Читать книгу Edith Percival - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 4

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"And its hame, hame, hame,

I fain wad be—

Hame, hame, hame,

In my ain countrie."

—Allan Cunningham.

Morning on the ocean! Grandly rose the sun in the red east, sailing slowly and majestically toward the meridian—a burning jewel of fire set in the deep-blue sky. Light, fleecy clouds dotted the azure firmament here and there, looking as pure and as stainless as snowflakes or the white wings of angels. The balmy south breeze scarcely rippled the surface of the deep, or filled the canvas of the good ship Mermaid, as she glided gracefully onward, bound for the bright shores of America.

The day was intensely hot. The crew lay in groups, idly, about the deck. The captain—a stately-looking man of forty or thereabouts—paced up and down the quarter-deck—now letting his eyes wander over his men, or giving them some order; now looking aloft with a sailor's pride in his handsome craft; and now raising his glass to sweep the horizon, on which no living thing was to be seen save themselves.

Leaning over the taffrail, stood two young men. The eldest appeared to be about twenty-five years of age—tall and finely proportioned, with an eye like an eagle, and hair that

—"To shame might bring

The plumage of the raven's wing."

He stood leaning over the side, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the spray flashing in the sunlight, as the ship cut her way through the rippling waves. His hat was off, and the cool breeze lifted lightly the jetty locks off his high, white brow.

His companion was a youth some three or four years his junior, with a frank, handsome face, and laughing hazel eyes. His look of careless ease was very different from the proud reserve of his companion, but some secret bond of sympathy bound those two together.

"Well, Fred," said the younger of the two, continuing their conversation, "since, as you say, you neither have a lady-love in America nor expect a legacy there, I confess it puzzles me to know what inducement could have been strong enough to make you quit Paris."

"Very easily told, my dear fellow: I have started for America at the express command of my worthy father."

"Whew! what a dutiful son you are, Fred. And, pray, what has brought Sir William to that rebellious land?"

"To assist in subduing the rebellious Yankees, of course!" replied the young man, with a slight sneer on his well-cut lip.

"And he wishes his son and heir to aid him in that laudable design, instead of spending his time making love in Paris?"

"Yes; he has obtained for me the post of lieutenant in the British army, he says."

"Which you will, of course, accept?" said the younger of the two, with a peculiar smile, as he lit a cigar, and blew a whiff of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

"Which I most decidedly will not!" replied Fred, coolly.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Why? What a question for you to ask, Gus! Am I not an American by birth—an American in heart and soul—a thousand times prouder of the glorious land in which I was born than of my father's broad acres in merrie England? Why? I tell you, Gus Elliott, I will join the ranks of my countrymen, and fight and conquer or die with them in defence of their cause!"

He stood erect, while his eagle eye flashed, and his dark cheek glowed with the enthusiasm with which he spoke.

Gus stood regarding him with something like admiration struggling through his usual look of careless indifference.

"Well," he said, after a pause, "I call that pretty strong language for the son of such a staunch royalist as Sir William Stanley. What do you suppose your honored father will say when he sees his son turn rebel?"

"Doubtless," said Fred, quietly, "he will be in a towering passion, and rather amazed that any one should presume to disobey his commands. I have long known it must, sooner or later, come to this. When this war first commenced, how often has my blood boiled with impotent rage, listening to the insults and sneers of him and his tory friends on the 'rebel Yankees,' as they contemptuously called them! How I did long, then, to leave England and fly to my native land, to aid her sons in their brave struggles for independence! I would have done so, but I shrank from the storm of passion which I knew must follow it. When my father left England to join his Britannic Majesty's army in America, I left for Paris, lest he should desire me to follow him, and thus hasten a disclosure of our opposite sentiments. Three weeks ago, I received his command to join him instantly. It seems some rumor of my true sentiments had reached him; and, indignant that anyone should presume to question the loyalty of a son of his, he desires me to vindicate my allegiance to his gracious Majesty, and wipe off such a stain on his name by immediately accepting the post he has obtained for me in the army. Any further concealment is, of course, out of the question: and I thank Heaven it is so; for it seems to me a craven act in anyone to remain an idle spectator while his native land, in her struggles for freedom, calls all her sons to her aid."

He leaned his head on his hand, and gazed thoughtfully on the bright waves below.

"For myself," said Gus, who had been deeply impressed by Fred's earnestness, "I always sympathized with the Colonies; but it was merely the natural feeling which all must experience when they see a band of brave men struggling for freedom. Like yourself, America is the land of my birth, but, up to the present, I have been absent from it so long, that I had almost ceased to regard if as such. Now, however, my feelings are changed. Together, Fred, we will fight the battles of our native land; every arm that will lift itself in her defence is needed now."

"Your sentiments do you honor, my dear Gus; but, as you asked me before, what will your friends say?"

"Oh, I have no friends worth mentioning," replied Gus, resuming his former indifferent tone. "I am an orphan, you know, with a bank-stock sufficient for all my wants, with no relations that I know of except an uncle in America, whom I have not seen these ten years. And I tell you what," he added, with sudden animation, "he has two confoundedly pretty daughters—especially the youngest. I used to be desperately in love with Nell, as a boy."

"Indeed!" said Fred, smiling, "and who is this uncle of yours?—a tory, no doubt."

"You had better believe it!" said Gus. "Major Percival hates the rebels as he hates Old Harry. Of course, I'll be disowned when he hears what I've done. Everyone has his own peculiar hobby; and pride of birth is Major Percival's. If you were only to hear him, Fred! He dates his descent back to the days of Noah, and a good deal further; for some of his ancestors, I believe, were drowned in the flood. His lady, too, Mrs. Percival, is the granddaughter of a lord; so you see the major has some foundation for his family pride. He's as rich as Cr[oe]sus, too."

"And Miss Nell, I suppose, is heiress to all his wealth?"

"Not she, faith! Major Percival has a son and daughter besides; Nell's the youngest. You ought to know Nugent Percival; he's a glorious fellow, and no mistake—about your age, too, I should think."

"I may see them all yet—who knows?" said Fred. "I wish this voyage were over. I long to see my father and tell him all, and join the patriot army of Washington."

"You told me you were born in America," said Gus, after a pause. "I thought Lady Stanley was an Englishwoman, and had never crossed the Atlantic Ocean in her life."

"The Lady Stanley you knew was not my mother," said Fred, coldly.

"She was not! That's something I never heard before," exclaimed Gus, in unbounded surprise.

"It's none the less true on that account," replied Fred, while a slight flush crimsoned his dark cheek. "My mother was an American born; she lived, died, and was buried in that land."

"Well, now, that's odd," said Gus, puffing meditatively at his cigar. "Come, Fred, make a clean breast of it; I made an open confession to you: and one good turn, you know, deserves another."

The young man smiled slightly, and then his face grew serious—almost sad.

"Very few know my history," he said, with a half sigh, "but with you, my dear Gus, I know I may speak freely. Many years ago, when my father was a young man, business or pleasure—I know not which—called him to America. Whilst there, he made the acquaintance of a young girl far beneath him in wealth and rank, but his equal in education, and his superior in moral worth. Bewildered by her beauty, he forgot their different degrees of rank, and the young girl became his wife. His marriage was kept a secret from his proud friends in England, and Sir William knew that there was little fear of their ever discovering it, for prudence had not been forgotten by love, and he had wooed and won her under an assumed name. My mother never dreamed her husband was aught but one of her own station, and it was my father's aim not to undeceive her."

"It was a confoundedly mean trick!" interrupted Gus, indignantly.

"When I was about nine years old," continued Fred, unmindful of the interruption, "my father started for England, as he said, on business. As he was frequently in the habit of doing so, my mother was not surprised, but her husband had by this time outgrown his love for her, and when, five months after, he returned, it was as the husband of another."

Gus was again about to make a passing remark on Sir William's conduct, but suddenly checking himself, he sank back in silence.

"He told her all," went on Fred, with stern briefness; "his rank, his title; told her he was the husband of another, and that she must no longer consider herself his wife. He said he had come for me, to take me with him to England; that I was his son, and should be educated as became a Stanley. My poor mother shrieked and clung to me, but I was forcibly torn from her arms. They said she fell to the ground like one dead, and from that hour never spoke again. One week after she was laid in her grave!"

Fred paused, while the veins in his forehead grew dark, and his voice choked with suppressed emotion.

"But she was avenged," he continued, lifting his head, while his eyes flashed; "she had a brother, absent at the time, but who, on his return, heard the story from the sexton who had buried my mother. His oath of vengeance was fearful, and fearfully kept. Five years passed away. Sir William and Lady Stanley had but one child, a daughter, whom they idolized. Leila was the gentlest and most beautiful creature I ever saw. Words cannot tell you, Gus, how I loved that child. One day, as the nurse was walking with her through the grounds of Stanley Park, a man, dressed in the rough garb of a sailor, sprang from behind the trees, and, in spite of the shrieks and struggles of the attendants, bore her off.

The nurse, wild with terror, fled back to the house, and meeting Sir William on the piazza, fell, fainting, at his feet. When she recovered, she related what had happened, and the consternation and horror her recital produced may be imagined. There was no doubt in Sir William's mind as to who had done the deed. The abductor had left a message: 'Tell Sir Will Stanley,' said he, 'my sister is avenged!' Search was made in every direction, enormous rewards were offered, the police was put on the track, but all in vain. Not the slightest clue to Leila could be obtained. It was the belief of everyone, the sailor had destroyed the child to escape detection."

"It is more than probable," said Gus. "Poor Lady Stanley! I can now understand the cause of the strange melancholy that used to puzzle me so much."

"She never smiled from that day," said Fred. "Had the child died she would have grieved, but such grief is as nothing. It was the terrible uncertainty as to its fate that weighed on her heart. It was well she did not survive it long."

"And Sir William? how did he bear the loss?" inquired Gus.

"He became a changed man from that day. He grew stern, morose, and harsh to all. I have no doubt he felt it to be a just retribution for his conduct to his first wife, and this reflection rendered his remorse more bitter. Poor Leila! dear little angel! Gus, I cannot tell you how I loved that child."

He paced excitedly up and down, and Gus saw there were tears in the deep, dark eyes of his friend.

"Yes, that's just the way I feel about Nell," said Gus, who really was in a desperate strait for something to say, and the deep sigh that accompanied his words seemed inexpressibly ludicrous.

In spite of himself, Fred laughed outright at his friend's melancholy look, much to the disgust of Gus.

"On my honor, my dear fellow, you are smitten. I shouldn't wonder if you would be rash enough to take a wife next," said Fred.

"Rash! I think it's the most sensible thing a fellow could do. Don't you ever intend to marry, Fred?"

"Not I," said the other, carelessly, "as I said before, liberty or death for me. Why, Gus, the tyranny of King George is nothing to that of a wife. Don't you know what the French poet Mauvause says:

'I would advise a man to pause

Before he takes a wife,

Indeed, I own, I see no cause

He should not pause for life.'"

"He must have been a crusty old bachelor who wrote that," remarked Gus; "as for me, I intend to make fierce love to Nell the moment I land. 'Pon my honor, I'd give a diamond ring to see that flinty heart of yours lying at the feet of some graceful little Yankee—metaphorically speaking, of course. They say, Fred, the American ladies are all pretty!"

"I doubt it."

"You're a stoic, a cynic, an unbeliever—an old Diogenes in his tub. You deserve to die an old bachelor. It's my firm and never-to-be-shaken belief that you have been jilted by some heartless coquette, and for spite, now rail at the whole sex."

"I cry you mercy!" said Fred, as he laughingly ran his fingers through his luxuriant dark locks. "I am now, as I ever was, and always shall be, 'heart-whole, and fancy free.' But I see," he added, drawing out his watch, "it is the hour

'When lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake,

And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake.'

So let us go below; the sable goddess of the cabin will presently announce dinner is ready."

And together the two young men strolled into the cabin.