University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
The Discovery.

We now change the scene of our story to the villa from which the fugitive
had taken her flight. It is a stately mansion surrounded by a light verandah
and embosomed in trees. It was characterized by an air of opulenee and taste,
and had much the appearance of the residence of a Carolina Planter. A pleasant
lawn intersected by gravelled avenues and walks stretched before the
front, and on either side of the graceful portico stood statues of marble—a Diana
and a Naiad exquisitely sculptured. A light shone through the rich crimson
curtains of a bow window, casting a bright red tint upon the foliage of the
Indian acacias and orange trees that stood in large vases beneath it, and nearly
screening it from view.

We will enter this mansion of luxury and elegant retirement. The stately
hall is adorned with paintings from the old Italian and Spanish schools, and
statues from the chisel of Thorwaldsen and Canova, busts from the hand of
Bracket and Powers adorned niches and crowned pedestals. There is a costly
girandola in the hall but it is unlighted. The hall receives its light from an
open door at the right, which leads into the apartment from which shone forth
the crimson rays. There is no sound. All is still as in the house of death!

We will enter the room from which the beams of a solar lamp are emitted
into the dim and shadowy hall. It is a room partly library, partly drawing
room. Two of its sides are lined from floor to ceiling with elegant cases, gorgeous
with golden-backed volumes. The whole air of the apartment speaks of
wealth and ease and the refinements of educated taste. Upon a table of roseveined
marble, which stands near the bow window, are visible manifestations
of a female's presence, a small kid glove looking as if recently withdrawn from
the hand; a toilet for sewing; ivory needles for German netting, and an album
on which was the name `Marie de Heywode.'

The room was occupied by a gentleman about fifty years of age. He had
just risen from a French lounge which was placed near an escritoire at which
he had been writing. He now walked the room with a slow and meditative
step. His person was of the middle height, compact and manly. His air and
bearing were those of a high-bred and polished man of the world. His face
was singularly handsome, and his dark hair, scarcely touched with the silver of
time, curled freely upon his well shaped head and fell in careless masses over
his forehead and about his temples. An expression of decision marked his
character as a man of resolution, but at the present time this feature was modified
by a settled expression of melancholly and the troubled aspect of one ill
at case in his mind; for the outward exhibitions of wealth do not always exempt
their possessor from hours of wretchedness. He was dressed in a suit of
black, over which was thrown a brown silk dressing robe.

He continued to walk up and down his apartment, at intervals pausing near
the window to listen, and again stopping and gazing earnestly and sadly into
an apartment that opened from the farther extremity of the library, as if he
would go in, yet was restrained by some secret feeling. Suddenly he entered
it as if under an impulse—as if conquering a dread! The room was hung with
black from ceiling to floor. In the centre of this sable hall stood a coffin covered
with a pall. At the head of the coffin was an altar clad in black velvet upon
which burned seven tall wax candles encircling a crucifix of alabaster. Save
the coffin and its pall, the altar and its crucifix and burning candles, the room
was without furniture.

He advanced a pace into the room and then hesitated—stood still and gazed
upon the coffin. His face was pale as marble, and grief and stern displeasure
were strongly mingled in the aspect of his countenance as he surveyed
the pall. He approached and with one hand slowly turned back the covering
from the face of the dead and gazed upon it!

How beautiful, even in death, was that countenance reposing beneath his
eyes. It was that of a lovely woman scarce thirty-six years of age. Her profile,
as the candles cast their mingled beams upon it seemed faultless, noble yet
feminine. Her hair and brows and eyelashes were as black as the hue of the
raven's wing. The exquisite beauty and finish of her mouth and chin were incomparable.

Her complexion was of a pure olive and must, in life, have been
of that rich brunette shade which warms under the sun of southern Italy.

`Coldly beautiful!' he said as he gazed with tenderness yet speaking still in
a tone of reproof. `Thou art still, even in death, without compare! Well may
I gaze upon thee, Marguerita! Though thou hast done a great evil, I cannot be
angry with thee while I look upon thy corpse! I loved thee, oh, how passionately!
Thou art gone and this happiness is only left me—to gaze on thee and
recall into those marble lineaments life and love and intelligence. Never will
those eyes gaze on mine with gentle affection and passionate tenderness. Lost
—lost! thou art forever lost to me!'

He covered his face with his hands and remained a few moments in this attitude
of grief, when the quick sound of a horse's feet reached his ear.

`He comes! Now for action and duplicity. This evil thou hast done, Marguerita,
shall be healed, and then I will forgive thy memory! Oh, hadst thou
known and felt the wrong thou wert doing thy lips would have been sealeu in
silence as now they are sealed. But 'tis done! Take my forgiveness! Tho'
hers I shall never have! Farewell, Marguerita! To-morrow thou shalt be laid
in the tomb beneath the tree thy own hanos planted!'

He pressed his lips to the forehead of the dead and then passing with a
noiseless tread from the room he closed the door, turned the key and placed it
in his pocket. As he seated himself to recover composure, a black footman
threw aside the hall door and announced M. Rosselau.

`You are welcome, Monsieur Count,' said Colonel de Heywode rising.

`I should have been here earlier, but was detained by some letters which I
received just before leaving my hotel and which I had to answer!'

`You are quite in time, Monsieur,' said Colonel de Heywode, speaking with
a dignity that was natural to him and which was now enhanced by secret sorrow.

`Ah, you appear sad, my friend!' said the nobleman seating himself on an
ottoman, after throwing down his cap, whip and gloves. `To-morrow we will
take an early ride on horseback over to the battle-ground and you will feel better!
I sent for you, not knowing but that we might ride together in the
morning, as you have so often expressed a desire to see the spot where the first
resistance of the American Provincials to British oppression took place; I
wished most, however, to have an opportunity to see you privately upon a subject
dear to you. My orders to send for you were given openly to mislead others
who heard me as to my motives.'

`What are these motives?' asked the nobleman regarding him with surprise.
`You allude to one dear to me! None so dear as the lovely Marie! Do you
speak of her?'

`I am aware, Monsieur, of your often expressed attachment to my daughter.
That she is pleased with you I am assured. Aside from the accomplishments
of your person, your rank and wealth should make any young lady feel honored
in winning your regards!'

`You do me infinite honor, Colonel,' said the French noble bowing and smiling.
`The alliance I seek with your family, no less nobly descended than
mine, confers honor rather upon me! That I love Marie with great devotion I
confess. But it is with difficulty I can persuade her to regard me with any degree
of condescension.'

Here M. Rosselau gently stroked his moustache and appeared as if he imagined
himself looking into a mirror with no little satisfaction at what he saw reflected
from its imaginary surface. He was a tall, slender young foreigner, with
a stylish exterior, a haughty, cold expression and an aspect in which the lower
passions were delineated with no little depth. He had title and fortune; and
having met with the beauteous Marie de Heywode a few weeks previous at Saratoga,
he had attached himself to their touring party, and returned with them
as far as Boston, where taking his lodgings at the Tremont, he almost daily
rode out to the villa. Rosselau was a man too sensual to experience any thing
of that elevated and pure love with which such a person as Marie de Heywode
should be loved. Her heart, already engaged to one in all respects her equal in
generosity of character, intelligence and position in society, she shrunk from
the bold and heartless attentions of one who, enamored only with her beauty
with an eye too, perhaps to her vast fortune, was unable to appreciate the richer
wealth of her heart and mind.

`My daughter is yet young, my good Count,' said Colonel de Heywode with
a faint effort to smile, while he felt deeply displeased at the part of repugnance
to which the Count alluded; `and, perhaps, she has not quite got over an attachment
of an early date, and some three or four years continuance, formed
ere we left Charleston for a young gentleman there; the son of an eminent patriot,
General Bertrand.'

`General Bertrand!'

`You are thinking of Bertrand of France. We have had also a General
Bertrand in South Carolina; I believe a remote connection of the French Marshal;
for you are aware, I believe, that most of our best families are of French
stock!'

`Your appearance sir, is certainly like that of a Frenchman,' said the Count
bowing, as if conveying a particular compliment to his host.

`The young Bertrand has nothing objectionable save his poverty. His father
died poor, leaving him dependent upon an aunt; and he has now nothing but
his pay as a junior lieutenant in the navy. I have, also, other reasons why this
alliance is not congenial to my feelings; and it was, in part, to remove Marie
from his influences, for it was natural to conceive that he sought her wealth
quite as much as her person, that three years since I purchased this estate and
removed hither. That she still has thought of him I am aware from circumstances
that have this summer come to my knowledge. Still I am persuaded,
now that she knows her union with him to be hopeless, that she will consent to
become your wife.'

Well might Colonel de Heywode say he had reasons for believing her still
attached to Frank Edward Bertrand! He well knew that she had kept up a
correspondence with him, which he not only suffered but permitted, knowing
they were affianced to each other! for he had no positive objections to Frank,
notwithstanding his deficiency in a fortune, and had looked forward to his marriage,
until the Count formed his daughter's acquaintance at the Springs, when
his ambition for this nobler alliance induced him at once to forbid her again
thinking of her lover, accompanying it with the command to receive submissively
and with outward gratification the attentions of the Count de Rosselau. It was
not, Colonel de Heywode well knew, to remove his child from the influences
of Frank's society, that he came to the north to dwell! Bertrand was the most
of his time at sea, and rarely met her to influence her. The motives which
led him to quit the south were very different from these as shall be made to appear.

`I do not object to a little difficulty in winning so fair a prize,' said the Count
gaily. `If she love me not now she will love me as a bride. It shall be my
part to make her forget that, save de Rosselau, there is another man on the
earth! Where is now the beautiful Countess that is to be—whom I am to move
Paris with in admiration of her charms when I return? I am most happy, Colonel,
in obtaining your favor and consent. Pray let me see for a few happy minutes
her who is my heart's idol, and I will not be long in gaining hers. I will dazzle
her imagination with the splendor of the scenes to which I shall take her! talk
to her eloquently of the magnificence of the court and the gaiety of the world
of Paris! Captivate her fancy with accounts of the sensation her beauty will
create, of the homage she will receive, of the power she will wield, of the envy
she will excite, of the perfect happiness and pleasure that is in store for her.'

Colonel de Heywode could not altogether control a smile of peculiar irony as
he rose up and replied,

`It is late, but I will seek my daughter. An hour since she retired to her
room saying she should be engaged in writing, and should probably be up late.
I would rather this interview should take place to-night,' he added impressively,
with extraordinary emphasis on the last word.

He crossed the room to leave it, and was laying his hand on the door which
led into the chamber of the dead, when he started back with a shudder and a
slight exclamation of horror. He had evidently forgotten for the moment that
the room was thus occupied.

`You are ill, sir!' said de Rosselau, hearing the cry, and witnessing his sudden
paleness.

`No. It is nothing. Be seated, my dear Count, I will soon return.'

He then left the apartment by the hall door. On entering the hall he traversed

it to its utmost extremity, and opened a door which led into a rotunda or
vestibule, from which four doors gave access to as many rooms. One of these
to the right he gained by ascending three steps to an alcove, which was also
closed by a glass door, across which, on the inner side was drawn in thick folds
a needle wrought muslin curtain. At this door he tapped and listened for a reply.
He tapped again and bent his ear for an answer. All within was still.'

`She sleeps. Yet there is a light within. Marie! Daughter!' he said, the
first time kindly, the second time with a tone of authority.

There was no sound—no movement responding to his call.

`She sleeps heavily. If she has retired I will not disturb her. To-morrow,
the Count shall have his interview.'

He turned away from the door descended the three steps into the centre of
the rotunda and then paused. Thoughts of past, very recently passed, events
rushed upon his mind. He recollected how they had parted two hours before,
she in tears, he with angry menaces. His suspicions were awakened, for he
was alive to every motive she had for flight. Scarcely had he conceived the
suspicion that she had flown from his roof and his power, ere he was once more
before her boudoir. He called again loudly, and waiting an instant only for a
response, he shattered the glass with his hand and drew aside the muslin drapery.
The interior of her boudoir was all visible to his observation! The table
and desk at which she had been writing, with the pen she had used! the
chair partly moved back as she had got out of it! Nay even a letter which she
had written was lying upon the silver-edged escritoire. The door of her sleeping
apartment was partly open and he could see that the snowy pillows of the
bed were un-pressed.

`Marie!'

His voice penetrated the chamber but was unanswered. With a strong effort
he pressed the lock from its fastenings and entered the boudoir, and with a
quick step crossed it into the chamber. She was not to be seen! The Venetian
window which opened upon the trellised verandah was partly raised and
his heart misgave him as the dreadful truth forced itself irresistibly upon his
mind! She had flown!

He stood a moment fixed to the spot! His brow darkened with the terrible
emotion of wrathful displeasure that filled his soul. To realize the truth seemed
impossible. He started from his attitude of inaction and began to search the
apartments. The fact that he had found the door locked and the window up
were conclusive that her egress must have been by stealth and with the intention
of evading the fate which he had ordained for her.

There was, however, a deeper motive than the fear of de Rosselau which
prompted the flight of our lovely and unhappy fugitive. This motive she had
given to the faithful black, Moses, as a sufficient one for his comprehension; but
the reader will see that this was but an inferior and secondary cause for her
conduct; though to avoid a union so detestable as that proposed to her by her
father, would, no other motive being present, have been a sufficient ground for
her flight. What the true cause was we shall know by and bye, when all the
smpathies of our nature, we feel assuted, will be freely poured into the bosom
of the lovely and self-sacrincing Marie, to the noble generosity of whose character
we shall then find language inadequate to do justice.

When convinced that his daughter had flown, he resolved at once to take
measures for her recovery. Only two hours before she had left him; yet, perhaps,
she had been that two hours gone! His first step was to search the
house, which he did rapidly and in person, without giving the alarm. He then
returned to her room and rung the bell for her maid who could give him no account
of her, save that she had dismissed her an hour and a half before, saying
she should want her no more that night. He then sent for all the servants and
questioned them, but no one knew any thing of this mysterious flight.

`Where is Moses?' he asked, missing him. `He is in his bed; he said he was
sick, Master,' answered the footman.

`Go and see! Nay—hold! wait till I read this!' he cried, his eyes resting
upon the letter that lay on the escritoire and which he had not again thought
of, but now caught up seeing it was address to him. The blaeks stood around
with looks of wonder and fear while he tore it open and read as follows:

The father read this letter and as he read his features grew rigid and each
letter seemed to his blood-shot gaze letters of fire burning into his brain. Grief
anger, remorse, a hundred conflicting feelings agitated his soul. Without a
word farther to his trembling servants he rushed from the room and to the stables.
As he anticipated he found the stall which was wont to hold his
daughter's private horse empty. Calling aloud to have his horse saddled he
hastened to the Count who still remained in the library ignorant of what had
transpired.

She has flown, Count! Mount and ride! She is well mounted and we
must use the spur! Follow with torches to the gate.'

The next moment both gentlemen were in their saddles and dashing down
the avenue. Here the Colonel dismounted to examine the foot prints for the
marks of Browny's shoes and discovering them turning to the left, he uttered
an exclamation of pleasure and sprung into his saddle again.

`Now de Rosselau overtake her you or I this night and to-morrow she shall
be thy wedded wife!'

`En evant, Messeuirs!' shouted de Rousselau; and the two horsemen took
the turnpike north at full gallop.

By continuing the pike they passed the cross-road into which the fair fugitive
had turned, and rode onward a dozen miles without any signs or traces of her
passage. At length, at day break, after traversing other roads and making numerous
inquiries, they returned to the villa, Rosselau furious at his discomfiture
and Colonel de Heywode depressed, broken down and more in sorrow than
in anger.