AN ARRIVAL AT MOOSHANNE.—A CALM ASHORE AFTER A STORM AT SEA.

While the events, narrated in the preceding chapter, were occurring in the Western wilderness, the family at Mooshanne had been thrown into a state of the greatest dismay and confusion, by the arrival of Captain L’Estrange’s first letter announcing the flight of Ethelston with his daughter, and depicting his conduct in the blackest colours. Colonel Brandon had perused its contents half a dozen times, and they had produced traces of anxiety upon his countenance, too evident to escape the observation of Lucy, so that he was obliged to break to her by degrees the painful intelligence of her lover’s infidelity: with a calmness that surprised him, she insisted on reading the letter; as she proceeded her brow crimsoned with indignation, and those blue eyes, usually beaming with the gentlest expression, flashed with an angry lustre.

Colonel Brandon knew full well the affection she had long conceived for Ethelston, and though his own feelings were deeply wounded by the misconduct of one whom he had loved and trusted as a son, they were at present overpowered by the fears which he entertained of the effect which this unexpected blow might produce on Lucy’s health and happiness. He was, therefore, relieved by observing the anger expressed on her countenance, and prepared himself to hear the deserved reproaches on her former lover, which seemed ready to burst from her tongue. What was his surprise when he saw her tear the letter in pieces before his face, and heard her, while she set her pretty little foot upon them, exclaim,

“Dear, dear father, how could you for a moment believe such a tale of vile, atrocious falsehood?”

However disinclined the Colonel might be to believe any thing to the disadvantage of Ethelston, there was so much circumstantial evidence to condemn him, that he felt it his duty to prepare his child for the worst at once, and to point out to her how they already knew that Ethelston had been wounded and conveyed to the house of L’Estrange, that his long absence was unexplained, and lastly that the character of the French commodore, as an officer, and a man of honour, was unimpeached.

Lucy heard him to the end; the glow on her cheek assumed a warmer hue, and the little foot beat with a nervous and scarcely perceptible motion on the floor, as she replied, “Father I will believe that the letter is a forgery, or that the French officer, or commodore, or admiral, is a madman, but never that Ethelston is a villain.”

“My dear Lucy,” said the Colonel, “I am almost as unwilling to think ill of Ethelston as you can be yourself; but alas! I have seen more than you of the inconstancy of men; and I know, too well, that many who have enjoyed a good reputation have yet been found unable to withstand temptation, such as may have beset Ethelston while an inmate of the same house with the Creole beauty—“

“Dear father,” answered Lucy, colouring yet more deeply; “though it were possible that Ethelston, in the presence of greater attractions, may have yielded to them his affections, and withdrawn them from one who had hoped to possess and treasure them for life,—though this may be possible, it is not possible that he should be guilty of a violation of the laws of hospitality and honour, such as that slanderous paper lays to his charge. Promise me, dearest father, to suspend your belief, and never to speak on this subject again, until it is God’s pleasure that the truth shall be brought to light.”

“I promise you, my sweet child,” said her father; “and may that merciful Being grant that your trust be not disappointed!”

“I have no fears,” said Lucy; and, as she spoke, her eyes beamed with that full undoubting love such as can only be felt by one who has never known what it is to deceive or to be deceived.

Days and weeks passed on without any intelligence of Ethelston; and while the fears of Colonel Brandon became more confirmed, the agony of suspense and the sickness of deferred hope began to prey upon the spirits of his daughter: she never alluded to the forbidden subject; but her nervous anxiety, when the weekly letter–bag was opened, clearly showed that it was ever in her mind: nevertheless she continued her occasional excursions to Marietta, and visited, as usual, those around Mooshanne who were sick or in distress; so that neither her mother nor Aunt Mary detected the anxiety by which she was tortured. One evening, half an hour before sunset, as the family party were seated at their simple supper, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard approaching at full speed, from which the rider dismounted, and, lifting the latch of the unlocked door, entered the house. Traversing the vestibule with hasty strides, and apparently guided by instinct to the apartment in which the family were assembled, he threw open the door, and Ethelston stood before the astonished party. His countenance was haggard from fatigue and exposure to the sun, and his whole appearance indicated exhaustion. Lucy turned deadly pale, and Colonel Brandon’s constrained manner, as he rose from his chair, must have convinced the new comer that his return was productive of other feelings than those of unmingled pleasure. He was moving, however, a few steps forward to pay his first respects to Mrs. Brandon, when the Colonel, touching him lightly on the arm, said, “Mr. Ethelston, I must crave a few words with you in the adjoining room.”

Hitherto Lucy had remained silent, with her eyes fixed intently on Ethelston’s countenance; he returned her look with one as long and fixed: the expression of his eyes was mournful, rather than joyous, but there was no trace of uneasiness or of shame. Springing from her seat, she placed her hand imploringly on the Colonel’s arm saying,

“Dear father, I told you so from the first,—I knew it always—I read it now plain as the sun in heaven,—that vile letter was a string of falsehoods;—he is returned as he left us, with an untarnished honour.”

“Thank you, dear Lucy,” said Ethelston, advancing and pressing her extended hands to his lips: “blessings on that trusting affection which has rendered it impossible for you to believe aught to the prejudice of one on whom you have deigned to fix it. Colonel Brandon,” he continued, “I can guess how you have been misled, and appearances were for a short time so much against me, that I acquit of all intentional malice those who have misled you. Judge for yourself whether, if I were stained by the crime of which I have been accused, I could now ask, on my bended knee, for the blessing of you, my second father, and thus hold in mine, as I dare to do, the hand of your pure, trusting, and beloved child.”

There was a truth in every tone of his voice, and a convincing dignity in his manner, that swept away all doubts like a torrent. The Colonel embraced him with cordial affection; Aunt Mary kissed her favourite nephew over and over again; Mrs. Brandon wept tears of joy on his neck; and Lucy was so overpowered by delight, that she was perhaps scarcely conscious of all that passed around.

After they were in some degree recovered from their emotion, and had pressed Ethelston to take some refreshment, he said to the Colonel, “Now I am prepared to give you an account of my adventures, and to explain those circumstances that led to the misunderstanding under which you have so long laboured.”

“Not a word—not a word will I hear of explanation to–night, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel. “I am already ashamed that I have not shown the same undoubting confidence in your rectitude, both of purpose and conduct, that has been evinced from first to last by Lucy. You are weary and exhausted; the agitation of this scene has been trying to all of us; we will defer your narrative until to–morrow. Our first duty this evening is to return our thanks to Providence for having protected you through all danger, and restored you safe to the comforts of home.”

As he spoke, the worthy old gentleman took down a Bible from the shelf; and having desired Lucy to summon all the servants into the room, he read an appropriate chapter, and added to the selected prayer for the evening a few impressive and affecting words of thanksgiving, for the safe return of the long–lost member of the family.

This duty was scarcely concluded, when the outer door was violently opened; a heavy step was heard approaching, and, without waiting to be admitted or announced, the sturdy figure of Gregson entered the room.

“The captain himself, as I live!” said the honest mate. “Beg pardon, Colonel Brandon, but I heard a report of his having been seen going ten knots an hour through Marietta. So up I sticks, made sail, and was in his wake in less time than our nigger cook takes to toss off a glass of grog.”

“Give me your hand, Gregson,” said Ethelston, kindly; “there is not a truer nor an honester one between Marietta and China.”

“Thank ye, thank ye, captain,” said the mate, giving him a squeeze that would have broken the knuckles of any hand but a sailor’s; “the flipper’s well enough in its way, and I trust the heart’s somewhere about the right place; but what the devil have they been at with you in Guadaloupe?” added he, observing his chief’s wearied and wasted appearance; “considering how long those rascally Frenchmen have had you in dock, they’ve sent you to sea in precious state, both as to hull and rigging.”

“I confess, I am not over ship–shape,” said Ethelston, laughing; “but my present condition is more owing to the fatigues of my tedious journey from New Orleans than to any neglect on the part of the Frenchmen.”

The Colonel now invited the worthy mate to be seated; and Lucy brewed for him, with her own fair fingers a large tumbler of toddy, into which, by her father’s desire, she poured an extra glass of rum. Ethelston, pretending to be jealous of this favour, insisted on his right to a draught, containing less potent ingredients, but administered by the same hand; and an animated conversation ensued, in the course of which Gregson inquired after the welfare of his old friend Cupid, the black cook.

“Poor fellow, he is no more,” replied Ethelston, in a tone of deep feeling; “he died as he had lived, proud, brave, faithful to the last. I cannot tell you the story now, it is too sad a one for this our first evening at home:” as he spoke, his eyes met those of Lucy, and there he read all that his overcharged heart desired to know.

Soon after the allusion to this melancholy incident, the little party broke up; the evening being already far advanced, Gregson returned to Marietta, and the members of the Colonel’s family retired to their respective apartments, leaving Ethelston alone in the drawing–room. For a few minutes he walked up and down, and pressed his hand upon his forehead, which throbbed with various and deep emotions. He took up the music whereon Lucy had written her name, and the needlework on which her fingers had been employed: he sat down on the chair she had just left, as if to satisfy himself with the assurance that all around him was not a dream; and again he vented the full gratitude of his heart in a brief but earnest ejaculation of thanksgiving. After a short indulgence in such meditations, he retired to that rest of which he stood so much in need. The room that had been prepared for him was up stairs, and, on crossing a broad passage that led to it, he suddenly met Lucy, who was returning to her own from her mother’s apartment. Whether this meeting was purely accidental, or whether Lucy, remembering that she had not said good–night quite distinctly to her lover, lingered in her mother’s room until she heard his step on the stair, we have no means of ascertaining, and therefore leave it undecided: certain it is, however, that they did meet in the passage above mentioned, and that Ethelston, putting down his candle on a table that stood by, took Lucy’s unresisting hand and pressed it in his own: he gazed on her blushing countenance with an intensity that can only be understood by those who, like him, have been suddenly restored to a beloved one, whose image had been ever present during a long absence, assuaging the pain of sickness, comforting him in trials, dwelling with him in the solitude of a prison, and sustaining him in the extremest perils of the storm, the fight, and the shipwreck! Though he had never been formally betrothed to her in words, and though his heart was now too full to give utterance to them, he had heard enough below to satisfy him that she had never doubted his faith—he felt that their troth was tacitly plighted to each other, and now it was almost unconsciously that their lips met and sealed the unspoken contract.

That first, long, passionate kiss of requited love! Its raptures have been the theme of glowing prose, of impassioned verse, in all ages and climes; the powers of language have been exhausted upon it, the tongue and the pen of genius have, for centuries, borrowed for its description the warmest hues of fancy and imagination—and yet how far short do they fall of the reality! how impossible to express in words an electric torrent of feeling, more tumultuous than joy, more burning than the desert’s thirst,—yet sweeter and more delicious than childhood’s dream of Paradise, pouring over the heart a stream of bliss, steeping the senses in oblivion of all earthly cares, and so mysteriously blending the physical with the immaterial elements of our nature, that we feel as if, in that embrace, we could transfuse a portion of our soul and spirit into the beloved object on whose lip that first kiss of long–treasured love is imprinted.

Brief and fleeting moments! they are gone almost before the mind is conscious of them! They could not, indeed, be otherwise than brief, for the agony of joy is like that of pain, and exhausted nature would sink under its continued excess. Precious moments, indeed! to none can they be known more than once in life; to very many, they can never be known at all. They can neither be felt nor imagined by the mere worldling, nor the sensualist; the sources of that stream of bliss must be unadulterated by aught low, or selfish; it is not enough that

“Heart and soul and sense in concert move:”

desire must go hand in hand with purity, and virtue be the handmaid of passion, or the blissful scene will lose its fairest and brightest hues.

The step of some servant was heard approaching; and Lucy, uttering a hasty good–night, returned to her room, where she bolted her door, and gave herself up to the varied emotions by which she was overcome. Tears bedewed her eyes, but they were not tears of grief; her bosom was agitated, but it was not the agitation of sorrow; her pillow was sleepless, but she courted not slumber, for her mind dwelt on the events of the past day; and gratitude for her lover’s return, together with the full assurance of his untarnished honour, and undiminished affection, rendered her waking thoughts sweeter than any that sleep could have borrowed from the land of dreams.

On the following morning, after breakfast, when the family were assembled in the library, Ethelston, at the request of Colonel Brandon, commenced the narrative of his adventures. As the reader is already acquainted with them, until the closing scene of poor Nina’s life, we shall make mention of that part of his tale no further than to state that, so far as truth would permit, in all that he told, as well as all that he forbore to tell, he feelingly endeavoured to shield her memory from blame; the sequel of his story we shall give in his own words.

“I remained only a few days with L’Estrange after his daughter’s death; during which time I used my best endeavours to console him; but, in spite of the affectionate kindness which he showed me, I felt that my presence must ever recall and refresh the remembrance of his bereavement, and I was much relieved when the arrival of one of his other married daughters, with her family, gave me an excuse and an opportunity for withdrawing from Guadaloupe. The vessel which had brought them from Jamaica proposed to return immediately, and I easily obtained L’Estrange’s permission to sail with her, only on the condition of not serving against France during the continuance of these hostilities: when I bade him farewell he was much affected, and embraced me as if he were parting with a son; so I have at least the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that I retain his best wishes and his esteem.

“My voyage to Port Royal was prosperous. On arriving I found a brig laden with fruit, just about to sail in a few days for New Orleans. I confess I did not much like the appearance either of the vessel or her commander; but such was my impatience to return to Mooshanne, that I believe I would have risked the voyage in an open boat.” Here Ethelston looked at Lucy, on whose countenance a blushing smile showed that she well knew the meaning of his words. “I embarked,” continued he, “accompanied by my faithful Cupid, on board the Dos Amigos: the captain was an ignorant rum–drinking Creole; besides himself there was only one white man in the crew, and the coloured men were from all countries and climates, the most reckless and turbulent gang that I had ever seen on board a ship. During the first half of the voyage, the weather being favourable, we crept along the southern coast of Cuba, and passed almost within sight of the Isla de Pinos, which I had so much cause to remember; thence we steered a north–westerly course, and doubled the Cape of Saint Antonio in safety, whence we had a prospect of a fair run to the Belise; but, two days after we had lost sight of the Cuban coast, it came on to blow a gale of wind, which gradually increased until it became almost a hurricane from the south–west.

“The brig drove helplessly before it; and from her leaky and shattered condition, as well as from the total want of seamanship exhibited by her drunken captain, I hourly expected that she would founder at sea: for twenty–four hours the gale continued with unabated violence, and the weather was so thick that no object could be discerned at two hundred yards’ distance. I remained constantly on deck, giving such assistance as I could render, and endeavouring to keep the captain’s lips from the rum–bottle, to which he had more frequent recourse as the danger became more imminent. Being at length wearied out, I threw myself in my clothes on my cot, and soon fell asleep. I know not how long I slept; but I was awakened by a violent shock, accompanied by a grating, grinding sound, from which I knew in an instant that the brig had struck on a rock. Almost before I had time to spring from my cot, Cupid dashed into the cabin, and, seizing me with the force of a giant, dragged me on deck. At this moment the foremast fell with a tremendous crash, and a heavy sea swept over the devoted vessel, carrying away the boat, all loose spars, and many of the crew. Cupid and I held on by the main rigging, and were not swept away; but wave after wave succeeded each other with resistless fury, and in a few moments we were both struggling, half stunned and exhausted, in the abyss of waters, holding on convulsively to a large hencoop, which had providentially been thrown between us.

“One wild shriek of despair reached my ear, after which nothing was heard but the tumultuous roar of the angry elements.”

At this part of Ethelston’s narrative, Lucy covered her face with her hands, as if she would thereby shut out the dreadful view, and in spite of all her struggle for self–command, a tear stole down her colourless cheek.

“It was, indeed, a fearful moment,” he continued, “and yet I did not feel deserted by hope; I was prepared for death, I prayed fervently, and I felt that my prayer was not unheard; even then, in that strife of foaming sea and roaring blast, God sent the vision of an angel to comfort and sustain me! It wore the form of one who has ever dwelt in my thoughts by day, and in my dreams by night; who seemed as near to me then, as she does now that her gentle tears are flowing at this recital of my trials.”

While speaking the last words, his low voice trembled until it fell into a whisper, and Lucy, overcome by her feelings, would have fallen from her chair, had not his ready arm supported her. A dead silence reigned in the room; Aunt Mary wept aloud, and Colonel Brandon walked to the window to conceal his emotion. After a few minutes, as he turned again towards them, Ethelston, who still supported Lucy, beckoned him to approach, and, addressing him in a tone of deep and earnest feeling, said,

“Colonel Brandon, my guardian, friend, and benefactor; add yet this one to all your former benefits, and my cup of gratitude will be full indeed:” as he spoke he took the unresisting hand of Lucy in his own: the Colonel looked inquiringly and affectionately at his daughter, who did not speak, but raised her tearful eyes to his, with an expression not to be misunderstood. Pressing their united hands between his own, and kissing Lucy’s forehead, he whispered,

“God bless you, my children:” after a pause he added, with a suppressed smile, “Ethelston shall finish his narrative presently;” and, taking Aunt Mary’s arm, he left the room.

We will imitate the Colonel’s discretion, and forbear to intrude upon the sacred quiet of a scene where the secret, long–cherished love of two overflowing hearts was at length unreservedly interchanged; we need only say that ere the Colonel returned with Aunt Mary, after an absence of half an hour, Lucy’s tears were dried, and her cheeks were suffused with a mantling blush, as she sprung into her father’s arms, and held him in a long and silent embrace.

“Come, my child,” said the Colonel, when he had returned her affectionate caress: “sit down, and let us hear the conclusion of Ethelston’s adventures—we left him in a perilous plight, and I am anxious to hear how he escaped from it.”

“Not without much suffering, both of mind and body, my dear sir,” continued Ethelston in a serious tone of voice; “for the sea dashed to and fro with such violence the frail basket–work to which Cupid and I were clinging, that more than once I was almost forced to quit my hold, and it was soon evident that its buoyant power was not sufficient to save us both, especially as Cupid’s bulk and weight were commensurate with his gigantic strength. His coolness under these trying circumstances was remarkable: observing that I was almost fainting from the effects of a severe blow on the head from a floating piece of the wreck, he poured into my mouth some rum from a small flask that he had contrived to secure, and then replacing the stopper, he thrust the flask into my breast pocket, saying, ‘Capt’n drink more when he want:’ at this moment a large spar from the wreck was driven past us, and the faithful creature said, ‘Capt’n, hencoop not big enough for two, Cupid swim and take spar to ride;’ and, ere I could stop him, he loosed his hold and plunged into the huge wave to seize the spar: more I could not see, for the spray dashed over me, and the gloom and the breakers hid him in a moment from my sight. I felt my strength failing, but enough remained for me to loose a strong silk kerchief from my neck, and to lash myself firmly to the hencoop. Again and again the wild sea broke over me; I felt a tremendous and stunning blow—as I thought, the last, and I was no more conscious of what passed around.

“When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon some soft branches, and sheltered by low bushes, a few hundred yards from the sea–beach; two strange men were standing near me, and gave evident signs of satisfaction when they saw my first attempts at speech and motion; they made me swallow several morsels of sea–biscuit steeped in rum, and I was soon so far restored as to be able to sit up, and to learn the particulars of my situation. The island near which the brig had been wrecked, was one of the Tortugas; the two men who had carried me up to a dry spot from the beach, belonged to a small fishing–craft, which had put in two days before the hurricane for a supply of water and in hopes of catching turtle. Their vessel was securely moored in a little natural harbour, protected by the outer ledge of rocks: the reef on which the brig had struck was upwards of a mile from the spot where they had found me; and I could not learn from them that they had seen any portion of her wreck, or any part of her crew, alive or dead.

“As soon as my bruised condition permitted me to drag my limbs along, I commenced a careful search along the low rocky shore, in hopes of learning something of the fate of Cupid, and at length was horrified on discovering the mutilated remains of the faithful creature, among some crevices in the rocks. He had clung to the spar which still lay beside him with the pertinacious strength of despair: his hands and limbs were dreadfully mangled, and his skull fractured by the violence with which he had been driven on the reef. I remembered how he had resigned the hencoop to save my life; and the grief that I evinced for his loss moved the compassion of the fishermen, who aided me to bury him decently on the island.

“We remained there two days longer, until the gale had subsided, during which time I frequently visited poor Cupid’s grave; and though many of our countrymen would be ashamed of owning such regret for one of his colour, I confess that when on that lonely spot I called to mind his faithful services, and his last noble act of generous courage, I mourned him as a friend and brother.

“When the fishing–smack put to sea, I prevailed on her captain to visit the reef where the brig had struck; but we found not a spar nor plank remaining; nor am I to this moment aware whether any others of her crew survived the wreck; but it is more than probable that they perished to a man. Upon the promise of a considerable sum of money, I prevailed upon the fishermen to give me a passage to New Orleans, where we arrived without accident or adventure, and my impatience to reach home only permitted me to stay in that city a few hours, when, having provided myself with a horse, I rode on hither by forced marches, and arrived in the travel–worn condition that you observed yesterday.”