NARRATING THE TRIALS AND DANGERS THAT BESET ETHELSTON; AND HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THEM, AND FROM THE ISLAND OF GUADALOUPE.

The night succeeding the occurrences related in the last chapter brought little rest to the pillow either of Nina or of Ethelston; and on the following day, as if by mutual agreement, they avoided each other’s presence, until the hour appointed for their meeting again in the orange–grove. Ethelston was firmly resolved to explain to her unreservedly his long engagement to Lucy, hoping that the feelings of Nina would prove, in this instance, rather impetuous than permanent. The tedious day appeared to her as if it never would draw to a close. She fled from her mother, and from the screaming parrots; she tried the guitar, but it seemed tuneless and discordant; her pencil and her book were by turns taken up, and as soon laid aside; she strolled even at midday into the orange–grove, to the spot where she had last sat by him, and a blush stole over her cheek when she remembered that she had been betrayed into an avowal of her love; and then came the doubt, the inquiry, whether he felt any love for her? Thus did she muse and ponder, until the hours, which in the morning had appeared to creep so slowly over the face of the dial, now glided unconsciously forward. The dinner–hour had passed unheeded; and before she had summoned any of the courage and firmness which she meant to call to her aid, Ethelston stood before her. He was surprised at finding Nina on this spot, and had approached it long before the appointed time, in order that he might prepare himself for the difficult and painful task which he had undertaken. But though unprepared, his mind was of too firm and regulated a character to be surprised out of a fixed determination; and he came up and offered his hand to Nina, greeting her in his accustomed tone of familiar friendship. She received his salutation with evident embarrassment; her hand and her voice trembled, and her bosom throbbed in a tumult of anxiety and expectation. Ethelston saw that he could not defer the promised explanation; and he commenced it with his usual gentleness of manner, but with a firm resolve that he would be honest and explicit in his language. He began by referring to his long illness, and, with gratitude, to her care and attention during its continuance; he assured her, that having been told both by Madame L’Estrange and her brother, that she was affianced to Monsieur Bertrand, he had accustomed himself to look on her as a younger sister; and, as such, had ventured to offer her advice and instruction in her studies. He knew not, he dreamt not, that she could ever look upon him in any other light than that of a Mentor.

Here he paused a moment, and continued in a deeper and more earnest tone “Nina—dear Nina, we must be as Mentor and his pupil to each other, or we must part. I will frankly lay my heart open to you. I will conceal nothing; then you will not blame me, and will, I hope, permit me to remain your grateful friend and brother. Nina, I am not blind either to your beauty, or to the many, many graces of your disposition. I do full justice to the warmth and truth of your affections: you deserve, when loved, to be loved with a whole heart—“

“O spare this!” interrupted Nina, in a hurried whisper: “Spare this, speak of yourself!”

“I was even about to do so,” continued Ethelston; “but, Nina, such a heart I have not to give. For many months and years, before I ever saw or knew you, I have loved, and still am betrothed to another.”

A cold shudder seemed to pass through Nina’s frame while these few words were spoken, as if in a moment the health, the hope, the blossom of her youth were blighted! Not a tear, not even a sob, gave relief to her agony; her bloodless lip trembled in a vain attempt to speak she knew not what, and a burning chill sat upon her heart. These words may appear to some strange and contradictory: happy, thrice happy, ye to whom they so appear! If you have never known what it is to feel at once a scorching heat parching the tongue, and drying up all the well–springs of life within, while a leaden weight of ice seems to benumb the heart, then have you never known the sharpest, extreme pangs of disappointed love!

Ethelston was prepared for some sudden and violent expression on the part of Nina, but this death–like, motionless silence almost overpowered him. He attempted, by the gentlest and the kindest words, to arouse her from this stupor of grief. He took her hand; its touch was cold. Again and again he called her name; but her ear seemed insensible, even to his voice. At length, unable to bear the sight of her distress, and fearful that he might no longer restrain his tongue from uttering words which would be treason to his first and faithful love, he rushed into the house, and hastily informing Nina’s governess that her pupil had been suddenly taken ill in the orange–grove, he locked himself in his room, and gave vent to the contending emotions by which he was oppressed.

It was in vain that he strove to calm himself by the reflection that he had intentionally transgressed none of the demands of truth and honour;—it was in vain that he called up all the long–cherished recollections of his Lucy and his home;—still the image of Nina would not be banished; now presenting itself as he had seen her yesterday, in the full glow of passion, and in the full bloom of youthful beauty,—and now, as he had just left her, in the deadly paleness and fixed apathy of despair. The terrible thought that, whether guiltily or innocently, he had been the cause of all this suffering in one to whom he owed protection and gratitude, wrung his heart with pain that he could not repress; and he found relief only in falling on his knees, and praying to the Almighty that the sin might not be laid to his charge, and that Nina’s sorrow might be soothed and comforted by Him, who is the God of consolation.

Meanwhile the governess had, with the assistance of two of the negro attendants, brought Nina into the house. The poor girl continued in the same state of insensibility to all that was passing around; her eyes were open, but she seemed to recognise no one, and a few vague indistinct words still trembled on her lips.

The doctor was instantly summoned, who pronounced, as soon as he had seen his patient, that she was in a dangerous fit, using sundry mysterious expressions about “febrile symptoms,” and “pressure on the brain,” to which the worthy leech added shakings of the head yet more mysterious.

For many days her condition continued alarming; the threatened fever came, and with it a protracted state of delirium. During this period Ethelston’s anxiety and agitation were extreme; and proportionate was the relief that he experienced, when he learnt that the crisis was past, and that the youthful strength of her constitution promised speedy recovery.

Meanwhile he had to endure the oft–repeated inquiries of the governess, “How he happened to find Mademoiselle just as the fit came on?” and of Madame L’Estrange, “How it was possible for Nina to be attacked by so sudden an illness, while walking in the orange–grove?”

When she was at length pronounced out of danger, Ethelston again began to consider various projects for his meditated escape from the island. He had more than once held communication with his faithful Cupid on the subject, who was ready to brave all risks in the service of his master; but the distance which must be traversed before they could expect to find a friendly ship or coast, seemed to exclude all reasonable hope of success.

It would be impossible to follow and portray the thousand changes that came over Nina’s spirit during her recovery. She remembered but too well the words that Ethelston had last spoken: at one moment she called him perfidious, ungrateful, heartless; then she chid herself for railing at him, and loaded his name with every blessing, and the expression of the fondest affection: now she resolved that she would never see nor speak to him more; then she thought that she must see him, if it were only to show how she had conquered her weakness. Amidst all these contending resolutions, she worked herself into the belief that Ethelston had deceived her; and that, because he thought her a child, and did not love her, he had invented the tale of his previous engagement to lessen her mortification. This soon became her settled conviction; and when it crossed her mind, she would start with passion and exclaim, “He shall yet love me, and me alone!”

The only confidant of her love was a young negress, who waited upon her, and who was indeed so devoted to her that she would have braved the Commodore’s utmost wrath, or perilled her life, to execute her mistress’ commands.

It happened one evening that this girl, whose name was Fanchette, went out to gather some fruit in the orange–grove; and while thus employed she heard the voice of some one speaking. On drawing nearer to the spot whence the sound proceeded, she saw Ethelston sitting under the deep shade of a tree, with what appeared a book before him.

Knowing that Nina was still confined to her room, he had resorted hither to consider his schemes without interruption, and was so busily employed in comparing distances, and calculating possibilities, on the map before him, that Fanchette easily crept to a place whence she could, unperceived, overhear and observe him. “I must and will attempt it,” he muttered aloud to himself; “we must steal a boat. Cupid and I can manage it between us; my duty and my love both forbid my staying longer here: with a fishing–boat we might reach Antigua or Dominica, or at all events chance to fall in with an American or a neutral vessel. Poor dear Nina,” he added, in a lower tone. “Would to God I had never visited this shore! this,” he continued, drawing a locket from his breast, “this treasured remembrance of one far distant has made me proof against thy charms, cold to thy love, but not, as Heaven is my witness, unmoved or insensible to thy sufferings.” So saying he relapsed into silent musing; and as he replaced the locket, Fanchette crept noiselessly from her concealment, and ran to communicate to her young mistress her version of what she had seen. Being very imperfectly skilled in English, she put her own construction upon those few words which she had caught, and thought to serve Nina best by telling her what she would most like to hear. Thus she described to her how Ethelston had spoken to himself over a map; how he had mentioned islands to which he would sail; how he had named her name with tenderness, and had taken something from his vest to press it to his lips.

Poor Nina listened in a tumult of joy; her passionate heart would admit no doubting suggestion of her reason. She was too happy to bear even the presence of Fanchette, and rewarding her for her good news by the present of a beautiful shawl which she wore at the moment, pushed the delighted little negress out of the room, and threw herself on her couch, where she repeated a hundred times that he had been to her orange–grove, where they had last parted, had named her name with tenderness, had pressed some token to his lips—what could that be? It might be a flower, a book, any thing—it mattered not—so long as she only knew he loved her! Having long wept with impassioned joy, she determined to show herself worthy of his love; and the schemes which she formed, and resolved to carry into effect, evinced the wild force and energy of her romantic character. Among her father’s slaves was one who, being a steady and skilful seaman, had the charge of a schooner (originally an American prize), which lay in the harbour, and which the Commodore sometimes used as a pleasure–yacht, or for short trips to other parts of the island: this man (whose name was Jacques) was not only a great favourite with the young lady, but was also smitten with the black eyes and plump charms of M’amselle Fanchette, who thus exercised over him a sway little short of absolute. Nina having held a conference with her abigail, sent for Jacques, who was also admitted to a confidential consultation, the result of which, after–occurrences will explain to the reader. When this was over, she acquired, rather than assumed, a sudden composure and cheerfulness: the delights of a plot seemed at once to restore her to health; and on the following day she sent to request that Ethelston would come to see her in her boudoir, where she received him with a calmness and self–possession for which he was altogether unprepared. “Mr. Ethelston,” said she, as soon as he was seated, “I believe you still desire to escape from your prison, and that you are devising various plans for effecting that object; you will never succeed unless you call me into your counsel.”

Ethelston, though extremely surprised at the composure of her manner and language, replied with a smile, “M’amselle Nina, I will not deny that you have rightly guessed my thoughts; but as your father is my jailor, I did not dare to ask your counsel in this matter.”

“Well, Mr. Mentor,” said the wayward girl, “how does your wisdom propose to act without my counsel?”

“I confess I am somewhat at a loss,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly; “I must go either through the air or the water; and the latter, being my proper element, is the path which I would rather attempt.”

“And what should you think of me, if I were to play the traitoress, and aid you in eluding the vigilance of my father, and afford the means of escape to so formidable an enemy?”

Ethelston was completely puzzled by this playful tone of banter, in one whom he had last seen under a paroxysm of passion, and in whose dark eye there yet lurked an expression which he could not define; but he resolved to continue the conversation in the same spirit, and replied, “I would not blame you for this act of filial disobedience; and though no longer your father’s prisoner, I would, if I escaped, ever remain his friend.”

“And would you show no gratitude to the lady who effected your release?”

“I owe her already more—far more, than I can pay; and, for this last crowning act of her generosity and kindness, I would—“

As he hesitated, she inquired, abruptly, “You would what, Ethelston?” For a moment she had forgotten the part she was acting; and both the look that accompanied these words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, reminded him that he stood on the brink of a volcanic crater.

“I would give her any proof of my gratitude that she would deign to accept, yes any,” he repeated earnestly, “even to life itself, knowing that she is too noble and generous to accept aught at my hands which faith and honour forbid me to offer.”

Nina turned aside for a moment, overcome by her emotion; but recovering herself quickly, she added, in her former tone of pleasantry, “She will not impose any hard conditions; but to the purpose; has your sailor–eye noticed a certain little schooner anchored in the harbour?”

“What!” said Ethelston, eagerly, “a beautiful craft, of about twenty tons, on the other side of the bay?”

“Even the same.”

“Surely I have! She is American built, and swims like a duck.”

“Well then,” replied Nina, “I think I shall do no great harm in restoring her to an American! How many men should you require to manage her?”

“I could sail her easily with one able seaman, besides my black friend Cupid.”

“Then,” said Nina, “I propose to lend her to you; you may send her back at your convenience; and I will also provide you an able seaman: write me a list of the stores and articles which you will require for the trip, and send it me in an hour’s time: prepare your own baggage, and be ready upon the shortest notice. It is now my turn to command, and yours to obey. Good–b’ye, Mr. Mentor.” So saying, she kissed her hand to him, and withdrew.

Ethelston rubbed his eyes as if he did not believe their evidence. “Could this merry, ready–witted girl be the same as the Nina whom he had seen, ten days before, heart–broken, and unable to conceal or repress the violence of her passion?” The longer he mused, the more was he puzzled; and he came at length to a conclusion at which many, more wise and more foolish than himself, had arrived, that a woman’s mind, when influenced by her affections, is a riddle hard to be solved. He had not, however, much time for reflection, and being resolved at all risks to escape from the island, he hastened to his room, and, within the hour specified by Nina, sent her a list of the stores and provisions for the voyage.

Meanwhile Fanchette had not been idle: she had painted to Jacques, in the liveliest colours, the wealth, beauty, and freedom of the distant land of Ohio, artfully mingling with this description promises and allurements which operated more directly on the feelings of her black swain; so that the latter, finding himself entreated by Fanchette, and commanded by his young mistress, hesitated no longer to betray his trust, and desert the Commodore.

Ethelston, having communicated the prosperous state of affairs to Cupid, and desired him to have all ready for immediate escape, hastened to obey another summons sent to him by Nina. He found her in a mood no less cheerful than before; and although she purposely averted her face, a smile, the meaning of which he could not define, played round the corner of her expressive mouth. Though really glad to escape homeward, and disposed to be grateful to Nina for her aid, he could not help feeling angry and vexed at the capricious eagerness with which she busied herself in contriving the departure of one to whom she had so lately given the strongest demonstration of tenderness; and although his heart told him that he could not love her, there was something in this easy and sudden withdrawal of her affection which wounded that self–love from which the best of men are not altogether free. These feelings gave an unusual coldness and constraint to his manner, when he inquired her further commands.

To this question Nina replied by saying, “Then, Mr. Ethelston, you are quite resolved to leave us, and to risk all the chances and perils of this voyage?”

“Quite,” he replied: “it is my wish, my duty, and my firm determination; and I entered the room,” he added, almost in a tone of reproof, “desirous of repeating to you my thanks for your kind assistance.”

Nina’s countenance changed; but, still averting it from Ethelston, she continued in a lower voice, “And do you leave us without pain—without regret?”

There was a tremor, a natural feeling in the tone in which she uttered these few words, that recalled to his mind all that he had seen her suffer, and drove from it the harsh thoughts which he had begun to entertain; and he answered, in a voice from which his self–command could not banish all traces of emotion, “Dear Nina, I shall leave you with regret that would amount to misery, if I thought that my visit had brought any permanent unhappiness into this house. I desire to leave you as a Mentor should leave a beloved pupil—as a brother leaves a sister; with a full hope, that when I am gone, you will fulfil your parents’ wishes, your own auspicious destinies, and that, after years and years of happiness among those whom Fate has decreed to be the companions of your life, you will look back upon me as upon a faithful adviser of your youth,—an affectionate friend, who——“

Nina’s nerves were not strung for the part she had undertaken: gradually her countenance had grown pale as marble; a choking sensation oppressed her throat; and she sunk in a chair, sobbing, rather than uttering, the word, “Water.” It was fortunately at hand; and having placed it in a glass by her side, Ethelston retired to the window to conceal his own emotion, and to allow time for that of Nina to subside.

After a few minutes she recovered her self–possession; and although still deadly pale, her voice was distinct and firm, as she said, “Ethelston, I am ashamed of this weakness; but it is over: we will not speak of the past, and will leave to Fate the future. Now listen to me: all the arrangements for your departure will be complete by to–morrow evening. At an hour before midnight, a small boat, with one man, will be at the Quai du MarchÉ, below the Place St. Louis. It is far from the fort, and there is no sentry near the spot: you can then row to the vessel and depart. But is it not too dangerous?” she added. “Can you risk it? for the wind whistles terribly, and I fear the approach of a hurricane!”

Ethelston’s eye brightened as he replied, “A rough night is the fairest for the purpose, Nina.”

“Be it so,” she replied. “Now, in return for all that I have done for you, there is only one favour I have to ask at your hands.”

“Name it,” said Ethelston, eagerly.

“There is,” she continued, “a poor sick youth in the town, the child of respectable parents in New Orleans; he desires to go home, if it be only to die there: and a nurse will take care of him on the passage, if you will let him go with you?”

“Assuredly I will,” said Ethelston; “and will take as much care of him as if he were my brother.”

“Nay,” said Nina, “they tell me he is ordered to be perfectly quiet, and no one attends him but the nurse; neither will he give any trouble, as the coxswain says there is a small cabin where he can remain alone and undisturbed.”

“You may depend,” said Ethelston, “that all your orders about him shall be faithfully performed; and I will see, if I live, that he reaches his home in safety.”

“He and his nurse will be on board before you,” said Nina; “and as soon as you reach the vessel, you have nothing to do but to escape as quick as you can. Now I must bid you farewell! I may not have spirits to see you again!” She held out her hand to him; it was cold as ice; her face was still half–averted, and her whole frame trembled violently.

Ethelston took the offered hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, “A thousand, thousand thanks for all your kindness! If I reach home alive I will make your honoured father ample amends for the theft of his schooner; and if ever you have an opportunity to let me know that you are well and happy, do not forget that such news will always gladden my heart.” He turned to look at her as he went; he doubted whether the cold rigid apathy of her form and countenance was that of despair or of indifference; but he dared not trust himself longer in her presence; and as he left the room she sunk on the chair against which she had been leaning for support.

When Ethelston found himself alone, he collected his thoughts, and endeavoured in vain to account for the strange deportment of Nina in bidding him farewell. The coldness of her manner, the abrupt brevity of her parting address, had surprised him; and yet the tremor, the emotion, amounting almost to fainting, the forced tone of voice in which she had spoken, all forbad him to hope that she had overcome her unhappy passion; he was grieved that he had scarcely parted from her in kindness; and the pity with which he regarded her was, for the moment, almost akin to love.

Shaking off this temporary weakness, he employed himself forthwith in the preparations for his departure: among the first of which was a letter, which he wrote to Captain L’Estrange, and left upon his table. On the following day he never once saw Nina; but he heard from one of the slaves that she was confined to her room by severe headache.

The wind blew with unabated force, the evening was dark and lowering, as, at the appointed hour, Ethelston, accompanied by his faithful Cupid, left the house with noiseless step. They reached the boat without obstruction; pushed off, and in ten minutes were safe on deck: the coxswain whispered that all was ready; the boat was hoisted up, the anchor weighed, and the schooner was soon dashing the foam from her bows on the open sea.