IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND THAT THE COUCH OF AN INVALID HAS PERILS NOT LESS FORMIDABLE THAN THOSE WHICH ARE TO BE ENCOUNTERED AT SEA.

We left Ethelston stretched on a sick couch in Guadaloupe, in the house of Captain L’Estrange, and tended by his daughter Nina, and by her brother, the young lieutenant. The latter grew daily more attached to the patient, who had been his captor, and was now his prisoner; but he was obliged, as soon as Ethelston was pronounced out of danger, to sail for Europe, as he was anxious to obtain that professional distinction which his parole prevented his gaining in service against the United States. And in France there seemed a promising harvest of combat and of glory, sufficient to satisfy the martial enthusiasm even of the most adventurous of her sons. When he sailed, he again and again pressed upon his sister to bestow every attention upon Ethelston; and as the Captain was much busied with his command, and as Madame L’Estrange was entirely devoted to her boudoir,—where, with two chattering parrots to amuse her, and a little black girl to fan her while listlessly poring over the pages of Florian in a fauteuil,—the whole charge devolved upon the willing and kind–hearted Nina. She was the third and youngest daughter of Monsieur and Madame L’Estrange; but (her two elder sisters being married) she was the only one resident with her parents.

Sixteen summers had now passed over her, and her disposition was like that of her brother,—frank, impetuous, and warm–hearted. Her feelings had never been guided or regulated by her handsome but indolent mother; her mind had been allowed to seek its food at hap–hazard among the romances, poems, and plays upon the shelves in the drawing–room. Her father spoilt and her brother petted her. A governess also she had, whom she governed, and to whose instructions she owed little, except a moderate proficiency in music. Her countenance was a very beautiful mirror, reflecting the warm and impassioned features of her character. Her complexion was dark, though clear, and her hair black and glossy. The pencilling of her eyebrows was exceedingly delicate; and the eyes themselves were large, speaking, and glowing with that humid lustre which distinguishes creole beauty. Nothing could exceed the rosy fulness of her lip, and the even whiteness of the teeth which her joyous smile disclosed. Her figure was exquisitely proportioned; and her every movement a very model of natural grace. She seemed, indeed, impregnated with the fervour of the sunny climate in which she had been reared; and her temper, her imagination, her passions, all glowed with its ardent but dangerous warmth. According to the usage of her country, she had been betrothed, when a child, to a neighbouring planter, one of the richest in the island; but as he was absent in Europe, and there remained yet two years before the time fixed for the fulfilment of the contract, she rarely troubled her head about the marriage or her future destiny.

Such was the girl who now officiated as nurse to Ethelston, and who, before she had seen him, had gathered from her brother such traits of his character as had called forth all the interest and sympathy of her romantic disposition. Although not eminently handsome, we have before noted that his countenance was manly and expressive, and his manners courteous and engaging. Perhaps also the weakness, remaining after the crisis of his fever, imparted to the usually gentle expression of his features that touching attraction which is called by a modern poet “a loving languor.” At all events, certain it is, that ere poor Nina had administered the third saline draughd to her grateful patient, her little heart beat vehemently; and when she had attended his feverish couch one short week, she was desperately in love!

How fared it in the meantime with Ethelston? Did his heart run any risk from the dark eloquent eyes, and the gracefully rounded form of the ministering angel who hovered about his sick–room? At present none, for Lucy was shrined there; and he had been taught by young L’Estrange to consider his sister in the light of a nursery–girl, still under the dominion of the governess.

Days and weeks elapsed, Ethelston’s recovery progressed, and he was able to stroll in the shade of the orange and citron groves which sheltered Captain L’Estrange’s villa to the northward. Here, with his eyes fixed on the sea, would he sometimes sit for hours, and devise schemes for returning to his home. On these occasions he was frequently accompanied by Nina, who walked by his side with her guitar in her hand; and under the pretence of receiving instructions from him in music, she would listen with delight, and hang with rapture on every syllable that he uttered. Though he could not avoid being sensible of her ripening beauty, his heart was protected by the seven–fold shield of a deep and abiding attachment; and as he still looked upon Nina as a lovely girl, completing her education in the nursery, he gladly gave her all the assistance that she asked under her musical difficulties; and this he was able to do, from having made no small proficiency in the science during his long residence in Germany.

Sometimes he paid his respects to Madame L’Estrange; but that lady was so indolent, and so exclusively devoted to her parrots and her lap–dog, that his visits to her were neither frequent nor of long duration. The Captain was very seldom ashore; and thus Ethelston was obliged to spend his time alone, or in the society of the young girl who had nursed him so kindly during his illness. Her character seemed to have undergone a sudden and complete change. The conquering god, who had at first only taken possession of the outworks of her fancy, had now made himself master of the citadel of her heart. She loved with all the intense absorbing passion of a nature that had never known control. The gaiety and buoyancy of her spirits had given place to a still, deep flood of feeling, which her reason never attempted to restrain. Even when with him she spoke little. Her happiness was too intense to find a vent in words; and thus she nursed and fed a flame, that needed only the breath of accident to make it burst forth with a violence that should burn up or overleap all the barriers of self–control.

Nor must the reader imagine that Ethelston was dull or blind, because he observed not the state of Nina’s affections. His own were firmly rooted elsewhere; he was neither of a vain nor a romantic disposition; and he had been duly informed by Monsieur L’Estrange, that in the course of two years Nina was to be married to Monsieur Bertrand, the young planter, to whom, as we have before mentioned, she had been betrothed by her parents since her thirteenth year. He could not help seeing that, although her intellect was quick, and her character enthusiastic, her education had been shamefully neglected both by Madame L’Estrange and the governess. Hence he spoke, counselled, and sometimes chid her, in the tone of an elder brother, heedless of the almost imperceptible line that separates friendship from love in the bosom of a girl nurtured under a West Indian sun.

In this state were matters, when, on a fine evening, Ethelston strolled alone into his favourite orange–grove, to look out upon the ocean, and, in the enjoyment of its refreshing breeze, to ruminate on his strange captivity, and revolve various plans of escape.

Captain L’Estrange had paid a visit to his home on the preceding day, and finding his prisoner so completely restored to health and strength, had said to him, jokingly, “Indeed, fair sir, I think I must put you on your parole, or in chains; for, after the character given of you by my son, I cannot allow so dangerous a person to be at large during the continuance of hostilities between our respective nations.”

Ethelston answered, half in earnest, and half in jest, “Nay, sir, then I must wear the chains, for assuredly I cannot give my parole; if an American vessel were to come in sight, or any other means of flight to offer itself, depend upon it, in spite of the kindness and hospitality I have met with here, I should weigh anchor in a moment.”

“Well, that is a fair warning,” said the old Commodore; “nevertheless I will not lock you up just yet, for I do not think it very likely that any strange sail will come under the guns of our fort; and I will run the risk of your flying away on the back of a sea–gull.” Thus had they parted; and the old gentleman was again absent on a cruise.

Ethelston was, as we have said, reclining listlessly under an orange–tree, inhaling the cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of its blossoms, now devising impossible plans of escape, and now musing on a vision of Lucy’s graceful figure, gliding among the deep woods around Mooshanne. As these thoughts passed through his mind, they imparted a melancholy shade to his brow, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips.

It was echoed by one yet deeper, close to his ear; and starting from his reverie, he beheld Nina, who had approached him unawares, and who, leaning on her guitar, had been for the last few minutes gazing on his countenance with an absorbed intensity, more fond and riveted than that with which the miser regards his treasure, or the widowed mother her only child.

When she found herself perceived, she came forward, and covering her emotion under an assumed gaiety, she said, “What is my kind instructor thinking of? He seems more grave and sad than usual.”

“He is thinking,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly, “that he ought to scold a certain young lady very severely for coming upon him slily, and witnessing that gravity and sadness in which a captive must sometimes indulge, but which her presence has already dissipated.”

“Nay,” said Nina, still holding her guitar, and sitting down on the bank near him; “you know that I am only obeying papa’s orders in watching you; for he says you would not give your parole, and I am sure you were thinking of your escape from Guadaloupe.”

“Perhaps you might have guessed more wide of the mark, Mademoiselle Nina,” said Ethelston.

“And are you then so very anxious to—to—see your home again?” inquired Nina, hesitating.

“Judge for yourself, Nina,” he replied, “when I remind you that for many months I have heard nothing of those who have been my nearest and dearest friends from childhood; nothing of the brave men who were captured with me when our poor brig was lost!”

“Tell me about your friends and your home. Is it very beautiful? Have you the warm sun, and the fresh sea–breeze, and the orange–flowers, that we have here?”

“Scarcely,” replied Ethelston, smiling at the earnest rapidity with which the beautiful girl based her inquiries on the scene before her; “but we have in their place rivers, on the bosom of which your father’s frigate might sail; groves and woods of deep shade, impenetrable to the rays of the hottest sun; and prairies smiling with the most brilliant and variegated flowers.”

“Oh! how I should love to see that land!” exclaimed Nina, her fervid imagination instantly grasping and heightening its beauties. “How I should love to dwell there!”

“Nay, it appears to me not unlikely that you should at some time visit it,” replied Ethelston. “This foolish war between our countries will soon be over, and your father may wish to see a region the scenery of which is so magnificent, and which is not difficult of access from here.”

“Papa will never leave these islands, unless he goes to France, and that he hates,” said Nina.

“Well then,” continued Ethelston, smiling, as he alluded for the first time to her marriage, “you must defer your American trip a year or two longer; then, doubtless, Monsieur Bertrand will gladly gratify your desire to see the Mississippi.”

Nina started as if stung by an adder; the blood rushed and mantled over her face and neck; her eyes glowed with indignation, as she exclaimed, “I abhor and detest Monsieur Bertrand. I would die before I would marry him!” Then adding in a low voice, the sadness of which went to his heart, “and this from you too!” She covered her face with her hands and wept.

Never was man more astonished than Ethelston at the sudden storm which he had inadvertently raised. Remembering that Madame L’Estrange had told him of the engagement as being known to Nina, he had been led to suppose from her usual flow of spirits, that the prospect was far from being disagreeable to her. Young L’Estrange had also told him that Bertrand was a good looking man, of high character, and considered, from his wealth, as the best match in the French islands; so that Ethelston was altogether unprepared for the violent aversion which Nina now avowed for the marriage, and for the grief by which she seemed so deeply agitated. Still he was as far as ever from divining the true cause of her emotion, and conjectured that she had probably formed an attachment to one of the young officers on board her father’s ship. Under this impression he took her hand, and sympathising with the grief of one so fair and so young, he said to her kindly, “Forgive me, Nina, if I have said any thing to hurt your feelings; indeed I always have believed that your engagement to Monsieur Bertrand was an affair settled by your parents entirely with your consent. I am sure Monsieur L’Estrange loves his favourite child too well to compel her to a marriage against her inclination. Will you permit your Mentor (as you have more than once allowed me to call myself) to speak with him on the subject?”

Nina made no reply, and the tears coursed each other yet faster down her cheek.

“Your brother is absent,” continued Ethelston; “you seem not to confide your little secrets to your mother—will you not let me aid you by my advice? I am many years older than you.—I am deeply grateful for all your kindness during my tedious illness; believe me, I will, if you will only trust me, advise you with the affectionate interest of a parent, or an elder brother.”

The little hand trembled violently in his, but still no reply escaped from Nina’s lips.

“If you will not tell me your secret,” pursued Ethelston, “I must guess it. Your aversion to the engagement arises not so much from your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand, as from your preference of some other, whom perhaps your parents would not approve?”

The hand was withdrawn, being employed in an ineffectual attempt to check her tears. The slight fillet which bound her black tresses had given way, and they now fell in disorder, veiling the deep crimson glow which again mantled over the neck of the weeping girl.

Ethelston gazed on her with emotions of deep sympathy. There was a reality, a dignity about her speechless grief, that must have moved a sterner heart than his; and as he looked upon the heaving of her bosom, and upon the exquisite proportions unconsciously developed in her attitude, he suddenly felt that he was speaking, not to a child in the nursery, but to a girl in whose form and heart the bud and blossom of womanhood were thus early ripened. It was, therefore, in a tone, not less kind, but more respectful than he had hitherto used, that he said, “Nay, Nina, I desire not to pry into your secrets—I only wish to assure you of the deep sympathy which I feel with your sorrow, and of my desire to aid or comfort you by any means within my power; but if my curiosity offends you, I will retire, in the hope that your own gentle thoughts may soon afford you relief.”

Again the little hand was laid upon his arm, as Nina, still weeping, whispered, “No, no,—you do not offend me.—Do not leave me, I entreat you!”

A painful silence ensued; and Ethelston, more than ever confirmed in the belief that she had bestowed her affections on some young middy, or lieutenant, under her father’s command, continued, in a tone which he attempted to render gay: “Well then, Nina, since you will not give your confidence to Mentor, he must appoint himself your confessor; and to commence, is he right in believing that your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand arises from your having given your heart elsewhere?”

There was no reply; but her head was bowed in token of acquiescence!

“I need not inquire,” pursued he, “whether the object of your choice is, in rank and character, worthy of your affection?”

In an instant the drooping head was raised, and the dark tresses thrown back from her brow, as, with her eyes flashing through the moisture by which they were still bedewed, Nina replied, “Worthy!—worthy the affection of a queen!”

Ethelston, startled by her energy, was about to resume his inquiries, when Nina, whose excited spirit triumphed for the moment over all restraint, stopped him, saying, “I will spare you the trouble of further questions. I will tell you freely, that till lately, very lately, I cared for none.—Monsieur Bertrand and all others were alike to me; but fate threw a stranger in my path.—He was a friend of my brother;—he was wounded.—For hours and hours I watched by his couch;—he revived;—his looks were gentle; his voice was music.—I drew counsel from his lips;—he filled my thoughts, my dreams, my heart, my being! But he—he considered me only as a silly child;—he understood not my heart;—he mocked my agony;—he saved my brother’s life,—and is now accomplishing the sister’s death!”

The excitement which supported Nina during the commencement of this speech gradually died away. Towards its close, her voice grew tremulous, and as the last words escaped her quivering lips, exhausted nature gave way under the burden of her emotion, and she fainted!

The feelings of Ethelston may be better imagined than described. As the dreadful import of the poor girl’s words gradually broke upon him, his cheeks grew paler and paler; and when, at their conclusion, her senseless form lay extended at his feet, the cold dew of agony stood in drops upon his forehead! But Nina’s condition demanded immediate aid and attention. Mastering himself by a powerful effort, he snatched a lemon from a neighbouring tree; he cut it in half, and sustaining the still insensible girl, he chafed her hands, and rubbed her temples with the cool refreshing juice of the fruit. After a time, he had the consolation of seeing her restored gradually to her senses; and a faint smile came over her countenance as she found herself supported by his arm. Still she closed her eyes, as if in a happy dream, which Ethelston could not bring himself to disturb; and, as the luxuriant black tresses only half veiled the touching beauty of her countenance, he groaned at the reflection that he had inadvertently been the means of shedding the blight of unrequited love on a budding flower of such exquisite loveliness. A long silence ensued, softened, rather than interrupted, by the low wind as it whispered through the leaves of the orange–grove; while the surrounding landscape, and the wide expanse of ocean, glowed with the red golden tints of the parting sun. No unplighted heart could have resisted all the assailing temptations of that hour. But Ethelston’s heart was not unplighted; and the high principle and generous warmth of his nature served only to deepen the pain and sadness of the present moment. He formed, however, his resolution; and as soon as he found that Nina was restored to consciousness, and to a certain degree of composure, he gently withdrew the arm which had supported her, and said, in a voice of most melancholy earnestness, “Dear Nina! I will not pretend to misunderstand what you have said. I have much to tell you; but I have not now enough command over myself to speak, while you are still too agitated to listen. Meet me here to–morrow at this same hour; meanwhile, I entreat you, recall those harsh and unkind thoughts which you entertained of me; and believe me, dear, dear sister, that I would, rather than have mocked your feelings, have died on that feverish couch, from which your care revived me.” So saying, he hastened from her presence in a tumult of agitation scarcely less than her own.

For a long time she sat motionless, in a kind of waking dream; his parting words yet dwelt in her ear, and her passionate heart construed them now according to its own wild throbbings, now according to its gloomiest fears. “He has much to tell me,” mused she; “he called me dear Nina; he spoke not in a voice of indifference; his eye was full of a troubled expression that I could not read. Alas! alas, ‘twas only pity! He called me ‘dear sister!’—what can he mean?—Oh that to–morrow were come! I shall not outlive the night unless I can believe that he loves me!” And then she fell again into a reverie; during which all the looks and tones that her partial fancy had interpreted, and her too faithful memory had treasured, were recalled, and repeated in a thousand shapes; until, exhausted by her agitation, and warned by the darkness of the hour, Nina retired to her sleepless couch.

Meanwhile Ethelston, when he found himself alone in his room, scrutinised with the most unsparing severity his past conduct, endeavouring to remember every careless or unheeded word by which he could have awakened or encouraged her unsuspected affection. He could only blame himself that he had not been more observant; that he had considered Nina too much in the light of a child; and had habitually spoken to her in a tone of playful and confidential familiarity. Thus, though his conscience acquitted him of the most remote intention of trifling with her feelings, he accused himself of having neglected to keep a watchful guard over his language and behaviour, and resolved, at the risk of incurring her anger or her hatred, to tell her firmly and explicitly on the morrow, that he could not requite her attachment as it deserved, his heart having been long and faithfully devoted to another.