The Mysterious Wanderer Volume Ii Part 2

"Many, indeed, have been my afflictions: nor do I count the loss of an humble, but faithful companion, who was rudely torn from my arms, the least I have endured. After twenty years absence, I was once more brought to St. Helena, and bought, my n.o.ble master, by you. But far different was I from what I had been in the days of my youth: affliction had gradually marked my brow with gloom, and deadened the milder virtues of my heart! I was appointed by you, to attend on your nephew; who--but he had never experienced woe; how then could he judge of that, he wantonly inflicted on others!

"By him I was commanded, with his favourite valet, to force Mademoiselle de St. Ursule to the cottage; which was easily effected with the a.s.sistance of Rachel. The sight of her, I could not but regard as a victim, rekindled a spark of pity in my bosom: that she disliked your nephew and loved another, I had discovered in his moments of pa.s.sion; I thought of the wife who had been forced from me: a pang shot through my heart, and I wished if possible to save her: but Marguerite too well knew the duties of her office, to entrust the keys of her chamber in my possession.

"The offers of your nephew were rejected by that lady; and on the third day of her confinement, he vowed, by force or stratagem, to effect his purpose. The sibyl of his pleasures proposed drugs, which she accordingly prepared, and mixed in a beverage for the lovely prisoner.

The indignation of my soul could then be no longer restrained. I dashed the vessel to the floor, and, forgetting I was his slave, reproved him for his ungenerous proceedings!

"What followed, I scarcely need relate: he struck me, and, summoning my fellow slaves, ordered me to be punished--even to death! But indignation gave me strength, I broke from them, and sought refuge among the rocks.

My enraged master, as I yester-evening learned, joined himself in the fruitless pursuit, he ordered after me.

"The remembrance of the lady whom I wished to save, returned with the morning; I thought I might perhaps be able to effect her deliverance, or at least inform her friends where she was; and for that purpose was, toward the close of the day, retracing my steps to the plantation which surrounds the cottage, and where I thought I might lie concealed, when I was suddenly attacked by four of my late companions, and but for the a.s.sistance of these gentlemen, should there have resigned my being!

They, however, preserved me, and with you, have this day restored me to life--to hope--to happiness! My faithful Mella bears her bonds in my native land, and thither would I return, that she too may be free; and with me hourly offer up her prayers for those, whose beneficence had unbound the chains of our slavery!"

"And you shall return, Carlo," said the Marchioness, "if I have any influence with these gentlemen. I am going to Pondicherry; and you shall return with me. The present of your generous young friend will be sufficient to establish you; and under the protection of my husband, the Governor, you yet may experience the happiness you so truly deserve."

The Governor and Harland readily agreed to the Marchioness's arrangement; and Carlo retired, antic.i.p.ating with impatience the hour which would restore him to his native land, and his long-lost Mella.

The Governor soon after took his leave, as did the Captain, who, with Frederick and Sir Henry, returned on board: Harland only remaining at the Marchioness's.

At last the hour so ardently wished for arrived, which was to unite the lovely Louise to Harland. Sir Henry and his friends attended: the Governor likewise honoured the ceremony with his presence, and by his generous behaviour endeavoured to atone for his former restriction on George, which the well-known disposition of his nephew (who had shut himself up in gloomy discontent at the Grove) rendered highly necessary.

A numerous company had been invited to pa.s.s the day at the Marchioness's, not only in honour of Louise's nuptials, but also as a farewell visit, the next day being appointed for their embarkation. The thoughts of separation, however, were superseded by the pleasure which prevailed, and animated every countenance.

In the course of the evening, Sir Henry, who by the friendship of the Captain had procured a draft on a merchant at Pondicherry, for a thousand pounds, sought Carlo, and, taking him into a private room, presented him with it, saying--"I must beg your acceptance, Carlo, of this mark of my friendship. I believe I possess a place in your esteem, and I wish you not to forget me. With part of this, procure the liberty of your Mella; and may the rest add to the comforts of your age."

"Forget you!" repeated Carlo emphatically. "Never, Sir Henry! You were the first who spoke peace to my wounded spirit.--Yes, from this I will indeed redeem my Mella; and her presence shall prove a perpetual memento of your friendship. A few hours, Sir Henry, and I shall behold you no more: here, then, take an old man's blessing; and may you experience happiness equal to that you have conferred on me!"

Sir Henry shook his hand, and Carlo, sinking on his knee, pressed that of his youthful benefactor to his bosom and his lips, and, repeating his blessing, hastily withdrew. Sir Henry then returned to the Captain; who soon after took his final leave of the amiable Marchioness and the Governor.

The next morning Sir Henry and Frederick attended to conduct Harland and his bride on board. The painful moment of separation was arrived: the Marchioness and her daughters endeavoured to appear cheerful and collected; but the respectful and affectionate behaviour of Louise had too much endeared her to them to permit them to part without regret; nor could the obtrusive tear be restrained.

"We may meet again, my dear girl!" said the Marchioness, as the signal-gun warned them to depart. Harland gently forced his Louise from the arms of her early friends, and, placing her in the barge, they were soon conveyed on board. The signal was given to weigh--Louise faintly murmured the name of her benefactress; who with her daughters still sighed a blessing and adieu, as the unfurled sails swelled with the breeze which conveyed them from the romantic cliffs of St. Helena.

CHAPTER III.

The mind of Harland now enjoyed a serenity hitherto unknown; the mildness of Louise, the increasing knowledge of her virtues, whilst they added to his love, softened the harshness of his manners: and, from experiencing the sweets arising from beneficence, he was taught to regard the happiness of others, as conducive to his own.

It was one of those evenings when the serenity of the heavens shed its influence on mankind, and harmonized the mind to happiness, that the Captain, with his youthful companions, after long enjoying the tranquil beauties of the declining day, retired to his cabin. The careful mariner, freed for a time from toil, reclined in easy repose on the deck, or carrolled his humble ditty, as he watched the different vessels, of which he might be deemed in part the safeguard. A transient peace possessed every bosom: when Harland, after a considerable pause, addressing his Louise, said--"I have often designed, my dear girl, to request some account of the occurrences attending your childhood; of which I have hitherto had a very imperfect knowledge: the present moment is favourable for the relation, which I think would prove equally gratifying to Sir Henry and our friends."

"There is not any thing in the account, Harland," replied Louise, "to repay your attention in the hearing: a monastic life affords but little variety."--However, as Sir Henry and Frederick joined in the request, she without farther hesitation complied.

"Of the manner in which I was left at the gate of the Convent, you have already, Harland, been informed. I was found there in the morning by the portress, and by her carried to the mother St. Claire, the venerable Abbess. The meanness of my clothes by no means accorded with the valuable miniature tied round my neck; but rather tended, as the worthy Abbess said, to show that my parents were actuated by shame, not poverty. She, however, hesitated not a moment to take me in, and, after an ineffectual search to discover the authors of my being, determined to rear me, and dedicate my life me to the G.o.d who had placed me under her protection.

"I was accordingly given to the care of a lay sister, who faithfully discharged her trust; and as my infant mind expanded, the Abbess became each day more partial to me. The friendship of the mother St. Claire was followed by the real or pretended love of the other inmates of the Convent, and I was soon the avowed favourite of all.

"Amongst those, however, who evinced a sincere regard for me, was the sister Francoise; between whom, and the venerable Abbess, my early affection was divided. Under their more immediate care, I was instructed in every useful and ornamental branch of education; and their approbation and praise were the rewards of my diligence. Thus pa.s.sed my earlier days, unclouded with a sorrow; sister Francoise and the Abbess were all the world to me, nor knew I of one beyond the walls of the Convent.

"The frequent visits, however, paid to the other children by their friends, could not but lead me, at length, to reflect on the difference of my lot. No father, no mother, ever inquired for me; and the first sigh that ever swelled my bosom, was for those relations, whom fate prohibited me from ever knowing."

A half-stifled sigh escaped Sir Henry; which was gently returned by Louise, who, after a moment's pause, again proceeded.

"Sister Francoise soon observed, and learned the cause of my dejection.

'You have no acknowledged parents, Louise,' she said; 'but I will be your mother, and you shall love me as a daughter.' She burst into tears; I kissed them off her cheek as she embraced me, and, pleased with the idea of mother, soon regained my cheerfulness. From that time, I became the nearly inseparable companion of sister Francoise: I addressed her by the name of mother, I believed her such, and fully did her tenderness authorise the t.i.tle.

"It was not till I was fourteen, that mother St. Claire put into my possession the miniature found with me, and informed me of the circ.u.mstance which had placed me under her protection, and of her intentions that I should take the veil. The latter intelligence, repugnant as it was to my inclinations, affected me less than the knowledge of my orphan state. 'And is not sister Francoise then my mother?' I would have asked; but tears impeded my utterance; and, throwing my arms round the neck of St. Claire, I wept in silence. She tenderly embraced me; and when the violence of my grief was abated, exhorted me to resignation to the state that Providence had a.s.signed me; and explained the reasons which rendered a life of seclusion necessary to one, who without friends could only look for infamy and destruction in the world.

"'Yet do not, dear mother,' I exclaimed, 'force me to be a nun--at least, not yet!'

"'Force you, my child!' repeated the venerable woman, 'never! Forced vows cannot be sincere; and sincere indeed ought those to be, which are offered to your G.o.d! You yet are young: but two years hence, if I be in existence, I hope to receive you at the altar. I have pointed out the dangers which would attend you, in a world you are a stranger to; you know the peaceful happiness, the security which reign within these walls: let both be the subject of your reflections; and too well am I a.s.sured of the sense, the goodness of heart my girl possesses, to doubt her cheerful acquiescence in the lot a.s.signed her."

"Never before had my heart refused accordance to the sentiments or wishes of this my earliest friend; but the fascinating picture, the young Victoire, and Julie de Valois, (for three years my intimate companions) had often painted of the world, had first engaged my attention by its novelty, then taught me to wish for those pleasures, with which I thought it abounded. The world,--however, its gaieties--all were absorbed in the circ.u.mstance of my deserted infancy; and I left the worthy Abbess, overwhelmed with the only real sorrow I had ever known.

"Instead of going to my beloved mother, as I had hitherto termed her, I sought the gloomy solitude of the cloister; and was indulging in an unrestrained flow of tears, when the approach of two nuns caused me to retreat into an adjoining chapel. They seated themselves at the entrance, nor could I then have re-pa.s.sed without discovery; which would have exposed me to a severe reproof from sister Brigide (one of them), for my intrusion into a place, sacred to the sisterhood. They, however, continued their discourse without the slightest suspicion of unhallowed ears, and I soon found sister Francoise was the subject of their conversation.

"'I, who have been an inmate here these six-and-thirty years,' said sister Brigide, 'am less regarded by the superannuated mother St.

Claire; I may, however, one day be head of this convent; then woe betide some, whom I shall not name.'

"'How long is it since she took the veil?' asked the other, whom, by her voice I discovered to be a sister lately professed. 'Fourteen years,'

answered Brigide: 'just after the Abbess's favourite Louise was left here; and much I mistake, if Francoise be not really her mother!'

"'Her great partiality to the child,' answered sister Marie, 'may certainly justify the suspicion.'

"'Suspicion'--repeated Brigide; 'I have proofs--facts, indubitable ones!

I know more of sister Francoise than she thinks.'

"The curiosity of Marie thus raised, induced her to press Brigide to an explanation; whilst I scarcely respired lest a syllable of the important intelligence should escape me.

"'It is now about fifteen years,' said Brigide, 'since sister Francoise, then Mademoiselle de Colline, was a reigning belle; though, for my part, I never could discover the surprising beauty they say she possessed: being, however, the youngest daughter, she was designed for a monastic life; but was by nature more inclined to vows of love than religion. By her artful coquetries she at last fascinated a young Englishman who was on his travels, and who demanded her of her father in marriage. Monsieur de Colline refused him, he being an heretic; and the gallant apparently ceased his addresses; but after a lapse of some time, he was detected one morning by her father, descending from her chamber window. Justly enraged at the depravity of his daughter and the young fellow, Monsieur de Colline seized his pistols, and as the lover was scaling the garden-wall, a brace of bullets brought him to the earth!

"'Not satisfied with this victim to his injured honour, he hastened to the apartment of his daughter, taxed her with her crime, and was proceeding to tell her the vengeance he had taken, when the guilty wretch fell into fits, and was discovered to be in a state of pregnancy!

"'Her sisters, who before had been inclined to pity her, then abandoned her to the fury of her father; and happy had it been, if she had then expiated her sin by the loss of life; but an old servant, who had been privy to her amour, preserved her from the effects of his pa.s.sion. She was, however, by his order, confined in an obscure part of the Chateau, and treated with the greatest rigour; but, instead of bewailing her fault, she only deplored the loss of her lover! There, with the a.s.sistance of her old confidant, she was delivered of an infant: its s.e.x I never learned, or what became of it; but about that time Louise was found at the gates of the convent!'

"'Oh, a clear case--a clear case!' exclaimed sister Marie. 'But, with all the search they say St. Claire caused to be made for the parents, do not you think it strange these circ.u.mstances did not lead her to them?'

"'Not at all,' replied Brigide. 'The events I have related were transacted in too secret a manner to let suspicion even point a finger at the De Collines; nor do I believe there is another in the Convent, except the Abbess, who is acquainted with these particulars respecting her; nor should I have known them, but for the old confidant I mentioned; who, about five years since, became a lay sister, and died here. She too was very fond of Louise: and a few words she one day inadvertently uttered, raised my suspicion there was more concerning sister Francoise than I knew; and I determined never to rest till I had discovered what it was; and by a thousand questions, and indeed by pretending I was in the confidence of Francoise, I learned what I have now related.'--

"Sufficient indeed," interrupted Sir Henry, starting from his seat, and pacing the cabin, "to blast her character; but not to draw the tear of pity, the unhappy--injured Francoise deserved! Not even a convent, I find, can screen the unfortunate from malice and detraction!--But proceed, my dear Louise; I meant not to interrupt you."

"And did you, my brother," asked Louise, "ever before hear the misfortunes of Francoise?"

"I learned them from herself, Louise."

"From herself, Sir Henry! When did you know her?"

"Not till after you, my sister, left the convent. And here let me endeavour to do justice to her character. To the lover sister Brigide mentioned, Francoise, on her father's refusal, was privately united: and, by the a.s.sistance of the old servant, who witnessed their marriage, he was secretly admitted into the house. This intercourse had continued several months, when her father saw, and shot the unhappy husband; who was soon after found nearly lifeless, by some peasants, and by them conveyed to the house of a surgeon.