I could have found in my heart to have wrested the whip out of the hands of the young negro, and applied it with all my might to him, and his old villain of a master, and father of these poor children, as I soon found he was. My patience was almost gone when the second girl received a lash for her “Plena Gratia.” She screamed, and danced, and lifted up her poor legs in agony, rubbing herself on her “west” side, as the Philadelphia ladies call it, with as much assiduity as if it had been one of those cases in which friction is prescribed by the faculty.

  But the climax was yet to come. A grand stage effect was to be produced before the falling of the curtain. The youngest girl was so defective in her lesson that not one word could be extracted from her, even by the cow-skin; nothing but piercing shrieks, enough to make my heart bleed, could the poor victim utter. Irritated by the child’s want of capacity to repeat by rote what she could not understand, the old man darted from his seat, and struck her senseless to the ground.

  I could bear no more. My first impulse was to wrest the cow-skin from the negro’s hand, and revenge the poor bleeding child as she lay motionless on the ground, but a moment’s reflection convinced me that such a step would only have brought down a double weight of punishment on the victims when I was gone; so, catching up my hat, I turned away with disgust, and walked slowly towards the town and bay of Port Praya, reflecting as I went along what pleasant ideas the poor creatures must entertain of religion, when the name of God and of the cow-skin were invariably associated in their minds. I began to parody one of Watts’s hymns —

  “Lord! how delightful ’tis to see

  A whole assembly worship thee.”

  The indignation I felt against this barbarous and ignorant negro was not unmingled with some painful recollections of my own younger days, when, in a Christian and Protestant country, the Bible and Prayer-book had been made objects of terror to my mind; tasks greater than my capacity could compass, and floggings in proportion, were not calculated to forward the cause of religious instruction in the mind of an obstinate boy.

  Reaching the water-side, I duly embarked on board of my slaver; and the next day sailed for England. We had a favourable passage until we reached the chops of the Channel, when a gale of wind from the north-east caught us, and drove us down so far to the southward that the prize-master found himself under the necessity of putting into Bordeaux to refit, and to replenish his water.

  I was not sorry for this, as I was tired of the company of this officer, who was both illiterate and ill-natured, neither a sailor nor a gentleman. Like many others in the service, who are most loud in their complaints for the want of promotion, I considered that even in his present rank he was what we called a king’s hard bargain — that is, not worth his salt; and promoting men of his stamp would only have been picking the pocket of the country. As soon, therefore, as we had anchored in the Gironde, off the city of Bordeaux, and had been visited by the proper authorities, I quitted the vessel and her captain, and went on shore.

  Taking up my abode at the Hotel d’Angleterre, my first care was to order a good dinner; and having despatched that, and a bottle of Vin de Beaune (which, by-the-by, I strongly recommend to all travellers, if they can get it, for I am no bad judge), I asked my valet de place how I was to dispose of myself for the remainder of the evening.

  “Mais, monsieur,” said he, “il faut aller au spectacle.”

  “Allons,” said I; and in a few minutes I was seated in the stage-box of the handsomest theatre in the world.

  What strange events — what unexpected meetings and sudden separations are sailors liable to — what sudden transitions from grief to joy, from joy to grief — from want to affluence, from affluence to want! All this the history of my life, for the last six months, will fully illustrate.

  Chapter Twenty Six.

  You will proceed in pleasure and in pride.

  Beloved, and loving: all is o’er

  For me on earth, except some years to hide

  My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core.

  “Don Juan.”

  I paid little attention to the performance, for the moment I came to the house, my eyes were riveted on an object from which I found it impossible to remove them. “It is,” said I, “and yet it cannot be; and yet why should it not?” A young lady sat in one of the boxes; she was elegantly attired, and seemed to occupy the united attentions of many Frenchmen, who eagerly caught her smiles.

  “Either that is Eugenia,” thought I, “or I have fallen asleep in the ruins of St. Jago, and am dreaming of her. That is Eugenia, or I am not Frank. It is she, or it is her ghost!” Still I had not that moral certainty of the identity, as to enable me to go at once to her and address her. Indeed, had I been certain, all things considered, the situation we were in would have rendered such a step highly improper.

  “If that be Eugenia,” thought I again, “she has improved both in manner and person. She has a becoming embonpoint, and an air de bonne société, which when we parted she had not.”

  The more intensely I gazed, the more convinced was I that I was right; the immovable devotion of my eyes attracted the attention of a French officer, who sat near me.

  “C’est une jolie femme, n’est-ce pas; monsieur?”

  “Vraiment,” said I. “Do you know her name?”

  “Elle s’appelle Madame de Rosenberg.”

  “Then I am wrong after all,” said I to myself. “Has she a husband, sir?”

  “Pardonnez-moi, elle est veuve, mais elle a un petit garçon de cinq ans, beau comme un ange.”

  “That is she,” said I, again reviving. “Is she a French woman?”

  “Du tout, monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriotes; et en est un fort joli exemplaire.”

  She had only been three months at Bordeaux, and had refused many very good offers in marriage. Such was the information I obtained from my obliging neighbour; and I was now convinced that Madame de Rosenberg could be no other than Eugenia. Every endeavour to catch her eye proved abortive. My only hope was to follow the carriage.

  When the play was over, I waited with an impatience like that of a spirited hunter who hears the hounds. At last, the infernal squalling of the vocalists ceased, but not before I had devoutly wished that all the wax candles in the house were down their throats and burning there. I saw one of the gentlemen in the box placing the shawl over her shoulders with the most careful attention, while the bystanders seemed ready to tear him in pieces from envy. I hurried to the door, and saw her handed into her carriage, which drove off at a great pace. I ran after it, jumped up behind, and took my station by the side of the footman.

  “Descendez donc, monsieur!” said the man.

  “I’ll be damned if I do,” said I.

  “Comment donc?” said the man.

  “Tais-toi, bête,” said I, “ou je te brûlerai la cervelle.”

  “Vous foutez,” said the man, who behaved very well, and instantly began to remove me vi et armis; but I planted a stomacher in his fifth button, which I knew would put him hors de combat for a few minutes, and by that time, at the rate the carriage was driving, my purpose would have been answered. The fellow lost his breath — could not hold on or speak — so tumbled off and lay in the middle of the road.

  As he fell upon dry ground and was not an English sailor, I did not jump after him, but left him to his own ease, and we saw no more of him, for we were going ten knots, while he lay becalmed without a breath of wind. This was one of the most successful acts of usurpation recorded in modern history. It has its parallels, I know; but I cannot now stop to comment on them, or on my own folly and precipitation. I was as firmly fixed behind the carriage, as Buonaparte was on the throne of France after the battle of Eylau.

  We stopped at a large porte cochère, being the entrance to a very grand house, with lamps at the door, within a spacious courtyard; we drove in and drew up. I was down in a moment, opened the carriage door, and let down the steps. The lady descended, laid her hand on my arm without perceiving that she had changed her footman, and tripped lightly up the stairs. I followed her into a handsome saloon, where another servant in livery had placed lights on the table. She turned round, saw me, and fainted in my arms.

  It was, indeed, Eugenia herself; and with all due respect to my dear Emily, I borrowed a thousand kisses while she lay in a state of torpor, on a fauteuil to which I carried her. It was some few minutes before she opened her eyes; the man-servant who had brought the lights, very properly never quitted the room, but was perfectly respectful in his manner, rightly conceiving that I had some authority for my proceedings.

  “My dearest Frank,” said Eugenia, “what an unexpected meeting. What, in the name of fortune, could have brought you here?”

  “That,” said I, “is a story too long, Eugenia, for a moment so interesting as this. I also might ask you the same question; but it is now one o’clock in the morning, and, therefore, too late to begin with inquiry. This one question, however, I must ask — are you a mother?”

  “I am,” said Eugenia, “of the most lovely boy that ever blessed the eyes of a parent; he is now in perfect health, and fast asleep — come to-morrow, at ten o’clock, and you shall see him.”

  “To-morrow,” said I, with surprise; “to-morrow, Eugenia? why am I to quit your house?”

  “That also you shall know to-morrow,” said she; “but now you must do as you are desired. To-morrow, I will be at home to no one but you.”

  Knowing Eugenia as I did, it was sufficient that she had decided. There was no appeal; so, kissing her again, I wished her a good night, quitted her, and retired to my hotel. What a night of tumult did I pass! I was tossed from Emily to Eugenia, like a shuttlecock between two battledores. The latter never looked so lovely; and to the natural loveliness of her person was added a grace and a polish which gave a lustre to her charms, which almost served Emily as I had served the footman I never once closed my eyes during the night — dressed early the next morning, walked about, looked at Château Trompette and the Roman ruins — thought the hour of ten would never strike, and when it did, I struck the same moment at her door.

  The man who opened it to me was the same whom I had treated so ill the night before; the moment he saw me, he put himself into an attitude at once of attack, defence, remonstrance, and revenge, all connected with the affair of the preceding evening.

  “Ah, ah, vous voilà donc! ce n’était pas bien fait, monsieur.”

  “Oui,” said I, “très nettement fait, et voilà encore,” slipping a Napoleon into his hand.

  “Ça s’arrange très joliment, monsieur,” said the man, grinning from ear to ear, and bowing to the ground. “C’est madame que vous voulez donc?”

  “Oui,” said I.

  He led, I followed; he opened the door of a breakfast parlour— “Tenez, madame, voici le monsieur qui m’a renversé hier au soir.”

  Eugenia was seated on a sofa, with her boy by her side, the loveliest little fellow I had ever beheld. His face was one often described, but rarely seen; it was shaded with dark curling ringlets, his mouth, eyes, and complexion had much of his mother, and vanity whispered me, much more of myself. I took a seat on the sofa, and with the boy on my knee, and Eugenia by my side, held her hand, while she narrated the events of her life since the time of our separation.

  “A few days,” said she, “after your departure for the Flushing expedition, I read in the public prints, that ‘if the nearest relations of my mother would call at, in London, they would hear of something to their advantage.’ I wrote to the agent, from whom I learned, after proving my identity, that the two sisters of my mother, who, you may remember, had like sums left them by the will of their relative, had continued to live in a state of single blessedness; that, about four years previously, one of them had died, leaving everything to the other, and that the other had died only two months before, bequeathing all her property to my mother or her next heir; or, in default of that, to some distant relation. I therefore immediately came into a fortune of ten thousand pounds, with interest; and I was further informed that a great uncle of mine was still living, without heirs, and was most anxious that my mother or her heirs should be discovered. An invitation was therefore sent to me to go down to him, and to make his house my future residence.

  “At that time the effects of my indiscretion were but too apparent, and rendered, as I thought, deception justifiable. I put on widow’s weeds, and gave out that my husband was a young officer, who had fallen a victim to the fatal Walcheren fever; that our marriage had been clandestine, and unknown to any of his friends: such was my story and appearance before the agent, who believed me. The same fabrication was put upon my grand-uncle, with equal success. I was received into his house with parental affection; and in that house I gave birth to the dear child you now hold in your arms — to your child, my Frank — to the only child I shall ever have. Yes, dear Eugenia,” continued she, pressing her rosy lips on the broad white neck of the child, “you shall be my only care, my solace, my comfort, and my joy. Heaven, in its mercy, sent the cherub to console its wretched mother in the double pangs of guilt and separation from all she loved; and Heaven shall be repaid, by my return to its slighted, its insulted laws. I feel that my sin is forgiven; for I have besought forgiveness night and day, with bitter tears, and Heaven has heard my prayer. ‘Go and sin no more,’ was said to me: and upon these terms I have received forgiveness.

  “You will no doubt ask why did I not let you know all this, and why I so carefully secreted myself from you. My reasons were founded on the known impetuosity of your character. You, my beloved, who could brave death, and all the military consequences of desertion from a ship lying at Spithead, were not likely to listen to the suggestions of prudence when Eugenia was to be found; and, having once given out that I was a widow, I resolved to preserve the consistency of my character for my own sake — for your sake, and for the sake of this blessed child, the only drop that has sweetened my cup of affliction. Had you by any means discovered my place of abode, the peace of my uncle’s house, and the prospects of my child, had been for ever blasted.

  “Now then, say, Frank, have I, or have I not, acted the part of a Roman mother? My grand-uncle having declared his intention of making me heir to his property, for his sake, and yours, and for my child, I have preserved the strict line of duty, from which God, in his infinite mercy, grant that I may never depart!

  “I first resolved upon not seeing you until I could be more my own mistress; and when, at the death of my respected relative, I was not only released from any restraint on account of his feelings, but also became still more independent in my circumstances, you might be surprised that I did not immediately impart to you the change of fortune which would have enabled us to have enjoyed the comfort of unrestricted communication. But time, reflection, the conversation and society of my uncle and his select friends, the care of my infant, and the reading of many excellent books had wrought a great change in my sentiments. Having once tasted the pleasures of society among virtuous women, I vowed to Heaven that no future act of mine should ever drive me from it. The past could not be recalled; but the future was my own.

  “I took the sacrament after a long and serious course of reading; and, having made my vows at the altar, with the help of God, they are unchangeable. Dramatic works, the pernicious study and poison of my youthful ardent mind, I have long since discarded; and I had resolved never to see you again, until after your marriage with Miss Somerville had been solemnised. Start not! By the simplest and easiest means I have known all your movements — your dangers, your escapes, your undaunted acts of bravery and self-devotion for the sake of others.

  “‘Shall I then,’ said I to myself, ‘blast the prospects of the man I love — the father of my boy? Shall I, to gratify the poor, pitiful ambition of becoming the wife of him to whom I once was the mistress, sacrifice thus the hopes and fortune of himself and family, the reward of a virtuous maiden?’ In all this I hope you will perceive a proper share of self-denial. Many, many floods of bitter tears of repentance and regret have I shed over my past conduct; and I trust, that what I have suffered and what I shall suffer, will be received as my atonement at the Throne of Grace. True, I once looked forward to the happy period of our union, when I might have offered myself to you, not as a portionless bride; but I was checked by one maddening, burning, inextinguishable thought. I could not be received into that society to which you were entitled. I felt that I loved you, Frank, — loved you too well to betray you. The woman that had so little respect for herself was unfit to be the wife of Francis Mildmay.

  “Besides, how could I do my sweet boy the injustice to allow him to have brothers and sisters possessing legitimate advantages over him? I felt that our union never could be one of happiness, even if you consented to take me as your wife, of which I had my doubts; and when I discovered, through my emissaries, that you were on the point of marriage with Miss Somerville, I felt that it was all for the best; that I had no right to complain; the more so as it was I who (I blush to say it) had seduced you.

  “But Frank, if I cannot be your wife — and, alas! I know too well that that is impossible — will you allow me to be your friend, your dear friend, as the mother of your child, or, if you please, as your sister? But there the sacred line is drawn; it is a compact between my God and myself. You know my firmness and decision; once maturely deliberated, my resolution formed, it is not, I think, in man to turn me. Do not, therefore, make the attempt; it will only end in your certain defeat and shame, and in my withdrawing from your sight for ever. You will not, I am sure, pay me so bad a compliment as to wish me to renew the follies of my youth. If you love me, respect me, promise by the love you bear to Miss Somerville, and your affection for this poor boy, that you will do as I wish you. Your honour and peace of mind, as well as mine, demand it.”