes and looking out at sea, she saw, oh horror! what?

The bare hulk of a vessel, the masts and shrouds all gone, tossed about, the sport of the maddened sea!

And while her eyes were still spell-bound to the awful spectacle—the wreck shuddered through all her frame, settled, and went down, and the waves closed over the spot where she had sunk!

With a terrible cry, Etoile fell upon her face. Neither her cry nor fall aroused any of the heavy-headed negroes, sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Not long the poor girl lay in her swoon; for when she recovered her senses it was early morning. At first stupefied, bewildered and confused, with a dull, aching, undefined consciousness of something painful lying heavy at her heart, she strove in vain for recollection. And then suddenly flashed back upon her mind the perfect memory of the night of storm, and the ship that sank in her sight.

She hastened to arouse her servants.

“Awake! awake! up! up! a ship has been cast away on our shoal! I saw her go down before my eyes!” she cried, shaking one and then another. In a few minutes all were on their feet, and eagerly questioning each other as to what has happened.

But Etoile rushed to the window and looked out. The sun was just rising.