CHAPTER XLIII.

LOVE.

“Love is the gift which God hath given To man alone beneath the heaven; It is not fantasy’s wild fire, Whose wishes, granted, soon expire: It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, For heaven, as for earth, can bind.”—_Scott._

The house was restored to its usual condition, and the grounds, as nearly as possible, cleared from the vestiges of the late devastation; so that the surroundings of the young heiress were once more, upon the whole, orderly and pleasant. She returned to her usual employments, or occupied herself with the care of her invalid guest. And with hope mixed with fear, she hourly expected the arrival of her guardian’s packet.

Willful Brande, lying on his sick couch and missing his beautiful hostess from the room, gave himself up to wonder and speculation. His position seemed to him like that of one in a dream or in a fairy tale—cast away on a charming island, and cared for by a lovely maiden, who seemed its only white inhabitant, and, youthful as she was, “Monarch of all ‘she’ surveyed.”

He had certainly heard of L’Orient Isle, and of the good old man who ruled it; though it was as a memory of his childhood that the story now recurred. But who, then, was this angelic girl, who seemed its queen? She knew the Headland, and had once seen his sister! Willful at last remembered! She must be the child of whom he had once heard Barbara speak, and who was now grown to womanhood. But how was it that she was left alone? Had she neither parent nor guardian, or had her guardian deserted his post? What _was_ the meaning of her extraordinary position? However Willful might speculate upon these questions, one thing was certain, that the bright and beautiful young face that, like an angel of healing, had beamed over his couch of pain, charming away the fever and distress, had left an impression on his youthful heart, never to be erased.

“I have saved my life, but I have lost my peace,” said the poor youth, tossing about on his couch of uneasiness. “Yes, life is saved, but peace is lost; for whatever she be, this rare beauty, this young queen, is not for Willful Brande, the poor midshipman! I must get up and get away from the domains of this maiden Dido.”

To get up was possible; but to get away at will was quite another matter. Vessels came not every day to the Isle, at the bidding of those who longed to get off.

While Willful was wondering, speculating, and planning in his room above, his young hostess was hospitably engaged in preparing for his reception below. She had her own charming boudoir set in festive order; fresh flowers put in all the vases; the windows opening upon the flower-garden hoisted; the communicating doors between the boudoir and the conservatory on the right, and the aviary on the left, opened, so that the songs of birds and the fragrance of flowers were wafted through; and lastly, a luxurious chair wheeled beside a table, upon which stood a vase of rich exotics and a selection of attractive books. She sat in the pleasant window seat, with her embroidery-frame in her hand, and attended by her woman Moll and her maid Peggy, upon the morning when Willful Brande, still very pale, and wearing his arm in a sling, was shown in by old Timon.

Etoile at once arose, held out her hand to welcome him, and begged him to take the chair by the table.

Timon immediately brought him a glass of wine and a cracker, which his young hostess, in her character of deputy doctor, commanded him to swallow.

Willful Brande felt at once flattered and embarrassed by these friendly attentions, which, by the way, the high-toned and fine-spirited young islander would have lavished upon any venerable cripple with as much pleasure as upon this handsome youth.

When he had obeyed her, and swallowed the wine, and the little cut-glass service had been taken away, Etoile resumed her pleasant seat in the window, her two maids, Moll and Peggy, stood dutifully near her, engaged in knitting, and her old footman Timon waited in the hall without. More and more did the position and circumstances of this young creature impress Willful Brande as resembling the state of some petty old world princess—even in the dignified ease and self-possession with which she did the honors of her house.

An hour passed in pleasant conversation, during which Willful Brande incidentally learned that the young heiress had a guardian who was now temporarily absent. But he did not learn that guardian’s name, far less the cause of his voyage from home, or his contemplated marriage with his ward.

Willful Brande felt that the more he saw of the beautiful Etoile, the more irrecoverably his heart became involved, and that the longer he should remain by her side, the more terrible would be the wrench by which he should have to tear himself away. And his resolution to escape became confirmed. Turning to his young hostess with a smile, he deferentially inquired what might be the means of leaving the Island for the nearest port.

“We have nothing but little sail-boats that take our messengers to and fro, between the main land and the Isle. Any one here who wishes to go further, is obliged to hail some passing packet to take them off,” replied the young girl.

“But these packets pass frequently?”

“No, sir, not very frequently within hailing distance; not more than once a week.”

The look of disappointment on the face of Willful appealed to the maiden’s sympathies.

“I am truly sorry, Mr. Brande,” she said, “that you should be detained here against your pleasure and convenience; but we will do all that we can to make your sojourn with us as little tedious to yourself as the circumstances will permit. The house and servants are quite at your disposal. So, also, are the horses and the boats, when you can avail yourself of them. Here are books and musical instruments, pray consider them your own.”

“I am grateful from the depths of my soul for your kindness, young lady; but—I ought to be away,” said Willful, with a profound sigh, which she understood to be one of regret at his own enforced stay. Believing this, she replied—

“I know, of course, how tedious to one accustomed to the world, must be life on this lonely Island.”

“Tedious! good heaven! yes, it is as tedious as sipping, drop by drop, some exquisite draught that one knows must finally deprive him of reason!” thought Willful, bitterly.

But she was regarding him compassionately with her clear blue eyes, and, seeing him still overcast, she added—

“You will not have to remain long in this solitude. Every day, indeed, every hour, I expect my guardian’s vessel. He will bring friends with him, and then you will have company and merry-making, which will help to enliven the scene for you. And as my guardian’s packet is a chartered one, she will remain over night to take us to Baltimore, whence we travel by land to New York. And as your bourne is also Baltimore, we shall be happy to have you along with us. So cheer up, wayfarer, for you shall soon be with your own.”

“You are kinder than the kindest, as well as fairer than the fairest, young lady, and it is not anxiety to get away, so much as it is the necessity of going that so disturbs me.”

“Is the necessity so imminent?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Willful, in a deep, agitated voice, that caused her to look up in surprise to his face to find his eyes fixed upon her with an expression of warm admiration. But with the air of a detected culprit Willful hastily dropped his glance and blushed to the very edges of his hair.

Etoile compassionated without understanding the occasion of his disturbance, and addressed herself more zealously to the hospitable task of entertaining her guest.

“Do you like music, Mr. Brande?”

“Excessively, if one can be said to like any good thing excessively.”

“What instrument do you prefer? Look around, here is a pianoforte, a harp, guitar and lute. Name your choice.”

“I like the instrument of God’s workmanship, ‘the human _voice_ divine,’” said Willful significantly.

“Then the guitar is the best accompaniment for that,” she replied, and taking the instrument from the ready hands of her maid, who had hastened to present it, she tuned the strings and commenced—no silly love ditty such as make up nine-tenths of the sum of current musical literature—but Samuel Lever’s beautiful song, “My Mother Dear”—then first published. Etoile sung with a self-forgetfulness, a passion, and a pathos seldom equaled. As the last words died on the ear, and the tones of the singer’s voice trembled into silence, Willful dashed a tear from his fine, dark eye, and said—

“It is a beautiful song.”

“No—I don’t know that it is beautiful; but it is my favorite,” replied Etoile, in a tone of voice that still quivered with emotion.

“You loved your mother very much,” said Willful, gently.

“Say—I _love_ her ‘very much’—above all human creatures, and only less than the Creator. And yet I never set my orphaned eyes upon my mother’s face; but that is no reason why I may not remember her in my song and in my prayers.”

“You never saw your mother, and yet you love her so!” exclaimed Willful in a thrilling voice.

“Ah, Mr. Brande! The sweet poet who wrote the sweetest song of home was all his life a homeless wayfarer throughout the world! So I, who never saw the face of my mother, love best the songs that speak of a mother’s love. In all my life I heard but two or three words about her. It was in my childhood, and by chance, that I heard my grandmother speak of her to my uncle. Then I only learned that she was a young thing, scarcely so old as I am now, when her proud English relations carried her off, and I was left. Then, I do not know when I received the impression, but I always had the idea that my mother had very dark eyes and black hair, and that with all perhaps _I_ resembled her. And so what do you think I did this summer?”

Willful smiled and shook his head; he could not answer.

“Why, out of her supposed likeness to myself, and out of her fancied dark hair and eyes, I painted an imaginary picture of my mother. See!” said Etoile, drawing the locket from her bosom and revealing the miniature to her companion.

Willful took it, looked upon it, and started,—a tide of emotion swept through his frame.

It was the counterfeit resemblance of Estelle herself. He knew the history of the beautiful English lady who had been his sister’s tenant. A crowd of coincidences rushed upon his memory and confirmed the suspicions that had flashed into his mind. But discretion held him, as yet, silent upon the subject of this possible discovery.

He raised his eyes to the face of the young girl.

“You say, Miss L’Orient, that this is only a fancy sketch?”

“Oh, no! not exactly so. It is painted from a strong impression on my mind. The outward expression of an inward belief.”

“You _must_, in your unconscious infancy, have seen some face or portrait that made this impression upon your mind, even though you may have forgotten the circumstance.”

“No! I think not—one cannot be sure; but why do you imagine such a thing?”

“Why,” said Willful, evasively, “such _impressions_ are usually unconscious recollections.”

Feeling now that she had said perhaps too much of her own affairs, Etoile became silent. And Willful formed the secret determination to say nothing of the discovery he had made, until he should first consult his sister Barbara.

Three more days passed, and yet no news of the expected packet. And now to the stormy weather had succeeded a calm so profound as to leave no reasonable hope of soon seeing a sail.

Etoile exerted herself, all but too successfully, to console her guest for his “unwilling” detention. She introduced him to her birds, to her exotics, to all her best books,—she rambled with him over the Island, showing him all her favorite haunts; she sailed with him around the shore, and challenged him, as soon as his arm should get well, to a gallop around the race-course. And despite her anxiety to hear of or see her guardian, never had Etoile been so gay, so buoyant and so happy, as now that she enjoyed for the first time the society of a companion near her own age.

Day by day the acquaintance between the youth and maiden thus strangely thrown together, thus isolated from all the world and dependent solely upon each other for conversation and amusement, progressed toward friendship on one side, and passionate love on the other.

Day by day, when walking by her side; glancing stealthily at her beautiful face; listening to her sweet voice; feeling the fascination of her gentle manners—Willful Brande felt his honorable resolution of silence giving way. Still, as yet, he steadfastly restrained himself.

“I am not her equal in wealth and station. I will not take advantage of my present position to breathe one word of love in her defenseless young ear—no, not if my heart were to break!” said Willful to himself. But each succeeding day he found it harder to keep this resolution.

As for Etoile, she felt her innocent affections so drawn out by the youth who had been cast upon her Isle, and who was now her daily associate, that she began to dread the coming of the hour that should take him from her sight. And this was all natural, probable, inevitable! Besides her old uncle and her middle-aged guardian, Willful Brande was the only white man she had ever seen. Willful was young, amiable and eminently handsome, his manly beauty of form and features were enhanced by a frank, ardent and intellectual expression of countenance that ever won the confidence, esteem and friendship of all appreciating persons among whom he might be thrown.

And Etoile’s innocent regard for her guest was testified in a thousand graceful kindnesses, each of which nearly threw her young lover off his guard and cast him at her feet.

But Willful Brande was the very soul of honor.

“I must govern my feelings! I must not abuse hospitality! I must wait until her guardian shall return and she shall be fully under his protection, and then, perhaps!”—he exclaimed, giving wings to his youthful imagination. Meanwhile he no longer desired to escape from the Island; and for Etoile, as I said, she dreaded the hour of his departure.