University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE LOVERS.

The king and the earl smiled at the
confident assertions of the smuggler, and
the latter said in reply—

`You are right, captain, my guest is
noble. He came in this costume merely
as a matter of taste. Be assured that your
little friend Flora will prove to be of a
rank quite equal to your expectations.'

`I am glad of this, my lord,' answered
Bonfield. `I am glad of this, for she deserves
to be happy. I should love her
just the same, though, had I been told by
you she was a common peasant's daughter;
but for her sake I want to see her
proved noble. How strange it is, my
lord, that you should have seen lord Ross,
and all this should have come out as it
has, and I should have been here in London
at the very time of all others when
most wanted. Now, my lord, say the
word and I will be off after Flora. I do
not care how soon! But if you would
only tell me who are the parents of the
dear child, that I may inform her?'

`Perhaps it would be best to surprise
her,' said the king.

`Yes, you are right; and though I
should be glad to know myself, I will wait
till she knows it.'

`This is best, captain,' said the king.
Now we will have you away as speedily
as possible. Instead of going out in your
own vessel, I think it best you should go
over to Portsmouth and there take a fast-sailing
government vessel, which shall be
placed at your service. Can it not be,
earl?' asked the king suddenly, as if he
feared he should have betrayed himself
by taking so much upon him.

`Yes, my lord,' answered the earl.—
`This I will have arranged as you desire.'

`If it please your lordship,' said Bonfield,
`I would rather go in my own vessel.
It sails quite as well as the old Dart,
for I had it built on the same model. I
know her points—I know my crew. I
shall accomplish the passage in a third
less time than in any other craft.'

`But your crew are bucaniers, and it
could be hardly safe to entrust the maiden
in a vessel so manned;' said the Duke,
who at length began to take an interest
in the affair.

`They are not bucaniers, sir, or, my
lord,' answered Bonfield. `The worst I
have been is a smuggler, and a privateersman.
If I am willing to trust her
you should be, for she is as dear to me
as she can be to either of your lordships
here.' This was spoken warmly as if his
feelings were touched. `Besides, my
lord, if I go and leave my men, what
guarantee have I that they will not be
hanged? If I am to go free they are to
go with me. This I will promise to do,
my lords. When I reach the States I
will agree to come home with Flora, if I
find her, in a ship from Halifax, giving
my vessel and crew up to my lieutenant
Nickerson who is now in irons on board
of her. I will willingly come home in a
government vessel.

After some few moments consideration
between the Earl and the king, the
former informed Bonfield that he might
pursue his own course, only speedily either

return with Flora, or bring certain
intelligence of her fate.

In half an hour more Bonfield was
once more on the deck of his schooner.
The Earl accompanied him, and ordered
Harry and his men to be released. Lord
Perry then placed in the smuggler's hands
a letter to the commander at Halifax, ordering
him to place a fast sailing sloop-of-war
at the bearer's services to sail for
England. The same evening, the day
having been spent in getting on board
stores, the schooner Sea-Shell, for this
was the name Bonfield had given his vessel,
dropped down past the tower and
docks, not a little to the surprise of the
Captain of the vessel of war which had
had her in charge. But as the orders
came from the king to let her depart,
there was nothing to be said. About
midnight with a strong breeze from the
north-east Bonfield left the river, and
laid his course through the channel in
the direction of the Atlantic. During
the next day he passed Cowes and was
chased by a revenue schooner, but out-sailed
her. If he had been taken he had
papers furnished by the Earl, which
would have prevented any detention.
On the third morning the land was no
longer seen, and the little schooner with
everything drawing went flying like a
bird over the ocean.

We will now take the reader, in ancipation,
to the distant shores of New England,
to which the Sea-Shell was swiftly
sailing in search of the exiled maiden, in
whose fate nobles and kings had begun
to take so deep an interest.

It was a calm, roseate, autumnal sun-set.
The sky in the west seemed to be
an arching ocean of gold, into which the
richest purple and orange colours were
infused. Clouds like painted barks hung
in the gorgeous sea of crimson light, and
upon the horizon reposed a dark azure
wall, its summit towering grandly and
sublime, its edge fringed with dazzling
silver. It was an American autumnal
evening in all its characteristic splendor.
The woodlands robed in the most brilliant
dyes of the rainbow, seemed to vie
with the clouds, and with the atmosphere,
in the lavish opulence of their display.

Upon a gentle eminence that sloped
on one side towards a shaded dell, through
which flowed a sparkling brook, and on
another side towards the snowy beach of
the blue sea, stood a youth and a maiden
gazing upon the scenes around them.
They had just reached the summit by a
path that led from the left through a
beautiful garden, beyond which, through
the purple and scarlet foliage of the frost-tinted
trees, was visible the humble roof
of a gardner's cottage; while, farther
distant upon another hill, crowned with
a grove of noble oaks and elms, rose imposingly,
and in fine taste with the
surrounding scenery; an elegant villa,
with a lawn in front, and extensive cultivated
grounds. Farther still, the needle-like
tower of a church pierced the roseate
heavens while many roofs dispersed
here and there in the country, betrayed
the elegant homes of wealth and taste.
Before them stretched the spacious waters
of the harbour, with its islands, some
green as emeralds, others brown like topaz,
and others frowning with snow-white
or grey fortifications. Between the islands
were glimpses of the ocean dotted
with sails. There were numerous vessels
steering towards the city of Boston,
which was visible less than two leagues
distant at the left, the twin hills of Dorchester
rising between, and partly hiding
its northern extremity. The whole prospect
about them was varied, beautiful,
and full of life and interest.

`I could stand here, Flora, by your
side, and gaze on such a fair prospect as
this, till I thought paradise were returned,'
said the youth bending earnestly yet

modestly upon her his dark, fathomless
eyes, while his hand gently stole and
held hers unresisting. `You should be
my Eve the fairest among women.'

`Nay, Edgar,' answered the maiden
with a smile; `were I Eve I should certainly
fall into Eve's temptation, and so
destroy the fair paradise you have imagined.'

`You shall be to me only Flora, then,
he answered with animation. `Yet, methinks,
that were this paradise, and you
Eve, should tempt me to eat the forbidden
fruit, I should at once take it from
your hand and eat; for seeing that you
were lost I would hasten to share with
you your fall.'

`Say not so, Edgar. Your love for
me is too impetuous. You should not
love me so as to do wrong for my sake.'

`I would be whatever thou art, Flora.
But thou canst never be otherwise than
good and true. In being like thee, I shall
ensure happiness forevermore. But see,
hither comes the silent Mary to join us.
How dreadful must be the privation of
speech and hearing. She can not hear
the sound of the brook in the dell, the
low sweeping of the wind among the
trees, the musical dash of the surges
upon the beach, the songs of the birds,
and lovelier than all your own voice,
Flora. How much is she deprived of.
Yet she is ever cheerful; seems always
happy-hearted and at peace within. The
expression of her face is the beautiful index
of intellectual serenity.'

`She is an angel, Edgar. She has a
heart full of feeling and generous emotions.
She is intelligent beyond many of
those who have the sense of hearing and
of speech. Her mind is of a high order;
but her heart is goodness and truth itself.'

`I wish that I could converse with her
as you do, Flora! How I have stood
by and wondered to witness your conversation
together. I could almost read her
ideas upon her speaking features. Is it
possible you can converse with her upon
every subject?'

`Yes, as perfectly, Edgar, as with
you. Gestures and signs are but the
ruder outline of our communication. The
eye, the lip, the brows express the most
conceptions of her mind. I have taught
her all that I know, and what it has taken
me months to acquire she comprehends
by a few general ideas explained to her.
She seems to have the power of reading
what is on my memory, as if it were a
book. I believe she would detect always
whether any person's countenance precisely
or not reflected the thoughts of
his heart. Her penetration is almost
spiritual!'

`How beautiful she seems, as she stops
and fixes her eyes upon the setting sun,
and the glorious world of clouds about it.
She does not seem more than twenty-two
or three, and yet you told me she was
nearly forty.

`Yes, but she looks always the same
to me from my childhood.'

`How strange the mystery about your
birth. She has made known to you all she
knows, I doubt not, from what you have
told me.

`Yes, Edgar, I have closely at differtimes
inquired, and she could only tell
me that she was ignorant of who placed
me as an infant in her charge. She says
that he came to the institution where she
was and took her away and placed me
in her charge, and both of us in the vessel
of my benefactor, who took us to the
Bermudas.'

`Do you remember when you left the
Bermudas?'

`Perfectly. I was in my seventh year.
Previous to that we had been with a man
and woman, whose names I have long
forgotten, but whose faces I can recall.
They were not always kind to us. The
only person who ever loved us, was my

good uncle Captain Dart. But Mary
says he is not my uncle, but only the
Captain who was to take us, and who became
so much attached to me on the
voyage, that he always visited me at the
island when he could. Mary must have
learned this by her acuteness of observation!
You were not here when my uncle
came to visit me last year?'

`Xo; I was then in Cambridge. Then
I had not seen you, Flora, at least to
know and love you. I had heard of the
beautiful grand-daughter of my father's
gardener, but only heard of you. I shall
not forget the first time I saw you. Hearing
about you, I resolved I would make
an effort to behold you, for you kept
yourself so retired here that I was told by
my sister, that unless I actually came to
the old gardener's cottage, I should never
see you. So one evening just ten months
ago, a few days before my connection
with the University ceased, I boldly took
a walk to your grandfather's on the pretence
of bringing him a new kind of
flower-seed, which at much trouble I had
obtained for this very ruse. I found him
in the garden trimming a rose-tree, and
you were standing by him, in a straw
hat, holding your apron to receive the
buds and roses he was cutting off. I
came upon you all at once. Our eyes
met, and from that moment, Flora, I was
wounded beyond cure. But here is Mary
coming on again. She smiles to see
how rosily you blush. Your cheeks are
quite as rich in hue, as when we then
saw each other. That moment I wish
never to forget. I wish I could speak to
aunt Mary as you call her, and just say
`good evening,' if nothing more!'

At this moment the mute Mary came
near them, and Flora flying to meet her,
embraced and kissed her forehead, although
they had not been an hour parted;
and Edgar, who was a fine-looking young
man, with dark brown hair, and black
expressive eyes, extended his hand, and
with respectful kindness took hers, and
smiled in her eyes. She returned the
look with wonderful depth of expression
and affection, and then turning to Flora,
tapped her cheeks, looked with sympathy
at Edgar, touched their hearts, and then
joined their hands together with a laugh
full of roguish sweetness. Flora blushed,
if possible deeper than she had done
when Edgar was describing their first
meeting. The lover pressed his lips upon
the little hand he held, and the three
interchanged looks of the present happiness.

And they were happy each and all.—
Edgar Channing was the only son of a
wealthy retired merchant, upon whose
estate the father of Harry Nickerson lived,
as gardener. He was a young man of
an ardent temperament, pure principles,
and high moral feelings. He was a promising
young man, and his father looked
to him to reflect honor upon his name
and family. He had been but little at
home during his boyhood and collegiate
course, and although he might have heard
that the old gentleman Nickerson, had a
pretty grand-child, he gave the part no
thought. It was not until his last visit at
home, before he was to leave the University,
that his attention was drawn particularly
to the fact by the remarks of his
sister, Margaret, who upon looking at a
picture in an annual of English beauties,
exclaimed on seeing one of the Dutchess
of —, how like Flora the old gar
dener's grand-daughter!'

`If the Flora you speak of is half as
handsome as this, sister,' he said, `she
is extremely beautiful!'

`Have you never seen her?'

`Not to notice her particularly. You
know I spend all my vacations travelling
and have hardly been at home ten days
in the last four years.'

`I should like to have you see her,

just to see how wonderfully she resembles
this. But for the world don't tell
her so, for I dare say she is vain enough
as she is. All poor girls that are pretty
are spoiled by flattery.'

`But Flora has never been flattered,'
answered her gouty father, who was
reading near the window, with his bandaged
foot on a chair, and now looked
up. `Let me see the portrait. It is remarkably
like her, as you say. This
Duchess might, so far as looks go, have
been her moiher! What name is that
under it?'

`The Duchess of—. the sister
of the late Queen, it says. For the
world, Edgar,' continued his handsome,
proud and aristocratic sister, `do not tell
her so. I am sorry I mentioned it. It
would make her toss her head for something.'

`I never saw her toss her head, Margaret,'
said her father. `She always
seems modest and unassuming. It is
true she carries herself with an air of
dignity; but it becomes her!'

`Dignity! It is vanity.'

`Why, Margaret, how can you speak
so enviously,' said her brother. `I see
that the maid is really pretty, or you
would not be so warm about it. But you
are so handsome yourself you can afford
to have others pretty. I wonder at your
talking so. I shall at once try to see
her, for my curiosity is awakened. It is
a pleasant half mile's walk to the old
gardener's cottage, and I will go down
and see this beauty.'

`I hope, Edgar, you will not condescend
to speak to her.'

`I don't know that she will condescend
to speak to me, if she is so beautiful and
vain as you represent,' he answered,
smiling; `but I shall not run away from
her. I ought to pay the old man a visit,
and will now do so.'

`Don't mention the resemblance if you
are so foolish as to suffer yourself to
speak to her!' cried his sister not a little
vexed at her brother for wishing to go
and see one whom she acknowledged her
own superior in beauty, manners and intelligence;
for Margaret Channing knew
Flora very well, but only to envy and
dislike her for her superior attainments
and excellence in every thing.

The visit which Edgar made has already
been alluded to and the important
result. He lost his heart to her at once;
and the attachment became mutual and
complete. He did not make known to
his sister the impression Flora had made
upon him; for he saw that she envied
and disliked her. Thus for many months
their love grew in secret. Their interviews
were stolen. Flora told him all
her history so far as she knew it. They
betrothed themselves to each other.—
Flora, then, desired that he would no
longer keep their attachment from his
parents and sister. Reluctant as he was
to reveal it, he promised to do so. It received
the approbation of the old gardener,
(his wife was no longer living), and
of many; but Edgar knew that his father's
wishes in reference to him were
for a rich and consequental match; and
that his sister would flash her eyes with
scorn at the revelation that he had betrothed
himself to the humble grand-daughter,
as people termed her, of the
old English gardener.

But still it was necessary that he
should reveal the truth. He did so; and,
as he anticipated, was severely reproached
and blamed by his father, and almost
insulted by the severe and bilter language
of his sister.

`Nevertheless,' he answered calmly;
`it is done. It cannot be revoked, nor
do I wish it to be. Flora is worthy any
man's love. She would do honor to any
man's choice. She has not her peer
among any females that I know. She

has been thoroughly educated by the old
gardener who has done his duty by her.
If you refuse to receive her as a daughter
and sister,' he said warmly, `I shall regret
it.'

`I will disinherit you, sir,' cried his
father, greatly excited, and shaking his
crutch at him. `A son of mine, the heir
of a hundred thousand dollars, marry my
gardener's daughter. It is not to be
borne!'

`I would have them sent off at once,
father!' said Margaret. `It is all their
planning, her's and the old man's. She
is artful enongh, I dare say, for any
thing, and Nickerson wicked enough.—
A fine thing for them, truly, to catch the
rich heir, Edgar Channing. You are a
fool, brother! You have suffered yourself
to be caught in a net set for you.'

`I can patiently hear no more,' answered
Edgar firmly. `I shall marry
Flora Nickerson, even if my father disinherits
me and my sister refuses
to recognise me as a brother. I do
not fear but at the bar I can maintain
myself as other young men have done.'

With this reply Edgar left the house
and hastened, in the bright presence of
Flora and the cheerful silence of Mary
to recover that peace and equanimity
which the violence of his family had
driven from his bosom.

This scene occurred but a few days
previous to our present introduction of
them, viewing the prospect around from
an eminence near the gardener's house.
Indifferent to the opposition of his father
and sister, yet deeply regretting it, for
he loved and esteemed them both, he
still openly visited Flora. His father
would have sent Nickerson away if he
had not feared that Edgar would precipitate
the match, that he might be their
protector and go with them whenever
they should go. This Edgar had resolutely
said that he would do, should this
step be taken by his father. The latter,
therefore, forbore, hoping that some
means might yet be successfully applied
to break off the engagement.

The afternoon which we now see them
together was that preceding the day upon
which they were to be married. Edgar
had established himself in a law-office in
the city, and had taken pleasant rooms
for himself and bride. Their happiness,
therefore, at this time, was calm and
deep. Mary entered into it with all the
gladness of her pure spirit, for she sympathised
always in the enjoyments of
those about her.

The three interchanged looks of mutual
tenderness and joy, and once more
turned to gaze upon the beautiful prospect
over which the shades of twilight
were gently stealing. Suddenly Mary
uttered an exclamation of delight and intense
surprise, at the same time pointing
in the direction of a small but graceful
vessel, schooner rigged, that had steered
out of the usual channel to the city and
was standing towards the beach at the
foot of the hill.

`What does she say, Flora?' asked
Edgar, as he saw the two exchange signs
with eager rapidity and the face of the
latter light up with joy.

`That the vessel coming this way is the
Sea-Shell.'