The Sea-Witch - Maturin Murray Ballou (books to read fiction .TXT) 📗

everything, kissing him with childish fervor and truth whenever they parted, a familiarity she never permitted to his brother.

The truth was, Robert to his great discomfiture, was aware that Charles’s manly and courageous act of saving the dog had been witnessed by Helen, though his brother knew it not until told by Leonard Hust. This had aggravated Robert so much that he had hastened home, and fabricating a story of Charles having thrown the dog into the pond, and wet himself completely, preparing his parents for a rough reception of his brother when he should return, and hence the treatment he received. Leonard made his young master change his clothes, and after making him comfortable, left him to amuse himself in the open park with his ball, where the light-hearted Charles was soon thoughtlessly happy, and forgetful of the unkindness of Robert and the injustice of his parents. So light are the cares and mishaps of youth, so easily forgotten are its hardships, either seeming or real. Happy childhood!

Whether little cousin Helen had been on the watch for Charley, or whether she was there by accident, it matters not, suffice it to say that the two soon met in their headlong career of fun and frolic, and two more joyous or merry spirits never met on the soft green sward than these. Now they tire of the play at ball and sit down together close by the brink of the clear, deep pond, next the rich flower beds that shed their grateful fragrance around the spot. Cousin Helen, still panting from the exertion of the play, looked thoughtfully into the almost transparent water, and involuntarily heaved a sigh that did not escape her companion’s notice.

“Art sick, cousin Helen?” asked Charles, quickly.

“Nay, not I,” said the pleasant-voiced child, “not I, Charley.”

“But you sighed as though you were very tired or in pain,” he continued.

“Did I?” said the child, thoughtfully; “well, I believe I did.”

“And what for, cousin Helen?” said Charles, tenderly, parting her natural ringlets back from her beautiful and radiant face—doubly radiant now as she looked up into his, so confidingly and so affectionately.

“I was thinking,” she said, ingenuously, “how cruel Robert was to your mother’s pet. I don’t see how he could do such a thing, do you, Charley?”

“Robert is quick-tempered,” said his brother, “and perhaps regrets it now. I guess the dog bit him, or something of that sort.”

He was too generous, too manly, to complain of Robert’s cruel treatment of him, or to mention the unkindness he had experienced from his parents. But he had not forgotten these occurrences, and his lip once more quivered with emotion, and his clear, handsome eyes were suffused with tears. Quick as thought his little companion divined with womanly instinct the cause, for she was not ignorant of the state of affairs, young as she was, that existed at Bramble Park. Drawing nearer to his side, she threw one arm tenderly and with childish abandon over his neck, and with the other brushed away the gathering tears, until Charles smiled again and leaned over and kissed her sweet little lips as a brother might have done! And then together they plucked a beautiful bouquet, and busied themselves in arranging it and classifying the various plants by their botanical names, for both children were well versed in this delightful study, young as they were.

While they were thus engaged, Robert came up and angrily discovered the two children thus happy together. Saying some rude things to Charles, he pushed him away from his playmate’s side with rude and brutal force, throwing Charles to the ground. This was too much, even for his forbearing spirit, and the injured and outraged boy, smarting under the previous injury he had endured, rose quickly to his feet, and with one blow knocked Robert heavily upon the ground. The blow had been a severe one, and the boy was faint and unable to stand for a moment. Charles looked at him for an instant, then helped to raise him up, and waited until he was again sufficiently conscious to walk. Then he saw him walk angrily toward the house, where he knew very well what would follow on his return there. All the while his little companion had stood regarding first one and then the other. Now Charles stepped to her side, and said:

“I am sorry, Helen; but it is very, very hard to bear.”

She shook her little head as he spoke, but held up her lips for the kiss he offered, and saw him turn away from home towards the distant town.

 

CHAPTER V.

THE NAVAL OFFICER.

 

THE reader will think that seven league boots—the storyteller’s prerogative—are in special demand as it regards our story, for once more we must return through a period of years to the date, or thereabouts, on which our story opens. It was on one of those close, sultry afternoons that characterize the climate of summer in India, that two of our characters were seated together in a graceful and rather elegant villa in the environs of Calcutta. The air of the lady—for the couple were of either sex, was one of beauty in repose. She was evidently listening to the gallant speech of her companion with respect, but without interest, while on his part the most casual observer might have read in his voice, his features, and his words, the accent, the bearing, the language of love.

The lady was a gentle being of surpassing beauty, with black eyes, jetty hair and brilliant complexion; there was little of the characteristics of the East in her appearance, though she seemed to be quite at home beneath the Indian Sun. She was of the middle height, perhaps a little too slender and delicate in form to meet a painter’s idea of perfection, but yet just such an idol as a poet would have worshipped. She was strikingly handsome, and there was a brilliancy and spirit in the glance of her dark eyes that told of much character, and much depth of feeling; and while you gazed at her now, sitting beneath the broad piazza, you would have detected a shadow ever and anon cross her brow, as though the words of him by her side aroused some unpleasant memory, and diverted her thoughts rather to past scenes than to the consideration of his immediate remarks.

The gentleman who seemed to be pleading an unsuccessful suit, wore the undress uniform of the English navy, and in the outer harbor, in view of the very spot where they sat, there rode a sloop-of-war with St. George’s cross floating at her peak. The officer was young, but bore the insignia of his rank upon his person, which showed him to be the captain of yonder proud vessel. He might have been five or six and twenty, but scarcely more, and bore about him those unmistakable tokens of gentle birth which will shine through the coarsest as well as the finest attire. The lady was not regarding him now; her eyes were bent on the distant sea, but still he pleaded, still urged in gentle tones the suit he brought.

“I see, Miss Huntington has some more favored swain on whom to bestow her favors; but I am sure that she has no truer friend, or more ardent admirer.”

“You are altogether mistaken in your premises,” she said, coolly, as she tossed her fragrant fan of sandal wood, perfuming the soft atmosphere about them.

“A subject who sues for a favor at court, Miss Huntington, if he is unsuccessful, thinks himself at least entitled to know the reason why he is denied.”

“But suppose the Court declines to give him a reason,” said the lady, still coolly.

“Its decision admits of no appeal, I must acknowledge,” replied her suitor.

“Then reason I have none, captain; and so pray let that suffice.”

“But, Miss Huntington, surely—”

“Nay, captain,” she said, at last, weary of his importunity, “you know well my feelings. Far be it from me to play for one moment the coquette’s part. I thank you for the compliment you pay me by these assurances, but you are fully aware that I can never encourage a suit that finds no response in my heart. I trust that no word or act of mine has ever deceived you for one moment.”

“No, Miss Huntington, you have ever been thus cold and impassive towards me, ever turning a deaf ear to my prayer. Why, why can you not love me?”

“Nay, captain, we will not enter into particulars; it is needless, it is worse than needless, and a matter that is exceedingly unpleasant to me. I must earnestly beg, sir, that you will not again refer to this subject under any circumstance.”

“Your commands are law to me, Miss Huntington,” answered the discomfited lover, as he rose from the seat he had occupied by her side, and turned partially away.

It was well he did so, for had she seen the demoniac expression of his countenance as he struggled to control the vehemence of his feelings, she would have feared that he might do either her or himself violence.

“May I not hope that years of fond attachment, years of continued assiduity, may yet outweigh your indifference, Miss Huntington?” he said earnestly.

“Indeed, indeed no. You do but pain me by this continuance of a subject that—Ah, mother!” she said, interrupting herself, “I have been looking at the captain’s ship, yonder; is she not a noble craft? And how daintily she floats upon the waters?”

“A ship is always a beautiful sight, my child; and especially so when she bears the flag that we see flaunting gracefully from that vessel.”

“When do you sail, captain?” asked Mrs. Huntington, who had just joined her daughter on the piazza, and did not observe the officer’s confusion.

“The ship rides by a single anchor, madam, and only waits her commander,” he replied, rather mechanically than otherwise, as he turned his glance seaward.

“So soon? I had hoped you were to favor us with a longer stay,” said she mother.

The officer looked towards the daughter, as though he wished it had been her that had expressed such a desire. But she still gazed at the distant ship, and he saw no change in her handsome features.

“We officers are not masters of our own time, madam, and can rarely consult our own wishes as to a cruising ground; but I frankly own that it was something more than mere accident which brought me this time to Calcutta.”

As he said this, his eyes again wandered towards her daughter’s face, but it was still cold, impassive and beautiful as before, while she gazed on that distant sea. He paused for a moment more, almost trembling with suppressed emotions of disappointment, chagrin and anger, and seemed at a loss what to say further; he felt constrained, and wished that he might have seen the daughter for a moment more alone.

“Farewell is an unpleasant word to say, ladies,” he said, at last, still controlling his feelings with a masterly effort. Then offerings a hand to the mother, he bowed respectfully and said “Good-by;” and to her, who now turned with evident feeling evinced in her lovely face at the idea of a long parting, he offered his hand, which was frankly pressed, while he said: “I carry away a heavy heart to sea with me, Miss Huntington; could it be weighed, it would overballast yonder ship.”

“Farewell, captain; a happy and safe voyage to you,” she answered, with assumed gaiety of tone; but there was no reply. He bowed low and hastened away, with a spirit of disappointment clouding his sun-burned features.

The view which might he had from the window commanded a continuous sight of the road that the young officer must traverse to reach the ship, and