Suddenly a light came over the waters, and I looked up to find that the moon, at its full, was raising its great yellow disc from the waves. As if in kindly sympathy with me, the light came dancing over the burnished sea, but ceased its gambols at the shore, and threw its wan radiance over the dead face.
With the light I grew bolder, and rose and stood by the corpse, to see if it had moved. But it was lying as we had placed it, without a quiver in the face; and again I sat down upon the sand. Looking over the sound I saw Mr. Cheyleigh’s boat coming, and the rapid flash of the dripping oars told that it was speeding well. Inexpressibly relieved, I went down to the landing and stood there, as unconcerned as if I had been pleasantly entertained on the beach. The rigging rattled as the sails came down, the keel grated on the sand, and Mr. Cheyleigh, Ned and Frank, and four stout negroes got out and went to the body. They wrapped it in blankets, laid it in the bottom of the boat, and with a stiff breeze and strong oars we soon glided under the shadow of Mr. Cheyleigh’s boat house. Ned, Frank and I sprang out and ran ahead to see about the little girl.
Mrs. Cheyleigh was up in her chamber with her, and we could see only two or three excited negroes, who could tell nothing. We soon heard the negro men coming up the steps with their loaded, faltering tread, and we followed them into the back parlor, where, under Mr. Cheyleigh’s direction, they deposited their burden, smoothed the blankets over him, and marched out, picking up their hats from the corners of the doors, where they had thrown them as they came into the “gretouse.”
Mr. Cheyleigh then went up stairs to aid Mrs. Cheyleigh while we turned into the dining room, where they were just bringing in supper.
“I wonder what will be done with her if Mrs. Cheyleigh succeeds in bringing her to?” said Frank, as we took our seats near the open window.
This was something we had not thought of, and we were somewhat startled by the query; as we considered her ours by right of discovery, and her disposal, consequently, a matter of importance to each of us.
“I suppose,” continued Frank, “she’ll have to go to the Orphan Asylum.”
I repudiated the idea with indignation.
“Never!” I said warmly; “if her friends do not come forward and claim her, I will get father to adopt her, as he has no other children beside me.”
“Oh! perhaps you will,” said Frank, with something of a sneer in his tone; “any way I claim an interest in her, and will have her for my sweetheart.”
“You had better first learn whether she is alive or not,” said Ned, reprovingly.
The waiting maid, Tildy, here interrupted us:
“Marse Ned, supper’s ready; you reckon your mar’s gwine to come down?”
“She don’t want none, nohow,” said Winny, another maid, coming into the room. “I jes come outen her room and she was a rubbing the little gal with brandy and mustard.”
Tildy again put in, half to Winny and half to us:
“I wonder how come dey never stood de man on his head to let de water run outen his mouth?”
“Sheer! what you know ‘bout it, gal?” rejoined Winny, giving her a push on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I tell you what, doe Tildy, dey ain’t no poor bokra; de little gal had on de finest underclose I ever see, mo’ lace and stuff all round ’em; and when mistis was undressing her she taken off her neck er big gold chain with er locket hung to it. I taken it up and looked at it, and it’s got a whole heap er sets in it, dat shines wors’n mistis’s breastpin.”
Mr. Cheyleigh here entered the room and said:
“Winny! your mistress wants a cup of hot tea and some toast carried up to her immediately. Come to the table, boys, Mrs. Cheyleigh will not be down to-night.”
We sat down to the table, but could not eat for eager questions. Mr. C. informed us that, after much rubbing and many stimulants, the little girl had become conscious, and had been able to speak. She had addressed Mrs. C. at first in Spanish, but, on hearing her give some order to the servants, inquired if Mrs. C. spoke English, and learning that she did, used our language quite fluently. Mrs. C. had gotten her to bed and was trying to keep her from talking. She had, by a few questions, learned that the little girl was a Cuban; that her name was Carlotta Lola Rurlestone, and that she was lost from a ship the night before. She was constantly asking for her father, and Mrs. Cheyleigh had thought it best not to tell her of his death, but had evaded her queries as best she could. She was under the influence of an opiate now, and Mrs. C. wanted the house kept quiet.
After supper we had food enough for conversation till a late hour, when we retired only to dream of shipwrecks, and corpses, and half drowned girls.
At the breakfast table the following morning we were glad to meet Mrs. Cheyleigh, who was able to give us still more news about our little protégé. She told us she seemed much better, though feeble; that she recollected the scene now, and was weeping violently about her father’s death; that her mother had been dead several years; that her father was a native of New Orleans, and that he and she had started to this country to spend the summer, as was their custom; that they had stormy weather for several days, and been driven somewhat from their course, and when the violent storm came on it was said that the ship was sinking; that her father had lashed her to a cabin door he had wrenched off, and, that he might not get separated from her, tied his wrist to its knob. He threw her into the water and tried to follow, but was jerked over by the weight of the door, and fell, striking his head violently against it. He seemed to be stunned, as he made no motion afterwards, but drifted about with the door, his face down in the water and his whole body sometimes out of sight. That the ship was soon blown off and out of sight, and that her agony was so great, as she saw her father drowning, and could not move to help him, that she had become insensible, and had known nothing more till she was in Mrs. Cheyleigh’s room, though she remembered faintly seeing strange faces around her as in a dream.
“She is in constant distress about her father,” continued Mrs. C., “but I hope that, with proper care and attention, she will recover. Mr. Cheyleigh has sent to town for Dr. Mayland, and also for the Coroner, who will hold his inquest as soon as possible.”
Very soon after breakfast the Coroner arrived, and his jurymen began to drop in one by one.
We went out to the back piazza, where they were assembling, and walked among the crowd, listening to a confused jargon of questions in regard to the crops, wonderful tales of the ravages of the late storm, and surmises as to the drowned stranger, and the probable verdict that would be rendered.
The Coroner was a middle aged man, of great self-importance, who evidently thought an inquest a work of as great moment as a national negotiation. He took but little interest in the conversation of the others present, though he occasionally addressed some words to Mr. Cheyleigh, who was sitting near him. After considerable delay, and the assemblage of a large crowd of people, he pulled out his great fat silver watch, and said slowly:
“Well, I reckon we had as well begin. The morning is getting on smartly. Where is the body, Mr. Cheyleigh?”
Mr. Cheyleigh led the way, the Coroner and his jury following in single file till they reached the parlor. They crowded round the table to get a view of the corpse, all leaning forward, and holding their hats and hands behind them, as if they were tied there. The tall men looked on, while those small in stature moved round and round, vainly endeavoring to find a gap in the crowd to peep through.
The usual form of selecting and empanelling the jury was gone through with, and the Coroner commenced to examine the witnesses. Mr. Cheyleigh was first sworn.
“Mr. Cheyleigh,” said the Coroner, walking his chair backward on the two hind legs a step or two, to gaze better at Mr. Cheyleigh through a pair of very broad rimmed silver specs, “will you please to state all you know about the finding of this body.”
Mr. Cheyleigh came forward very gravely, and proceeded to relate his knowledge of the affair with a declamatory style, and with such long words that I did not know whether he meant to confuse the Coroner by using language above his two-syllable comprehension, or was acting under the common impulse of human nature to display proficiency in any department which has not been attained by those listening.
“The first information,” he began, with a salutatory wave of his hand, “which I received of the discovery of the bodies was imparted to me by my son and his friend. Immediately on receipt of this intelligence I took the large boat, and with some of my negroes we rapidly made the transit of the Sound. Their report of the melancholy catastrophe was unhappily confirmed, for in close proximity to the water’s edge lay this body. Edward and Frank brought the little girl over with them when they came for me, and Mrs. Cheyleigh has succeeded in resuscitating her. The man had apparently been inanimate for a period of some length, as his flesh had undergone considerable contraction from contact with the water – at least was contracted around the bones and features; the body proper was very much distended. He had been tied by one hand to the door of a ship’s cabin, though the boys had cut the cord. I placed the body in the boat, and brought it where you now see it.”
The Coroner moved his head up and down, slowly at first, then faster and in shorter spaces, till it came to rest, like a spring pendulum, as who should say:
“Just as I expected; all just as I expected;” and then, with a look of legal sagacity that would have adorned an Ellenborough, asked:
“Did you bring the door over with you?”
“I deemed that altogether unnecessary, but I took from the man’s waist a pouch containing some money and one or two checks for large amounts on New York houses. I also found a very fine watch and chain; the upper lid of the watch bears a bouquet of diamonds and the initials H. V. R. Here is the watch and pouch.”
He passed them to the Coroner, who examined every part as minutely as if he were identifying stolen property, and having satisfied himself that the articles did not belong to him, passed them on to the others, who each examined them in the same critical way.
“What, then, Mr. Cheyleigh,” resumed the Coroner, after they had all finished their tedious examination of the articles, and returned them to Mr. C., “do you think was the cause of his death?”
“Strangulation, sir, from the influx of water into the larynx, and the consequent exclusion of air.”
“Exactly – exactly, Mr. Cheyleigh; that will do, sir. Did you say your son found the bodies?”
“He and two of his friends.”
“We can examine him, then?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Ned was a little confused as he came forward, and kept passing his hand nervously over his tumbled hair. The Coroner assumed a mild, patronizing air, and said:
“Well, my son, what can you tell us of this affair?” Ned swallowed once or twice, and began:
“After the storm, John Smith, Frank Paning and myself thought we would go over to the banks and take a view of the ocean. When we got over the sky was fair, but the – ”
“Never mind about the sky, my son,” interrupts the Coroner, “just tell what you know about the dead man.”
“Well,” resumed Ned, with a long breath, and another swallow, “John Smith saw them first, and we all ran to them and tried to move the man, but found him rather heavy, we then cut the cords, and lifted up the little girl – ”
“Stop! stop! don’t tell about the girl, let us hear about the man.”
“I don’t know anything particular about him, except that he was dead.”
“How was he lying when you found him?”
“His feet were in the water and his face was in the sand. One arm was doubled under him so, and the other – the one tied to the door knob – was stretched out so.”
Ned here attempted to assume a descriptive attitude.
“Did the knot appear to have been tied by himself or somebody else?”
“It was a slip knot, and could have been fastened by himself.”
“Did he lie as if the water had washed him up, or somebody had placed him there?”
“I think he was thrown up by the waves, sir.”
“You didn’t see any tracks or boat marks about?”
“No, sir.”
“That will do. I don’t think it is worth while to examine anymore witnesses. Gentlemen, you can make up your verdict.”
We accordingly left the room, while twelve good citizens endeavored most earnestly to ascertain what they already knew – the manner of the dead man’s death.
When we got out we found Horace waiting for Frank and myself with the carriage and horses.
We packed up our valises, made Ned promise to come to see us, left a kiss for our little foundling, and were soon rolling towards home.
Father and mother were as much interested in my news as I could have desired, and as I dwelt upon the beauty of the little girl and her lonely condition, I saw by the tear in mother’s eye, and the serious shade on father’s face, that I had made an impression. After recounting all in as vivid terms as I could command, I begged father to adopt her, offering as arguments many facts which he perhaps knew as well as I: that he was able to do it; that she would not be a great expense; that she would be company for mother when I was away; that I wanted a sister just like her, and would love and care for her tenderly, and wound up by declaring I would rather starve than have her sent to the Orphan Asylum.
“Well, well, don’t be so impatient, my son,” said father, relapsing into a smile, “even if I were inclined to adopt your suggestion there are many preliminaries to be arranged. I must see Cheyleigh, as she is now under his charge, and I must write to her friends in Cuba, where you say she came from. Then, perhaps, she may not be willing to come and live with us. You will have to restrain your eagerness till your mother and I consult about what is best to be done.”
I was obliged to rest content with this. I went down town in the afternoon and recited to every acquaintance I met our wonderful adventure. The sun was nearly down when I was interrupted in the midst of my narrative by a servant, who came to tell me that there was a lady at home who wished to see me. I wound up my story and hurried home, wondering who it could be. To my utter surprise and pleasure I found Lulie Mayland in the sitting room, looking prettier and brighter than ever. She smiled delightfully when I pressed her hand and said, with a little blush:
“It’s strange, isn’t it, for a lady to call on a gentleman? but you must excuse me now. Pa has just returned from the Sound and has been telling me about the little girl you found. My curiosity was so excited I determined to come to see you and learn all about it, as you would not call and tell me. Promise me you won’t think strange of it.”
“Oh, Lulie, the bare idea of such formality between old friends!” I said, taking a seat near her.
“Well, we will not deem it a breach of form for the sake of old times.”
“What a pity it is,” said I, half musing, “that people grow older and colder in their natures. We were so happy as children. Do you remember the day in the nursery, long ago?”
“Yes, I believe I do; but tell me about your Sound adventure now, I am all impatience to hear that.”
I detailed minutely every circumstance connected with the affair, and dwelt particularly upon the little girl’s superb beauty, hoping thereby to raise a spark of envy in Lulie’s heart, for I was piqued at her only believing to remember about the nursery scene. As I pictured to her the wavy black hair, the gazelle like eyes and chiselled features of Carlotta, I thought I detected a glance towards the opposite mirrors, where her own tumbled curls and merry blue eyes were reflected. When I had concluded she sat for some time in thought, then softly said:
“No father – no mother – no home!”
I knew then that envy found no room in a heart so full of pity and love.
“What is to be done with her?” she said, at length.
“I don’t know; I am trying to get father to adopt her, and I think he is half inclined to do so.”
“Oh, that would be splendid,” she said, brightening at the thought; “I could see her so often, and we would be such dear friends. Do beg Col. Smith to bring her here.”
“You may rest assured I will do my utmost, if it is only to get you over here sometimes, as you now have to make formal explanations for a single visit.”
“Indeed, I expect you have other motives for your petition. Somebody’s heart, perhaps, aids somebody’s lips in begging.”
“Never!” I said, with great emphasis; “she is truly lovely, but there is only one heart in the world I care to – ”
“I am very much obliged to you, Johnnie, for your narration,” she said, rising to go, “it has interested me very much.”
“The obligation is mine,” I said, with a profound bow, “for your kind attention. ‘Twas really a pleasure to talk with such a listener.”
I escorted her home, and sat with her some time on the stoop, and felt more than ever that I was completely her slave. She seemed to have thrown around me an inflexible chain, one which I could not bend to get nearer her heart, and one which I could not break to get away. Every word of her conversation was so chosen that, while it kept alive my hopes, it did not satisfy them, and yet she skilfully permitted no word of love making to pass between us; all was carried on by innuendo; and, when I bade her good evening, I felt convinced that she did not love me, but dreaded to wound me by the disclosure.
CHAPTER IX
“John, I saw Cheyleigh in town to-day, and we have arranged all the matters about bringing up your sister, as I suppose you will call her, to live with us. Your mother and yourself must go down for her in the carriage the day after to-morrow.” Thus spoke father, as he pushed his chair back from the tea table, about a week after my return from the Sound.
I deemed it dignified only to say, “Yes, sir.”
“My dear,” he continued, addressing mother, and taking a cigar from his case, “you have some clothing getting ready for her, have you not? As she didn’t bring her baggage on the door I presume her wardrobe is scanty, so much so that she can exclaim, with the fallen Cardinal:
‘My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own.’”
“Oh, Col. Smith,” said mother, reproachfully, “do not jest at her misfortunes.”
“Not jesting, my dear, not jesting; but, since poor Wolsey’s time, I suppose she is the only one who could boast any integrity, when limited to a single robe. However, we have not proved her yet – Wolsey may still be alone.”
“That is worse than jesting,” returned mother, with a smile the good Samaritan might have worn, “you are blotting her with suspicion before you have ever seen her.”
“We will assume, then, for your good hearted sake,” said father, blowing out the words on each side of the cigar he was lighting, “that she is an angel, and let her prove her wings.”
“I am sure that she will,” said mother, as she rang her table bell for the servants to clear off the tea things.
The next day was one of preparation, and the room intended for Carlotta was fixed up like a fairy bower. The morning after, mother and I were whirling rapidly toward the Sound in our open carriage, the top thrown back to catch the fresh breeze. What a pleasure was such a drive on such a morning, with such horses, through such scenery, on such an errand!
Neither of us spoke, but leaned upon the side cushions of the carriage, listening to the rapid trample of the horses’ feet and the singing of the wheels over the level roads as we flashed along; now through slim, quiet woods, where the sunshine drove away the shade from half the ground; now through thick luxuriant trees, grouping themselves with dense foliage-curtains around dark unrippled pools, where Artemis could have bathed with perfect modesty, and from which, now, a lonely heron, startled by our wheels, slowly rose with his blue noiseless wings; now through a swampy hollow, where the laurel poured from its white cups exquisite perfume, and now through the solemn forests, where the patriarch oaks waved their gray moss-hair, and the towering pines stretched their broad arms benignly over all, as if to invoke a blessing from the blue heavens above.
At last Mervue, as Mr. Cheyleigh’s place was called, with its long avenue of oaks, came in view, and in a few moments our horses, lathered with foam, were prancing with unspent fire at the door. Mrs. Cheyleigh, Ned and two of the children, with Carlotta, met us at the steps. Mrs. Cheyleigh had told her of our coming, and her great speaking eyes were turned inquiringly upon us. Mother did not wait for introduction or salutation, but rushed forward and clasped her in her arms. Carlotta seemed in an instant to sound the depths of mother’s tender love, and her first touch was an electric flow of sympathy. Throwing her arms around mother’s neck she burst into convulsive sobbing. It touched every one present. Mrs. Cheyleigh wept; Ned turned into the house with his handkerchief to his face, while I, trying to hide my emotion, was ruthlessly plucking and snapping the tendrils of a jasmine that was clambering over the sides of the porch – little Sue Cheyleigh, in the artless curiosity of childhood, walking around to look at my eyes, in order to discover whether I was crying or not. The first paroxysm of grief over, mother gently released Carlotta, and Mrs. Cheyleigh, with that half hoarse tone which always succeeds tears, invited us in. Carlotta grasped mother tightly by the hand and we followed Mrs. Cheyleigh into the house. Having now an opportunity to observe her closely, I found that Carlotta was not such a little girl as I had supposed – being, in fact, nearly as old and as large as Lulie. Mother, Mrs. C. and the children taking seats in the large, cool sitting room, Ned and myself went out to the stables to see about the horses. When I returned to the sitting room I found mother and Carlotta alone – Mrs. Cheyleigh having excused herself for a short time to attend to domestic affairs. Mother was sitting near an open window, gently stroking Carlotta’s head, which lay confidingly in her lap. They were talking, and, not wishing to interrupt, I took my seat quietly near them.
“And you are willing to come with us and be our child?” mother said, bending over her.
“If you all are willing to take me,” said Carlotta, “I will try to deserve your love.”
“We love you already, my darling child, and will love you more and more each day.”
“I believe you, and trust you, ma’am; but oh! my father, my dear, dead father! how I wish that I were with you in the ground!” and the poor child broke down into sobbing.
“Hush, dear,” said mother, gently; “do not speak so; God has seen fit to spare you – ”
“I know He has, but I wish He had not; ‘twould be far sweeter than life to lie by father’s side, though it is cold. But oh!” she continued, raising up her head to look in mother’s face, and taking her hand, “I am so ungrateful to you; you are so good to offer me a home, and yet I shrink from going where I have no right to go, except the right of your kindness.”
“That shall be the surest right of all,” said mother, kissing her forehead; “but you must not feel dependent. We do not take you because we pity you, but because we want just such a daughter to live with and love us.”
“Then, will you promise me, ma’am, if you ever tire of me, that you will send me away? You can do it without unkindness, because papa had a great deal of money, and you can pay some one to take care of me. Will you promise me?”
“Yes, dear, I will promise you to send you away whenever we get tired of you. But, in the meantime, I do not want you to feel humble in our home, as if you were a charity child. Col. Smith has examined your father’s papers, and finds that you are possessed of considerable wealth. He has written to your father’s agent, who was named in the papers, and to the American Consul at Havana. He will probably go to Cuba himself next month, to see about the appointment of a guardian and the settlement of your estate. Have you no relatives at all there?”
“I have a cousin, who lives on the other side of the island, but I have not seen him since I was a very little child. Mother was an orphan, like myself, and came from Spain to Cuba with an old uncle, who died after she was married to papa. We had many acquaintances, but no relatives anywhere in the island except the cousin I have spoken of. I have heard papa speak of having relatives in New Orleans, but I do not know their names.”
“Well, you are composed now; try to remain so. Do not give up to those sad feelings when you feel them coming on.”
“I do struggle hard, Mrs. Smith, to keep from crying; but whenever I commence thinking about the evening of the storm – and I cannot help thinking about it – I remember how happy papa and I were sitting together in our state room, and, though the wind had been high for a day or two, we felt so secure, for the steamer was thought to be the strongest one on the line. I remember so well his holding me by the hand, and saying:
“‘I think the wind is lulling, Lottie, bird; we will be safe to-morrow.’ And then came that terrible cry that the ship was sinking; and we ran together out on the deck, only to find the crew in a panic, and the storm wilder than ever. Papa dragged me back to the cabin, tore off the door, tied me to it, and – Oh! I cannot, cannot think of it without crying. Do not blame me, I cannot help it.” And her eyes filled again, and her lip quivered with suppressed feeling.
“Dear child, you know I do not blame you; only try by every means to keep your mind from reverting to the painful scene. I will not offer consolation now, for I well know how deceitful it sounds to the bereaved to hear those who are not, quoting scripture passages to recommend resignation and submission. The beautiful sacred words are meant as a sympathy, not as a teaching. When your lips are lifted farther from this cup of gall we will go together to the Fount of Life and drink its sweet waters.”
Mrs. Cheyleigh now returned to the room, and the conversation, ceasing between mother and Carlotta, became general. So many and varied were the topics to be discussed that the morning passed rapidly away; dinner came on, and the afternoon siesta, in hammocks swung in the verandas, where the sea breeze came cool and refreshing, was enjoyed, when the sinking sun reminded us that it was time to order the carriage.
When Carlotta came to tell Mrs. C. good-bye, and thank her for her kindness, she had nearly lost control of herself again, but, with an effort, she kept her tears back and entered the carriage. The shadows which had been hiding from the sun all day around the roots of the trees were now stretching out at great length, and spreading into all kinds of fantastic shapes, though they still kept the trees between them and the glaring eye they dreaded so much. The scenery through which we passed was all drowsiness, instead of the vivacity of the morning. The sun had gone down and the twilight was fading when we stopped at our door. Father and Lulie Mayland were standing on the stoop, waiting for us. Father took Carlotta in his arms out of the carriage and pressed her to him tenderly, while I was helping mother out. Lulie was then presented to her, and, after a kiss and embrace, they went up the steps hand-in-hand, as fast friends as if they had known and loved each other from their birth. We went into the dining room, where early summer tea was already laid. Carlotta did not wish anything, and mother withdrew in a short time with her. After the silence that succeeded, for a few seconds, their retirement, father said (and I knew by the twinkle in his eye he was enjoying the thorns on which I sat):
“Lulie,” sighting at her with one eye through his iced tea, “I am afraid you will have a powerful rival in Carlotta. You must secure all your beaux with double chains or she will steal them away. I think one is proving recreant already, if I may judge from the glances of admiration he lavished upon her just now at the table.”
My face was crimson, and the consciousness that it was so made the hue only deeper. To be teased about the girl I loved, before her face, by father, too, was the very climax of embarrassment to me. I glanced at Lulie, and found her not in the least disconcerted.
“Oh, John is so fickle,” she replied, laughing, “that I can never count on him for more than a day or two. If he deserts me, however, I shall not be desolate, as I have several others under my thumb, you know.”
Embarrassment is very much increased by being contrasted with coolness and ease, and mine received a tenfold impulse from Lulie’s light way of treating the matter.
“Really,” continued father, “you are quite a belle; but I am surprised that John should have withdrawn so easily from the contest. I thought you had more perseverance, my son. Surely, you did not encourage him, Lulie?”
“Yes, indeed I did, but he was not to be caught, and I have given him up as a hopeless case.”
I vainly endeavored to swallow my confusion with large gulps of tea; the tea somehow slipped by and left the confusion sticking in my throat, but I managed to jerk out the words:
“If you ever gave any encouragement I did not know it.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed father. “Very good, my son, very good. But suppose she were to offer encouragement now, would you come back? Try him once more, Lulie. I would enjoy the courtship very much.”
“I am willing,” she said, demurely; but I thought I detected a smile towards father, as if they were in conspiracy.
“Now, John,” continued father, “she says she is ready, and will return a favorable answer. How will you commence? Don’t blurt out ‘I love you!’ as that would be unexpected and sudden; come to it gradually, and the slower you are in getting to the point the surer will your answer be ‘Yes.’”