CHAPTER XLIV.
THE ATTEMPTED FLIGHT OF ETOILE.
“——Quick, boatman, do not tarry, And I’ll give you a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.”—_Campbell._
One afternoon the youth and maiden were seated on the rude bench down on the beach, near the usual landing, watching the almost motionless surface of the water.
“Do you think that this calm can continue long, Mr. Brande?” inquired Etoile.
“I suppose not—though it may break up in another storm,” replied Willful, gravely.
“Now, may the Lord in his mercy forbid!” exclaimed Etoile, fervently clasping her hands.
“So pray I! I never see a storm arise, without a sickening of the soul,—not for dread of what is coming, but in memory of what has gone! The sea has been very fatal to my race, Miss L’Orient!”
“Ah! has it been so?”—murmured the maiden, raising her eyes, full of sympathy, to his face. “I hope it was only vessels and cargoes, and not any near relative or dear friend that you lost?”
“My father, my two elder brothers, and my brother-in-law, all went down together in their lost vessels,” said the young man, sorrowfully.
“Ah, what a calamity! I can deeply feel for you, Mr. Brande,” she said in a voice tremulous with emotion, as she lifted her tearful, blue eyes again to his troubled face—“I can deeply feel with you, for I, too, have been a sufferer by the sea!”
“You are all sympathy and benevolence, dear young lady! And _you_ a sufferer by the sea? I grieve to hear that. But I hope you have not suffered so deeply as myself?”
“I lost my father and my grandmother. But it is true that I did not feel the loss so deeply as I ought to have done, perhaps, for I had never seen my father, and had lost sight of my grandmother for years before they died.”
Willful recollected now, that Monsieur and Madame L’Orient had been lost on the Mercury. He scarcely knew what reply to make to the earnest-hearted girl beside him. He knew perfectly well that the loss of her father was anything but a misfortune to her, still it would never do to tell her so, nor yet would it be honest to express a condolence, not felt, upon this subject. He contented himself with respectfully pressing her hand, and saying—
“Yes—I remember now—they were passengers on the same vessel, the Mercury, in which my father, my brothers, and my poor sister’s betrothed, Julius Luxmore, went down.”
“JULIUS LUXMORE!” exclaimed the maiden, in amazement.
“Yes, young lady! Why should that name cast you in such a state of consternation? I beg your pardon.”
“Why Julius Luxmore was not lost! he was saved!”
“Good heaven! I had even heard such a rumor; but never believed it! And never breathed it to Barbara!” thought Willful to himself. Then aloud he inquired—
“Will you forgive the question and tell me—are you certain of the truth of that which you have just announced, young lady?”
“Assuredly! Mr. Luxmore was saved from the wreck of the Mercury. He brought us the news of the death of my father and grandmother. He brought us also such of my father’s effects as were picked up on the sand-bank. And above all, he brought a will which constituted him guardian of my father’s heiress.”
“Yourself?”
“Certainly! And from that time to this, excepting the three winter months of last year, Mr. Luxmore has lived exclusively with us.”
“Great Heaven! what perfidy!” exclaimed Willful Brande, in his heart; but from respect to his young hostess, his lips were silent.
She continued—
“Since the decease of my dear uncle, Mr. Luxmore has been my sole guardian and protector, as he will soon be my——” She started, blushed, reflected an instant and then in a low and thrilling voice inquired—
“What was that you said about Mr. Luxmore being the betrothed husband of your sister?”
“My honored young hostess, I spoke indiscreetly; pray pardon me,” said Willful, in a troubled tone.
“Mr. Brande, do _you_ pardon my persistence and tell me, in plain terms, whether or not, Julius Luxmore was affianced to your sister.”
“My dearest Miss L’Orient, Mr. Luxmore is your legal guardian. Let us talk no more of him.”
“Mr. Brande! I have the most important, the most vital interest in the question that I have put to you—I do beseech you answer it.”
“Young lady,——” began Willful, in a voice of distress that was quickly interrupted by Etoile, who clasping her hands and raising her eyes in the earnestness of her entreaty, said—
“Mr. Brande, I must tell you all! Mr. Luxmore, my guardian, has taught me to believe that I am his destined bride; and he has promised me that when we are married, and not until then, he will take me into the world and present me to my dear mother’s relations. Now, not to see that world—nor even to possess ten thousand such worlds, would I marry a man who has broken faith with another woman, for it would be a fearful sin, invoking the judgment of God upon my head! Therefore, if this man, who seeks my hand, was the betrothed of Barbara Brande, tell me and save me from the sin and sorrow of wedding him?”
Willful Brande was agitated. His strong impulse was to say to her at once—
“Yes—the base traitor! he broke faith with Barbara! he deceived and deserted her at her utmost need;” but a high, chivalrous magnanimity held him silent. He said to himself—“It may be that she loves him; and that he may yet grow worthy of such love—if so, though my heart should burst, I will refrain from saying any thing to destroy her confidence in him.”
“You do not speak, Mr. Brande! Oh, answer me!”
“Miss L’Orient!” exclaimed the young man taking her hand, and speaking with the deepest respect—“forgive the question that I am about to ask you and answer it, as true soul to soul: you say that you are contracted in marriage to your guardian—do you love him?”
“Indeed, I do not know! I _tried_ to like him, because I always thought it was my duty to do so; but if I find he has been a recreant to another love, I am sure I shall utterly cease to esteem him. Therefore—I adjure you by your honor to inform me—was Julius Luxmore the betrothed husband of Barbara Brande?”
“Miss L’Orient, thus adjured, I have no choice but to reply—Yes! Julius Luxmore _was_ the betrothed husband of Barbara Brande, with whom, without just cause, he broke faith!”
Etoile was gazing intently into his face as though she would read his soul. She saw in his frank, serious, earnest countenance, his perfect truthfulness. She felt and knew what he said to be a fact; many little circumstances, heretofore inexplicable, now easily to be understood, recurred to her memory in corroboration of his statement; her instinct, hitherto repressed as injustice, was now explained and justified. But the young Etoile possessed the excellent faculty of self-control. No exclamation of astonishment or loathing escaped her lips. Only with her serious eyes still questioning Willful’s countenance, in a low voice, she further inquired—
“But why should he have abandoned his betrothed? She was such a noble girl! one of nature’s queens! I saw her once, you know, before ever trouble came to her, a Boadicea she looked! a royally beautiful Amazon! Why should he have abandoned her?”
“For the prospect of a higher prize, no doubt, young lady.”
“Tell me all you know of this man, Mr. Brande.”
“Miss L’Orient, I will. And do you pardon me for the pain I may give you in the recital.”
Etoile folded her hands together and listened intently, while Willful Brande related the story to Julius, from the time of his adoption by Captain Brande, to that of his betrothal to Barbara. He concluded by exposing the evident fraud, by which Luxmore had succeeded in creating the false impression of his own death.
Etoile listened, struggling to remain calm and self-possessed; but the trouble of her heart revealed itself in the disturbance of her countenance. True, as the reader knows, Etoile had never truly loved and never thoroughly esteemed Julius Luxmore, still it was terrible to discover in one who had so long been her companion, teacher, and confidant, such utter unworthiness.
“Oh! it was base, it was wicked, it was atrocious, to have abandoned his betrothed, the orphan daughter of his friend, in the hour of her bitterest need, even augmenting her anguish by laying upon her heart the grief of his supposed death! Oh, it was heinous! There can scarcely be pardon or redemption for a soul like that—God have mercy on him!” cried Etoile, bursting into tears and dropping her face upon her hands.
“I said that I should pain you—pray forgive me!” pleaded Willful.
“There is nothing to forgive; but much to thank you for,” said Etoile, wiping her eyes, and holding out her hand.
The youth respectfully pressed the little hand and resigned it. And both were silent for some minutes, during which Etoile looked deeply thoughtful. At last the maiden spoke:—
“Mr. Brande, you are older than I am, and you know so much more of the world, that you can counsel me in this strait.”
“Young hostess, I would to heaven I had the experience and wisdom to advise you, since you have no wiser friend. But it may be, God will bless an honest intention, and put good counsel into my mouth. Say on, Miss L’Orient.”
“I will tell you, first of all, what I know of my own story, which may aid you in judging what is best to be done.”
“Speak, young lady; I listen.”
Etoile, after a pause of thoughtful self-recollection, commenced and related, with conscientious exactness, the short story of her young life.
Willful listened with the profoundest interest, and, during the progress of her narrative, became fully confirmed in his impression that the Island maiden was really the lost child of the beautiful Estelle. Still, discretion held him silent upon this point; because, for all that he knew to the contrary, that lovely lady might now be numbered with the dead; and not for the world would he raise hopes in the breast of her daughter, that might end in disappointment. He resolved, that before hinting to Etoile the discovery he had made, he would consult Barbara.
“You do not speak, Mr. Brande,” she said.
“It is because your story has so deeply interested me. But name the point upon which you wished my humble counsel, Miss L’Orient.”
“It is this—and oh, even while I speak, my heart shudders with the fear that there may not be time to carry out my plan! I shall not marry Mr. Luxmore—will not! cannot! Do you hear? Nevertheless, see! a wind has sprung up from the north, and every hour from this time we may look to see his sail bearing down upon the Island. He will come with the lawyer, the clergyman, and the license, to claim my hand and carry me away.”
“Miss L’Orient, fear nothing. No power on earth can compel you to give him your hand.”
“Oh, I know that!” replied Etoile, proudly; “simply because, though all the forces of earth were brought to bear upon me, I would refuse, and meet the consequences.”
“There shall no evil happen to you so help me Heaven! I am by your side,” exclaimed Willful, in a rush of enthusiasm, that seemed to give him the strength of a lion, or rather of a host.
“You are brave and faithful, I do not doubt. But my guardian is armed with legal powers over my person and my fate that, believe me, I feel sure he would not scruple to use to the utmost, to gain his purposes.”
“True—good Heaven!”
“Therefore, you see, I must escape from the Island. My resolution is formed,” said the maiden, who, woman-like, had first made up her mind, and then asked advice. Willful saw that she had unconsciously taken this initiative course, and before offering any advice, he wished to know her own thoughts.
“Escape! but how, whither, under what protection? Speak, Miss L’Orient, for I am at your utmost disposal.”
“I have money, boats, and servants. I propose to lade a boat, and go to Heathville, attended by two servants, and escorted by yourself, if you are so good. At Heathville, we can get some conveyance to New York, where you can put me in the care of my faithful Maman, Madeleine.”
Her plan betrayed such simple ignorance of life, that Willful Brande listened in amazement.
Nothing now could be easier than to run away with and marry this beautiful and wealthy heiress, whom, besides, he worshiped with all the ardor of a young heart’s first and passionate love. And nine out of ten, placed in such circumstances, would have yielded to the temptation of which he certainly felt the force.
But Willful Brande was, as I have said, the soul of honor; not for a kingdom—not even for his loved one—would he stain his manhood with a single unworthy act. He remained silent and thoughtful, not knowing how, with sufficient delicacy, to convey to her the knowledge that her plan was inadmissible.
“You do not answer me, Mr. Brande,” she said.
“Young lady, because I do not know how to explain to one so inexperienced, that the proposed plan, if carried out, would expose you to much censure.”
“But why?” inquired the maiden, in much amazement.
“Because a young man, unless he is a near relative, is not considered a proper escort in a long journey for a young lady. Besides, it would be almost impossible in the wilderness of New York city to find your nurse Madeleine, nor even if found would she, only a mulatto servant, however good and faithful, be considered a proper protector for a young lady,” replied Willful, with a deep sigh, for the temptation was overcome, but the prize was lost.
“Then what _shall_ I do to escape this impending danger? You see, now, how necessary your counsel is to me.”
“Heaven save the poor maiden who has no wiser counselor than the youth who loves her,” thought Willful to himself.
“Well, Mr. Brande, well, can you advise me what to do?”
“Have you no friends or acquaintance upon the main land in whom you could place confidence?”
“Oh, no! none but old Doctor Crampton, who lives at Heathville, with his two old maiden sisters.”
“The very man, if he would only be friendly to you. He looks honest and courageous.”
“Oh, he _is_ honest and brave! I have known him a long time—I never had a doubt of him,” said Etoile, warmly.
“And do you think he would befriend you against your guardian?”
“Yes, if his conscience were satisfied, for he loves me as his own child.”
“And how far is Heathville from this place?”
“Before this wind, about two hours’ sail.”
“Then your course is clear, Miss L’Orient. Order your boat to be prepared. While it is being got ready, pack up such necessary articles, or such valuables, as you may wish to carry with you; take your servants, Moll and Timon, to attend you; and I will myself escort you in safety and honor to the house of your old friend the physician, to whom you will tell your story, and under whose protection you can appeal from your guardian’s authority to the Orphans’ Court.”
“There will be no impropriety in that, of course?”
“Not the slightest—else I had not proposed it.”
“And you, what will you do?” inquired the maiden, with interest.
“After having seen you in honor and safety under the protection of friends, I shall go on my way to Baltimore,” replied the young man, smothering the sigh that arose in his bosom.
“And—when shall I see you again?” inquired the young girl, in a tremulous tone.
“Would you care ever to see me more?” asked Willful, in a voice full of deep emotion.
“Indeed I should! And I wish to know before we separate when I shall see you again, so that I may have the joy of looking forward to that time.”
“When the Lord and yourself wills,” replied Willful, earnestly.
“If it depended upon my will it should be very soon,” she said, gently.
“But in the meantime, if your friends approve, I would like to write to you, Miss L’Orient.”
“Why, of course my friends will approve, why should they not?” she artlessly inquired.
Willful smiled sadly, shook his head, and instead of replying directly to the question, said:—
“Delays are dangerous, Miss L’Orient.”
“Oh! I know they are! especially in this instance, when any hour may bring my guardian’s sail in sight. I will go now and pack up. Will you do me the favor to order the boat?”
Willful nodded in obedience, and Etoile hurried away.
Great was the astonishment of the Island servants when they learned that their young lady, who had never before left her insular home, was now about to take a trip to Heathville, to see old Doctor Crampton and his maiden sisters. For the latent object of the visit was of course withheld from their knowledge. They settled it among themselves that the old physician, when last at the Island, must have given the invitation; and after their first surprise was over, they declared that it was natural and right for their young lady to have this recreation.
“But what shall we say to Marse Julius, if he should come ’fore you get back, Miss Etwill?” inquired one of the old men.
“Tell him where I have gone—that is all,” answered the maiden. “Once in sanctuary there, I have no cause to fear him,” she mentally added.
It was with a deeply agitated mind and a wildly beating heart that Etoile, attended by Willful Brande, and followed by her two faithful servants, took her way down to the boat that waited to bear her from the only home she had ever known, to those untrodden shores she had so ardently desired to reach.
When about half way down the lowest avenue leading from the house to the landing, she met a little negro boy running toward her with the joyful countenance of one who thinks he brings glad tidings.
“Oh! Miss Etwill,” said the lad, “the packet has just come to anchor out there, an’ Marse Julius an’ some gemmen are in the long-boat, rowin’ to the shore.”
“Oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Etoile, clasping her hands.
“Fear nothing, young lady,” said Wilfull.