CHAPTER XLVI.

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS.

“There are swift hours in life—strong rushing hours— That do the work of tempests in their might! They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light Where it but startles, like a burst of day; For which the uprooting of an oak makes way; They touch with fire thought’s graven page—the roll Stamped with past years—and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!”—_Hemans._

In the meanwhile, Willful Brande walked up and down the front piazza, musing upon the strange situation of the beautiful and friendless maiden. The more he reflected upon the character and position of her guardian, the more strongly he became convinced of the imminent necessity of her being immediately delivered from his power. That Julius Luxmore would not scruple to make use of any means for the accomplishment of his purposes he felt assured. The question with which his mind labored was, how to effect her escape. While intensely studying this problem, his eye fell upon old Timon sauntering alone through the grove. In the time that he had spent on the Island, he had especially noticed the great devotion of this aged servant to his fair young mistress. He walked rapidly down the steps, across the lawn, and into the grove, where the old man lingered.

Timon took off his hat with his usual humble “Sarvint, marster.”

“Timon—come further into the shade. I want to speak to you of your young mistress. Tell me, now, whom do you love best—Miss L’Orient, or Mr. Luxmore?”

Timon looked up with a sly, intelligent smile, and said:

“Young marster, I sees how things be gwine on! I done took notice ob Mr. Julius a-comin’ up from de boat; an’, likewise, ob Miss Etwill. I sees good how she ain’t got a minit for him now; and as for me, young marster, I is willin to do any thin’ in dis worl’ to ’mote de happiness ob Miss Etwill.”

Willful blushed, lest his own motives should be misconstrued, even by this most humble of judges, and he hastened to say:

“The change in your young lady’s opinion of her guardian is not without the best reasons. And all that is necessary to promote her happiness is to get her out of his power, and under the protection of her old friend, Dr. Crampton and his sisters, from whose house she can appeal to the Orphans’ Court.”

While making this confidence, Willful Brande had narrowly watched the countenance of the old man, whose honest gaze did not once flinch, and who now replied:

“You may trus’ me to de def wid anythin’ as is for Miss Etwill’s good.”

“I do believe you. But is there any among the women for whose fidelity in such a matter you could answer? because, in her escape, Miss L’Orient should have a female attendant.”

“Marster, I can be sponsious for my ole ’oman, Moll—dat is all. Not but what all de oders is hones’ ’nough, an’ love Miss Etwill ’nough; but den, marster, dey’s ’feared o’ Marse Julius. So, I wouldn’ like to trust ’em.”

“Can you procure a boat—let us see—between midnight and day?”

“Who, me? Better ’lieve so, young marster! I has de s’preme ’trol ob de boats.”

“Then select a good, sound, safe boat, such as may be managed by me and you. And, let me see—the most unfrequented part of the Island is the bathing pool of your young lady, Crystal Creek?”

“True for you, marster; no one ever sets foot there, ’cept Miss Etwill and her maid.”

“And the quietest time in the twenty-four hours is about two o’clock in the morning. Now, Timon, can you have the boat in readiness on Crystal Creek about that hour?”

“Sartain, marster!”

“How will you be able to know the time?”

“Marster, I gwine lay awake till midnight. I allers knows when it is midnight by de crowin’ o’ de roosters; an’ sure_lie_ I can guess at an hour or two beyant; anyways, ef I should be a minit _before_ two o’clock, be sure I won’t be half a second _arter_.”

“Very well. Be vigilant and faithful, and you shall be richly rewarded, old man,” replied Willful. And, after a little more immaterial conversation, concerning the details of the plans, these justifiable conspirators separated—the old man to cautiously commence the preliminary arrangements of the flight, and the youth to seek the house, and, if possible, find means to communicate the plan to Etoile. As he turned to leave the spot, the sound of a quick, retreating step fell on his ear. He started, listened, and looked about; but neither hearing nor seeing any one, he concluded that the fugitive steps were those of a calf that he perceived gamboling at a short distance; and so, with returning confidence, he hurried onward.

He had scarcely left the grove, when the figure of a man emerged from the cover of a thicket, and with a gesture of hate and anticipated triumph, took a nearer path to the house, which, unperceived, he reached before the arrival thither of the midshipman.

When Willful Brande entered, he was met by a servant, who invited him to walk into the dining-room, where he found the supper table spread, and the clergyman and the lawyer, together with Mr. Luxmore, apparently waiting his arrival.

“Gentlemen, I bear to you the excuses of your fair young hostess, whom a sudden but temporary indisposition confines to her chamber. Pray be seated, and ‘good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both,’” said Mr. Luxmore, as he assumed the head of the table. The board was well spread with all the substantial delicacies of the season. A footman served tea and coffee from the sideboard.

“So, Etoile is a prisoner, then,” thought Willful, who was not for an instant deceived by the pretext advanced by Mr. Luxmore—“but it shall go hard but that I find means to liberate her before morning.”

The indisposition of the young lady was no doubt afterward offered in explanation of the delay of the wedding.

When all left the dining-room, Willful Brande went to his chamber, wrote a few lines on a small piece of paper, rolled it into a minute parcel, returned to the lower hall, and walked to and fro the passage and the piazza, until he found an opportunity of slipping the little scroll into the hands of Moll with the swiftly whispered words:—

“Give this into the hands of your young lady as soon as possible.”

With a nod of intelligence, Moll concealed the scrip.

Meantime Etoile, locked within her two rooms, “possessed her young soul in patience.” Under Divine Providence her hopes rested upon Willful Brande. Though no confidential word had, since the interruption of her flight, passed between herself and the youth, she felt assured that he would not desert her cause; that he would, upon the first opportunity, leave the Island and report the case to her old friend Doctor Crampton, with the request that he would appeal in her behalf to the Orphans’ Court. Meanwhile she knew the danger to which she was constantly exposed from the unscrupulous character of her guardian. She even wondered whether he would now permit her own servants to attend her.

Night drew on, she heard from the distance “the tinkling of silver upon porcelain,” sounds of preparation for the evening meal. After a few minutes she went to a side window and looked out, and saw her guardian hurrying, with disordered steps, toward the house. With a growing aversion to his presence, she recoiled and left her point of view. Soon after she heard the steps of Willful Brande enter the front door, and then all proceed to the dining-room. She closed her windows to keep out the dampness of the evening that was falling humid and heavy. Lights had not been brought her, and she sat down in darkness to meditate upon her strange position.

After awhile she heard the guests leave the dining-room and proceed to the parlor, and Julius Luxmore’s voice in conversation with the two gentlemen. Next she heard the solitary step of Willful Brande pacing to and fro in the passage, up and down the piazza; but at last he, too, seemed to have left the scene, and all was silent. Half an hour passed, and then the key was turned in the lock, and her guardian, accompanied by old Moll, bearing a tray of refreshments and a light, entered.

Etoile, on seeing him, turned her back and walked off to the other end of the room. Old Moll, while busily engaged in arranging refreshments upon a little stand, cautiously endeavored to catch the eye of her young mistress, and at last succeeded in exchanging with her a significant glance.

Mr. Luxmore walked up and down the floor, watching her keenly, but not attempting to address her.

Etoile bore this with patient dignity for a little while, and then said:

“Since you use your power to confine me here, sir, you should at least show ordinary delicacy in refraining from intruding upon my privacy, at this unseemly hour of the night.”

“I exercise the double privilege of your guardian and your betrothed husband, young lady. And Etoile, I wished again to converse with you to-night,” he answered, then turning to the old servant, he added: “Moll, leave the room.”

The old woman bowed obedience, and then making feints to settle the spoon and fork for her young mistress, as soon as Mr. Luxmore’s back was turned upon them in his walk, she hastily slipped Willful Brande’s rolled note into her hand and then withdrew from the room.

Mr. Luxmore now returned on his walk, drew a chair to the side of Etoile, and then, with all the eloquence he could command, recommenced his suit. The young girl listened with a curling lip, answered only when direct questions were put to her, and then in a manner that must have utterly repulsed any other than the desperate adventurer before her; and him it nearly maddened.

“Mr. Luxmore, it is ten o’clock—an hour past my usual one of retiring. You must see the necessity of now leaving me,” at last she said, in a tone that compelled even the unscrupulous man before her to respect her words.

“Very well! I have given you this last opportunity. You are obdurate, and my course is taken!”

When he had left the room, Etoile unrolled her scrip and read:

“MISS L’ORIENT,—I advise you to retire early and try to sleep as much as possible between this and the hour of two in the morning. At that hour, one who watches will awaken you, and a boat will wait at the Crystal Creek to convey you to your friends on the main land.

W. B.”

On reading the note, with its prospect of immediate escape, the heart of Etoile leaped with gladness.

Meanwhile Willful Brande, loathing the sight of Julius Luxmore, and his possibly mercenary guests, withdrew to his own chamber, shut the door and seated himself by the window, to pass the time as he might in meditation, or in gazing out upon the dark, starlit expanse of waters.

Sometime after ten o’clock, he heard the guests conducted by Mr. Luxmore come up and enter their sleeping rooms, which were upon the same floor with his own. He heard their _soi disant_ host, with much courtly politeness take leave of them and go down stairs. Next he heard the muffled motions of the guests in their final preparations for bed. Then all was silent, until the clock struck eleven.

“Twelve—one—two! Three hours yet! how shall I live them through, here in darkness and solitude!” exclaimed Willful to himself.

He slipped off his shoes and paced softly up and down the room for an indefinite time. Then growing impatient of that resource, he laid himself down upon his bed. But finding such absolute physical repose only the more aggravating to his mental restlessness, he started up again and resumed his pacing.

How unsupportably weary the time.

Twelve o’clock struck! Two hours yet! When _would_ they come to an end? Surely the common reckoning of time must be all false! He had passed years that seemed shorter than these eternities of hours. He threw himself down once more upon his bed, and compelled himself to lie still for awhile.

He had been lying thus for a few minutes when, in the profound silence, he thought he heard the sound of a key turned in a lock, and a footstep retreating toward the hall staircase. He listened. All was silent.

“It was one of our guests, perhaps,” he said to himself, and he resolved to remain perfectly quiet, lest his motions might also attract attention. But his anxiety increased. The clock struck one.

“But one hour more! Yet, oh! these hours! they seem eternities!” he said, as he softly left his couch and went and sat by the window.

He looked out, but all was so dark that even to his accustomed eyes, trees and houses, land and water, earth and sky, presented scarcely perceptible differences in shades of blackness.

Again he threw himself upon his couch; again grew impatient of rest, and started up to pace the room; and yet again seated himself at the window.

Finally, his guardian angel inspired him with the idea of profitably employing a portion of the weary time in praying for the success of his undertaking. He sunk upon his knees and prayed that he might be delivered from all selfish purposes and serve the friendless orphan with an eye single to her interest, and that the “Father of the fatherless” might crown his efforts in her behalf with success. As he arose from his knees the clock struck TWO!

He took his hat, stole softly to the door and pushed.

The door was fast locked! He was a prisoner.

For a moment the discovery of this fact, with all the consequences to be deduced from it, almost paralyzed his energies! But the next instant he had recovered his presence of mind and activity of resources. He suddenly recollected a chisel that had lain for days upon his mantle-shelf. It was but the work of a few minutes to take that instrument, and with it force back the catch of the lock and free himself.

He then hurried softly through the dark and silent hall and down the stairs.

All below was mute and black as death and Erebus.

Cautiously unfastening the hall door, he paced slowly around the house until he found himself below the window of Etoile’s boudoir. Against the wall leaned a ladder.

“So far—well! Timon has been punctual in placing this means of escape at hand,” he thought. And ascending a few of the rungs he called, in a soft tone:—

“Miss L’Orient! Miss L’Orient!”—and listened. But no voice replied.

He went up further and called out louder; but without success.

Growing very anxious, he ascended to the top of the ladder, put his head in at the window, and called eagerly— “Miss L’Orient!—Miss L’Orient!” But all was dark, and cold, and still.

“This is no time for false delicacy. She must forgive me, since I mean well,” said Willful, very much alarmed, as he turned himself in at the window, and grouped his way through the boudoir, and through the adjoining chamber, still calling on the name of Etoile. But neither sound nor motion answered him; all was dark and silent as death and the grave.

Etoile was gone!

Half frantic with terror, upon her account, Willful Brande hurried through the window and down the ladder, and ran with phrenzied haste straight on to the cabin of Timon, at the door of which he knocked, imperatively, exclaiming:—

“Timon! Timon! are you there? What is the meaning of this?”

“Lor, gor, a-mity, Marse Willful, honey, come in, yerself! I can’t move! I done tied hand and foot!” answered the voice of the old man.

Willful pushed the door open and entered the cabin, which was as dark as any other place in that dark night.

“Feel on to de shelf dere for the match and de candle, honey, and light it, and I done tell you all about it,” said Timon’s voice, from the obscurity.

Willful found a match, and struck a light, that revealed to him the form of poor old Timon, bound hand and foot with strong cord and thrown upon the floor of his cabin. Without an instant’s delay he seized a sharp knife, cut the cords, and helped the old man to his feet.

“Now then what is the meaning of all this?” inquired Willful.

“Couldn’t tell you, to save my life, Marster, only I reckon how Marse Julius done found we-dem out, and outwitted us! ’Cause ’bout an hour ago, he done came here and throw me down, and tie me, and leave me here without sayin’ of a word.”

A terrible idea occurred to Willful.

“Come! follow me quickly! to the boat!” he said, and rushed forth into the night.

The old man hurried after as fast as age and infirmity would permit.

They reached Crystal Creek just in time, dimly to discern that a boat had left the shore, and was now some quarter of a mile out upon the bay.

“He has carried her off! He would not have done it by force, since that must have created a disturbance which would have reached my ears! He has carried her off by fraud. He will take her on board his chartered ship! Quick! prepare a boat, and let us row for life! I will follow her thither! I will board that ship! I will rescue her or die!” exclaimed Willful, vehemently.

“It will be _die_, then, Marster; but nobody sha’n’t call old Timon a coward in his old days,” said the poor creature, who, with the air of a martyr, went to prepare the boat.

But Willful would not let the old man risk his safety by accompanying him. Alone he entered the light skiff, and using both oars, propelled it swiftly over the water. He could no longer see the other boat, but he rowed directly for the distant ship, seen by the light at her prow, and which he naturally supposed to be the chartered vessel of Julius Luxmore.

His light skiff flew like a sea-bird over the surface of the bay, and quickly touched the side of the vessel.

Without a moment’s hesitation he scaled the ladder, and stood upon the deck, face to face with his sister, Barbara Brande, whose barque had anchored there an hour before!

“Willful!”

“Barbara!”

They gazed upon each other in amazement for a moment, and then rushed together in a hearty embrace.

And while hurried explanations occupy them, we must return to see what has become of Etoile.

We said that, on reading Willful Brande’s note, with its promise of speedy release, her heart had leaped with gladness. But to follow its advice so far as to go to sleep, that was impossible! There was no repose to her excited nerves that night. However, the maiden was young and very strong, and the loss of a single night’s rest would scarcely be felt by her fine organization. So she blew out her light, drew the bolts across her door, closed the blinds, and sat down by the window to watch and wait from ten till two o’clock. At eleven every one about the house had apparently retired. At twelve it was to be supposed that all were buried in sleep. And yet two hours remained of the very “witching time” of night—hours, when all nature seemed wrapped in death-like repose. Then she, every nerve acute with listening, heard her name softly breathed beneath her window. She silently opened the shutter and murmured lowly—“Do not speak again. I am here.” And taking her head in, she quickly put on her bonnet and mantle, and reappeared at the window, against which a short ladder had been leaned.

A figure muffled in a large cloak, though this was July, waited at the foot. Lightly Etoile descended the rounds, where she was received by the man, who bowed, and making a signal of silence, walked before. Etoile, with a rapidly beating heart, followed. Both took the direction of the Crystal Creek. The path was narrow, only one little pair of feet having been accustomed to tread it. It led through the densest portion of the thicket of woods that girdled the Island.

The guide went on in silence. Etoile followed—the palpitation of her heart, the agitation of her whole frame, preventing her from wishing to speak.

It was still very dark, so that even when they emerged from the thicket, the line of beach and the expanse of water seemed only fainter shadow. The skiff moored in the little creek looked only a blacker mark upon the dark water. The boat was alone.

“Where are my servants? Are not Moll and Timon to go with me?” inquired Etoile, for the first time speaking, in a hushed voice.

But her guide lifted up his finger to enjoin perfect silence, and took her hand to assist her into the boat. A strange misgiving upon account of the absence of her attendants seized the heart of Etoile. But as no suspicion of treachery mingled with her feelings, and as her confidence in Willful Brande remained unshaken, she firmly stepped into the boat and took her seat in the stern. Her companion followed, sat down midway, and taking up the two oars began to ply them. The boat glided swiftly over the still dark surface of the creek out into the open Bay. The rower silently directed its course toward the coast of Northumberland, that lay due west. The guide continued mute, as though he had been born dumb, and Etoile, now that she was alone upon the waters with this reserved companion, from a feeling of bashfulness remained quiet. Her misgivings increased. There seemed to be no necessity now that they were so far from land for this continued silence. It grew oppressing, alarming; she became nervous, she could bear the trial no longer, but spoke out, in a low agitated tone—the very sound of her own voice amid the stillness frightening her the more—inquiring—

“Mr. Brande, excuse me, please, but where are my servants? Why would they not come?”

A low derisive laugh answered her!

“My God! I am betrayed!” cried Etoile, with a stifled shriek.

“You are _entrapped_, fair plotter!” answered the voice of Julius Luxmore.

“Oh, misery, misery! oh, God help me in my bitter extremity!” she cried, in a voice of thrilling agony, burying her face in her hands and dropping her head upon her bosom.

Then followed a short pause, during which no sound was heard but the dipping of the oars; Etoile remained half stunned with sudden despair; Luxmore, scorned, repulsed and enraged as he had been by her, now, with the vengeful malignity of a fiend, gloated over the sight of her sufferings. But already the heroic young spirit was struggling to rally from the shock and throw off the benumbing weight of despair.

“What is the meaning of this, wretch?” at length she asked, in rising indignation, as she lifted up her fair head.

“I will tell you, my beauty!” replied Luxmore, in a tone of malignant triumph. “The meaning of this is, that I suspected and watched your hopeful young guest, Willful Brande; detected him in consultation with your other ‘guide, philosopher, and friend,’ old Timon; discovered their plan to liberate you, and determined not only to _prevent_ it, but to avail myself of it, to get you more thoroughly into my power. So I had old Timon quietly put in irons, turned a key privately upon Master Willful, and offered myself beneath your window as his substitute.”

“Miscreant! why have you done this?” exclaimed the young girl indignantly.

“Do not call ill names, and I will tell you, my dear,” replied Luxmore, with a deliberate softness of tone that seemed to taste and chew the sweetness of revenge,—“I will tell you, my beloved! While you remained on the Island, you were in some measure out of my power, for there were present a clergyman and a lawyer, to say nothing of your lover, to protect you in an emergency. But having detected you in the plot to leave the Island, I availed myself of the opportunity of entrapping you! Your life and honor are now absolutely at my mercy.”

Etoile clasped her fingers convulsively and threw her eyes despairingly over the solitary waste of sky and water, as if in hopeless appeal for help. In after years she remembered the dark, silent, sombre scene, as if it had been daguerreotyped forever on her brain. A single ship, dimly seen, lay at anchor, a short distance off; a lantern burning at her prow, threw a long line of light a cable’s length ahead, just across their course.

Withdrawing her eyes from this dreary prospect, she turned them upon the dark figure of her guide.

“Traitor! whither are you taking me?”

“I will inform you, my sweet! To the Northumberland coast, to a lonely cabin of which I keep the key; which shall become the bower of my bride; and from which, when she shall emerge, she will be but too happy to have the state and church legalize and sanctify our union!” he answered, with deliberate and demoniac malice.

Etoile, who “understood a _horror_ in his words, but not the words,” started and recoiled to the furthest limits of her seat. They were now approaching that long line of light from the lantern in the prow of the ship at anchor that lay in their way. She cast a startling glance at the water beneath, and then a despairing gaze at the ship beyond. Oh, that ship! so near, yet for all purposes of help, so far!

Julius Luxmore saw both look and gesture, and laughed aloud, exclaiming scornfully—“Ah, pretty one! even you see at length that you cannot escape me—‘in testimony whereof, behold my hand and seal’”—and drawing in the oars, regardless of the danger of rocking the boat he darted toward her, and would have seized and embraced her; but with a terrible cry, Etoile sprang into the sea, the waves of which immediately closed over her form.

So sudden, so startling, so appalling had been this act, that Julius Luxmore for an instant remained panic-stricken, but the next moment, he quickly threw off his coat, and placed himself on watch for her reappearance.

She arose above the surface of the water, at some distance from the boat, nearer the ship, and attempted to strike out bravely for the latter, but being embarrassed and weighed down by her clothing, she made no progress, and even strove in vain to keep afloat. Recovering from his first consternation, and seeing her extremity, Julius Luxmore, with a shout of vindictive triumph, urged his boat toward her struggling form. In this unequal race he must soon have reached and recaptured his prize; but that the next instant a strong swimmer let himself drop from the bulwarks of the ship, and struck out gallantly for the sinking girl, whose form he seized, and bore victoriously to the starboard gangway ladder, and up upon the deck of the—Ocean Queen!—for this was the ship of Barbara Brande, which had just an hour before dropped anchor here.

Etoile, half suffocated and half exhausted, gave vent to a convulsive sob, recovered her breath, looked up to thank her brave preserver, and recognized Willful Brande!

“Oh, may heaven repay you! but how should _you_ be here whom I thought detained upon the Island?” she exclaimed, in a deeply agitated voice.

“I will inform you presently, young lady; now let me present you to my sister,” he replied, as Barbara Brande advanced from the stern sheets.

But before they met, at the instant of Willful’s speaking, a boat touched the side of the vessel, and Julius Luxmore sprung up the ladder, and stood upon the deck.

“Where is the girl you picked up, fellow? Deliver her to me; she is my fugitive child!” he exclaimed, advancing toward the group.

“Save me! save me!” cried Etoile, springing for protection to the bosom of Barbara.

“Be composed, you _are_ saved!” returned the deep, low voice of the noble girl, as she folded one arm around the shrinking form of the little maiden, and lifted the other with outstretched hand to bar the nearer approach of the intruder.

“Give up that child instantly to her natural protector,” he exclaimed, in a peremptory tone. It was as yet so dark in this quarter of the vessel that, being still a few paces distant, he had not recognized the persons to whom he spoke.

“Light the lanterns,” ordered Barbara, in that clear, ringing, resonant voice that struck him as a sound familiar, yet long unheard.

And in another instant lights blazed from all parts of the vessel, giving to full view all the persons on the deck.

And Barbara Brande and Julius Luxmore stood face to face! For a second, the traitor quailed before her calm, clear, commanding gaze; but the next moment, rallying his courage, with desperate assurance, he said:

“Deliver up my ward! I _insist_ upon it.”

“Insist then, by all means, since it amuses you to do so!” replied Barbara, with cool contempt.

“_Will_ you give up my ward?” he demanded, with rage.

“Oh, certainly; how can you doubt it!” mocked Barbara.

“Answer seriously, woman!”

“It would be absurd to answer seriously, just as if you had a right to ask!”

“Release that child, I command you, girl!” he exclaimed, furiously.

“How I should love to obey your command, especially as I _adore_ tyrants!” sneered Barbara.

Maddened with rage, he stole forward to seize the maiden.

“BACK, SIR, AT YOUR PERIL!” thundered Barbara, with eyes blazing with defiance, and arm extended in command, as she still sustained the maiden upon her broad bosom.

Luxmore recoiled before the “embodied storm” he had provoked.

Willful had sprung to the side of his sister, to protect both her and her charge.

“Stand aside, Willful, my son! Edwy, call all hands up!” she ordered, in her customary, clear, resounding tones.

And in a moment every man was on deck.

“Listen now to me, Julius Luxmore. Regain the custody of this girl you—can—not! either by law, force, or fraud! You are free to depart in peace, and if, in two minutes, you do not leave the ship, I will have you put in irons, and delivered up to the nearest authority.”

“By what right, lawless woman, do you _dare_ do this?” exclaimed Luxmore, in a voice of concentrated rage.

“That is a question that I shall know how to answer before the proper tribunal. You have heard the conditions of your being permitted to depart in peace. One minute has elapsed; with you I talk no more. Edwy, bring hither the manacles,” she said, with quiet resolution.

“SHE-WOLF! you shall suffer for this!” cried Luxmore, turning white as a leper, shaking his fist convulsively, and grinding his teeth with fury, as he retreated down the ladder to regain his boat.

“Wrecked! wrecked! wrecked! worse than from the deck of the Mercury! Lost! lost! lost! a girl’s dream and a man’s soul!” murmured Barbara, unconsciously, in a tone of deep anguish, as she watched his receding skiff. Then, burying her despair deep in her own heart, she looked upon her trembling charge, who still nestled to her bosom, and said:

“Look up, sweet girl! your tormentor has gone! You are now quite safe. Come below and change your dress to lie down and rest.”

It was now growing light.

Barbara took her charge down into the cabin; relieved her of her dripping clothes; supplied their place with loose and comfortable garments; made her drink a glass of cordial, and led her to her own state-room to lie down and sleep. But, before seeking repose, Etoile kneeled beside the berth and silently offered up her thanks to Heaven for the preservation of her life. Barbara lingered until the little maiden had laid her head upon the pillow; then kissed her, drew the cover over her shoulders, closed the blinds, and stole softly out of the state-room.

She crossed the cabin to an opposite door, and listened to hear if there were any stirring within. The sound of light footsteps and low voices met her ear. She rapped softly, and the door was opened by Susan Copsewood.

“Your lady is awake, Susan?”

“Yes, Miss Brande, come in.”

“Yes, come in, dear girl. I have been awake for hours,” said the sweet voice of Estelle.

Barbara entered, and sat down beside the berth where the lady reclined.

“The noise on deck, I suppose, awoke you, Madam.”

“Yes.”

“We were dropping the anchor and taking in sail. We are near the Island,” said Barbara, who wished to prepare her guest for the next good news.

“Near the Island at last! It is now almost sunrise! How soon shall we be landed?” inquired Estelle, eagerly rising upon her elbow, and flinging back the long black ringlets that had escaped her cap and fallen—a shadowy vail around her eloquent pale face.

“You may see your daughter Etoile within an hour,” answered Barbara.

Estelle’s countenance beamed with joy.

“You may see her even sooner, if you can dress in less time!” continued Miss Brande.

“Susan, my dressing-gown! hand me my shoes! bind up my hair! Dearest Barbara, I shall be ready as soon as you can have the boat prepared,” said Estelle, leaving her berth.

“There is no need to prepare the boat,” said Miss Brande, significantly.

“Oh! Barbara, what mean you?” exclaimed the lady, pausing in the preparation of her toilet, and gazing in an agony of anxiety upon her friend.

“Etoile is very near you.”

“Where? where?” cried Estelle, starting up and going toward the door.

“Lady, be calm and I will give you every satisfaction,” replied Barbara, taking her hand and gently but firmly reseating her.

“One word—is she safe?”

“Safe, unmarried, unharmed, but also unprepared as yet to meet her mother. Lady, listen. I will tell you every thing, and—within half an hour, I will bring you to your daughter.”

“Oh, is it possible? Am I awake and in my senses? shall I see Etoile?”

“In less than half an hour! Compose yourself and hear,” said Barbara, who then commenced and related all the circumstances of the storm; the shipwreck; the saving of Willful; the subsequent eclaircissement between Etoile and himself in respect to her guardian; the arrival of Luxmore; the attempted flight of Etoile; the treachery to which she was subjected; her abduction by Julius Luxmore; her desperate escape and effort to swim to the ship; her rescue by Willful Brande; the coming on board of Luxmore; and, finally, the ignominious dismissal of the latter from the ship. She concluded by saying—

“And now, as I deemed it necessary that she should rest before having another subject of excitement, I refrained from speaking of her mother, and left her to repose.”

“Miss Brande! oh, let me gaze upon her in her sleep!” prayed the lady, clasping her hands.

“I will first see if she is sleeping, Madam,” replied Barbara, leaving the state-room. In a few minutes she returned and said—

“She is sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion—you can enter softly, lady.”

With a wildly beating heart and suspended breath, Estelle passed into the opposite state-room, sat down beside the berth, and gazed upon her daughter. Beautiful was that sleeping image. One snowy arm doubled up on the pillow, supported her blooming face; her white eyelids were lightly closed over the violet eyes, the lashes lying delicately penciled on her fresh rose cheeks; her golden hair flowed in glittering disorder down ever forehead, side-face, and bosom; her other arm drooped gracefully over the counterpane.

Estelle gazed in a sort of still rapture upon her lovely child, longing, yet afraid, ever so lightly to touch her. At length the temptation to lay her lips upon that seraph face grew irresistible, and light as the fall of a winter rose-leaf on the snow, dropped the mother’s first kiss upon the maiden’s pure brow. Soft as was the touch, Etoile felt it in her sleep; her ruby lips parted in a smile; her eyelids half unclosed.

Estelle, fearful of surprising her, arose and quietly withdrew from the room.

Half an hour after Barbara entered—Etoile was lying wide awake, her rosy lips half parted, her violet eyes half vailed in a dreamy smile.

“How do you feel, my dear?” inquired Barbara.

“Ah! Miss Brande, I have had such a sweet dream! so seeming real, that I can scarcely dispel the illusion! I was dreaming of my mother; I thought that she was living, and that she had found me; I thought that she was sitting by my bed, and oh! she was so beautiful! so beautiful! just what I supposed her to be! just like the miniature I painted of her, only so much more divinely beautiful! I dreamed she stooped and pressed the softest kiss upon my brow, and while her lips were upon my forehead, and her soft black ringlets touched my cheeks, I awoke and found it was all a dream! And yet, withal, it still seems so real, that I can scarcely believe I dreamed,” said Etoile, closing her eyes and smiling, as if to charm back the vision.

“But suppose it was no dream, dear girl?” said Barbara, in an agitated voice.

Etoile’s eyes flared wide open, and her color went and came.

“Suppose it was reality—suppose that your mother really did sit beside you in your sleep, and withdrew when you awoke?”

A tumultuous rush of emotion crimsoned and paled her face, and took away her breath as she eagerly listened.

“What if your mother had met with Madeleine in New York, had heard of your existence and residence, and had embarked on this very vessel to seek you at the Island?”

“Oh, it is! it is so! I have seen my mother! I have had her kiss!” cried Etoile, shaken, as a rose-tree is shaken by a storm—“where, where, Miss Brande, where is she now?”

“Here, my beloved child! here, my long-lost darling, here!” cried the voice of the lady, as she opened the door and entered.

Etoile sprung up in a sitting position, and threw herself toward the lady, who opened her arms to receive her, and murmuring—“Mother”—fell fainting upon her bosom. No possible care could have prepared Etoile for a meeting like this! It must necessarily have overwhelmed her.

“Joy never kills—be not uneasy,” said Barbara, as she lifted the fainting girl from the bosom of Estelle, and replaced her on the berth. And indeed their united efforts soon recalled the absent senses of their charge. Then Barbara, with her eyes full of tears, withdrew and left the mother and child together.

Who can describe that first interview, indeed for many reasons indescribable? But who can _not_ picture to themselves, the first tumultuous emotion; the strange, dreamy joy; the first incoherent conversation; the sudden plunge into the past history of each; the breathless questions and answers; the impulsive embraces; the long, silent pauses, with the form of the maiden pressed closely within the arms of the mother; and at last the calmer hour, when this strong emotion had subsided, and both sat quietly side by side, comparing the story of their late lives, or rather Etoile giving up the whole of hers to her mother’s earnest inquiries.

Like two lovely sisters they looked, the one so dark, the other so fair, yet both alike in features, form and air, and both so surpassingly beautiful!

The prophecy of both hearts was now fulfilled. The mother had found her child—the child her mother! And for the time being the whole world was forgotten.

Barbara long delayed the breakfast; but when the hour of nine arrived, she thought that even for the good health of those two absorbed creatures, she should call them. So going to the state-room door, she rapped, and said—

“Breakfast awaits your leisure, lady.”

“I thank you, Miss Brande,” said the voice of Estelle who immediately opened the door, and led her daughter to her own state-room, where Susan Copsewood waited.

“Little shipwrecked maiden, you must wear your mother’s dress,” said the lady, as she seated the girl on the side of the berth. Then seeing Susan, she added—

“Etoile, this young woman is the faithful friend of whom I told you, Susan, speak to my child.”

But poor, good Susan, was too deeply moved to speak, and only took the hand of the maiden, raised it to her lips and burst into tears. Etoile pressed _her_ hand and looked gratefully in her face. Then with affectionate zeal, Susan dressed her “young lady” as she termed her mistress’s daughter. And soon they passed out to breakfast. The table was spread in the cabin, Barbara presided over the coffee service.

“I miss some one here—my favorite, Willful, now doubly dear to me as the preserver of my daughter’s life. Where is he, Miss Brande?” inquired the lady, as she took her seat at the board.

“Willful refrains from intruding, yet I know he would be happy to pay his respects to you, Madam,” answered Barbara.

“Then pray have him called.”

Edwy arose from his place and summoned his brother.

Willful entered the cabin, bowing. The lady looked up and held out her hand.

“Mr. Brande, all human words and thanks are poor and weak to express how much I owe you for the protection of this child. God grant that in the future, Willful, I may be able to prove what I now feel!” said the mother, as her bosom heaved and her eyes overflowed.

Willful, with much grace, lifted the hand of the lady respectfully to his lips, and said—

“Madam, I am more blessed than I ever deserved to be, in having been, in ever so humble a degree, able to serve you, and——” he paused suddenly and sent a swift, shy glance at Etoile. The lady followed that glance and saw the quick blushes of both youth and maiden as their eyes met. She saw and understood and thought—

“Is it so? Well, well, he has saved her life and honor! Let him keep the fair promise of his youth! Let him be worthy of her, and when a proper time comes he shall have her!”

“Sit down, Willful, and take a cup of coffee,” said his sister, to break up an embarrassing pause. He seated himself and the breakfast went forward.

After the morning meal was over, there was a consultation in the cabin.

“It will be necessary for you, lady, to go to the county-town to take certain legal steps to enable you to assume the guardianship of your daughter and her patrimony. The county-town is Eastville, which, you know, lies back of my old home, the Headland. Therefore, if you please, we will steer directly for the Headland.”

The lady eagerly acquiesced. And in half an hour the anchor was got up and the ship set sail for her new destination.