“El Diamente,” to avoid the bad weather, usually met with in the Gulf Stream, had taken the eastern passage, and, after clearing the Bahamas, had held her course about east north-east, and getting far to the eastward, was rapidly ploughing toward her destination. She had been fortunate in having fair winds and good weather, and the voyage to Don Manuel and his family had been a very pleasant one. In the security and calmness of this passage, Clara had nearly forgotten the dreadful horrors and mischances that can take place at sea, and which she had experienced on her former voyage. It was after sundown, the day had been intensely warm, and Clara and Francisca were sitting on the ship’s high poop-deck, enjoying the pleasant, and now cool air, and admiring the placid beauty of the smooth sea. “What is that dark object, sister?” asked Francisca, pointing to a large, black-looking substance, floating to leeward. “Indeed, I don’t know, NiÑetta! It looks like a whale.” “Oh! I want to see one so much; call Captain De Vere, and tell him to bring the telescope, so that we can have a good look at it,” said Francisca. Clara called her husband, who came laughingly upon the poop, with a telescope; and adjusting the glass, he looked through it to see that the focus was right, before giving it to the ladies. But as he looked his countenance changed, and taking the glass from his eye, in a voice of pity, he said, “that is not a whale, ladies; but The captain was a kind-hearted man, and there is nothing that excites the sympathy of a sailor quicker than a wreck, for it is a peril to which they are all and always exposed, and he at once ordered the man at the wheel to keep away. Soon the figures of the men on the spar were visible from the deck, and they looked as if they were both dead. Getting near them, the Diamente’s top-sail was hove aback, and a boat lowered, to bring the sufferers on board. When she brought them, both men were insensible, though their faint breathing gave evidence that life had not yet departed. All the crew and passengers were gathered around the gangway, to see the rescued ones as they were passed on board. As Willis came over, Francisca, with the quick eye of love, recognized him, and, shocked at his dreadful appearance, fainted. None else recognized the handsome slaver, in the begrimed, sunburnt, blood-stained, and skeleton figure before them. And attributing Francisca’s swoon to pity, for a sight so horrible, carried her below. Mateo and Willis were laid on deck, for the purpose of being resuscitated before they were carried below. Willis, who was much the most debilitated of the two, from the loss of blood he had sustained, for a long time resisted all efforts to restore animation. But Mateo, who had swooned but a short time before they were discovered, more easily recovered his faculties. But only partially and confusedly had his mind been restored, for, startled by the noise and bustle around him, bewildered, and remembering the desperate fight before the schooner was blown up, and seeing bending over him the face of De Vere, whom he had always known as an enemy, he thought he was again in the hot and Clara sprung forward, and pitching off Mateo, took her husband on her lap, and eagerly tried to staunch the fast welling blood, but it was useless. The spirit had already fled; in her arms she held but an inanimate corse! She fainted, and fell by the side of her husband, and looked as if her soul had also taken its departure. So cold and deathlike did she look, that it was impossible to tell in which the principle of life still existed, the husband or the wife. The crew, ignorant of all former acquaintance between the murderer and the murdered, were exasperated that he had met his death from the hand of the man he was trying to aid, and would have thrown both Willis and Mateo again into the sea, from whence they had just taken them, had not Francisca, whose anxiety to learn the fate of Willis had brought her on deck again, told her father who the men were; and the old Don, getting between the crew of the Diamond and the objects of their fury, explained to them their obligations to one of the party, and begged them to pause. He promised to be responsible for Willis himself, and persuaded them to put Mateo in irons, and carry him into port to be tried, instead of executing him themselves. By the next day both Clara and Willis sufficiently recovered to attend the solemn commitment of De Vere to his last resting-place. Solemn it is, and heart-touching at any time, to see a man committed to a sailor’s grave, but on this occasion the feelings of the lookers-on were peculiarly harrowing—and a gloom, dark and drear, was cast over the rest of the voyage, that had commenced so pleasantly. Clara was deeply affected by the fate of her young husband, thus cut off in the prime of his manhood, without a moment’s warning. Her character was changed; no longer proud and haughty, she determined to devote the rest of her life to the service of God. Francisca and Don Manuel were serious and sad at the thought of De Vere’s sudden death and Clara’s distress, though a feeling of joy, like a spring rill, trickled along the bottom of Francisca’s heart, at the sight of Willis’s daily improvement in health, and from knowing he was near her. Even the crew looked glum and sulky, for there is a superstition amongst sailors, that a murder on board gives a ship bad luck—and they feared a fatal termination to their voyage. Mateo, the cause of all this suffering and mental commotion, was the only one on board who was totally unaffected by it. He was placed under the break of the forecastle, heavily ironed, and was perfectly calm; and when Willis asked him how he came to kill De Vere, and told him he would certainly be hung when they arrived at Cadiz, he said that he was sorry he had knifed De Vere when he did, but it was no more than he had intended to do some time; and as for being hung, it was what he had always expected—and he would grace a rope as well as another. Willis, who liked the man for his faithfulness and dogged courage, had all his physical wants attended to; but no change took place in Mateo’s hardened mind. Don Manuel took an opportunity, before the ship got in, to tell Willis how grateful he felt, and how much he respected him for his conduct in saving the lives of Clara and De Vere; and that though the captain, unfortunately, had not lived long enough to express his feelings otherwise than in words, he hoped Willis would permit him to be his friend, and told him that he had left a hundred thousand dollars for him, in the hands of his agent in Havana, in case Willis returned there before he saw him again; but as he had been fortunate enough to meet him, he insisted upon being Willis’s banker, and begged him to go to Madrid, and then return to Havana with him. Willis thanked Don Manuel for the high opinion he was pleased to entertain of him, and for the kindness he had shown by leaving the large amount of money for him in Havana, but begged Don Velasquez to excuse him from accepting it; and told him he would have returned the box of doubloons he had sent him, had not the loss of his schooner put it out of his power, and expressed his intention of proceeding to the Chinese seas, after their arrival in Cadiz, to prosecute his fortunes in a new field. Don Manuel listened until Willis had finished speaking, and then, taking his hand, he said,— “Excuse me for what I am about to say, Captain Willis, but I am an old man, and mean nothing but kindness toward you. Pride, Captain Willis, I know, prevents your acceptance of my offer; but lay it aside as a favor to me, and believe that it is you who will be conferring the favor. The money to me is nothing, I have plenty of it, and have lived long enough to appreciate it at its just value; and I mean not to offend, but I must speak plainly. You are doing wrong to waste the fine feelings and mind that I know you to possess, in an occupation so much beneath you as that in which you have been engaged, or will be likely to get into without money or friends, so at the least promise me that you accompany us to Madrid, and give me a favorable answer to my request when we return.” Willis was much affected by the kindness of the old Spaniard, and promised to stay with them until they were ready to return to Cuba. Notwithstanding the fears of her crew the Diamente arrived safely in port, and Mateo was given up to the civil authorities to be tried. The evidence Willis accompanied him to the foot of the gallows; but Mateo gave no evidence either of fear or repentance, and remarked to the hangman, as he reached the platform, that the knot on the end of the noose was made in a d—d unseamanlike manner, and he was afraid it would jam—but it did not; and the sailor died as he had lived, in the midst of sin. It gave Willis a sharp and disagreeable pang to think of the narrow escape he had in Havana from finishing his career in the same dishonorable manner; and he felt thankful he had been able to avoid it. Giving a priest a handful of doubloons to say masses for the soul’s rest of his departed shipmate, he returned to the hotel to report to Don Manuel the fate of Mateo. The next day they all departed for Madrid; but though the season was unusually gay, none of the party experienced much pleasure from the gayeties of the city. Don Manuel was treated with much attention; but every thing had changed since he had been there before. The friends of his youth had died, or were now all old men, and immersed in the cares of business or ambition, were vastly different from the youths he remembered, and his heart yearned to be back in Cuba, amongst the more familiar scenes and friends of his latter years. Clara was too sad to be happy any where; and Francisca, finding pleasure in nothing but the society of Willis, liked not the flirtations and compliments of the Madrid gallants. The death of De Vere did away the necessity of going to England; and Clara now had no desire to outshine the English belles—and the trip was given up. All were glad when Don Manuel told them, if they were willing, he would return to Cuba in the same ship in which they came out, as she would return to Havana. They all expressed their satisfaction; and Willis was now so much enamored with Francisca, that the Don had but little difficulty in persuading him to accompany them. Again was Don Manuel and his family on board the good ship Diamante; and with a fresh breeze, and with more pleasure than they had experienced for some time, they bade farewell to the shores of Spain, and were heading for home. Home! in that name there is something that excites pleasant feelings in the breast, no matter how torn by sorrow. Even Clara felt more happiness than she had known since the death of her husband. It was a bright, star-light evening; the ship was slowly moving through the water, that rippled in small waves around her bows. All was still, silent, and beautiful; and Willis and Francisca were walking up and down the poop quarter-deck, which was untenanted, save by themselves; every thing seemed fitted for love and sentiment, and Willis—but I will not repeat what he said—sufficient is it that he confessed to Francisca the deep, deep love he entertained toward her; and she, happy girl, blushingly, acknowledged that it was reciprocated. Happy, indeed, was Francisca that night; her day-dream and her night-vision of the last eight months had at last come to pass. Willis loved her, and had acknowledged his passion. Willis had not intended to mention his feelings to Francisca until after he had spoken to her father. But the stillness of the evening, the fine opportunity, and a something in his heart, he knew not what, had overpowered his resolution, and he yielded to circumstances. He now sought Don Manuel to tell him, feeling as if he had been guilty of a crime; but the kindness with which the old Spaniard listened to him, soothed his agitation; and the cup of his happiness was running over when the old man gave his consent to his marriage. The rest of the voyage passed away, to Willis and Francisca, like magic; and when the cry of “land ho!” resounded from the mast-head, they could not believe that it was Cuba; but the light-house ere long was visible, and they could doubt the evidence of their senses no longer. For the first time Willis felt really glad to enter the harbor; and the remembrance of his situation, and the manner in which he had left, when last there, added to the pleasantness of his present feelings. A fortnight after the arrival of the Diamente in port, there was a gay bridal party before the high-altar of the Cathedral, and in the same church he had witnessed the nuptials of Clara and De Vere, now stood Willis, happy and proud, with his heart overflowing with gratitude, waiting to receive the benediction that would make the beauteous, the lovely, the pure, and virtuous being at his side, his own forever; and even as that benediction was being pronounced, he remembered the misery he had felt, when he stood behind the pillar at his right, and witnessed the ceremony of De Vere’s marriage, and felt that he was an outcast, branded, desperate, poor. But his fortune now was changed, the benediction was given, and Francisca, in the sight of God and man, was his for evermore. Stooping over, he imprinted on her ruby lips the first warm kiss of love he had ever given her; for he respected her so much, and so keenly remembered what he had been, that he avoided every thing he thought could possibly shock her delicacy; and, overwhelmed by the congratulations of his friends, amongst whom none were as loud as the old duenna, the party left the church. A gay and brilliant assembly there was that night at the mansion of Don Velasquez, crowded by the Shortly after the marriage of Francisca, Clara retired to the convent of our Lady of Mercy, and devoting the rest of her life to deeds of charity and acts of self-denial, endeavored to expiate the sins she thought her pride and haughtiness had made her commit in her earlier years. At Francisca’s request, Don Manuel presented Willis with his plantation and the country-house on the bay, where, with his loved and lovely bride, he settled. And no one who had looked upon them four years afterward, would have recognized in the loving father playing with a little boy about three years old, and laughing as heartily as the child, Willis, the Slaver, had they not looked around and espied the beautiful Francisca, now a settled matron, with an infant on her knee, but as lovely as ever; and a little further off, through an open window that led to the piazza, was seen the cheerful face of Don Manuel. And glimpses might be caught of the old duenna, as she bustled about the house, in all the pride of chief manager. In all that vicinity, no one has a higher character for kindness, charity, or benevolence, than Don Carlos Willis; and no one is more ready to relieve the wants of his fellow man, either moral or physical; but none know that the good man, whose name they all unite in praising, was formerly the notorious slaver! the outlaw! the desperado of the “Maraposa!”
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