Rattlin the Reefer Part 26

She paused for a moment before us, and looked kindly at her father and smilingly at me. It was the first joyous, really joyous smile that I had seen in her expressive countenance. It went right to my heart, and brought with it a train of the most rapturous feelings.

"G.o.d bless her heart; I do love her dearly!" said the old man. "I'll give you a convincing proof of it, my young friend, Rattlin. Ah! bah-- but you other English have spoiled all--you have taken him with you."

"Who?"

"Why, Captain Durand. That large low black schooner was his. Yes, he would have treated her well (said Monsieur le Pere, musing), and he offered to sign an agreement, never to put her to field-work, or to have her flogged."

"Put whom to field-work?--flog whom?" said I, all amazement.

"Josephine, to be sure; had you not taken him prisoner, I was going, next month, to sell her to him for two hundred doubloons."

"Now, may G.o.d confound you for an unholy, unnatural villain!" said I, springing up, and overturning the table and wine into the fatherly lap of Monsieur Manuel. "If you did not stand there, my host, I would, with my hand on your throat, force you on your knees to swear that--that-- that you'll never sell poor, poor Josephine for a slave. Flog her!"

said I, shuddering, and the tears starting into my eyes--"I should as soon have thought of flogging an empress's eldest daughter."

"Be pacified, my son," said the old slave-dealer, deliberately clearing himself of the _debris_ of the dessert--"be pacified, my son."

The words "my son" went with a strange and cheering sound into my very heart's core. The a.s.sociations that they brought with it were blissful--I listened to him with calmness.

"Be pacified, my son," he continued, "and I will prove to you that I am doing everything for the best. The old colonel, our late governor, would have given three times the money for her. I could not do better than make her over to a kind-hearted man, who would use her well, and who, I think, is fond of her. Not to part with her for a heavy sum would be fixing a stigma upon her;" and wretched as all this reasoning appeared to be, I was convinced that the man had really meant to have acted kindly by selling his own daughter. What a pernicious d.a.m.nable, atrocious social system that must have been where such a state of things existed!

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

RALPH DESERTETH HIS DUTY--ALL FOR LOVE, OR "THE WORLD WELL LOST," WITH HIS WITS INTO THE BARGAIN--VERY NICE DISQUISITIONS ON HONOUR.

The _soyez tranquille_ of Monsieur Manuel had but a transient effect.

It brought no consolation with it. What I had heard, seemed to clog the usual healthy beating of my heart; my respiration laboured, and I fell into a bitter reverie. The profoundest pity, the most impa.s.sioned admiration, and the most ardent desire to afford protection--are not these the ingredients that make the all-potent draught of love? Let universal humanity reply--I loved. But the feeling, generally so blissful, came upon my young heart, and steeped it in the bitterness of apprehension. My bosom was swollen with big resolves, with the deepest affection for one, and hate for all the rest of my species; and the thought came over me vividly, of flight with the young and pensive beauty into the inaccessible seclusion of the woods, and of the unalloyed happiness and the imaginary glories of a savage life. In this sudden depression of spirits, my mind looked not unloathingly on mutual suicide. It was a black and a desponding hour, and fell upon me with the suddenness of a total eclipse on a noontide summer's day.

I sat with my clasped hands between my knees, and my head hanging upon my breast, almost unconscious of the black servitors around me, who were re-ordering the room that I had so recently disarranged. I noted all this as something that did not belong to the world in which I had existence. Everything around me seemed the shadows of somebody's dream, in which I had no part, and could take no interest. I had but two all-absorbing ideas; and these were--injustice and Josephine. So distraught was I with the vastness of the one and with the loveliness of the other, that, when the young and splendid reality stole into the apartment softly, and moved before my eyes in all the fascination of her gracefulness, yet was I scarcely conscious of the actual presence of her whose ideal existence was torturing my brain.

To the cold, the unimpa.s.sioned, or the unpoetical, this may seem impossible. I will not go into metaphysical reasonings on the subject.

I only know that it was true. Whilst I was conceiving her flying from oppression with me, her protector, into some grim solitude, she came and placed herself, almost unnoticed, by my side, took my unresisting hands between her own, and, seeing how little I appeared to notice the endearment, she gradually sank on her knees before me, and, placing her forehead upon my hands, remained for a s.p.a.ce in silence. Feeling her hot tears trickling through my fingers called me back from my dark reverie: and, as I became aware of the present, a sigh so deep and so long burst forth, that it seemed to rend my bosom.

Those dark, l.u.s.trous, melancholy eyes, swimming in tears, were then lifted up to mine. Ages of eloquence were contained in that one look.

In it, I read the whole story of her life, the depth of her love, the fealty of her faith, and the deep, the unspeakable prayer for sympathy, for love, and for protection. The mute appeal was unanswerable. It seemed to be conveyed to me by the voice of destiny, to my mind, louder and more awful than thunder. At that moment, I pledged myself eternally to her; and, gradually drawing up her yielding, light, and elastic form from my knees to my bosom, I sobbed out, "Whilst I breathe, dearest, thou shalt never writhe under the lash;" and then, giving way to an uncontrollable pa.s.sion of weeping, I mingled my tears with hers--and we were happy. Yes, our young love was baptised with tears--an ominous and a fitting rite. We cried in each other's arms like children, as we were; at first, with anguish; then, with hope and affection; and, at length, in all the luxury of a new-born bliss.

When this pa.s.sion had a little subsided, and smiles, and murmuring e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of happiness, had driven away the symbols of what is not always anguish, old Manuel approached, and appeared much pleased at the tokens of affection that we mutually lavished upon each other. And then, with my arm encircling Josephine's slender waist, and her fair face upon my shoulder, he began his artful discourse. Gradually, he led me to speak of myself, my friends, my views; and, ultimately, my strange and mysterious story was fully unfolded. Even in this prolonged relation, I was amply rewarded by the impa.s.sioned looks, at once so tender and so thrilling, of the beauteous listener by my side, and by the ready tear at every pa.s.sage that told of suffering; the fond creature still creeping more closely to me at every instance of danger; and bright the beam of triumph would flash from her eye, responsive to every incident of my success.

When all was told, and half wondering, and faintly smiling, I finished by the rather silly expression of--"And here I am," I was immediately imprisoned in the arms of Josephine, as she pathetically exclaimed, "and for ever!"

"Josephine speaks well," said Manuel, rising and placing patriarchally a hand on the head of each of us. "My children, would it were for ever!

It appears, by the narrative, that Monsieur has done us the great honour to relate that he is a castaway--an unowned--and, if my young friend makes use of all the wisdom he doubtless possesses in so high a degree, he will join us in blessing Providence, that has given the gallant young homeless one a home; for I need not tell him that all he sees around is his--the land and the house, and, to the hitherto unloved, a young and tender heart that will cherish him, to the fatherless a father."

And thus the old _emigre_ concluded his speech, with a tear glistening in his eye--and an unexceptionable bow. Had he flung himself into my arms, the effect would have been complete. I hate to record scenes of this sort; but, as I have imposed the task upon myself; I will go through it; and, though the temptation is great, seeing what I was then, the disciple as well as the offspring of romance, and what I now am, worldly in the world's most sordid worldliness, to do my penance in self-mockery--for the sake of the young hearts still unseared, I will refrain.

I was exceedingly affected and agitated at this appeal, the purport of which I could not misunderstand. My emotions, at first, prevented me from speaking. I arose from the sofa, Josephine still hanging upon my shoulder, and taking her father's hand, led them both to the window.

The sun was near the horizon; and mountain, sea, and green valley, and dark forest, were steeped in a roseate glory. About three miles distant, and beneath us, my gallant frigate sat in the bosom of the gently rippling waters, like a sultana upon her embroidered divan, her ensign and her pennant streaming out fair and free to the evening breeze. I pointed to her, and with a voice scarcely articulate--for, at that period, the sob would rise too readily to my throat, and the tear start too freely to my eye--I exclaimed:

"Behold my home--my country claims the duty of a son!"

"Monsieur knows best," said Manuel, almost coldly. "His countrymen have conquered us: you are a gallant race, undoubtedly; but one of them has not shown much mercy to my daughter."

The pa.s.sionate girl was at my feet--yes, kneeling at my feet, and her supplicating hands were clasped in that att.i.tude of humility that is due only to G.o.d. Who taught her the infinite pathos of that beautiful posture? Taught her! She had no teacher, save Nature and Love.

"Josephine," said I, lifting her gently up, and kissing her fair brow, "you are breaking my heart. I cannot stand this--I must rush out of the house. I have never said I loved you;"--(mean subterfuge!)

"But you do, you do--it is my fate,--it is yours--for three years I have been expecting you--disbelieve me not--ask the Obeah woman. It is true," and then, hurrying out the words like the downpouring of the mountain torrent, she continued, "Do you love me?--do you love me?--do you love me?"

"I do, Josephine--I do distractedly! But stern honour stands in the way."

"And what is this honour?" she exclaimed, with genuine simplicity; for it was evident that, if she had ever heard the word before, she had not the remotest idea of its meaning: "_Et quelle est cette honneur-la_?"

and there was contempt in her tone.

I had no words to reply.

"Will this honour do that for you which my father--which I--will do?

What has this honour done for him?--tell me, father. Has it put that gay blue jacket on him, or that small sword by his side? Show him, my dear father, the rich dresses that we have, and the beautiful arms.

Will honour watch you in your hours of sickness, take you out in the noonday heats, and show you the cool shady places, and the refreshing rippling springs? What is this honour, that seems to bid you to break my heart, and make me die of very grief?"

"Monsieur Manuel," said I, extremely confused, "have the kindness to explain to dear Josephine what honour is."

"A rule of conduct," he replied, with severity, "that was never recorded, never understood, and which men construe just as suits their convenience. One honest impulse of the heart is worth all the honour I ever heard of."

This was a delicate helping of a friend in a dilemma. I turned for relief from the sarcastic father to the beautiful countenance of the daughter, and I there beheld an expression of intense sorrow that agonised me. Her sudden, and, to me, totally unexpected animation, had disappeared. Melancholy seemed to have drooped her darkest wings over her. I thought that she must soon die under their noxious shadow. For one instant my eyes caught hers: I could not stand the appeal.

"I will stay," said I, gently, "until the ship sails."

I had then, for the first time, to witness the enthusiasm of the melancholy temperament--the eloquence of unschooled nature. The bending figure that seemed to collapse in weakness upon my supporting arm, suddenly flung herself from me; her rounded and delicate figure swelled at once into sudden dignity; her muscles a.s.sumed the rigidity, yet all the softness of a highly-polished Grecian statue; and stood before me, as if by enchantment, half woman, half marble, beautiful inexpressibly.

I was sorely tried. There was no action, no waving of the arms, as she spoke. Her voice came forth musically, as if from sacred oracle, that oracle having life only in words. Monsieur Manuel had very wisely departed.

"Not an hour--not a minute--not an instant, or--_for ever_! Young sir, you have already stayed too long, if you stay not always. Leave me to dream of you, and to die. The thorn is in my heart; it may kill me gradually. Go. Why, sir, have you looked upon me as man never before looked? Why, why have you mingled your false tears with mine, that were so true--and, oh, so loving! But what am I, who thus speak so proudly to a being whom, if I did not know he was treacherous, I should think an angel? (_Un des bons esprits_.) I, a poor, weak, ignorant girl of colour--born of a slave, to a slavery--whose only ambition was to have been loved, loved for a short, short while--for know, that I am to die early--I should not have troubled you long. But you are too good for me--I was a presumptuous fool. Go, and at once, and take with you all that I have to give--the blessing of a young-born bonds-woman."

All this time she had stood firmly and nearly motionless, with her hands folded beneath her heaving bosom, at some distance from me. I approached her with extended arms, and had some such foolish rhapsody on my tongue as "Beautiful daughter of the sun," for I had already contemplated her under a new character, when, retreating and waving me from her, she continued:

"Already too much of this--let me die by cruelty rather than by caresses, which are the worst of cruelty. I feel a new spirit living within me. I am a child no more. Yesterday I should have crouched before you, as one degraded, as I ought to do. You have pressed me to your bosom--you have spoken to me as your equal--even your tears have bathed my brow. You have enn.o.bled me. Oh! it is a happiness and a great glory. I, formerly so humble, command you to go--go, dear, dear, Ralph. You will not kill me quite by going _now_, therefore, be generous, and go."

I was already sufficiently in love, and began to feel ashamed of myself; for not having as yet caught a little of her enthusiasm.

"Josephine," said I, in a quiet, serious tone, "give me your hand." I took it--it was deadly cold. At that moment all her best blood was rallying round her young heart. I led her to the open window, and showed her the n.o.ble frigate so hateful to her sight, and said, "Dear Josephine, in that ship there are more than three hundred gallant fellows, all of whom are my countrymen, and some of them my familiar friends. I have often shared with them danger, under the very jaws of death. I have broken my bread with some of them, constantly, for nearly three years. These are all claims on me: you see that I am speaking to you calmly. I had no idea what a little impa.s.sioned orator you were--do not look so dejected and so humble. I love you for it the more. I only made the remark to convince you that what I now say is not the mere prompting of a transient impulse. But, Josephine, in my own far-away land, I have also a few friends; nor am I wholly a castaway; there is a mystery about my origin, which I wish to dissipate, yet that I cherish.

If I conduct myself as I have hitherto done, in time I shall have the sole control and government of a vessel, as proud as the one before you, and of all the n.o.ble spirits it will contain. The mystery of which I have spoken I am most sanguine will be cleared up; and I may, peradventure, one day take my place among the n.o.bles of my land, as it now is among the n.o.bles of the sea. Weep not thus, my love, or you will infect me with emotions too painful to be borne. Let us be calm for a little s.p.a.ce. The reign of pa.s.sion will commence soon enough. Mark me, Josephine. For you--G.o.d forgive me if I commit sin!--for you, I cast off my a.s.sociates, sever all my ties of friendship, let the mystery of my origin remain unravelled, renounce the land of my birth--for you, I encounter the peril of being hung for desertion. Josephine, you will incur a great debt--a heavy responsibility. My heart, my happiness, is in your hands. Josephine, I stay."

"For ever?"

"For ever!" A wild shriek of joy burst from her delighted lips, as she leaped to my bosom; and, for the first time, our lips sealed the mysterious compact of love. After a moment, I gently released myself from the sweet bondage of her embrace, and said, "Dear Josephine, this cannot be to me a moment of unalloyed joy. You see the sun is half below the horizon; give me one moment of natural grief; for, so surely as I stay here, so surely, like that orb, are all my hopes of glory setting, and for ever." And the tears came into my eyes as I exclaimed, "Farewell, my country--farewell, honour--_Eos_, my gallant frigate, fare thee well!"

As if instinct with life, the beautiful vessel answered my apostrophe.

The majestic thunder of her main-deck gun boomed awfully, and methought sorrowfully, over the waters, and then bounded among the echoes of the distant hills around and above me, slowly dying away in the distant mountains. It was the gun which, as commodore, was fired at sunset.