 | CHAPTER VI.
THE RENCONTRE. Blanche Talbot, or, The maiden's hand : |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE RENCONTRE.
The two letters to which Blanche alluded
she now exhibited. One of them
was worn and crumpled, but the other
fresh and fair. The letter she abstracted
from her bosom; but the former came
from the depths of her pocket. Aunt
Sarah's eyes were set wide open at the
sight of the letters, and she reached forth
her hand to take one of them; but
Blanche held them firmly, saying, as she
displayed the addresses,
`No, no. I will read them, aunt.
But you see they are directed to you.'
`That they are. Well, now read
them honestly, every word, Blanche'
`I'll trust her for that, Sarah,' said
her father.
`This first one I got from Boston, a
week ago. It is dated at Boston, and begins
thus,
`Dear Blanche—'
`Why, how familliar and improper.'
`Hist, Sally. Let Blanche go on,'
said the captain. `I expected neither
more nor less than the `dear.”
`I have at last returned to my native
shores, and my first duty, as it is my
greatest happiness, is first to write you'
assuring you of my continued devotion to
you. Absence, instead of diminishing,
has increased my attachment to you,
(here was a `dearest Blanche' which the
maiden skipped over!) and although I
have seen fair and charming women in
the various climes I have visited, not one
of them has for a moment made me forget
one fairer than all!'
`Dear me. What an open flatterer.
I really—'
`Hist, Sally. Let Blanche finish the
letter.'
`I am now preparing to leave for the
Kennebec. I shall probably take passage
in the schooner `Augusta,' that sails the
day after to-morrow. I hope to be at
my mother's, in Hallowell, by the last of
the week; and I shall then write to you.
You may expect to see me, or hear
from me, by Thursday, which, you will
recollect, at least I do, is just the expiration
of the three years' probation given
us by your father.'
`That is to-morrow,' said the captain.
`How well the young fellow writes.'
`He may have done nothing but write,'
remarked aunt Sarah. He seems to
have practised pretty well in flattery. I
wonder Blanche is n't spoiled. And
such kind of letters coming every month
to her. Dear me, when I was a young
girl if—'
`Is the letter ended, Blanche?' asked
her father, kindly.
`No, sir.'
`Then go on.'
`I shall not venture,' he says, sir, `to
go direct to your house without first
sounding my way; for I fear your father,
not having heard any good of me, may
not be willing to receive me as I could
wish. So I will send you word when I
get to my mother's. The bearer will be
the faithful Cæsar, whom you have so
often heard me speak, or rather make
mention in my letters. By him send me
word how things are at home. I trust
your respected aunt still enjoys her
health, and that the hand of time has
dealt lightly with your father's locks. If
you think best, you can let him know
that Archibald Worthington is returned;
but perhaps you had best keep the secret
a little while longer till you hear that I
am at home.
I have much to say to you when we
meet, and particularly about one in
whom we have both had some interest.
Believe me, dearest Blanche, ever faithfully,
your friend and—and—'
`And what? Don't skip, Blanche,'
said aunt Sarah, eagerly.
`Out with it, girl. I see he is a noble
fellow if he hasn't done any thing.
Don't fear to read out.'
`Was ever! Well, I declare I am
astounded! So this is it! She has been
all the while having him for a lover
when she knew that it depended on his
conduct, whether he was ever to be any
thing to her or not. How do you know
Blanche, but you may be Nelson Osborne's
wife, after all.'
`Never, aunt,' responded the maiden,
firmly.
`Then you have made up your mind
to have Archibald Worthington, whether
brother says so or not!'
`No, aunt. I know father will give
his consent.'
`I don't know, Blanche. He must
fulfil the bond. He must show that he
is worthy of the hand he seeks.'
`Perhaps he can do so, sir.'
`I hope he can. We will see what
he has to say for himself. I don't want
to be hard with either of the young men.
One is as much entitled to a hearing as
another. Still, I must confess I would
rather this Worthington should be the
successful man.'
`Why, haven't the papers said something
about him, Blanche, if he has done
any thing. They don't omit any thing
worth mentioning; though the person
may be only a sailor. There is that
brave youth, William Archer, who was
only a seaman on board a frigate, and
see what he did, and what the papers
said about him. And here, to-night, we
find he is made a lieutenant. No, no.—
If your `lover' as he presumes to sign
himself, had done anything worthy of
notice, or worth meriting your hand, the
papers would have had it. For my part
I would give my consent for the brave
William Archer to marry you, though I
never laid eyes on him, than before this
Archibald Worthington; who, after all,
is returned, so far as I see, only a common
sailor, with only a bag of oranges
to show for his three years absence.'
The captain laughed at this, for he saw
that aunt Sarah was a little on the indignant,
good-tempered as she usually
was. Blanche sat silent, looking by no
means alarmed, but rather seemed to be
as if she felt that the result that
would by and by appear, would suddenly
dissipate all this cloud upon her brow.
`Well, Blance, the other letter brought
by Cesar Africanus, the sly dog! You
forget there is another letter, Sally.'
`I don't know whether I ought to
listen to any more such letters.'
`Very well, aunt, I will then—'
`No, read it, read it. We had best
know the worst. The idea that you have
been corresponding so long—eighteen
months—dear me, I wonder, brother,
you don't show more anger.'
`I have such faith in Blanche's good
conduct, that I know it must be all right
at bottom, though it looks rather odd.
Read, Blanche.'
`My dear Blanche—'
`Keep silent, sister,' cried the Captain,
holding up his finger. No exclamations.
One would think you had
never heard or seen a love-letter.'
`I! If you think so, brother, you are
very much mistaken. In my younger
days—
`Go on, Blanche.'
`My dear Blanche,
`I know not how to express to you my
joy, at being once more so near you.—
How have I wished and longed to be
where I could once more behold, even
only from a distance, the spot where you
dwell. I can hardly realize that I am
within two miles of you while I write,
and that as I look from the window of
the room, I can see the oak-crowned hill
that towers above the old Block-house
and barracks. I am impatient to see you
and learn from your father's lips my
fate. I shall come up to-morrow without
fail. I have only been half an hour
arrived home. I find my mother well
and overjoyed to embrace me again.—
Her humble abode seems to me a dear
and blessed shelter, after all the stormy
scenes of the last three years. She little
suspects my love for you, or the career
I have paused through. Occasionally I
wrote her home, but told her nothing
save of my welfare. A glad surprise
awaits her; for I see she looks sorrowful,
that I have not brought home a distinguished
name; for she loves you, and
has set her heart upon your being my
wife. Happy word. Happy thought.
`I send this by my faithful Cesar. I
also send a sack of oranges as a present
to your father and aunt. You may
tell them, if you choose, that they came
from Archibald Worthington, who has
returned home from sea. I have ordered
Cesar to keep his tongue close, for
naturally he is a great gossip; and if he
should begin, he would tell all: and what
is to be told, I prefer being the narrator
of myself. I shall bring with me papers
to prove what will be necessary. To-morrow,
I shall certainly be with you.
Till then, Heaven bless you.
`He doesn't say lover this time, Sally,'
said the captain, mischievously glancing
at his sister.
`He might as well. But there is a
postscript, Blanche.'
`I would rather not read it, aunt.'
`You must dear. No secrets now.'
`After to-morrow there shall be none.
I can't read the postscript, dear aunt.—
You shall have this and all the other
letters to read after to-morrow.'
`That is enough, Sarah. Don't urge
her,' said the captain. She has told quite
enough for one evening. I only hope
that this young man, Blanche, is going
to prove himself worthy of you.'
`He will, dear father,' she answered
earnestly.
The postscript which she carefully
the liberty to peep into the letter.
`P.S.—Send by bearer a lock of your
hair, dearest Blanche, as a token that I
am still loved, and that my presence
will be welcome on the morrow. Whereever
your name is written on this note,
I have imprinted upon it a thousand
kisses, all of which I send to you.'
What would not aunt Sarah have given,
dear reader, to have had a peep with
you, at this delicious postscript. As it
was she did not seem very well pleased,
but made some remark touching the impropriety
of which she had been guilty
in receiving any letters at all, when a
knock was heard at the door. It was a
sharp, abrupt knock, that made them
start, and the captain to exclaim—
`Who can that be? Go to the door,
Sarah.'
`Yes, I think it is best I should go.—
No more secret messages.'
As she spoke she laid aside her knitting,
and, taking up the candle, went out
into the entry to see who called.
`Father,' said Blanche, taking his
hand and kissing it, `do not judge Archibald
Worthington till you have seen
him and hear what he has to say. Treat
him to-morrow kindly, for he is worthy of
your confidence.'
`I will, Blanche; but it is all mysterous
to me. But I know you would never
do wrong.'
`Thanks, dear father. Perhaps I
ought to have told you the whole loug
ago; but I could not do so well, and
there was, as you will see, a sort of necessity
that I should keep the secret.'
`I dare say, I dare say. But who can
that be talking to your aunt Sally? He
asked for me. Why, girl, what is the
matter? You have turned deadly pale.'
`Nothing, sir—nothing. Excuse me
a moment. I will return soon, perhaps.'
And, thus speaking, she kissed his
cheek and hastened from the room just as
Aunt Sarah re-entered, ushering in the
young man in the infantry uniform, who
had encountered Cæsar at the block-house,
where we left him watching for
his return, and from whence Blanch had
seen him dart out to follow the negro
down the bank.
We also will follow him and see the
result of his pursuit. Cæsar, after having
begun the descent of the bank to
reach his skiff, in which he had come up
from Hallowell, heard a footstep above
him, and looking up, beheld the youthful
soldier. He did not like his company, for
he immediately bounded down the bank
and ran swiftly to his boat. But the
stranger was fleeter of foot and came up
with him ere he could gain his skiff.—
Finding he could not escape, Cæsar turned
short upon him and brandished a glittering
knife before his eyes.
`What for you come for chase me,
heh? You keep away, massa, or I make
de moonlight shine right froo you' body.'
`Cæsar,' said the man coarsely, `where
is your master or your friend, or whatever
he is?'
`You shan't hab no answer from me,
for I nebber tells what I don't choose.—
'Sides I knows you axes for no good. I
don't know zactly who you is, thof I
knows I seen you afore and nebber like
you.'
`Will you answer my question?' asked
the man, brandishing his sword above
his head. But Cæsar stood immovable
and fearless, holding in his grasp the
gleaming knife.
`I shan't answer; and if you doesn't
let dis child 'lone, you be sure get de
worst ob de fuss.'
`How came you and your master to
escape? I thought he was dead, and you
too, till to-night.
`You did, heh! Who you be, den?
What you know about bein' dead or scaping?
curiosity now evidently alive.
`No matter. You have been in the
house on the green there. Who did you
see there?'
`Massa, I am in too much ob hurry to
stand here. If you follows me I'll kil,
you sure. I ant afraid ob you sword
while I hold dis knife in my hand dis-a-way.
So keeps you' distance.'
`You infernal scoundrel, if I had a pistol
I would shoot you.'
`I berry glad you hant. But 'scuse mel
massa, but dere someting in you voice
den make me want to see you face better.'
And with these words, without further
intimation, Cæsar, who seemed to
be as brave as he was black, knocked up
his hat from his forehead, and rolled it
on the ground, at the same time with his
other hand he caught the sword with a
firm grasp. The moonlight fell full and
brightly upon the features, hitherto so
carefully shaded, and the negro uttered
an exclamation of recognition and sur
prise, while his eyes flashed fire.
`Ah, ha! me know you now, you debble
white man. You die now sure,' he
cried fiercely.
But the young man, with a cry of
alarm at his danger, sprung backwards,
leaving his sword in the African's hand,
and took to his heels. He fled up the
bank like a deer, pursued for a few yards
by Cæsar, who then gave up the chase,
muttering with fierce exultation,
`You better run, soon as he see you
cognised. Me kill you dead. If Master
Arch know'd you was here he'd run
you through de heart. I thought I
know'd de voice,' added Cæsar as the fugitive
disappeared over the verge of the
bluff. `But who spec ebber see him
agen? I know why he call me Cæsar
so familiar, keepin' his own face hid; and
I know what him ax after massa Archy
for. He want to kill him agen. Guess
massa Archy hab him hanged if he cotch
him. Oh, de willain! No wonder be
ax if massa Archy no dead and me too.
If Cæsar ebber cotch him agen, he make
dead man ob him sure.'
With these words the African, after
looking in the direction of the fugitive's
flight, to see if he he could see anything
more of him, turned back, and was going
to get into his skiff, which he had left
just above the short pier, where the
`Wind-Eater' lay, when he found himself
suddenly seized by the breast by
Neptune, who, having seen the two persons
near the shallop, and suspecting
their good intentions, had left the deck
and walked up the beach to inspect
them. Cæsar was passing along in the
shade of an oak, when the dog, who
crouched in covert for him, suddenly
darted out and grappled with him with
that unhesitancy with which such animals
usually light upon a negro.
`What de debble dis? Oh, bress my
soul! Cæsar no steal noting, massa dog!'
cried Cæsar with terror, as he felt the
fierce hot breathing of the dog upon his
face. Juss leff a me go, good big dog.
I don't want kill you, but sure I put dis
knife in you if you do no leff go.'
`Come off, Nep. Off, sir,' cried Jack,
who had been roused from a nap on the
deck at the cries of Cæsar, and fearing
for the life of the dog; for he could see
the negro's weapon glitter in the moon-beams
above Neptune's head. `Come
down, I say.'
The dog released his strong grasp, and
at the same moment Jack reached the
spot. Upon seeing that it was a negro,
(for the sons of Africa were rare in those
days in the valley of the Kennebec), he
started with surprise.
`What are you doing here? Hush
your growling, Nep. What are you
cruising about here for, darkey? Show
your colors. Look you, what are you
doing with knives and swords?'
`Bress me! don't ax too many kestions
at onct. I honest.'
`If you are honest, give me your
weapons,' said Jack resolutely.
`Will massa keep dog off?'
`Yes—he shan't touch you. Now come
on board the barky and give an account
of yourself.
| CHAPTER VI.
THE RENCONTRE. Blanche Talbot, or, The maiden's hand : | |