University of Virginia Library

`What I am now to add, my dear Edward,' said the maiden in her letter, will
show you how fully matured was the conspiracy against my happiness and
peace, planned between my misguided father and this unfeeling Baron de Rosselau.
After he had entered my room, and locked the door as I have already
said in the beginning of my letter, he sat for a few moments in silence as if not
knowing in what way to open the subject upon his mind. At length he raised
his eyes and said,

`Marie, I have come here to speak with you touching my friend and guest,
the Count Verrier de Rosselau. I need not tell you that he is deeply enamored
with your beauty and intelligence; for this he has declared to you as well by
words as by his attention. I know you have taken it into your head to dislike
or else to pretend to dislike him. This is I believe, or am willing to believe,
mere coquetry to humble him still more at your feet; for this is the triumph of
your success! (Perhaps it is, Bertrand, with those we do not love,' added Marie
in parenthesis; `but have I ever humbled or sought to humble you, dear
Edward, at my feet? Oh, no! but rather to lift you to my heart, rather to rest
my head upon your bosom!) After my father had said that much he paused and
looked at me fixedly. Seeing that I remained silent he went on:

`If this is coquetry, it is my wish that you put an end to it, and receive the
attentions of de Rosselau with frankness!—if it is dislike, and a desire to act
contrary to my intentions respecting you, I command you to obey me, and to
accept the addresses of a man who truly loves you, and whose rank and wealth
are in themselves sufficient to command your consent.'

`I am not coquetting with the Count de Rosselau, sir,' I answered firmly;
`I have too much respect for myself, as well as too little for him to condescend
to any such acts, I thought, sir, I had very clearly proved to you my unconquerable
repugnance to the addresses of the French nobleman. If I have not, sir, I
now assure you with all the decision I can command, that it is my unalterable
determination never to give this baron one shadow of encouragement; nay, I
reject unqualifiedly his proposals, and I beg, sir, that from me you will communicate to him this decision.'

I spoke respectfully as became a daughter, but I spoke with a resolution that
surprised my father. He looked at me fixedly a moment. His eyes darkened
in their expression, and his cheek grew suddenly pale. I trembled; for I knew
the violence of his passions when awakened.

`And this is your decision,' he at length said in a deliberate tone, speaking in
a hoarse whisper, that told me how deeply he was moved.

`It is, sir!'

`And you are willing to abide by the decision you have come to?'

`Yes, my father. You know that I have no heart to give the baron. That
is Bertrand's.'

`Bertrand shall never call you his wife, so help me Heaven,' was his fierce
rejoinder. `He is a young officer on pay, and without name or fortune. Rosselau
is a noble, a man of distinction, who has the entree into Emperors' courts,
whose wealth will afford you every luxury, whose rank open to you the saloons
of princes.'

`I know that Bertrand is poor, but I love Bertrand and my love ennobles and
enriches him; and I had rather have a place in his manly heart than in the
proudest saloon of Europe's kings.'

It was thus I replied, dear Edward, for I spoke from my heart; and I know
you will forgive me for writing you what I said; but I wish you to know all
so that you may know how to act; for you are my only trust now, this side of
Heaven!

`If you persist in this decision you shall have a place in the lowest cell of a
convent,' he answered with deep displeasure.

`I am in your power, my dear father,' I answered submissively; I would rather
be an inmate of a dungeon than an inmate of the palace of de Rosselau.'

`You then refuse to wed him?'

`I do sir.'

`Then you shall have your wish. If you wed not de Rosselau neither shall
you wed Edward Bertrand. Now take your choice, either a Convent or de
Rosselau.

`I prefer the Convent,' I answered as firmly as I could, though my heart was
breaking and my eyes ready to gush with tears; for I knew well the determined
purpose of my father and that he would not hesitate to punish me as he had
threatened.

He walked to the window and looked forth for a moment. He then returned
and took my hand and said kindly—

`Marie, I do not wish to lose my child forever. You are very dear to me. It
is because I know that your union with Baron de Rosselau will be of great advantage
to you in society and the world that I urge it. This is a world of rank,
of wealth and appearance. Your union with M. de Rosselau will secure to you
all those advantages I wish you to enjoy. Forget this childish attachment for a
young seaman who has only his courage and his sword, and be wise, and yield
to my wishes. I will settle on you the morning of your marriage with the baron
one hundred thousand dollars. With him you will be happy, envied, honored
and caressed.'

`I shall never be de Rosselau's bride,' was my firm response. `I would rather
be Bertrand's wife, though he have nothing but his courage and his sword,
than the wife of Rosselau were he heir to the French throne.'

When I had thus spoken, my father cast my hand from him and said,

`Then do I make you repent in sorrow for this madness and obstinate folly,
be assured. I will give you three days to decide. At the end of three days
you must consent to become the Countess de Rosselau or an inmate of a Convent.'

Thus speaking, and casting upon me a look of the severest displeasure, my
father left me. I at first gave myself up to tears—tears of unhappiness and
grief and anger all mingled. I was angry at de Rosselau, grieved at my father's
resentment and tyranny, unhappy at the prospect of your own suffering at
losing me; yet I looked not upon myself as my own, so much as that I am
yours, Edward.'

`After half an hour's weeping for you as well as for me, dear Bertrand, I
resolved I would write to you the whole that had transpired, knowing that you
were soon to be back from the Mediterranean, and hoping that my letter may
find you in New York in time for you to fly to rescue from a two fold danger
her who lives only for you. I have, therefore, been sitting up half the night
writing the foregoing, while my father believes that I sleep. Two days more
remain. Vague ideas of flight enter my mind—but I ask myself whither shall
I fly? How should I escape from my father's careful watch, or the no less
watchful scrutiny of de Rosselau' I shall soon decide upon something. I will
close my long letter now, for the morning dawns, and my father will soon be
here to unlock my door and ask me if I have changed my mind and am ready
for the sacrifice. I shall secretly despatch this letter to the office by my faithful
servant Moses. I will not seal it till I can send it away, and will add a
postscript telling you what I decide upon.

`P. S.—Four o'clock, P. M.

`I have come to the determination to fly. De Rosselau is still an inmate
of the house, and my father has compelled me to meet him at dinner. I cannot
endure this tyranny any longer. I, therefore, shall make an effort to escape
to-night. I have also decided where to go. There is a poor woman who
resides in a very retired spot not far from here with whom I can be safe until

I hear from you or see you. She lives at the foot of the hill, called Berry Hill,
about a quarter of a mile from the grave-yard of the village. Her name is
Bray; the house is without paint, browned by age. No one ever visits her and
the place would be unsuspected by my father as affording me shelter. I have
called at her house in my rides on horseback for a glass of water, and talked
with her and given her money and otherwise aided her; she is, therefore, my
friend, and I know will be faithful. There you will find me. I shall fly to-night.
It is my only alternative, for I begin to fear from my father's manner
and some hints he has thrown out, that he will endeavor to compel me to marry
de Rosselau at the expiration of the three days time.'

I had sealed this letter when, just at sundown, I saw a carriage drive up to
the door and a lady dressed in deep mourning and closely veiled alighted and
entered. The elegance of her form and the air of graceful ease which characterised
all her motions led me to believe that she was youthful and beautiful.—
I ran over in my mind all of my female friends, who are, however, very few,
but could fix upon none of them as likely to be my visitor; for that the visit
was paid to me I had no doubt. As I was locked in my room (for my father has
kept me a prisoner since his decision) I could not go out to ascertain, and was
compelled to wait until I was sent for. I heard my father's step in the hall,
then his voice in a tone of strange surprise. Then I heard the door of the library
close and all was silent. De Rosselau I knew had gone out on horseback,
and that my father was alone, I was satisfied, after listening a few moments,
during which the low hum of voices reached me along the verandah coming
from the open library window at the other end into mine, that the visit was to
my father. She has been here ten minutes! It has suddenly flashed upon my
mind that it is some lady of the Convent of Mont St. Benedict, which is but a
few miles distant, and that I am the subject of their interview. The carriage is
a plain equipage without any mark to designate the person who came in it. I
begin to tremble; for to go to a Convent is to be separated from you. I therefore
resolve without delay to fly. I close this letter in haste and will send it to
the office in the metropolis from the widow Brag's where I now fly for shelter.
I can escape by means of my window, and as it is twilight I shall be favored by
the growing obscurity.

I shall make no apology for this communication. I address you
upon a subject of the deepest interest to me. I am not ignorant of your aspirations
to the hand and fortune of my daughter; nor am I ignorant that you have
been successful in inspiring in her bosom a temporary regard for you. Whatever
may have been my former forbearance in suffering this attachment to go
on unchecked, circumstances, not at all affecting your character, sir, render it
necessary that I request you to terminate all further views in relation to a union
with her. This is her desire as well as my own; and it is not therefore necessary
to inform you that all letters which you may have the imprudence to address
to her will be returned, and that my doors will be closed to any visits
that have Marie for their object.

I have the pleasure of informing you that my daughter is betrothed to a gentleman
every way worthy of her in rank, wealth and position in society, the
Count Baron de Rosselau, and that this union will take place in all probability
in a very few days; I therefore write you that if this letter should find you in
New York, you may be saved the trouble and expense of making the visit here,
which I learn you have had in contemplation.